Risk Analysis (Draft 04 -- Reading Script)

by David Collins-Rivera

  When they reached the end of my c.v., they paused, and everyone sat back in their chairs, seeming to take a serious look at the chubby gunner before them for the first time.

  "What can you tell us about your encounter in Rilltule system? What was that...eight years ago?"

  It was a man of middle years who asked the question. He had silver hair, but a rounded face that made him look younger than he probably was. He had several more bars on his shoulders, and patches on his chest, than did Seven Nuellan.

  "Yeah, nearly. Um...well, I was hired as defense spesh on a privately-owned gunboat...an old Bechel. Rilltule was having what appeared to be a pirate problem. We learned later it was a mercenary ring, working some sort of elaborate fraud."

  "The ship that escaped that encounter, um...Ponte? Are you aware that it was never seen or heard from again?"

  "I...wasn't, no...but it doesn't surprise me," I stated. "They were pretty far into Rilltule's gravity shadow when they starjumped. A bad misjump from there did seem likely."

  "How do you feel about that?"

  "Excuse me?"

  "How does confirmation that Ponte was likely destroyed make you feel?"

  This topic was no surprise. The Rilltule incident was in the public record, and I had gone over it several times, and it great detail, when I first came aboard Mylag Vernier. Heck, I'd had to go over it with every job interview since it happened.

  This particular tack was new, though.

  I shifted in my chair and gave the guy a critical eye. He didn't flinch or look uncomfortable in any way.

  "Grateful to be alive," I replied at length. "It's nothing I didn't believe from the start, so nothing has changed. Should it?"

  He didn't respond, but wrote something on his tablet. Then he nodded to one of his unnamed collegues. This was another man: pale and thin; sharp and firm-faced; lots of patches and bars. His voice was high but not aggressive.

  "Can you expand upon the events in Margiss system, over in the Alliance, last year?"

  I did.

  There wasn't much to it -- though they seemed to think otherwise, even after I was done, because the guy asked a lot of questions concerning the actual use of the ferry boat's weapon systems. He was a gunner, himself, I could tell: he asked about power cycles and targeting parameters, and why I chose which of each. He seemed keen to understand the exact causes of all the damage to the vessels involved -- damage that was studied and certified later on in drydock. He asked about my intended attacks versus the resulting ones, and he read from public incident reports, itemized construction bills, and private insurance assessments (the issuer of which was apparently a Corporatespace broker). He made careful note of everything I said.

  At some point, he simply stopped and gestured to one of his collegues. She was a dark woman with a bland expression and thin smile that conveyed neither happiness nor menace.

  "Mr. Dosantos," she began, barely skipping a beat, "what can you tell us about your experience in the Chorryl Prime system, five years ago?"

  Oh.

  Okay.

  Here it was. The real meat.

  Since Barlow, I'd never encountered any potential employer who had knowledge that I'd been involved in its troubles. Alliance Fleet had seen to that. The Alliance of Interstellar Nations Intelligence Branch had seen to that. It was classified. Not even United Humanity had any details regarding those events -- only that I had been given a Green rating by both Fleet and AINIB. The initial job interviews on this station hadn't touched on it at all, even though the people conducting those had been paranoid.

  But these guys knew.

  Or, they knew something, which was more than anyone else. It implied they had a very long, finessing reach, and it put them into a whole other category of scary.

  "Nothing," I stated after a time.

  This was my first recalcitrance since the meeting began, and it must have seemed jarring after how forthright I'd just been. It got surprised looks out of them all...the first emotional response this crowd had doled out. I confess, it was rather satisfying.

  "You weren't in Chorryl Prime, five years ago? You were never on or in the vicinity of the planet Barlow?"

  "I don't know what you're referring to...nor could I talk about it, if I did."

  "Legally-speaking, you mean? Then you've signed NDA's. With whom?"

  I simply stared at her. The silence went on for a long time.

  Eventually, they glanced around again, possibly in pursuit of consensus, though that champion-level reserve was back in place.

  "You are refusing to answer this question?" the dark woman confirmed without emphasis.

  "I believe I already have," I returned, giving her my best imitation of her own bearing.

  She held that meaningless smile, studying me.

  They were all wizards, because not a single word or glance was thereafter exchanged, yet all at once, the group, as a whole, sat back in their chairs and relaxed a bit. It was very weird. The dark woman then gave a slight nod to Seven Nuellan.

  "Thank you, Mr. Dosantos," the Seven said. "That will be all."

  * * *

  Dieter was working hard on a plate of scobble. The stuff was pretty good hangover food; he must have been enjoying it.

  "So...long story short," I concluded, "I'm still in. They like that I'm careful to keep to my signed agreements."

  "What do you mean by that?" he asked quietly, wiping gravy from his chin. Then he cursed less quietly when he saw some on his jacket lapel.

  "Doesn't matter. I still have a job. That, and being attacked, are all my news."

  "Yeah, see, that's the one that worries me. There's another player in the mix."

  "I've been circling around that idea, myself," I told him. Laydin caught my eye from across the pub, and gave me her formless smile. "Those weird, encrypted radio messages..."

  He thought about that, and then nodded slightly.

  "How did this party get onto us?"

  "No clue. No clue what they're after, either. Something they think I know, anyway."

  He was silent for a bit, drinking his point beer.

  "The parts got fabbed yesterday," he announced at last. "Some supply ships came in with Team, I guess. General Store called when the things came off the line, and I had them freighted to the Routing Office down here. I ran over and took possession a few hours ago, on my break."

  "Any problems?"

  "They didn't bat an eye."

  I couldn't keep a grin off my face.

  "We'll be out soon, then!"

  "Those things take time to install, remember. If I make a mistake, we'll all pay for it."

  "What can I do to help?"

  "I can't think of a safe way to get them into the closet and up the shaft. Ideas?"

  "How big a package are we talking?"

  "All together...?" He considered it, then pointed to the tabletop, and motioned up-and-down from the floor.

  "That's got to be heavy under one gee," I remarked, feeling suddenly intimidated.

  "Yep. Our grinder/winch thing won't do."

  "Then we'll need another one -- something bigger. And a cart of some sort to get the stuff over there."

  "Agreed."

  "I can't obtain either one from R&D. I'm cut off from most areas now."

  "Well, to pick them up from the Routing Office, I used a flatcar I found over in the Water Reclamation plant," he told me. "The supervisor there asked questions when I brought it back. I made up an explanation, but it's not something I can repeat. Right now, the propagators are covered in a sheet, in a dark corner of a certain plumbing supply room. They'll be safe enough for now. Anything like a large portable winch, though, we'd either have to appropriate -- from where, I've no idea -- or have fabricated, like the parts were. If we go that route, it means even more waiting...and, the order would probably be considered unusual."

  "Someone might track it and ask questions," I finished for him. "Okay, what about a block-and-tackle? Could we monkey-up something l
ike that?"

  "A block-and-tackle?" he replied quietly, but incredulously. "Like, from those old-time sailing ships? Maybe we should all go a-whaling while we're at it!"

  "They were used everywhere," I countered, ignoring his tone. "Read some classic lit. They only require muscle power. We could lift some mighty weight with a set of those. Order the parts separately to be fabricated -- the pulleys or what have you -- and call them something other than what they really are, and we're gold."

  "You make it sound like it's an easy thing to get away with. I'm telling you, it might not be."

  "And I'm telling you, I'm sick of this!" I nearly rasped, emotion flashing forth so quickly, I shocked myself. "I need to get out of this place. No, I don't trust those guys anymore...our friends up there. But, guaranteed, they'll be fine with cutting out once starjump is repaired."

  "And Mavis?"

  "I'll lay odds she wakes up when we're ready to go."

  He looked quite uncomfortable with the whole idea, but didn't offer anything better. He checked the time on his ring, and then finished off the scobble (I helped).

  "I have to get back to work," he pronounced at last, rising to his feet. "I'll do some classical reading when I get home."

  He walked away without another word.

  After a minute or so, Lili, from the team, came in. We exchanged pleasantries, and soon, the others followed. They were punctual.

  "So," Barney asked, laying a hand on my shoulder when he finally arrived, and in between more of Tip's funny work stories, "coming with?"

  I wanted to.

  Very much so, in fact, and I couldn't even name the reason.

  "No, I don't think so. It's not really my game."

  They all expressed regret over that. So did I. Eventually, they left for their practice.

  I ordered barleywine again, and Laydin brought it by without comment.

  "Quiet night," I offered.

  "Always is in space," she returned, and walked away.

  I sat looking at the floor, thinking about a hidden bundle of starjump propagators.

  I thought about sailing ships and whales.

  I'd never seen a whale in real life. They'd introduced them to several terraformed worlds...even cloned back a few extinct species, which was cool.

  I'd never seen a sailing ship either. There were still some of those on Terra, hundreds of years old; well-maintained, seaworthy, spectacular...at least, in the vids.

  Living history.

  I pounded my beer, and got up to leave, but caught Laydin by the elbow as she went by.

  "You're off at twenty-two hundred?"

  "Yeah."

  "I'll pick you up?"

  She blinked a bit in surprise, or confusion, or a billion-billion other reasons I didn't know. I didn't know anything. It was all foreign: this place, this moment. Alien, like the treasures of nature and history. And bizarre, like people.

  "Okay."

  I gave up a smile with a stronger perimeter than hers, then left the barmaid to her work.

  A shower and change seemed like a good idea, but I didn't get half-way home when I saw Christmas Giordano walking out of a small market on Centerline Avenue. He saw me as well, and stopped. He had a big bag of groceries -- mostly snacks it looked like, and a couple bottles of liquor. He needed a shave.

  He kind-of shrugged with the bag, as if its presence in his hand was its own explanation. Then he just moved on, and I watched him turn a corner down the way.

  Since weather wasn't an issue, and the market was always open, the place had no doors on it -- just some glass panels that were cluttered with animated signs and promotions. Standing there, I could see inside, between some posters.

  Branden Ursga was picking through produce, looking at apples critically, assessingly, occasionally adding one to his bag. He wore shirt sleeves and stretch pants, like he had when we'd met for that coffee and chat. His back was mostly to the entrance of the store, and he didn't notice me at all.

  By a long refrigerated case, over on the other end, Ghazza Mattor was browsing slowly, distractedly. She still wore her business suit from earlier in the day. It was now rumpled, and she looked very tired. She, too, didn't see me, couldn't see me.

  Reflected in the market's glass panels was a man that I recognized from the bar, walking up the street. He was kind of stout. I turned around and stared, but he just walked on by, eyes averted, faking it.

  Or perhaps he didn't notice me, either. Perhaps he wasn't even looking...wasn't the same guy.

  I stood there a minute longer, thinking about him...and about me...and about them...and...

  And then I went home.

  ||||||||||

  A fire broke out on the second day...or nearly did.

  I smelled smoke coming from an electrical relay, and shut it off manually. There must have been redundant circuitry in place, because nothing seemed to power down.

  My companion had stocked the ship with food and supplies. I was able to get him to swallow some water, unconsciously it looked like, but food just sat in his mouth unchewed. I cleaned it out as best as possible, and figured he'd just have to wait.

  We both would.

  Our intended destination was a complete unknown, but it was pretty clear from the warning flags that popped up on the Nav display that the coordinates for the ship's exit cone had become corrupted.

  All the screens were locked, showing nothing but Status Updates and those Warnings. Possibly the displays were all slaved to the cyborg's internal systems. I couldn't run any diagnostics and didn't trust my hacking skills, or the situation as a whole, well enough to try a work-around.

  Without any way of controlling the state of the jump, we could come out anywhere or anywhen. The theories about extra-dimensional starjump dynamics were so varied (at least those a layman like myself could understand) that any outcome now seemed possible. A real jump technician, engineer, or scientist might have been able to pinpoint the ship's status, but the only person aboard with any of those skills wasn't talking.

  The whole thing would have been horribly fretsome, but mostly unproblematical, if my companion hadn't evacuated his bowels on Day 3, which I only figured out because of the smell. Again, it seemed entirely involuntary, and I wasn't about to let him sit there in it. The fewer details I relate about that particular operation the better, but suffice it to say that getting him cleaned up without unplugging him was only possible because we were in zero gravity.

  You might imagine that it would would have been easy to gloat over his presumably insensible form, or to hate him, or to simply ignore him there. But some part of the man, either biological or electronic -- or even, perhaps, some combination of the two -- was flying this vessel. That made him a source of hope.

  I hoped he would hold out.

  I hoped were going somewhere we could find help.

  And I hoped that place was not where he had intended to go, because any help the ship might find there was hardly likely to extend to me.

  ||||||||||

  nineteen

  * * *

  The guy with the hat was back. No mistaking it.

  It turned out, he lived down the street from me, and worked midshift over in Life Support. Very bright in there, apparently, hence the hat. I got into a conversation with him one day on the tram. Nice guy. My hackles still went up each time I saw him.

  They went up when I saw a lot of people. Barney must have thought me high-strung and hard-drinking, and maybe he was right.

  Laydin and I spent occasional nights together, but we argued a lot, too; not loudly, rather, in that same subdued, oblique manner that made me unsure if we were, in fact, arguing -- or even communicating at all. I mentioned her lip makeup once, and she agreed with my assessment, yet still made it clear I was wrong to bring it up. Much of what I did was wrong.

  The gang had noticed all the time we were spending in each other's company, and I was uncomfortably quizzed one night.

  "It's not serious," I stated, sharing so
me scobble with Barney and Elaki. They made doubting noises; even Barney looked unconvinced...and we had talked about it just that morning, when I'd dashed back to the apartment before work to shower and change.

  "Well, why not?" Fanny demanded. She was recently divorced -- just before arriving on Mylag Vernier, in fact -- and all things relationship were held by her in equal parts reverence and disdain.

  "I don't know!" I replied, quite flustered. "It's the wrong time, right now. I'm focused on my career."

  "You must have at least thought about it," she pursued.

  "In the abstract, maybe..."

  "Your relationships are abstract constructions?"," Lili demanded, wickedly; I should have seen that coming: she had a philosophy degree to go with her Masters in Fluid Electronics. "This we have to hear! Expound! Enlighten us as to the real or existential challenges of your love life, Ejoq!"

  "Go ahead and laugh," I said, weakly. "There isn't one of you who hasn't been down this road. Skewing the paradigm of your life is no small consideration. Changing out priorities is always risky."

  "What kind of risk?!" Tip guffawed. They all did.

  "Expound, m'boy!" Fanny added. "Give us the risk analysis!"

  She had settled back in her chair, and spoke with a sharp, stabby hand flourish and vocal intonation the group seemed see as comical affectations of mine. It broke up the table again.

  I smiled and nodded and held up my hands in defeat, which was the only appropriate response. That made me a good sport -- one of the gang!

  Except that I wasn't, and this was invasive, and I had no doubt, then or now, that they all knew it, and enjoyed watching me squirm. There was a sudden and very tangible taste of alienation in my mouth that made the scobble unappealing.

  Turning down their tacit invitation to join the team had cost me something I didn't know I'd had. It wasn't anything childish or petty that they did -- not even this, really. It was the unspoken consensus that I didn't, after all, have much in common with such a close group of friends: Barney's weird, assigned roommate, and nothing more.