“What’s umng-thingummy?”
“Samp and beans.”
“Well, I don’t think they have that. These people seem to be mostly from a more northern background.” An observation she was trying not to make flickered across her mind like lightning, and faded. “They probably have beer, though. Isn’t that also traditional?”
“Smile,” Cydney said, kicking her. The sandcastle was so small that she didn’t have to get up to do it. “I have to go. There’s that reception for the candidates. Are you coming?” Her tone anticipated a refusal.
“Sure!” Elfrida said.
“Really?” Cydney’s face lit up. “What are you going to wear?”
“Um …”
“You can borrow something of mine.” Cydney bounced to her feet. Elfrida felt relieved. She was afraid there might still be some fleas in the sofa-bed.
★
Finding something of Cydney’s for Elfrida to wear was easier said than done. Elfrida was the more curvaceous of the two, to put it kindly. In the end, she had to wear one of the dresses Cydney had bought on the Starliner. Dress was a euphemism. It was four leaf-shaped pieces of adhesive serge, connected by straps. She wore a nude skinsuit under it so she wouldn’t freeze. That didn’t stop people from staring as they slunk through the village on their way to the reception.
“Don’t worry,” Cydney said. She was sporting a scarcely more modest gown, which exposed her goose-pimpled (but toned) midriff. “It’s a formal event.”
The reception was being held in the former ballroom of Hotel Mercury. When they got there, Elfrida wanted to sink into the floor. Cydney had misjudged the dress code. The event was not formal, but Luna casual. Most of the men were in three-piece suits, the women in sweeping gowns. “How could you do this to me?”
“You look great.”
“I look like a hippopotamus in a bondage costume.”
But there was Dr. Hasselblatter, and then the lights dimmed, and the acting director of UNVRP (Dr. Ulysses Seth, who had temporarily taken over after Charles K. Pope’s death) hobbled onto the slogan-plastered stage and began to give a speech.
Under cover of the semi-darkness, Elfrida sidled up to Dr. Hasselblatter. “Sir?”
He was with his wife. Only a pair of brown eyes showed through the slit of Mrs. Hasselblatter’s burka, but Elfrida was sure that she could read mild revulsion in them.
“Goto, what are you wearing?”
“We thought it was a formal event. Sir, could I have a sit-down with you? Maybe tomorrow, or …” It was impudent to try to pin down someone of Dr. Hasselblatter’s stature. But Elfrida wanted to get him to commit to a meeting before his schedule filled up with campaign activities.
“What’s it about?”
“Sir, it’s about my job.”
She still hadn’t got any clear definition of her duties. Now that she and Vlajkovic were on semi-friendly terms, she didn’t want to go behind his back. But maybe Dr. Hasselblatter could supply her with a rundown of the HR department’s current projects, so she could come up with inputs that would favorably impress Vlajkovic.
“Ja, ja. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that.” Dr Hasselblatter touched his wife’s arm, murmured something to her. “We might as well do it now.”
“Now?”
Dr. Hasselblatter nodded at the stage. Dr. Ulysses Seth was now narrating the history of UNVRP. “He’s eighty-six. Been working here since it was two men living in an inflatable. Should’ve retired years ago. He’s going to ramble on until it’s time for his meds. I see some chairs over there.”
Dr. Hasselblatter guided Elfrida to the back of the ballroom, where chairs and tables had been set up. On the way, he dumped his half-drunk G&T on the end of the bar and snared a fresh one. “Non-sharia-compliant,” he winked. “Don’t tell Fatima.”
Elfrida felt the need of a drink herself. “Sir, I’ve established a preliminary rapport with Mike Vlajkovic. But as you mentioned, he is a little difficult to work with. I haven’t been able to get him to give me any current list of the HR department’s responsibilities or ongoing projects, anything like that.”
“I’m not surprised. He’s trying to exclude you.”
“Yes, I guess, but I wonder from what?”
Dr. Hasselblatter took a gulp of his G&T. “Here’s what he hasn’t told you: The HR department’s top priority right now is hiring for the Phase Five ramp.”
“OK, that makes sense. And?”
“There are twenty-five slots to fill. Mostly engineering and telepresence positions.”
“It seems like we’ve got plenty of local talent to choose from,” Elfrida said, thinking of twelve-year-old Jake.
“Everyone else will have to go.”
“… Sir?”
“Everyone. Including dependents. Including that charming little community in the intake shaft. The R&D program is being shut down.” Dr. Hasselblatter’s face was expressionless beneath his immaculate, silver-flecked hair.
“Oh my dog, sir.”
“Now you know why Vlajkovic is dragging his feet. And now you know what your job is, don’t you?”
“To resettle them,” Elfrida said faintly.
She had been brought here to destroy the community that had taken her in. To evict them from their home and resettle them on some distant asteroid.
“Our own people, sir!”
“Not ours,” Dr. Hasselblatter said, reminding her where her loyalties lay—with the Space Corps. Which did everyone else’s dirty work. “This was Charlie Pope’s decision. It was finalized at board level before he tragically passed away. It’s a done deal, Goto, so don’t bother making puppy-dog eyes at me.”
“You don’t like it, either, sir.”
Dr. Hasselblatter’s eyebrows drew together. She’d gone too far. “Did I pick the wrong person for this job, Goto?”
“No, sir.”
“You are an experienced field agent. You’ve successfully evacuated more people from more rocks than anyone else. OK, I know 4 Vesta doesn’t really count, but still. I have confidence that you can do this, and do it in a manner that befits the high ethical standards of the Space Corps.”
Dr. Hasselblatter put an arm around her shoulders—very lightly—and guided her back to the bar, where he ordered her a straight scotch. Elfrida took it and drank it. On the stage, Dr. Ulysses Seth’s presentation had reached 2250, the year when the UNVRP asteroid capture program kicked off. Blue light played on faces slack with boredom.
“Look at it this way,” Dr. Hasselblatter said. “You’ve seen the community. It’s a mess. Unemployed youth, freeloading illegals, babies having babies, gengineered pets running wild, this peculiar fad for carpets. They’re out of control, spending taxpayer money on research that has nothing to do with Venus. I had hoped that you would come to the same conclusion I have, which is that this community is dysfunctional, and should be resettled on Ceres or some other UN-approved destination, for their own good. The kids all have spaceborn syndrome, don’t they?”
“Not of life-threatening severity, sir. The gravity here is better—”
“Than on Luna. Yes, yes, I know.” Suddenly, Dr. Hasselblatter looked tired. “Just get on with it, Goto. I’ll expect your preliminary assessment in a week’s time.”
★
Cydney saw Elfrida running out of the ballroom. She pinged her, but got no response.
She’s always getting worked up about nothing, Cydney told herself.
She had an uncomfortable sense that it was her duty to go after Elfrida. But how could she? They’d all sat down to supper now. It would be rude to leave.
And such a waste.
Covertly vidding with a microcamera concealed in her left earring, Cydney turned her head to get footage of Dr. Ulysses Seth, Dr. Abdullah Hasselblatter, and Amanda Patel, a big fish from some NEO or other, at the next table. She couldn’t overhear their conversation, even using the directional mic in her hair barrette. But there was plenty of clickbait at this table, too. Zazoë
Heap sat across from her (not next to her, thank dog; Zazoë really was boring). On Cydney’s right sat Pyls O. Mani, the World Bank’s candidate for the directorship of UNVRP, and on his right was Mork Rapp, the environmentalist.
But the woman on Cydney’s left intrigued her most of all.
Va-va-voomacious, with cushiony lips and waist-length black hair, Angelica Lin—the bereaved girlfriend of Charles K. Pope—wore a black gown with a wasp waist and a modest cleavage. ~She’s in mourning, Cydney subvocalized to her feed. ~That’s class, guys, pure class.
Angelica Lin’s internet profile was unadorned, belying her unwilling fame. She projected a keep-away vibe. But the very fact she was here spoke terabytes.
Cydney itched to ask her about the rumor that she would be running for her late boyfriend’s position.
However, there was no way to broach that subject, so Cydney cleared her throat and said, “Doesn’t this lemon horseradish sauce go perfectly with the maguro steak?”
Angelica Lin turned to see who’d spoken to her. Her dark eyes were livelier than Cydney had expected. “Apple?” she said, gesturing at Cydney’s dress.
Cydney nodded. “I know, I know, I’m overdressed. My girlfriend thought it was a formal event.”
“No, no, I love their stuff. Have you seen the new iTutu?”
“Oh my dog, yes! With the built-in booty booster? Of course, it’s primarily targeted at the tranny market.”
“I know. So disappointing. When are they going to start making products for real women?”
★
From the background report on Angelica Lin put together by Cydney’s data-mining team:
Earthborn. Her heritage is Chinese, but the family had lived in America for centuries. Plenty of mixing going on there, so we figure she’s not a pureblood. No way to know for sure, of course. No one with two brain cells to rub together gives out that information. But look at her skin tone. East Asians don’t come that dark. Nor do they usually have porn-worthy bazookas. Ahem.
She grew up right here in L.A. Won all the human-rights prizes going, collected a Gloria Steinem Award for volunteer work when she was only fifteen. Oh, and she also played the violin. None of which can have been much comfort when her entire family bought it in the 2262 earthquake. They were living in one of those vertical slums in Hollywood. It came down on top of them.
After that, for reasons known only to herself, young Angelica turns away from the high-flying career in human rights that beckons. She puts her name down for Space Force. Two years later she’s on her way to Callisto.
The date of her arrival: July 10th, 2265.
This chick has seriously bad timing.
23 Years Earlier. Callisto
Angelica Lin reviewed her suit telemetry for the twentieth time. Inside her EVA gloves, her palms sweated. Her heart pounded with apprehension—and excitement.
After three months in space, she was about to set foot for the first time on Callisto.
The real thing, at last!
But in keeping with the Marine ethos, she couldn’t let her excitement show. She joined in mocking the humble little base that they could see on the viewport screen. A handful of inflatable modules connected by flexitubes. A nuclear power plant. The drilling rig.
The Space Force landing craft descended almost vertically, soaking the Marines with three gees. Angelica was nineteen years old, in peak physical condition, centrifuge-certified up to eight gees, medded up with motion-sickness prophylactics. The brutal deceleration didn’t faze her.
Valhalla Crater was the largest multi-ring impact crater on Callisto, and actually, in the solar system, 1,900 klicks across. Its concentric rings surrounded a bright spot like a bullet hole in a windshield. The brightness was snow; it stood out clearly against the chocolate-brown surface. That was where they’d put Valhalla Base, because snow could be melted into water, so that was one less thing to carry 630 million kilometers.
Angelica braced for landing.
Thump.
The Marines piled out in platoon order. They stood in a puddle on the surface of Callisto. The heat from the landing craft’s fusion drive had melted the snow, but it was already refreezing under their boots. Angelica recalled that the surface was actually an ice rink six kilometers thick.
She formed up with the others. Eyes rigidly forward, she faced Sergeant McWhorter, but looked beyond her. Jupiter bulged over the horizon. It was so big!
People came out from the base to meet them. A couple of civilians, plus the Marines they’d be replacing here, 100 bods in blue and silver EVA suits identical to their own. While the civilians exchanged pleasantries with Captain Malouf, the Marines flashed covert hand signs and congregated on a different channel.
“So, give us the scoop.”
“Fuck, man, like, fuck, this posting is a fucking barfbag. We can’t wait to get home.”
“Head bloat, air rationing, nutriblocks three times a day, yeah, we know all about it.”
“Naw, man, fuck, it’s not that.”
“So what’s the catch?”
Angelica caught her own name amidst the babble. “Yo yo yo Private Lin. Motherfucker! I’m looking at your profile, and shit, I kind of wish we weren’t leaving so soon.”
It never ended. Even at a handover on the surface of Callisto. But Angelica had plenty of practise at deflecting lechery. “If that’s your idea of a pick-up line, Gunny, you’ve been out here too long.”
Laughter.
“Fuck, man, fuck, look at y’all. Only twenty of you?”
“One platoon, yeah, why?”
“Look at us. A whole fucking company. Where’s the rest of y’all?”
“Coming later. So we get to dog the best bunks and shit before they get here.”
“You’re a funny woman, Lin,” said the gunnery sergeant who’d spoken to her before. “So what did you join up for?”
What kind of a question was that? “To protect and defend humanity in space,” she deadpanned.
That was the semi-official motto of Space Force. Funny thing was, she meant it. She hadn’t been able to protect and defend her family from the earthquake. But maybe she could protect other vulnerable civilians, in places even more dangerous than Los Angeles, which humanity nevertheless occupied with the same insouciance that had flowered in the social housing developments atop the San Andreas Fault.
When she was shooting her Zero.5 in training, she often imagined that she was aiming at the PLAN.
“Then you came to the wrong fucking place,” said the gunnery sergeant.
“This base has been up for years, so what’s the catch?” C-Mutt was still trying to dig out an informational edge. “Radiation? Aliens? Are the civilians crazy or some shit?”
“Naw, uh-uh, fuck man.”
Top-heavy with gear, the other Marine company inched on board the landing craft. They were going to be crammed in balls-to-ass.
“The problem with fucking Callisto, man? The problem is nothing ever fucking happens here.”
viii.
Elfrida sat in a toilet stall in one of the women’s restrooms in the R&D village. The restroom was a freestanding prefab structure. Suction toilets caked with human waste. The tragedy of the commons. On the battered inside of the door, cutter-laser strokes spelled out Lydia hearts Greg.
I can’t do it.
Four days had passed since Dr. Hasselblatter broke the news.
Her official orders had come through last night, quantum-encrypted, festooned with CLASSIFIED watermarks.
It was true.
Everyone had to go.
The Phase Five mining operation was to be 99.9% automated.
The only people to remain would be a skeleton crew of engineers and telepresence operators.
The rest? Well, that was up to her. They could go to Eros, maybe. Midway? Hygiea, Europa, Ceres?
“This is wrong,” she whispered. ”It isn’t fair.”
But she hadn’t thought twice, in the past, about uprooting people from their homes
so that the Venus Project could have their asteroids.
Her sense of injustice boiled down to personal feelings. She liked these people. And she was more than half in love with the world they’d built. This was the closest she was likely to get to Venus in her lifetime, and she couldn’t bear the thought of its destruction.
“I want to stay here. I want to stay here.”
It’s not all about you, she told herself.
No. It was about cost-efficiency. She’d spent all day yesterday crunching the numbers—those she could get hold of, anyway—and they didn’t lie. The community here was costing the UN taxpayer a bundle. Three-quarters of the people in the test hab were freeloaders and / or dependents who contributed nothing to the Venus Project. Why should UNVRP continue to support them?
“Because we’re the UN, doggone it,” Elfrida whispered into her hands. “We’re not in this to turn a profit.”
She remembered a former acquaintance of hers, Captain Martin Okoli of the Kharbage Can, saying, The UN’s just another corporation. Only difference is, it’s the biggest one.
Had he been right?
“Oh, dog,” she moaned. “I didn’t sign up to be the bad guy!”
But from the point of view of countless colonists, that’s what she always had been.
The door of the toilet stall rattled. “Ellie?”
“Sorry, Cyds, yeah, I’m in here.”
“This place stinks. Are you OK?”
“Fine!”
She inhaled and strained. She wasn’t just sitting in here for privacy; she had been constipated since they arrived on Mercury. Ahhhh! Better. She wiped. The smart toilet seat unsealed itself from her bottom and gulped down its contents with a whoosh.
Using the suction toilet made her remember Vesta, the rover … Mendoza. She tried not to let her thoughts go there. She had had a brief affair with John Mendoza, her coworker on 4 Vesta, on their way back. It had been totally out of character. She didn’t even like men—not like like them.
But she’d done it anyway. And Cydney had never forgiven her for it.
When she came out of the toilet cubicle, Cydney was gone. Elfrida padded back through the dark alleys to their sandcastle. Cydney was editing vid clips for her feed. She was a morning person. “You’ll be late,” she said without looking up from her tablet.
The Mercury Rebellion: A Science Fiction Thriller (The Solarian War Saga Book 3) Page 6
