I am sitting in a padded room with a gaggle of kids, rebelling against the United States of America. In the name of humanity. In the name of peace I am going to kill thirty-some men and women. For openers. And God only knows how many more. In the name of peace.
"If this is treason," he said slowly into the phone, "then make the most of it. We started pumping the air out of your level ten minutes ago." A lie; it was more like three, four minutes at the most. "You've got about five minutes before your men start passing out."
"You're bluffing!"
"So you want to be a hero, Stahl? Fine. You've already killed one man, and you're letting another bleed to death. How many pressure suits down there? Twelve? So figure out who among you is going to live and who's going to die. That's a perfect task for a hero, Stahl: pick out the people you're going to murder."
Kinsman punched the phone's off button. Immediately, he called the comm center again. "What's going on down on Level Four? How many suits do they have?"
"We're checking the screens, sir. And we're getting into suits ourselves. It's not easy—takes time."
"What's Stahl doing?" Kinsman demanded, his voice rising.
"Colonel Stahl is waving his arms and yelling for every- body to be quiet. They're all shouting, arguing. They've got 456 about ten suits out, but nobody's anywhere near sealed up in 'em."
"All right. Get our men on the other sides of those hatches leading to Level Four into suits. I'm going to suit up also and come down there."
"Uh, sir, if we keep the air off long enough it'll kill them, or cause brain damage. And our own men—"
"Just do what I told you," Kinsman snapped. Then he added, "There isn't anything else we can do, son. Not a goddamned thing."
By the time Kinsman had suited up and clumped down to the hatch that opened onto Level Four, the comm center reported that most of Stahl's people had collapsed. Only five had successfully sealed themselves into pressure suits, the Colonel among them. Kinsman ordered them to stop evacuat- ing the air from Level Four; bringing the area down to hard vacuum would accomplish nothing more.
Kinsman had his men pop the hatches all at once, and they moved into Level Four—ten space-suited men holding dartguns in their gloved hands. Kinsman clambered down a ladder that led to the galley hatch. A younger man, unidentifi- able in his bulky pressure suit, pushed through ahead of him. No one in sight. The only sounds in Kinsman's ears were his own breathing and the whisper of his suit's air pump.
Pushing through the galley, into the mess hall, they found bodies. Sprawled, blue-faced, but still alive. "Get the emer- gency oxygen masks on these people," Kinsman ordered.
Six bodies. Two women. He clumped past them and into the corridor that ran through officers' country.
"Got two guys here!" his earphones crackled. "They're surrendering."
"Two men in pressure suits?" Kinsman asked.
"Yessir. No fight. They gave up."
That left three more. He met two of his own men coming down the corridor toward him and almost fired at them. But he quickly recognized that their pressure suits were orange and red—colors that could be easily spotted on the desolate lunar surface—rather than the white of the orbital station's crew.
Together they poked into each compartment along the 457 corridor. Empty. Reports were pouring in over the suit radio. Men and women found asphyxiated in other parts of Level Four. Most were still alive. Eight were dead, including the wounded man from Kinsman's group.
