“Thanks. I’ll . . . I’ll be down in hydroponics if you need me.”
She fled, leaving the ship’s crewmen to deal with the aftermath of near-disaster. And she really did need to check on progress in hydroponics. She found Hank Biddle and Bartel Ditrik busy installing new, jury-rigged tanks to supplement the ones they’d already set up. Bart glanced up first.
“How’d it end?”
Tillie glanced away. “Oliver’s dead. Sally’s in custody. Saros will take charge of their kids.”
Hank Biddle only thinned his lips. The message was clear: You didn’t have to kill him. Tillie didn’t feel like arguing.
“Do you have everything you need to finish this?” she asked tiredly.
“Oh, sure. We got everything a man could want,” Bart snapped. “Why don’t you go butt your nose into somebody else’s business? We got work to do.”
Tillie knew she ought to respond to that. But numb as she was from the shock of watching Oliver Parlan die, she just couldn’t think of a thing to say. Rumor mill had it the colonists were set to vote her out and pick another Transport Director. Maybe that would be best, after all. She was tired and battered and numb and so sick of the responsibility she wanted to curl up somewhere and cry.
I didn’t sign on for this job for twenty years, Carl, she whimpered silently. I’m not cut out for leadership. . . .
The crisis came to a head the next day, when Sally Parlan was found dead in her quarters. She’d suicided behind locked doors. The only spot on the Cross large enough to assemble the entire colony was Cargo Two, which they were in the process of converting to stables but which remained largely unused. So they’d set off a portion of it for a “Town Hall.” When news of Sally’s suicide reached her, Tillie called an immediate Town Meeting.
All three Star Cross crewmen attended, as well. Lewis Liffey joined Tillie on the makeshift speaker’s platform. Kelly and Booker Howard, Tillie noted uneasily, blocked the exit—and they wore needlers. So did Lewis.
“As you have no doubt heard, Oliver and Sally Parlan have both died after an unsuccessful attempt to vent the ship to vacuum. If they had succeeded, none of us would be alive now. I know that many of us are experiencing doubts—”
“Damn right we are!”
“Why the hell should we keep going?”
“Only doubt I got is about you, Matson!”
Tillie let the shouts die away. “I accepted the position of Transport Director under certain conditions—namely, that it would be a temporary job. None of us expected it to become a two-decade assignment. Mr. Liffey and I have discussed the need for us to think of the Star Cross as the colony we intended to found. Therefore I suggest we begin work now deciding the form of government we intend to establish.”
Before anyone could speak, Lewis Liffey stepped forward.
“Dr. Matson, I have a few words to say on this subject.”
Tillie nodded and stepped aside.
“Right now, we’re subject to lifeboat rules. There can be only one captain. That situation will not change in the next twenty years, not until we reach Matson’s. The government you intend to establish has to be set up with that in mind. Aboard the Star Cross there is one law: the Captain’s. There are only three Star Cross crew left alive, which means this colony will have a number of key administrative slots open. You will all have a chance to fill those administrative posts over time. But there can’t be more than one captain.”
“And that’s you?” someone demanded in an ugly voice.
“Yeah, you’re the big military man with the guns. . . .”
Lewis cut through the uproar. “Yes, I’m the captain. Whether I like it or not. I didn’t ask for this job any more than you asked to be marooned aboard the Star Cross for twenty years. That doesn’t change facts. My training and skills and the chain of command mean I’m stuck with the job just as surely as you’re stuck with me. But there’s something you need to keep firmly in mind. What you decide today will determine the kind of colony your kids grow up in. Will you choose lawless in-fighting, every man and woman for themselves? Or will you choose to set up a government in which every one of you has the opportunity to serve the community in critical decision-making ways?
“As captain, I can only recommend the proper course of action if the information you give me is the best available. I can’t do every job there is to be done. That’s up to you people. I’ll do my best to live up to the responsibility that’s been thrust on me. You need to live up to yours. What you decide in the next few minutes will make the difference between simply surviving and building something your children can be proud of when their turn comes to take up the mantle of community leadership.”
He stepped back and fell silent.
A moment later, someone near the back of the room shouted, “I nominate Tillie Matson for Transport Director!”
“Second!”
Another voice shouted, “I nominate Hank Biddle for that job!”
“Second!”
Nominations ended at three candidates—and the third refused nomination. Debate opened up. When it became clear that debate would involve nothing more than a shouting match between factions, Lewis Liffey shouted down the tumult.
“The candidates have five minutes each to present their platforms! Hank Biddle, you go first.”
The big agronomist nodded grimly and climbed onto the platform. “You all know me. My dream is growing things. And you all know I joined this expedition because I thought we could grow ourselves a good life out on Matson’s World. But that isn’t going to happen now. Folks like Tillie, here, want us to keep struggling. Keep trying. For what? So a pack of murderous aliens can shoot our children down right in front of us when we get there? They want us to starve damn near to death, to give up having more children, to give up everything that means being a human being—and for what? The chance to die in agony under alien guns. They admit Matson’s World has long since fallen to this . . . this alien scourge. There’s no chance of fighting it once we get there. Captain and his two henchmen have needlers we’re afraid of, but don’t let ’em fool you. There’s nothing on board this ship to fight an alien army with twenty years to entrench itself. I ask—I plead—with you, don’t prolong this agony. Let us die quietly, now, by our own hands, while we’re still human enough to do so with dignity and courage.”
He stepped off the platform amid a vast silence.
Tillie could tell from the uptilted faces that a large number of them had been swayed by his plea. She didn’t know what to say. Hank Biddle was wrong, she knew it in her bones . . . but she didn’t know what to say. She cleared her throat, more to buy time than because her throat needed clearing; then met the eyes of a young woman near the front of the crowd. Annie Ditrik was visibly pregnant. Her eyes were scared, her lips pale. Tell me what to do, that look said. I don’t want my baby to die. . . .
“I’m a veterinarian,” Tillie said quietly. “One of the hardest parts of any doctor’s job is knowing when a patient is beyond hope. I’ve had to put down animals before, animals I couldn’t save. I wonder how many of you have had to look into the mute eyes of a feeling, suffering creature and know that you’re killing it? Out of kindness, perhaps, but killing it, nonetheless. You may think you’re ready. Perhaps you are. I can’t answer that question for any of you. But I can answer it for myself.
“In a way, this colony has become my patient. We’re sick and we’re hurt. But are we hopeless? Is euthanasia an answer? Or is it just a way of hiding from painful reality? Sometimes it is easier to lie down and die, particularly when continuing to live hurts yourself and those you love. Some of you may choose to do just that. But your choice doesn’t give you the right to choose for anyone else. I won’t make that choice for any of you who want to die. But for anyone who wants to live, for anyone who’ll take that slim chance and fight for life, I’ll be here working to give you that chance.
“We’re farmers. If anyone can make this shipboard colony work, we can. We have the seeds and cuttings for hydroponics—and every one of you knows that hydroponics do well in a space environment. The first year will be brutal, yes; but the second year will be better and every year after that will bring even more improvements in our lives. Don’t sell your future short. In twenty years, anything can happen. Wars end, political boundaries are redrawn . . . We might even be rescued. If you want to quit, to give up and die without a fight . . . maybe that’s your definition of humanity. It isn’t mine.”