Brute Orbits by George Zebrowski Read Free Book Online Page A

repeated his speech in each of the mess halls. He refined it somewhat, but he could see the growing solidarity among the men. The purge killings stopped. In the evenings, when he looked out toward the graveyard, he saw visitors. One or two even knelt and stayed a while. Although he saw this as a weakness, it would be useful as long as it remained a personal concern; but if it got organized into ritual with a headman, it might cause him trouble.
    When the men seemed to be of one mind, he started exploratory shifts to follow the work that was being completed inside the hundred barracks, although only ninety-eight would be needed to house the remaining 4,800 men. When they had arrived in the habitat, prisoners had been brought in from the engineering level blindfolded; but with some one hundred square kilometers of inner landscape to be searched, the chances of anyone finding the way out were small. There was one advantage: no guards to stop the inmates from looking.
    Tasarov started the searches in the mess halls. He went with each group and checked the floors for possible basement spaces.
    There was nothing obvious under the first three domes, and Tasarov noted the looks of disappointment in the faces of the dozen men with him. He could not let this drag on too long; the next step of the plan had to be implemented as soon as the way into the engineering level was found, and then the scheme might have a long run, assuming that the right equipment was there and usable. He needed a long run to keep order; that was in everyone’s interest whether they thought so or not. In the longest run, however, the possibilities were not good, but it was important not to poison the life left to the community.
    He wondered how much it meant to him to organize what there was left of life; to bring order was the only thing left to do against the coming darkness. At worst the effort would be a distraction; at best—who knew what might be accomplished by trying.
    He smiled, thinking of what a strange amalgam of naive optimism and pragmatic cold-bloodedness had ruled his life. The perversity of that tendency was a great joy when it worked; and when it didn’t, it was only what he had expected. Trying to have both was probably the greatest human trait he knew, because it often produced, if not its goal, then something equally satisfying along the way. And when the amalgam didn’t work—well, that just didn’t count; when failure counted you out, well, that also couldn’t be helped.
    An early friend of his, John O’Brian, had once said to him, “You know, you’re crazy, don’t you? You can’t be sentimental about your self-interest.”
    “I know,” Tasarov had replied, “but that’s not the point. The point is whether I can be stopped or not.”
    “You can be stopped,” O’Brian had answered. “One day you’ll hesitate to kill and someone will finish you.”
    “Sure,” Tasarov had said, “but only when it happens.”
    As he looked around at the empty mess hall, he knew that O’Brian would say that he had been stopped, once and for all; but deep in his rebellious heart Tasarov knew that his failure was only a matter of degree—and the proof of it was in how much still remained for him to do.
    But he would have to do it here; there wouldn’t be much life left for him when the habitat came back, assuming that he would still be alive.
    ■
    Where in all hell was the exit? They had searched the flooring of all ten mess domes—and found nothing. The exit was here, because they had all come through it.
    “Big man!” Polau said at dinner that evening, just loud enough for him to hear. Next to Polau, Howes looked a little embarrassed, but gave Tasarov a look into which he read too much: How can we shut up this jerk if you don’t come through for us? Maybe some of the others were thinking the same, and Tasarov felt a bit let down by himself. He should be able to guess where the entrance was!
    As he finished eating, Tasarov