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Somewheres were much, much rarer& and this was one, this was more than a marginal Somewhere, this eden.
No indication of habitation, no response to an orbiting ship; no readings on close scan, not a geometry anywhere on the surface but nature's own work.
An Earth unpopulated, untouched, unclaimed.
Green and lush through the faceplates& a view that changed slowly as Warren turned, as he faced from open plain to forest to distant mountains. Sea lay a little distance away. The sky was incredible, Filtered blue. Three other white-suited figures walked ungainly through the grass. The sounds of breathing came through the suit-corn, occasional comments, panted breaths interspersed: the gear weighed them down on this world. The ship kept talking to them, forlorn, envious voices of those duty-bound inside, to the four of them out here.
"Makes no sense," Harley said, disembodied, through the com. "No insects. No birds. You can't have an ecology like this with no animate life."
"Take your samples," Burlin's voice said, dimmer. The captain, Burlin. He stood to make himself that one find that would assure an old age in comfort. For the younger rest of them, promise of prime assignments, of comforts for the ship, of the best for the rest of their lives. They escorted Harley out hereHarley who told them what to gather, Harley whose relays were to the labs back on the ship, the real heart of the probe's operations.
Nothing was wrong with the world. The first air and soil samples Anne's intakes had gathered had shown them nothing amiss; the pseudosome had come out, stood, silver and invulnerable to chance, and surveyed the find with robotic eyes, as incapable of joy as suited human bodies were of appreciating the air and the wind that swayed the grasses. There might be perfumes on the wind, but the instruments read a dispassionate N, CO2, O finding, a contaminant readout, windspeed, temperature.
They gathered whole plants and seeds, tiny scoops of soil, a new world's plunder. Every species was new and some were analogous to kinds they knew: bearded grasses, smooth-barked bushes with slick green leaves. Paul Warren dug specimens Harley chose and sealed the bags, recorded the surrounds with his camera, labeled and marked with feverish enthusiasm.
"Harley?" That was Sax. Warren looked around at Harley, who sat down from a crouch in the grass heard someone's breathing gone rapid. "You all right, Harley?"
"It's hot," Harley said. "I don't think my system's working right."
Burlin walked back to him. Warren did, too, stuffing his samples into the bag at his belt. It was an awkward business, trying to examine another suit's systems, tilting the helmet. Sun glared on the readout plate, obscuring the numbers for the moment. Harley shifted his shoulder and it cleared. "All right,"
Warren said. "The system's all right."
"Maybe you'd better walk back," Burlin said to Harley. "We're nearly done out here anyway."
Harley made a move toward rising, flailed with a gloved hand, and Sax caught it, steadied him on the way up.
Harley's knees went, suddenly, pitching him face down. "Check the airflow," Burlin said. Warren was already on it.
"No problem there." He tried to keep panic out of his voice. "Harley?"
"He's breathing." Burlin had his hand on Harley's chest. He gathered up Harley's arm, hauled it over his shoulder, and Warren got the other one.
It was a long way back, dragging a suited man's weight. "Get the pseudosome out," Burlin ordered into the welter of questions from the ship. "Get us help out here."
It came before they had gotten halfway to the ship, a gleam in the dark square of Anne's grounded lift tube bay, a human-jointed extension of the ship coming out for them, planting its feet carefully in the uncertain footing of the grass. It was strength. It was comfort. It came walking the last distance with silver arms outstretched, the dark visor of its ovoid head casting back the sun.
They gave Harley to it, positioning its program-receptive arms, told it lift-right, and the right arm came up, so that it carried Harley like a baby, like a silver sexless angel carrying a faceless shape of a man back to the ship. They followed, plodding heavily after, bearing the burden of their own suits and feeling the unease that came with unknown places when things started going wrong.
It was bright day. There were no threats, no unstable terrain, no threat of weather or native life. But the sunlight seemed less and the world seemed larger and ominously quiet for so much life on its face.
They brought Harley inside, into the airlock. The pseudosome stood still as the hatch closed and sealed.
"Set down, Anne," Burlin said, and the pseudosome reversed the process that had gathered Harley up released him into their arms. They laid him on the floor.
Harley moved, a febrile stirring of hands and head, a pawing at the helmet collar. "Get the oxygen,"
Burlin said, and Warren ignored the queries coming rapid-fire from the crew inside the ship, got up and opened the emergency panel while Sax and Burlin stripped off the helmet. He brought the oxy bottle dropped to his knees and clamped the clear mask over Harley's white, sweating face. Harley sucked in great breaths, coughed, back arching in the cumbersome suit. Red blotches marked his throat, like heat.
"Look at that," Sax said. The blotches were evident on Harley's face, too, fine hemorrhaging about the cheeks, about the nose and mouth beneath the plastic.
Burlin stood up, hit the decontamination process. The UV came on. The rest of the procedure sequenced in the lock. Burlin knelt. Harley was breathing shallowly now. "He couldn't have gotten it out there,"
Warren said. "Not like this, not this fast. Not through the suit."
"Got to get the ship scoured out," Burlin said. "Yesterday, the day beforesomething got past the lock."
Warren looked up& at the pseudosome.
The processing cut off. The lights went back to normal. Warren looked at Harley, up at Burlin.
"Captainare we going to bring him in?"
"We do what we can. We three. Here. In the lock."
Harley's head moved, restlessly, dislodging the mask. Warren clamped it the more tightly.
Before he died it took the three of them to hold him. Harley screamed, and clawed with his fingers, and beat his head against the decking. Blood burst from his nose and mouth and drowned the oxy mask smeared their suits in his struggles. He raved and called them by others' names and cursed them and the world that was killing him. When it was over, it was morning again, but by then another of the crew had complained of fever. Inside the ship.
They went to every crevice of the ship, suited, with UV light and steam-borne disinfectant, nightmare figures meeting in fog, in the deep places, among conduits and machines.
Everywhere, the com: "Emergency to three; we've got another"
Deep in the bowels of the ship, two figures, masked, carrying cannisters, obscured in steam: "It isn't doing any good," Abner said. There was panic in his voice, a man who'd seen crew die before, on Mortifer and Hell. "Ten of us already"
"Shut up, Abner," Warren said, with him, in the dark of Anne's depths. Steam hissed, roared from the cannisters; disinfectant dripped off griddings, off railings and pipe. "Just shut it up."
Corn's voice faltered, rose plaintive through the roar: "We're not getting any response out of 2a. Is somebody going to check on that? Is there somebody going to check that out?"
There was chaos in the labs, tables unbolted, cots used while they could be; pallets spread when they ran out of those. The raving lay next to the comatose; death came with hemorrhage, small at first, and worse.
Lungs filled, heart labored, and the vessels burst. Others lingered, in delirium.
"Lie down," Sikutu saidbiologist, only sometime medic, tried to help the man, to reason where there was no reason.
"I've got work to do," Sax cried, wept, flailed his arms. "I've got work"
Smith held him, a small woman, pinned an arm while Sikutu held the other. "Hush, hush," she said.
"You've got to lie stillSax, Sax"
"They all die," Sax said, as he wept. "I've got work to do. I've got to get back to the lab/ don't want to die"
He set others off, awakened the sleeping, got curses, screams from others.
"Don't want to die," he sobbed.
Sikutu shook at him, quieted him at last, sat down and held his head in his hands. He felt fevered, felt short of breath.
His pulse increased. But maybe that was fear.
Rule was dead. Warren found her in Botany, among the plants she loved, lying in a knot next to one of the counters. He stared, grieved in what shock there was left to feel. There was no question of life left. There was the blood, the look of all the others. He turned his face away, leaned against the wall where the com unit was, pressed the button.
"Captain, she's dead, all right. Botany One."
There was silence for a moment. "Understood," Burlin's voice came back. It broke. Another small silence. "The pseudosome's on its way."
"I don't need it. She doesn't weigh much."
"Don't touch her."
"Yes, sir." Warren pushed the button, broke the contact, leaned there with his throat gone tight. The dying screamed through the day and night, audible through the walls of sickbay on lower deck, up the air shafts, up the conduits, like the machinery sounds.
This had been a friend.
The lift worked, near the lab; he heard it, heard the metal footsteps, rolled his eyes toward the doorway as Anne herself came in& shining metal, faceless face, black plastic face with five red lights winking on and off inside; black plastic mirroring the lab on its oval surface, his own distorted form.
"Assistance?" Anne asked.
"Body." He pointed off at Rule. "Dispose."
Anne reoriented, stalked over and bent at the waist, gripped Rule's arm. The corpse had stiffened. Motors whirred; Anne straightened, hauling the body upright; another series of whirrings: brought her right arm under Rule's hips, lifted, readjusted the weight. A slow shuffling turn.
Warren stepped aside. Anne walked, hit the body against the doorframe in trying to exit. Warren put out his hand, sickened by this further horror, but Anne tilted the body, passed through and on.
He followed, down the hall, to Destruct& utilitarian, round-sealed door. Danger, it said. Warning. They used it for biological wastes. For dangerous samples. For more mundane things.
For their dead, down here.
He opened the hatch. Anne put the body in, small, insectile adjustments like a wasp. Froze, then, arms lowering, sensor-lights winking out. Warren closed the door, dogged it down. He pushed the button winced at the explosive sound, wiped his face. His hands were shaking. He looked at Anne "Decontaminate yourself," he said. The lights came on inside the mask. The robot moved, reoriented to the hall, walked off into the dark farther down the hall: no lights for Anne. She needed none.
Warren's belly hurt. He caught his breath. Decontaminate. He headed for the showers, faithful to the regs.
It was a thing to do; it kept a man from thinking, held out promises of safety. Maybe the others had let down.
He showered, vapored dry, took clean coveralls from the common locker, sat down on the bench to pull on his boots. His hands kept shaking. He kept shivering even after dressing. Fear. It's fear.
An alarm sounded, a short beep of the Klaxon, something touched that should not have been, somewhere in the ship. He stopped in mid-tug, heard the crash and whine of the huge locks at Anne's deep core.
Someone was using the cargo airlock. He stood up, jammed his foot into the second boot, started for the door.
"All report." He heard the general order, Burlin's voice. He went to the com by the door and did that name and location: "Paul Warren, lower-deck showers."
Silence.
"Captain?"
Silence.
Panic took him. He left the shower room at a run, headed down the corridor to the lift, rode it up to topside, raced out again, down the hall, around the corner into the living quarters, through it to the bridgeward corridor.
Locked. He pushed the button twice, tried the com above it. "Captain." He gasped for air. "Captain, it's Warren. Was that Abner, then?"
Silence. He fumbled his cardkey from his pocket, inserted it into the slot under the lock. It failed. He slammed his fist onto the com.
"Captain? Sikutu, Abner, is anyone hearing me?"
Silence still. He turned and ran back down the short corridor, through the mainroom, back toward the lift.
"Warren?" The com said. Burlin's voice.
Warren skidded to a stop, scrambled back to the nearest com unit and pushed the button." Captain Captain, what's going on?"
"I'm not getting any word out of sickbay," Burlin said. "I've sent the pseudosome in. Something's happened there."
"I'm going."
Silence.
Warren caught his breath, ran for the lift and rode it down again. Silence in the lower corridor too. He looked about him. "Abner? Abner, are you down here?"
No answer to the hail. Nothing. A section seal hissed open behind him. He spun about, caught his balance against the wall.
Anne was there in the dark. The pseudosome strode forward, her red lights glowing.
Warren turned and ran, faster than the robot, headed for the lab.
Quarantine, it said. No entry. He reached the door, pressed the com. "Sikutu. Sikutu, it's Warren. Are you all right in there?"
Silence. He pushed Door-Open.
It was a slaughterhouse inside. Blood was spattered over walls and beds. Sikutulying on the floor among the beds and pallets, red all over his lab whites from his perforated chest; Minnan and Polly and Tom, lying in their beds with their bedclothes sodden red, with startled eyes and twisted bodies. Throats cut. Faces slashed.
One bed was empty. The sheets were thrown back. He cast about him, counted bodies, lost in horror heard the footsteps at his back and turned in alarm.
Anne stood there, facelights flashing, cameras clicking into focus.
"Captain," Warren said: Anne was a relay herself. "Captain, it's Sax. He's gone& everyone else is dead.
He's got a knife or something. Is there any word from Abner?"
"I can't raise him." Burlin's voice came from Anne. "Get a gun. Go to the lock. Abner was in that area last."
"Assistance." The voice changed; Anne's mechanical tones. The pseudosome swiveled, talking to the dead. "Assistance?"
Warren wiped his face, caught his breath. "Body," he said distractedly. "Dispose." He edged past the pseudosome, ran for the corridor, for the weapons locker.
The locker door was dented, scarred as if someone had hammered it, slashed at it; but it was closed. He used his card on it. It jammed. He used it for a lever, used his fingertips, pried it open. He took one of the three pistols there, ignored the holsters, just slammed it shut and ran for the lift.
Downward again. His hands were shaking as he rode. He fumbled at the safety. He was a navigator, had never carried a gun against any human being, had never fired except in practice. His heart was speeding his hands cold.
The lift stopped; the door whipped open on the dark maze of netherdeck, of conduits and walkways that led to the lock.
He reached for the light switch below the com panel. The lift door shut behind him, leaving him in darkness. He hesitated, pushed the button.
He walked carefully along the walk. The metal grids of the decking echoed underfoot. He passed aisles searching for ambush& flexed his fingers on the gun, thinking of it finally, of what he was doing.
A catwalk led out to the lift platform, to the huge circular cargo plate, the lift control panel. The plate was in down-position, leaving a deep black hole in netherdeck, the vertical tracks showing round the pit. He reached the control station, pressed the button.
Gears synched; hydraulics worked. The platform came up into the light. A shape was on it, a body in a pool of blood. Abner.
Warren punched the station com. "Captain," he said, controlling his voice with marvelous, reasonable calm. "Captain, Abner's dead. Out on the lift platform, netherdeck. Shall I go outside?"
"No," Burlin's voice came back.
He shivered, waiting for more answer. "Captain."
He still kept it calm. "Captain, what do you want me to do?"
Silence and static. Warren cut it off, his hand clenched to numbness on the gun. He flexed it live again walked out onto the echoing platform, looked about him, full circle, at the shadows. Blood trailed off the platform's circle, stopped clean against the opposing surface. Gone. Outside. He hooked the gun to his belt, stooped and gathered Abner up, heaved the slashed body over his shoulder. Blood drenched him warm and leaking through his clothes. The limbs hung loose.
He carried ithim; Abner; six years his friend. Like Sikutu. Like Sax.
He kept going, to the lift, trailing blood, retracing all his steps. There was silence all about, ship-silence the rush of air in the ducts, the thousand small sounds of Anne's pumps and fans. Two of them now, two of them left, himself and Burlin. And Sax out there; out there, escaped, in paradise.
He took Abner upstairs, carried him down the corridor, in the semidark of Power-Save.
The pseudosome was busy there, carrying Sikutu's bloody form to the destruct chamber. Warren followed it, automaton like the other, trying to feel as little. But the bodies were stacked up there at the foot of the destruct chamber door, a surplus of bodies. Only one was jammed inside. Minnan. Warren's knees weakened. He watched the pseudosome let Sikutu down atop the others, saw it coming back, arms outstretched.
"Assistance?"
He surrendered Abner to it, stomach twisting as he did. He clamped his jaws and dogged the door on Minnan and pushed the button.
They did the job, he and the pseudosome. He threw up, after, from an empty stomach.
"Assistance?" Anne asked. "Assistance?"
He straightened, wiped his face, leaned against the wall. "Sterilize the area. Decontaminate." He walked off, staggered, corrected himself, pushed the nearest com button, having composed himself, keeping anger from his voice. "Captain. Captain, I've got the bodies all disposed. The area's being cleaned."
