John Shirley - A Song Called Youth

He took a deep breath and got his footing. Then he turned the wheel and opened the door, climbed through. He was in front of the air lock that led to the LSS Computer housing. The door was open. It was dark in there, except for the faint, malevolent shine of a small, round red emergency light like a demonic eye.

He couldn’t go in.

If he went in, the door would slam and the air would suck away, and this time no one would come.

Rimpler can’t slam the door, can’t draw out the air, Russ told himself . He hasn’t got the power to do it anymore. You’re safe. Go on in.

Russ took a step toward the door—and stopped when his lungs seized up, an ice giant’s fingers closed around his chest, tightening. He wheezed and shook with a surge of fear that was like an electric current.

There’s air here. He forced himself to breathe, and take a step, and another, and he was inside, committed. The icy hand went away, and the electric feeling, replaced with a dull ache of fear. He can’t do anything now! He’s shut down!

Russ saw the open panel on the door across the chamber and, in his mind’s eye, saw the tanned, confident German crouching there, reaching into the door and shaking with electrocution. Only his toolbox and the LSS Computer replacement unit remained, on the floor where they’d left them.

Russ said, “Come on, now.” He took the printout diagram from his pocket and bent, diagram in hand, beside the door. He looked at the diagram and matched it up with what he saw in the panel. He reached in. Don’t touch it. Electrocution. But he found the lever for the emergency manual over-ride, something that wouldn’t have worked while Rimpler was still powered, and pulled it down. The door clicked and moved out a quarter of an inch from the jamb. If I put my fingers in it, he’ll slam the door shut, smash them.

Using up his reserves of willpower, he pushed his fingers into the margin and pulled the door back. It slid easily into the wall.

The little room beyond was all convoluted arrangements of component shelves, consoles, dials, numbers. He was dazzled by its cryptic intricacy.

Should have brought a tech with me, he thought . I’m lost.

But he’d elected to come alone because of what had happened the last time he was here. A man had died. This way, he risked only himself. Stupid. An act of guilt. He had felt that, being Admin Security, he had some culpability in the death of all those aboard RM17.

After twenty minutes of looking and staring at the second page on the diagram, he found the unpretentious metal box containing the LSS Computer guidance unit, and what was left of Rimpler’s brain.

He unscrewed the panels, opened it. Inside was a black metal box that was sloppily soldered where it interfaced with other units. It looked jerry-rigged.

That was it. A big portion of a man’s living brain was in there, in that small box. And all that remained of the man. An ambition, a dream, and an irrational rage.

He clipped the wires, removed the box, his hands shaking. “I’m sorry, man,” he said. Had to say it. “Rest in peace.”

Russ put in the purely electronic unit, following directions on the diagrams.

Then, carrying the cybercerebral interface box, he found his way out and back up to the power station. An hour later the Colony lit up like a Christmas tree.

Russ took the box containing Rimpler’s brain to a jettison air lock. He thought he could feel impotent fury tingling from the box into his hands as he carried the thing into the air lock, but of course he was imagining that…

He left it there, in the air lock, and went back to the control chamber. He told the jettison tech, “Seal it.” The air lock sealed off. Then Russ closed his eyes, said a prayer ending in, “Ashes to ashes, dust to stardust. Be part of it forever.” And then he nodded at the tech, who pressed a button, opening the air lock so that the atmosphere in it, and the little metal box, were sucked out into space, and gone.

Karakos could feel Torrence glaring at him as he came into the room. He saw Torrence from the corner of his eye, standing by the window.

Steinfeld was lying on his cot, staring at the ceiling. Levassier was sitting on the edge of the cot beside him, staring at the floor. They looked comical that way, one looking up, the other looking down.

Karakos felt the tension in the room like a bubble, pressing him back, so he stayed in the doorway. “They said you wanted me, Steinfeld.”

“Lila died.”

“Oh, Lord. God, no.”

“Yes.”

“The ambush was a terrible thing. I was almost shot myself, many times,” Karakos said. “I was lucky.”

“Yes.”

“Well… I am deeply sorry to hear—”

Steinfeld interrupted. “I am telling you this because I want you to take Claire’s radio duty. She was very close to Lila. I don’t want someone distracted by… well, I prefer she rest now. So report to the—”

Torrence had crossed the room, was standing by the cot, staring at Steinfeld, pointedly not looking at Karakos. “This is…” He shook his head as if he couldn’t believe it. “It’s stupid. You’re going to let him on radio call? He knows we’re pulling out.”

Karakos looked at Torrence. “What?”

Steinfeld snorted. “He didn’t know. But I was going to inform him, true. Yes, Karakos, we’re moving out. In just under two days. The entire HQ staff. We’ll establish a new base in Italy. We’ll be leaving here in forty-eight hours.”

Karakos struggled to maintain his mask. He wanted to shout, Damn you, no! That’ll be a day too soon. But he said only, “Italy? Where?”

“Steinfeld…” Torrence said warningly. “There’s no reason to tell him, especially when he’s going on radio…”

“Shut up!” Steinfeld snapped, glaring at Torrence. Steinfeld had the look of a man who’s angry from weariness. “This man has worked with me for years. I know more about him than I know about you. I want no more of this idiotic divisiveness in our ranks.”

Torrence turned angrily toward Karakos, who stepped aside, and Torrence shoved roughly past him, stalked away down the hall.

Steinfeld said, “We’re moving to somewhere near the town of Bari on the coast of the Adriatic.”

“Bari!” Karakos was surprised. Bari and the entire coast around it was supposed to be an SA stronghold. The man Tellini whom they called The Cutthroat was in power there, an SA major who was said to disdain gas and the other mass-killing methods as being economically wasteful. “ You bring them to the sea, you cut their throats, you push them off the cliffs, one-two-three, no messy mass burials, no expensive gas chambers, simple, effective, and fast.” The Cutthroat tolerated no rebellion within shaking distance of Bari.

Steinfeld smiled wanly and said, “You look surprised. You’ve heard the stories about Tellini. I’ll surprise you some more: Tellini is our man. The SA are not the only ones with extractors; we have one, just one, in Rome… Tellini was extracted by Witcher’s best man, put under extractor post-directive. Now and then he does things we want him to and doesn’t remember doing it. He will protect our base without knowing he’s doing it. The SA could put him under an extractor and find nothing. But the postdirective is in there.” He stood and put a meaty hand on Karakos’s shoulder. “I’m telling you this because… I want you to know I trust you. Because you have been with me so long. You are like part of me. I would sense it if there was anything wrong…” He turned away.

Karakos was surprised by the warmth of the gesture and the tears in Steinfeld’s eyes.