Sargon and others slid forward on their seats. Would the old man fall?

  The dragging right foot came forward barely in time. Eshmun caught his balance before he fell to his knees. He staggered, though, coming perilously near the far edge near the Ship Commander and her high officers.

  Eshmun slid to a halt, the toes of one sandaled foot over the edge of the dais. He dragged that foot back, turning, walking slowly, and letting the robe down to hide his hideous ankles and worse toenails, encrusted yellow things.

  Eshmun breathed rapidly and shallowly. The effort of climbing onto the dais had clearly cost him. His days as Elder were surely numbered. He swallowed several times, wetting dry lips with a discolored tongue. If he wanted a drink, he would have to climb down the dais to get it, as no one could hand him a cup while he was up here.

  Eshmun cleared his throat several times, making a flourish with his good hand and arm, as the other was withered and weak.

  “Elders, Ship Commander, High Officers and Chief Technicians,” Eshmun said in a reedy voice, “we are gathered today to make a momentous decision. We know the facts, the trailing Vim missiles, and we know our high purpose of guarding the last of our People aboard the Akkad. We are the final representatives of our world, the sole survivors of a bitter war against the alien Vims.”

  Eshmun ceased talking, having run out of air. He stared at the other Elders, his eyes becoming watery and unfocused, possibly showing confusion.

  Eshmun closed his mouth, swallowed and seemed to summon his final strength. “Please,” he whispered.

  Sargon feared the worst then. He was sure the others did likewise.

  “We have done this before,” Eshmun said in a weak voice. “Our ancestors fled a star system long ago to find the one we lost thirty years ago to the Vims. We will find a new star system for our descendants and once more begin anew. We must. It is our People’s destiny. To succumb now would be cowardly and base.”

  Eshmun shuffled around to stare at Ship Commander Anat. “We must resist until the very end. That is our way. We have a holy duty to those aboard. We must never surrender. That is the ancient creed. We—”

  A stricken look caused Eshmun’s features to crumple. Spittle stained his lips. He wheezed audibly. His hands rose as he clutched his chest where his heart would be. He made croaking noises.

  Could the Elder be having a heart attack? More than one had died that way on the speaking dais.

  “No,” Sargon whispered. He noticed Anat watched dispassionately. It almost seemed that she waited for the Elder to fall to his knees, as if she expected it.

  Sargon frowned, and a hideous thought consumed him. Could Anat have poisoned Eshmun? Had one of the Elder’s wives agreed with the Ship Commander’s views? He’d heard somewhere that one of Eshmun’s wives was a Suppressionist.

  Eshmun thrust his withered hand toward Anat. The Elder staggered several steps toward her. His face had turned bluer than normal. “Please,” he whispered. “You must listen to me.”

  Those were Eshmun’s last words. He sank with a groan to his knees.

  Sargon closed his eyes. A thud caused the eyes to fly open.

  Eshmun lay unmoving on the dais. This was a disaster. Eshmun was the steel among the Elders; the one who goaded them to fight against despair. With Eshmun’s passing…

  Two Elders rose, climbed onto the dais and knelt beside Eshmun. They checked his pulse, exchanged glances and declared him dead. The other Elders rose and climbed onto the dais with them. The six living Elders clutched the corpse’s arms and legs, lifting it to begin the laborious process of taking the body from the chamber. They were all old men. Would another die during the historic and obviously tiring task?

  Once more, Sargon closed his eyes, this time bowing his head. Due to his nature, he began to involuntarily analyze the situation. He’d spoken to Eshmun several days ago. The chief Elder had looked strong enough then. Given what had happened on the dais, given the division among the Elders—

  For a second time, Sargon’s eyes flew open. The conclusion was clear: this wasn’t an accident. Anat must have engineered the chief Elder’s death. She was ruthless and determined enough.

  Ship Commander Anat stood as the Elders with their sad cargo exited the Audience Chamber. She stared at the technicians, her gaze lingering on Sargon.

  “The meeting is adjourned,” Anat said in a ringing voice. “A new Elder must rise before they vote on the decision. Until then, we will continue the voyage as before. On pain of death, none of you will speak about the Vim missiles to the passengers.”

  “Do we simply give up and die then?” Sargon heard himself ask.

  Anat raised her eyebrows, focusing on him. “The Chief Analyzer protests my decision?”

  Sargon shook his head. He was too stunned to tremble. He couldn’t believe he’d said that, or that he added, “We are the last of the People. We must survive as Eshmun said.”

  Anat’s gaze became serpentine as she studied him. “We are the last, and we flee from a remorseless enemy. It is the end for us. Should we face the end as rabble running for our lives, screaming into the night? Should we end with indignity and disorder? Or should we go into the night with our heads held high, scoffing at disaster as the heroes of old faced death? We all die, Chief Analyzer. All Peoples come to an end in time. It is how one lives his life that makes the difference.”

  Sargon swallowed in a dry throat. With scintillating insight, he believed he finally understood. Death and doom, billions slain, the psychic cost to the survivors had unhinged many. Add the pressures of command to that—

  “Do you disagree with me, Chief Analyzer?” Anat asked softly.

  Sargon knew he wasn’t eloquent. He was an analyzer and could see where things led. That was all.

  “Do we have a reasonable chance of surviving three Vim missiles?” Anat asked.

  Sargon knew it wasn’t so.

  “What are the odds the Akkad will survive three Type Four Annihilator missiles?” Anat asked, driving the point home.

  Sargon’s mouth turned bone dry as he said, “I do not possess all the data.”

  Anat scoffed, shaking her head. She looked at the others. “No matter what we decide, the missiles will not reach us during our lifetimes. Why then must we live like undignified rats, fleeing a hopeless existence? Let us instead live the high life, enjoying the final time allotted us. Those that wish to fight reality can leave in lifeboats, enduring in poverty as we cast aside all restraint and enjoy our existence to the full while we can.”

  Madness, Sargon realized. The weight of command and the doom from the Vims had unhinged the Ship Commander and likely her officers. Seeing a world, a star system, destroyed, had been too much for them, and others. Now the agony of the chase, knowing it was over—

  Sargon thudded onto his butt as his knees unhinged. He lowered his face as tears welled in his eyes. He was caged with madman and lunatics who preferred to give up in sybarite gaiety—to party as everything burned down around them. That was what Anat really meant.

  As Sargon wept silently, Anat lead her officers from the Audience Chamber. Madness was abroad upon the Akkad and likely growing. Ship discipline would begin to decay.

  A lump formed in Sargon’s throat, his swallow a struggle against the rising panic. He had to do something, as he refused to give up and die for nothing. The thing was, what could he do against Anat and her officers if the Elders lacked the stomach for resistance? Anat had surely poisoned Eshmun. She wouldn’t hesitate to kill a mere Chief Analyzer if he tried to interfere.

  I don’t know what to do. But I’d better figure something out before the next Elder rises to service. I have to make my life count for something or everything I’ve ever done is worthless.

  -3-

  Chief Analyzer Sargon paced in his private quarters. Like everyone else’s, it was cramped because of the dire need for space. He had a cot, an inbuilt dresser and a stand littered with a tablet and stylus. He could pace the length of his cot and a little more. Like every ship cabin, it lacked a toilet and shower. This file of quarters shared that with all the others down the corridor.

  Sargon paced three steps, turned and paced the way he had come. It was beginning to feel claustrophobic in here. He only spent a little time in his quarters, often sleeping at his workstation. That area was large compared to this. He felt as if he could breathe then.

  Here—

  Sargon massaged his throat as he paced, inhaling deeply. Poor Chief Elder Eshmun had passed away last night—ship time. His flesh, bones, and organs were all broken down to become compost for the food processors.

  In truth, existence aboard the Akkad was severe compared to what life had been thirty years ago. He’d been a boy then, running in parks and playing on sports teams.

  Sargon was middle-aged, one of the youngest of the Chief Technicians. He was a prime analyzer, the best in his class. His incisive use of logic had nearly become legendary. Some of his decisions had made it into analyzer textbooks to teach the young.

  Sargon wiped sweat from his forehead. He stared at his fingertips in shock. Slowly, cautiously, he felt his head again. His forehead was truly sweaty as if he’d been sprinting for a time. He checked his clothes. They were wet with sweat.

  Sargon frowned, and he no longer paced. What did his subconscious know that he wasn’t allowing himself to think consciously?

  In a moment, his eyes widened with comprehension. This was incredible.

  “I can’t do that,” he whispered.

  He blinked several times, shocked at his discovery.

  He would not be sweating like this if he unconsciously didn’t realize that he could do this. It was just a matter of will.

  “But…it’s wrong,” he whispered.

  But so was suicide. Mass suicide—leading the last of a People into it—that was a grave crime indeed. Ship Commander Anat led the rest of the Suppressionist in the worst possible crime a leader could commit. She was supposed to lead them to safety, to insure the survival of the People, not foil the last possible attempt to allow the race to continue its existence.

  Sargon realized he had a duty to his race. If that meant committing a morally repugnant act to achieve it—

  “So be it,” he whispered.

  He was not a brave man—

  Sargon shook his head emphatically. Bravery had nothing to do with this. He had children. Should he let them die out without doing anything for their survival? How could he live with himself then?

  Sargon erupted in nervous laughter. That was a bad joke, a horrible joke against all of them. Why had Anat joined the Akkad if she lacked the courage to fight to the bitter end? Why had Anat accepted the post of Ship Commander?

  Sargon nodded. He understood why. Anat was selfish. Anat loved power for its own sake. Did that mean he should stay on the path of custom, refraining from aggressive action, so no one could label him as unbalanced? What would it matter what anyone labeled him? The People would all be dead, all their history so much ashes. His children, his line, would forever pass away.

  “No,” Sargon said, his voice firmer than before.

  A gleam of madness, possibly, shined in his brown eyes. He wasn’t brave, but he refused to give up and let fate destroy his People. He realized what his subconscious had already determined. The survival of the People demanded any action needed, no matter how morally repugnant to achieve it. Logic dictated that nonbeing was the worst choice. It terms of categories, the two did not compare. Nonbeing was much worse than taking a repugnant action.

  Like a sleepwalker, Sargon knelt by his dresser and opened the bottom drawer. He pushed aside socks to reveal a small wooden case. Taking out the case, he opened it to reveal a sharp combat knife.

  His grandfather had carried this in the Uruk War. There hadn’t been any genetically improved soldiers in those days. Sargon picked up the blade by the handle and tested its sharpness against a thumb.

  Bright red blood welled from the prick, a testament to the blade’s sharpness.

  Sargon felt his forehead. He no longer sweated. His forehead had become cold and dry. Resolve built in him. What he planned was a wicked act, but—

  He stood, with the knife yet gripped in his hand. He moved the sash around his waist, hiding the knife in the cloth folds.

  If he did this…

  He became cold with fear, finally shaking his head.

  Thinking too hard about this was the wrong idea. Yet, he needed a plan, a place to attempt it. Committing the act in a sacred place would be bad. He must succeed, though. That was the most important thing.

  “Ah,” he said, realizing the perfect place. “I must go the bridge. I must enter her place of power. That will strengthen the point.”

  Would the soldiers search him and take the knife?

  A grim smile touched the left corner of Sargon’s lips. Anat was arrogant and thought him a worm. She wouldn’t have the soldiers search him because she thought him contemptible.

  “I must do this before I lose my courage.”

  Sargon nodded. He was already wondering if—he swore silently and headed for the hatch.

  -4-

  Halfway to the bridge, Sargon began to tremble. He also found himself breathing too fast. This wasn’t going to work. Anyone with any brains would be able to see that he was agitated. It would be obvious what he planned to do.

  Sargon turned several corridor corners before his good analytical sense returned to him. No one would realize what he planned to do. He was a chief technician, a thinker, a physically small individual. He lacked big muscles or an aggressive disposition. Everyone knew that and could plainly see it.

  Besides, Ship Commander Anat held him in contempt. Even after he thwarted her last month, she sneered at him. In her place of power, seated on the command chair, she would view herself as beyond touch from the likes of him—if she even thought of him at all. It was likely she already believed herself untouchable by the Elders.

  What was the key to this then?

  I must stab deep and hard. I cannot give her a chance to defend herself.

  In many ways, this was a cowardly act. Yet, he must succeed. The possible end of the race could rest on his failure. This was an all or nothing throw of the dice.

  Sargon loved to play board games. He spent many hours playing such games with his older children and their friends.

  His trembling increased.

  I mustn’t think about them. I must focus on the act.

  His success would mean his quick death. That meant he would never see his children again. This was the end for him. In a way, this was a form of suicide.

  Sargon swallowed down a lump.

  I’m sacrificing myself to save my People. Surely, that is a noble act.

  Sargon’s eyes gleamed. I am being noble. Even as I do this dirty deed, I am being noble. I must think about that and nothing else.

  He entered a turbo lift and rode to the command level. As a Chief Analyzer, he had the right to walk the command deck if the occasion demanded it.

  He wondered if he was granting himself too much nobility for this heinous act.

  Quit thinking about it. Just get it done.

  Sargon found himself breathing rapidly. His forehead had begun to ooze sweat again. He rubbed his fingertips against his palms. They were sweaty too. What if the knife slipped in his hand as he struck? Would he become the laughingstock of the ship?

  “Stop,” Sargon said.

  He halted in the corridor. He didn’t try to bring his breathing under control. He did square his shoulders and raise his head high. Then, he resumed walking, slower than before, with a dignified and stately step.

  Soon, he passed soldiers standing at attention in the corridor. They were big and held shredders. They eyed him with something near contempt.

  That was fine. That actually helped his chances of success. As an analyzer, he knew that surprise was a force multiplier. It caught others off guard. What might be impossible become possible if one acted through surprise.

  He forced himself to breathe through his nostrils. He wanted to slow down, even turn around, but he forced himself toward the main double hatch that would allow him onto the Akkad’s bridge.

  Three armed soldiers stood there and a Deck Police Senior, a high officer. She was much smaller than the soldiers.

  The officer was a woman with a big head. She wore a scarlet uniform to show herself part of the Ship Commander’s inner staff.

  “Chief Analyzer,” the senior said. “What are you doing on the command deck?”

  Sargon gave her a sickly smile. It was all he could manage. “I would like to speak to the Ship Commander about a coming problem.”

  The senior raised her eyebrows. “What does this regard exactly?”

  “The Ship Commander will know,” he managed to say.

  That was a lame reply, and Sargon wondered if the senior would accept it.

  She raised her eyebrows again and then turned on her heel. The hatch slid open as she disappeared into the cavernous bridge.

  The soldiers watched Sargon. He turned his back to them as he waited.

  The hatch slid open once again.

  Sargon faced forward.

  “Come,” said the senior. “Follow me.”

  Sargon had been on the bridge one other time. It was one of the more spacious places on the Akkad, an awe-inspiring chamber.

  There were many stations with officers at watch or seated at monitors. A vast panorama view showed outer space with its myriad of stars. Fully one wall was glass, or something like glass, showing the breathtaking sight.

  Sargon halted, transfixed by the blackness and the stars. It was hard to feel cramped on the bridge, staring into space like this.

  “Chief Analyzer,” a woman said.

  Sargon felt like a robot as he turned to regard Anat seated in the command chair. A great screen was before her, but she could swivel the command chair to peer all around her. There were nearby soldiers, and those fellows possessed uncommonly fast reflexes.