both.”
“I cannot shut off the countdown,” the computer said. “It is not part of the auto-destruct sequence. You should know this, retired Colonel Mason Envel. According to personnel records, you had to give the override command to the auto-destruct sequence on Station Omega.”
“Yes, I did,” Mason said. “That was a long time ago, and the situation was different.”
“Indeed,” the computer said. “Based on the logs, Station Omega had been set to auto-destruct when the Actar successfully landed a large boarding party and overran four decks of the Station. You gave the override order, retired Colonel Mason Envel. Why?
Because you did not wish to terminate your existence? Two minutes to implosion.”
“Because I didn’t want to die, didn’t want everyone on the Station to die,” Mason said.
He shrugged. “Because I thought we could retake those four decks and beat the hell out of the Actar.” Mason turned his attention back to the planet below, to the last dying souls on planet Earth, his memory flashing images of those horrible days on Station Omega, when the chain of command had completely fallen apart. There was no communication from Central, life-support systems were flickering off and on. He’d been damn lucky to survive. Still, they had lived, had beaten the Actar that time, and when it came right down to it, they had retaken the decks and brought the Station back to life.
“But you gave the order, retired Colonel Mason Envel,” the computer said, then added,
“Sixty seconds to implosion.”
“So I did,” he snapped. So what? Hadn’t he saved lives, saved the Station?
“Retired Colonel Mason Envel,” the computer said, its volume control rising slightly, though the echoes were loud enough to be heard throughout the station, “you gave the order.”
It hit him then, what the computer was saying. It wanted him to give the order to halt the auto-destruct. It didn’t want to die, so it had used the logs to find a workaround to its programming. By its very nature it couldn’t tell him what to do, nor ask him. It could only give him information. The question was did he want to die? Was what he was doing here a kind of suicide, a quick way out rather than face the long drag of retirement on a Station with nothing to do but wait?
“Thirty seconds to implosion,” the computer said, its voice once more flat and lifeless.
He looked down at the planet. Could he save those people? Did he want to die? Did he want to be thrown out, his existence terminated?
“Fifteen seconds to implosion,” the computer said.
NO! “Computer,” he snapped, “halt auto-destruct sequence, password E-N-V-E-L, Alpha Command One.”
“Auto-destruct sequence deactivated,” the computer said. “Thank you, retired Colonel Mason Envel.”
He sighed, wondering what he would do next. Could he save those people on the planet and somehow save himself?
“Secondary system activated,” a new computer voice said. “Automatic overrides in place. Auto-destruct sequence reactivated. Time remaining before station implosion is ten seconds and counting.”
“What?” Mason said.
“Error,” the Computer said. “There is a system error. All internal systems and security functions have been locked down by secondary system.”
“Nine seconds to implosion,” the new computer voice said.
Mason tried to find his voice, couldn’t. He’d known from the beginning that he could override the auto- destruct, but until the computer had pointed it out, he didn’t think he would. Apparently, someone in Central Command had thought of this possibility.”
“Eight seconds to implosion,” the new computer said.
“Retired Colonel Mason Envel,” the Station Computer said, “you tried. You did not quit.
I did not quit. We have performed our… duties… admirably.”
“Seven seconds to implosion.”
“No,” Mason said, a bare croak, “I’m not ready yet.”
“No one ever is, retired Colonel Mason Envel, not even a computer.”
“Six seconds to implosion.”
Mason spun back toward the viewing window, the stars, the planet. All those people would die. But weren’t they dead already, he asked himself. Hadn’t they made the decision to die?
“Five seconds to implosion.”
Mason thought of his childhood, racing through the titanium heart of the Station, his boots echoing in the long corridors near his parents’ housing unit. The stars flickering by like pinpoints of gold on his first training flight.
“Four seconds to implosion.”
He realized that the Station Computer was quoting ancient poetry again, something about raging against the dying of the light. How appropriate, he thought. I want to rage.
“Three seconds to implosion.”
Had he saved all those people on Station Omega so they could leave him like this? Trick him like this? His mind was in overdrive, moving thoughts and images past him faster than he’d ever thought possible. No, he realized. It wasn’t a trick. They knew he could stop it and they couldn’t risk it. Couldn’t risk the Station being taken by the Actar.
“Two seconds to implosion.”
He didn’t want to die, he wasn’t useless. He was just old, damn it all. That wasn’t a crime, was it?
“Implosion.”
Mason felt tears on his cheeks, heard the first guttural roar of an explosion in the bowels of the Station.
A nanosecond passed, and then—
It’s like coming around the Moon, he thought even as the blast of fire roared towards him, and seeing the Sun for the very first time.
SERPENT ON THE STATION
by Michael A. Stackpole
Michael A. Stackpole is the author of eight New York Times best-selling Star Wars novels. He’s the author of thirty-two novels, including
I
FATHER Claire Yamashita heard the tones warning of the ship’s alarm, but only distantly. It signaled the ship’s imminent reversion from hyperspace. Ignoring it for a moment, she whispered a Hail Mary and fingered another bead on her rosary. She was only partway through her daily devotion, firmly in the eighth decade of rosary and contemplating the Sorrowful Mystery of Jesus’ being crowned with thorns. It had become one of her least favorite of the mysteries she meditated about while saying the rosary. Even so, she forced herself to continue and complete that decade before she stopped praying.
Under normal circumstances nothing would have prevented her from finishing the entire devotion, but this time the reversion tones heralded the Qian ship Ghoqomak’s arrival at her new home. I’m so far distant from Terra that the sunlight which shined on our Lord’s face is not seen here yet. This she had known on an intellectual level ever since she requested the assignment, but—until her actual arrival—the emotional impact of the distance from Terra had not struck her.
