The Devil's Eye Page 27

  “That’s pretty gutsy,” I said.

  Alex got that skeptical look in his eyes.

  “We took several steps as soon as we became aware of what was happening. First, we have informed all the worlds of the Confederacy of our situation. We have asked their help. That message went out immediately. It will be almost three weeks before we can hope to hear from them. But I’m confident they will offer assistance.

  “Second, in collaboration with all the states of the Coalition, we are moving to devote every resource we have to the manufacture of interstellars. It will take a while to get everything up and running because we need several orbital facilities. Work has already started on those.

  “We have vastly increased funding for shelters. We are digging into the earth wherever conditions permit, and will be manufacturing modular units that can shield small communities. Soon, we will have shielding that can be applied to individual houses.

  “Unfortunately, we cannot shield the planet, and therein lies our greatest hazard. When the gamma-ray burst has passed, every exposed life-form will be gone. But we will survive, and when it’s over, we’ll plant new forests and restore its wildlife.”

  “That’s not likely to happen,” I said. “The place will have to be abandoned.”

  Alex shrugged. “It’s good politics, though. Right now, it’s what people need to hear.”

  “We’ve located a new world, Sanctum, which will serve as a place to relocate evacuees. At first, we’d been concerned we would have to haul people all the way to the Confederacy, which would have been a terribly slow process. Sanctum is less than half the distance to the nearest Confederate world. Engineers, biotechs, and farmers are already on their way. Others will be leaving within the next twenty hours. We are calling this effort Operation New World.

  “At this critical time, Salud Afar needs all of us, working together. To begin, we need volunteers. Especially those with technical specialties. Consult the Coalition Bulletin Board and, please, volunteer where you can.”

  He came around in front of the rostrum, found a chair, and sat down. “I will not understate the situation. We are at a crossroads, and we can only succeed with your help. We all need to start immediately conserving supplies. Store them in places where they’ll be shielded from the gamma rays. Information on that can also be found at the Coalition Bulletin Board. You should be aware that we have impounded every private and commercial space vehicle that is not part of the overall relief effort. Some are being used to construct new orbiting stations. Others will carry evacuees. Compensation is available.

  “One final thing: We mean to evacuate as many people to Sanctum as we possibly can. We want to lower the population on Salud Afar. That is not because of any lack of confidence that we will come through this emergency. But the amount of supplies necessary after the event will be reduced.” He leaned forward, every bit a protective uncle. “We’ve had a replacement birth rate on this world for a long time now. I have to tell you that, at this historic moment, that is too many. I will not ask anyone to choose abortion. But we need everybody to take measures to prevent conception from this day forward, until we can declare the emergency over. I understand this is a highly personal matter. But it’s entirely possible that every new birth will cost an innocent person his life. And if that suggests how serious our situation is, we must take it to heart.” He stopped and stared straight out at us. “I know that you will do your part. Thank you, and good night.”

  Kilgore’s image had just blinked off when a group of experts appeared to discuss the situation. One, a calm guy with marquee looks spoiled by a too-neat mustache, thought the Administrator was responding with brilliant leadership to the emergency. “We’re fortunate to have the right guy in the job,” he said. “The people who want him out are crazy. You can’t really blame him when a star explodes, but he’s doing everything you could reasonably expect to counteract the effects.”

  “We’ve known about this for decades,” said another, an angry-looking academic type. “The Greene story confirms it.”

  And another, a young woman who was visibly seething: “Greene aside, we’ve always known Callistra was a candidate for a supernova. Or something bigger. We should have been watching it. How we could have failed to do that, I’ll never understand.”

  The moderator addressed himself to her: “Dr. Bjorg, did you ever recommend that we do a study?”

  “Not my field,” she said.

  “So whose is it?” demanded Alex.

  “Alex,” I said, “you’re talking to the holograms again.” He does that when he gets upset.

  We’d have fought the impoundment of the Belle-Marie, but there was nobody to fight. Whoever we called referred us to someone else. I was proud of Alex during that period. He refused to get angry, refused to blame me for not having left when we had the chance.

  We made several more efforts during the next few days to get through to Kilgore. The result was always the same: We were placed in his in-box. We checked on the compensation we’d get for the Belle-Marie, which, it turned out, would be considerably less than the ship was worth. That brought up another problem: The value of Coalition funds off-world would be crashing. The money we got would never buy anything for us.

  We called Bentley DeepSpace, which was the transport system that ran the liners to Rimway and Toxicon. They were weekly flights, and they’d been reported filled. But we tried anyway. “I’d like passage for two to Rimway,” I told them, “on the next available flight.

  The voice on the other end belonged to an AI. “I’m sorry, ma’am. The flights are full.”

  “How long’s the waiting list?”

  “We’re booked to the end of the year.”

  “Is that really the best you can do?”

  “We’ve requested assistance from several transport companies in the Confederacy. So we expect we’ll be able to help you shortly.”

  “Can we get on the waiting list?”

  “Yes, ma’am. What’s your name, please?”

  Alex waved me off. “Let it go,” he said. “If we have to, we’ll get in touch with somebody at home and have them come get us.”

  “Who did you have in mind?”

  “To be honest, I don’t know any pilots other than you. But we should be able to lease somebody.” He stared out at the night sky. “This trip has had its downside.”

  There was a confirmed report of a shoot-out between Confederate and Ashiyyurean warships. This time, a Mute vessel had broken open, and there’d been fatalities. Each side was claiming encroachment by the other, and issuing warnings. Each side was threatening war.

  It was obviously an outbreak waiting to happen. Alex commented that, like so many conflicts through the ages, it would be a war neither side wanted. More like a train wreck. But both sides had politicians who were solidifying their positions by stirring up antagonism. That often secured election, but it had the effect of backing them into a corner. It struck me that Kassel hadn’t been entirely honest when he claimed that Mutes couldn’t deceive one another.

  Meanwhile, Kilgore’s optimism had to be crumbling. Mathematicians were doing most of the damage. They showed up on every conceivable talk show and blew gaping holes in the government strategy. There wouldn’t be enough space in the shelters. Not nearly enough. The quantities of materials needed to protect private homes would overwhelm production facilities. Tens of millions would die during the initial blast. The survivors would quickly run out of food and other necessities. The capability to bring adequate resupplies in from the Confederacy was, at best, doubtful. And if war broke out with the Mutes, as seemed increasingly likely, that capability would probably go to zero.

  “There just isn’t time to do everything that needs to be done.” We heard that refrain over and over.

  We’d been in the hotel on Samuels for about a week when the AI announced an incoming call. Alex, gloomier than I’d ever seen him, asked sardonically whether I thought it might be Kilgore. Then he told the AI to put it
through.

  It was Wexler.

  “Hello, Benedict,” he said. “I hope you’re satisfied.” He was outside somewhere, leaning against a stone wall, dressed in a white pullover and the sort of slacks you’d wear for a walk in the woods. He ignored me, looked straight at Alex. “I assume,” he said, “you understand now how much damage you’ve caused.”

  Alex bristled. “At least something’s being done. You were prepared to sit by and watch everybody die.”

  “Something’s being done. You really think this government can do anything but talk? There are too many people. They’ll save a few million, but we’d have saved almost as many. And given everybody else three relatively peaceful years. All you’ve accomplished is to create chaos.”

  “Kilgore doesn’t think so.”

  “Kilgore’s a politician. What else would you expect him to say? He believes what he’s telling the voters, but this is exactly the reason we didn’t want him to know. The people around him understand what’s coming. So does every physicist on the planet. But they won’t say anything. Other than the idiots who want to see themselves on the news shows.” He bit his lip and actually wiped a tear from his cheek. “But everybody knows what’s really going to happen when the tide comes in.

  “The gamma-ray burst itself will pass quickly enough. But there’ll be a particle shower, and it’ll go on for days. Everything green will die off. The ozone layer will be swept away. Ultraviolet light will make Salud Afar a death trap for years to come. Nothing will grow. They’ll probably try to put together some shielded greenhouses, but that won’t do any more than delay the inevitable.” He shook his head, made a rumbling noise in his throat. “Well done, Mr. Benedict.”

  There was still no word on child evacuations. Not that it mattered anymore. Polls indicated that pessimism was growing. Eighteen percent of those surveyed described the situation as hopeless. Peifer showed up on Capital Round Table to discuss the severe inflation that had set in.

  The Administrator was on every other night. He usually sat in the room with the fireplace, and he went back to dressing casually. He spoke in generalities, praising his audience for their patience and their courage, dismissing the polls, which showed confidence steadily shrinking. The message was always the same: We are working to save each other. One way or another we will get the job done. His critics kept after him. He was tightening seat belts on the Korinbladt. But Kilgore always managed to get the last word. “If I took them seriously,” he said, “then yes, of course they’d turn out to be right. But my critics lack imagination. They want to give up. They underestimate what we, you and I together, can do. We won’t let them cause us to lose hope. We will find a way forward. Together.”

  Interviews with people around the globe depicted the anguish, despair, frustration. A farmer who described his earnings as “average,” asked how he could be expected to get his wife and kids to a safe place. “If you want to get to Sanctum, you have to be able to buy your way on,” he said. “I think the politicians who let this happen should be turned out of office and jailed. At the very least.”

  A schoolteacher from, of all places, Boldinai Point, wondered what would happen to her students. “Nobody’s going to get off-world unless they know somebody. You can bet your life Kilgore and his friends won’t be here when the crunch comes. Thank God for Benedict, or they never would have told us.”

  And a dark-haired woman described by the interviewer as being on the list of the world’s one hundred wealthiest citizens: “I keep hearing you have to have money to get clear. I wish somebody would tell me who to pay off.”

  We’d been nine days on Samuels when we got a call from Kids Off-world. They were bringing the first batch of children next day. “You said you could take six?”

  We’d called to let them know we no longer had a ship. But the message had gotten lost somewhere. An hour later we had another call. “Please hold for the Administrator.”

  I would have sworn his hair had whitened since the last time we’d seen him. “I’m glad to see you’re still here.” Someone handed him a sheet of paper. He glanced at it, nodded, and turned back to us. “Hello, Chase,” he said. “How are you?”

  “I’m fine, sir. Thank you.”

  “I understand we took your ship.”

  “That’s correct,” said Alex.

  “I apologize. I wouldn’t have wanted to let that happen. I’ve just had too much on my mind.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  “I never thought of it.” He got interrupted again, a notebook. He frowned. Shook his head no. Came back to us again. “Alex—?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Actually, I’m relieved you haven’t left. I’ll provide transportation out if you wish. And I know this has been a severe inconvenience. But I want to ask you to stay on for a while. There might be a way you can help.”

  “How, sir?”

  “Let’s leave that for the moment. You’re staying at the Samuels Hotel?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Very good. Make yourselves comfortable. We’ll pick up the tab. But be prepared to go on short notice. I’ll call you when we’re ready.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  Get out, child. Get out. Get as far from this dark place as you can. A spirit hangs over it, infests it, drifts along its passageways, and, ultimately, destroys all who live here.

  —Midnight and Roses

  The privately owned interstellars at Salud Afar, including the Belle-Marie , totaled eleven. Add eight commercial vessels, fifteen naval and patrol, and you had the sum total available to the Administrator for evacuating two billion people.

  The station was quiet, tense, frightened. By the end of the second week, twenty-six of the thirty-four ships were en route to Sanctum, or on the way back. The remaining eight were either having the quantum drive installed or being retrofitted in some way. The one-way trip would run about sixteen days. The old Armstrong drive would have taken months.

  And, finally, Kilgore announced electrifying news from the Confederacy: “A rescue fleet is forming,” he told the world. “Some are already on the way.” But he warned again there would not be enough ships for everyone. “Most of us will have to weather the storm on the ground. But we can do it. And we will.”

  He showed pictures of individual ships that were already en route to Salud Afar, or soon would be. Passenger vessels from Khaja Luan and Dellaconda, cargo ships being refitted off Toxicon to carry passengers, private vehicles coming from Abonai and Salusar. “We will survive,” Kilgore said.

  When he’d finished, Alex sat quietly for several minutes.

  “What are you thinking?” I asked.

  “About what’s missing.”

  “Ummm—What’s missing?”

  “The navy. If the Confederacy were serious, the navy would be leading the charge. That’s where their real transport capabilities lie.”

  “They can’t come,” I said. “They’re virtually at war.”

  “I know.”

  “I’m not sure,” I admitted, “I wouldn’t do the same thing. You have to protect against the possibility of attack.”

  A few days later, Kilgore had more news. First he talked about a food-packaging plant he was visiting. Vitacon Nutrition was making an enormous contribution, he said, to the general effort. Then he singled out a few more people for special notice. And finally the big story: “The first wave of private and commercial spacecraft are approaching Salud Afar. We’re setting up a lottery system to ensure fairness in selecting those who will, if they wish, be evacuated. Details are posted on the Coalition Bulletin Board.

  “Also, I’m pleased to announce the first new shuttles have rolled off the line at Grimsley.”

  There was an explosion the next day. Helmut Orr was a physicist who was fairly well-known primarily as a media figure. He sat on panels in which scientific issues were discussed, oversaw a program explaining the latest technological advances, and insisted that breaking through to alternate universes would be p
ossible in the near future. He loved doing shows in which he explained what would happen if ice melted at a slightly lower temperature, or if gravity was a bit stronger or the electroweak force a bit weaker. Or in which the speed of light was slower, say two thousand kilometers per hour. The situations he picked all resulted in chaos. In addition, Orr loved bad news. Anything that allowed him to point out other people’s failings. He was also a regular panelist in On the Spot, which blended science, politics, and entertainment.

  He was small, inevitably dwarfed by anyone, even the women, who appeared with him. But he was a dynamo. He got passionate about everything, about mirror matter and the interiors of stars and brown dwarfs. He was in love with the cosmos. And the day after the Administrator spoke at Vitacon Nutrition, he appeared on a panel to discuss the preparations being made to withstand the Thunderbolt. The moderator asked him if not having the assistance of the Confederate Navy would be a serious blow to the rescue effort.

  He looked directly at me. “The rescue effort,” he said, “is a hoax. You know what it really is? It’s a distraction, nothing up this sleeve, nothing up that one. It’s intended to keep us from realizing the truth, which is that we’re all dead. Bring the navy if you want. Bring six navies. They’ll get a few more people off the planet. But not very many. What your government isn’t telling you is that in three years, we’ll all be dead. All except a very small fraction. But they want us to keep cool and not make a lot of noise.

  “Well, I say we’re entitled to make some noise. We’ve known for centuries that Callistra was unstable. And, okay, I wouldn’t have expected the Bandahriate to do anything. But they’ve been gone a long time now. Some of us have been pleading for a mission to Callistra, send some people out and find out what was going on, see if there’s any danger.