interpreted the results.
Brahms waited, exhausted but utterly satisfied with his efforts. He was optimistic, hoping that with his background, some lucky breaks, and a hell of a lot of hard work on other projects, he might have a chance as associate director of Orbitech 2, the companion station now under construction at L-4.
Then Orbitechnologies unexpectedly relieved Roha Ombalal of most of his duties, and told Brahms to step in as associate director. He drifted in a state of shock for several days, not fully comprehending his good fortune and sudden responsibilities, until the day Ombalal’s wife had cursed him, just before she and her children had gone back to Earth in disgrace.
“No.” Allen Terachyk broke Brahms’s concentration. “We won’t last long.” Terachyk stood up and turned to leave the office. He hung his head and snuffled down the corridor without speaking further.
Brahms stopped himself from going after him. On the holoscreen glimmered the results of Terachyk’s model. His eyes widened at the numbers. With the recent arrival of the Miranda they had just restocked all their stores, and Terachyk hadn’t spent too much time with various rationing schemes, but in the simplistic, conservative one he had applied, the results still shocked Brahms.
Four months.
All the people on Orbitech 1, all fifteen hundred, would starve in four months.
Their gardens were ornamental—bright flowers and the occasional luxury of fresh fruit. Orbitech 1 was not designed to be self-sufficient.
Earth could never recover in that time. Sixty years before, one shuttle had blown up and stalled the U.S. space program for years. Now the War had driven the entire industrial base to its knees … and Orbitech 1 had only four months until it ran out of food.
Too many people, and not enough supplies. They couldn’t all survive. He looked at the numbers again; they were too large and too small. Fifteen hundred people. Four months.
We can’t all survive.
He looked to Ombalal. The man stared at the holoscreen, unblinking, as if he had expected nothing else.
Orbitech 1 had its scientists and researchers, whom Brahms respected and admired—but he did not worship them. As part of the big machine of the colony, all pieces had to fit together. The researchers, with their special skills, were just doing their job, as Brahms expected everyone to do.
The colony also had its production people, its workers, its maintenance people, its electronics technicians, its custodians, its medical officers, its gardener, the Personnel and Administration divisions, and they had families. All facets of society were reflected in Orbitech 1 —they had to be able to make it a viable community.
We can’t all survive!
How long would it take him to find a way for the colony to live through this? He couldn’t do it alone—and he didn’t intend to. They all had to make a massive, concerted effort. All of the collective resources of Orbitech 1 had to pull together as a team to find a way. But how could they possibly discover a radical new means of survival, develop it, and implement it in time to make any difference?
Fifteen hundred. There were still too many people. Four months. The time was still too short. He had to do something—riots would start once people found out they only had four months to live. But how could he stop it?
Brahms felt a drop of sweat trickle in a cold path down his back. His throat went dry. Fewer people would be able to survive longer on the same amount of supplies.
They couldn’t all survive anyway.
Brahms closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he opened his eyes again, the numbers on the screen were still the same.
The associate director got up from his desk. Ombalal had closed his eyes, as if trying to hold back tears. Useless man. Brahms thought briefly about calling for an attendant, but hesitated a moment, then turned instead to the holo unit and punched up a d-cube of Prokofiev’s “Kije Suite.”
Brahms waited, exhausted but utterly satisfied with his efforts. He was optimistic, hoping that with his background, some lucky breaks, and a hell of a lot of hard work on other projects, he might have a chance as associate director of Orbitech 2, the companion station now under construction at L-4.
Then Orbitechnologies unexpectedly relieved Roha Ombalal of most of his duties, and told Brahms to step in as associate director. He drifted in a state of shock for several days, not fully comprehending his good fortune and sudden responsibilities, until the day Ombalal’s wife had cursed him, just before she and her children had gone back to Earth in disgrace.
“No.” Allen Terachyk broke Brahms’s concentration. “We won’t last long.” Terachyk stood up and turned to leave the office. He hung his head and snuffled down the corridor without speaking further.
Brahms stopped himself from going after him. On the holoscreen glimmered the results of Terachyk’s model. His eyes widened at the numbers. With the recent arrival of the Miranda they had just restocked all their stores, and Terachyk hadn’t spent too much time with various rationing schemes, but in the simplistic, conservative one he had applied, the results still shocked Brahms.
Four months.
All the people on Orbitech 1, all fifteen hundred, would starve in four months.
Their gardens were ornamental—bright flowers and the occasional luxury of fresh fruit. Orbitech 1 was not designed to be self-sufficient.
Earth could never recover in that time. Sixty years before, one shuttle had blown up and stalled the U.S. space program for years. Now the War had driven the entire industrial base to its knees … and Orbitech 1 had only four months until it ran out of food.
Too many people, and not enough supplies. They couldn’t all survive. He looked at the numbers again; they were too large and too small. Fifteen hundred people. Four months.
We can’t all survive.
He looked to Ombalal. The man stared at the holoscreen, unblinking, as if he had expected nothing else.
Orbitech 1 had its scientists and researchers, whom Brahms respected and admired—but he did not worship them. As part of the big machine of the colony, all pieces had to fit together. The researchers, with their special skills, were just doing their job, as Brahms expected everyone to do.
The colony also had its production people, its workers, its maintenance people, its electronics technicians, its custodians, its medical officers, its gardener, the Personnel and Administration divisions, and they had families. All facets of society were reflected in Orbitech 1 —they had to be able to make it a viable community.
We can’t all survive!
How long would it take him to find a way for the colony to live through this? He couldn’t do it alone—and he didn’t intend to. They all had to make a massive, concerted effort. All of the collective resources of Orbitech 1 had to pull together as a team to find a way. But how could they possibly discover a radical new means of survival, develop it, and implement it in time to make any difference?
Fifteen hundred. There were still too many people. Four months. The time was still too short. He had to do something—riots would start once people found out they only had four months to live. But how could he stop it?
Brahms felt a drop of sweat trickle in a cold path down his back. His throat went dry. Fewer people would be able to survive longer on the same amount of supplies.
They couldn’t all survive anyway.
Brahms closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he opened his eyes again, the numbers on the screen were still the same.
The associate director got up from his desk. Ombalal had closed his eyes, as if trying to hold back tears. Useless man. Brahms thought briefly about calling for an attendant, but hesitated a moment, then turned instead to the holo unit and punched up a d-cube of Prokofiev’s “Kije Suite.”
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