Ward scoffed. “I have eyes and a clock, Guernsey. I would never let you die in a spacesuit, you bloody psycho.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t want my ass in a sling when we get back, either.”
Ward didn’t reply right away, merely taking another deep breath. He knew it wasn’t strictly Guernsey’s fault. Ever since the arrival of the new Administrator, Elisa Sandoval – AKA the Iron Widow - everyone had been walking around on egg shells. Hermian administrators were known for being ballbusters, usually on account of how pissed they were to be stuck on the hellish place universally called the Rock. But the Iron Widow had a bit of a reputation preceding her.
Allegedly, she had personally supervised mining operations on half a dozen small Belt objects and had been stationed on Ceres before her transfer. Gossip alleged she had busted up several syndicates on these rocks before her transfer. Several syndicate members ending up dead hence her Iron Widow title. One had to wonder who she had pissed off to have been sent to deal with them.
Alas, Ward was sure she would understand, once she got a look at their total yield for this outing. Hardass or not, no administrator could argue with results.
“Don’t worry about it.” Ward put on his best placating tone. “If we get in trouble, I’ll be the one to take the hit. You make sure the crews keep going. I want that pit scoured before we push off.”
“Don’t forget, boss,” reminded Guernsey before signing off.
Ward grumbled and returned his attention to the screen. Zooming in on the Sapper team he had deployed, he dragged the image around to get a better look at the mining site itself. With the assistance of the miner’s own proximity sensors and the impressive sensor suite the Pipe had built into its frame, he got a comprehensive view of the area being dug out. Computer-generated graphics added a few bells and whistles too, simulating small flashes from the beam emitters slashing away at ore, prior to the Pipe sucking the ore up.
Ward rapidly became bored with watching and went back to looking out the Sapper’s side window. But with his mind awash with the bullshit concerns of ore mining and administrative rigmarole, he discovered he could no longer focus enough to discern the beautiful hazes of Venus and Mars anymore. In fact, the natural light of the star field seemed oddly piercing and abrasive now.
Try as he might, he couldn’t shake the thought of far-off places, and not the particularly nice ones. The memory of doing a job in the Belt years ago, back when he was still an investigator for Interpol, came to him. A double homicide on Piazzi Station had left all the miners shaken, which had confused him somewhat at the time. Working the Belt came with all manner of risks, not the least of which was death by explosive decompression or radiation exposure. Then there were the cabals to worry about, people who ran protection rackets and smuggling rings on all the stations.
The stats on that kind of work were clear enough, with at least one hundred miners dying every standard sidereal year. Why anyone would be so concerned over two more deaths was beyond him. Of course, murder was another issue, especially when these involved workers losing their minds and turning on their fellows. Murder remained the one thing the local drillers could not tolerate.
Then there were the darker places on the Drift and its companion, the Thread. High above the skies of Terra and Mars, where so many people and so much freight came and went daily – and the Survey’s coverage could sometimes be spotty – bad people did bad things. Ward had seen enough of them that they had all come to look the same.
Even now, though, such places only reminded him of better times. A life of service and of dignity, of respect and honor. When faced with an indefinite future on the Rock, every moment of the past – even the grimiest and shittiest of them – seemed pleasant by comparison.
Reaching into his pocket, Ward removed the pill dispenser he had stashed there. Still a few hours shy of his regular dose, but he doubted anyone back at Prokofiev would care. If he had an empty dispenser upon his return, and none of the pills showed up during the next routine body scan, surely, he could get away with a little self-medication. Depressing the tab over the compartment marked with a seven, his reward was a small yellow nanopill he hurriedly downed.
Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath, knowing within a few minutes his neurotransmitters would achieve a state of normalcy. Another day of being mentally balanced, or at least as close to that as powerful pharmaceutical intervention would allow.
#
“Bossman, you there?”
Ward’s eyes snapped open. The dark, ashen-colored surface flooded into his eyes. A dead landscape, currently frozen, but which would be set ablaze again in due course.
“Bossman,” Guernsey called again. “Are you with us here?”
Ward blinked a few times to get his eyes used to the suit’s heads-up display. The bright lines, fields of color, and active matrix-displays were a little distracting when first seen. Nothing like the mediated displays he had once known, fondly. And they helped his mind to reconnect to the present.
Being inside had grown very tiresome, and reminiscing had become difficult. So he had slipped on a pressure suit and decided to join the crew, hoping to distract himself with some menial labor. An unfortunate coincidence he had chosen to narcotise himself beforehand. The effects of his daily meds weren’t making things easy for him.
“I’m here,” he responded. “Just a little tired.”
“Uh-huh. Well, we’re nearing the end of the vein.”
Ward edged slightly forward, peering over the edge into the pit. The maw, now a good fifty meters across, descended into total blackness save for the lights dotting the Pipe. Too deep now to see the beam-cutters doing their work, but he could sense the Pipe digging. The vibrations in the ground, and the fact he had ordered the crews to keep going, were indication enough.
He felt a hand descend on his arm and his head snapped angrily to his left. Through the clear faceplate of his helmet, he caught sight of Muscovy’s angry face staring at him, and some expletives blaring over the shared comm frequency.
“Chto yebat' vy delayete, vy dura?!” Muscovy barked, sounding out a long string of Slavic-toned syllables. Ward couldn’t understand or translate a word, given his limitations. Guernsey cut through the chatter to ask the obvious question.
“Sir, is everything all right?”
“I’m fine!” Ward yelled back angrily, neglecting to mention the drugs were taking their effect on him, or that he had chosen to commit to a surface walk while under their influence. “A little tired, is all. Only trying to see into the hole, maybe get a sense of how we’re doing.”
A flimsy excuse. Guernsey had been getting real-time updates on the tablet he held in his arm. Consulting the tablet, he cursorily nodded to confirm the latest.
“Well, looks like we’ve tapped the vein, sir. Should be the last of the ore coming out now.”
“Good,” responded Ward. The Pipe continued to emit a low rumble through the ground as it sucked up the remaining bits of unprocessed ore. They were close now, and could at long last begin to contemplate bringing this little outing to an end. Until that time, however, they could do nothing but stand around and watch.
Ward looked around at them, the half-dozen suited figures standing over the pit with small spots of light hovering above their heads, denoting ID numbers in his display field. Ward recognized them all. With ease, he could mentally recite the names and the criminal offenses.
Muscovy – Trafficking/Terrorism/Multiple Homicide
Guernsey – Possession/Assault/Resisting Arrest
Wesley – Arson/Sexual Assault/Homicide
Anouk – Grand Theft
Burton – Assault/Theft/Possession
Jordan – Volunteer
Now, he wondered who he considered to be the worst of them. The murderers, rapists, and thieves, or the one guy who had chosen to be here? For such people, the desire for adventure and the chance to perform the toughest, grittiest and most dangerous labor in the known universe provided a r
ush. Was such a person less dangerous than a man who would kill, given half a chance?
Then again, he knew he had left himself out of the mix. If he were really to task himself with figuring out who the least trustworthy person on his crew was, he knew he had to include the Foreman.
Ward – Negligent Homicide
Yes, he had to admit, of all the people standing within the circle, he stood out as the only one he wouldn’t trust his life with. He knew the others did, and were doing so right now. But they didn’t know him as well. Were it not for the drug-laced nanoparticles gradually percolating through his system and balancing out his neurochemicals, he would surely find his thoughts depressing to the point of despair.
The hum completely subsided as the Pipe seemed to go idle. Through the soles of his feet, Ward could feel the vibrations, at least the ones indicating the Pipe continued pulling up ore, had stopped. To his right, Guernsey checked his tablet again and confirmed his earlier appraisal.
“That’s the last of the ore, sir. Looks like we made one hell of a haul.”
“All right, crew,” Ward said tiredly. “Bring the Pipe on up. We’re done for this trip.”
Guernsey pressed his suited finger to the tablet and commanded the Pipe to retract. All along the Pipe’s spiny reach, embedded mechanisms activated and began to collapse the Pipe, starting at the tip and leisurely retracting upwards. The crew stood around and waited wearily as the Pipe gradually made its way to the surface, at which point they would begin to drag it back to the Sapper.
Nothing more to do here, Ward thought. Looking north, he spotted their vehicle slouched there against the dark surface. The Sapper’s status lights and windows were barely visible amidst the deep night. Of course, his display ensured it placed a rather bright icon overtop of the vehicle. The last thing his suit’s navigation system wanted was for him to get lost.
Keying the comm, he called back to the Sapper to get Labra, the vehicle’s driver, on the horn. Her voice came to him through a thick haze of disorientation, sounding especially jubilant and saccharine.
“What’s the word, bossman?”
“Sandy,” he said. “We’re all done here. Crew’s coming in from the cold. Set navsat for Prokofiev. We move out the moment we’re back inside.”
“You got it, boss. Looking forward to getting back.”
“Yeah,” he grunted, ending the transmission.
The Pipe had now returned to the surface, retracting backwards towards its resting point on the surface. As one, the crew came to four predesignated spots along the length of the Pipe and each grabbed a handhold, walking unhurriedly back towards the Sapper. Ward joined them, grabbing the nearest handhold between Jordan and Anouk. Foreman or not, he remained willing to bear his share of the weight, even though he knew there wasn’t much to speak of, and his suit’s powered mechanisms would be doing most of the work for him.
A voice sounded in his ear, startling him a little.
“So, what do we want to do when we get back?”
Ward calmed down as he realized the comm was still open among the crew, and he was not, mercifully, suffering from a psychotic break. Responses began to come in.
“I’m looking forward to hot shower and some real food. Think they’ll have anything worth choking down?’
Jordan said this, as always the most positive of anyone working the Rock. Somehow the poor lad always suspected a change of pace – in essence, showers that weren’t frigid, food that didn’t suck, and conditions that weren’t appalling – waited around the corner.
And of course, Anouk was there to set him straight.
“Doubt it. From what I hear, it’s going to be protein cubes and veggie gum until they get another fucking shipment of meat and hydro-grown stuff from the Core. And we all know how long that takes.”
Ignoring Anouk’s pessimism, Jordan promptly asked someone else. “How about you, Sal?” he asked, looking to Guernsey. The man’s cockney drawl responded a second later.
“I’m looking forward to some cards, man. I’ve been spending my time researching everyone’s tell.”
“That better not include me,” rumbled Anouk. Some traces of laughter followed.
As the laughter died away, Jordan thought to ask the one man he was usually too afraid to speak to.
“Zory, how about you? What do you want to do when we get back to Prokofiev?”
Surprisingly, the hardened Slav had an answer that wasn’t a threat or string of expletives.
“I’m thinking of a hot meal. Watching de launch is next. And then about kill zee boss here in his sleep.”
Ward noted the hesitation on the line before Guernsey piped up.
“Uh, Z, I think he can hear us.”
“I know,” Muscovy stated indifferently. Ward would have turned around far enough to give Muscovy a threatening look or a reprimand, but was too tired and doped up to bother. Smiling to himself, he let Big Z continue with his little threat. “Sweat dreams, boss.”
Two
The Sapper tentatively negotiated its way through the winding route leading them back into Prokofiev. From the cabin, everything outside appeared a uniform black canvas. No contrasts or indications whatsoever to indicate spatial differences or surface features, with virtually no natural light to guide them. The moment they entered the artificial canyon, the Sapper had become a tiny beacon in an endless sea of black.
The crew considered it a blessing the vehicle’s controls were fully automated at this point. Were it to be left up to a driver to get them through the last leg of their return journey, they surely would have hit something and become stranded by now.
If it were within his ability to do so, Ward would have pulled down an overlay a long time ago. With nothing but a thick layer of glass that could never be called smart to stare through, the feeling of intense boredom was almost palpable. Obviously, everyone else on the control deck felt the same. If not for the kindly medication coursing through his blood, Ward might even have felt the slightest bit anxious about the journey.
Luckily, the display before him provided a modicum of stimulation. From the navsat’s point of view, they were now three quarters of the way through the Scythian Passage, an artificial basin cut into the rock several kilometers behind them which led straight into the Prokofiev Crater.
While tedious as all hell, the passage nevertheless came as a blessing for the miners. In decades past, crews were forced to drive their Sappers right over the lip of the crater, mounting a series of steep switchbacks to enter, before descending another series to get home. Accidents were rare, but even with an automated approach system, things could still go wrong.
Only after enough Sappers and crews had been lost had someone in the Solar Assembly decided the expense of blasting a hole in the crater’s wall and digging a road to its outer edge became justifiable.
“Anybody got a game?” enquired Labra, sitting idly at the helm.
“I do,” cried Burton. “I spy. I’ll go first. A fucking field of black.”
Mild snickers emanated from the crew. Labra wouldn’t be deterred. “How about fuck, marry, kill?”
Just about everyone laughed. Jordan was the first to explain why her suggestion was a dumb idea.
“Have you seen the workforce, Sandy? Not exactly a lot of options for us dudes here.”
“I don’t know, Mick,” countered Guernsey, leering in his direction. “Under the right circumstances, you might start looking good. A little rouge, a little wig on top, maybe tuck ya’ sack back. Make a lovely girlfriend, you would.”
That elicited a lot of painful grunts from around the deck. Jordan also began to look the slightest bit nervous. Naturally, Ward surreptitiously glanced around, making sure to check the door. At times like this, he was thankful for the absence of guys like Muscovy and Wesley. Through sheer bad luck alone, he had managed to pull that pair as crew this time. On the plus side, they seemed content to stick to their bunks.
An absolute blessing. Violent offenders like them di
dn’t do well with sex-themed games.
“What about where I’d most like to be right now?”
“I’ll go first again. Anywhere but here,” Guernsey quickly said, getting him some noises of assent. A few more strained and anxious seconds passed as the Sapper adjusted its heading, only apparent by the minor lurch they all felt.
Ward broke the silence. “I got one. Kind of a variation on Sandy’s suggestion. Best place in the System you’ve ever been?”
He watched as everyone on the deck paused to consider his question. Within a few moments, he had multiple answers.
“Syria Planum Speedway,” Guernsey enthused. “Great stretch of road, beautiful lights strobing overhead. The closest thing to freedom I ever felt.”
“Not bad,” conceded Labra. “But my favorite place in the System has to be Ares. So much color, people, and energy. All the benefits of being on Gaia, but without all the pretense.”
Ward laughed. He knew what she meant, glad to know someone else thought as he did. Gaia lay at the hub of Terra’s off-world commerce and shipping; those who lived in Gaia had been known to put on certain airs. Whenever his old job had taken him there, he had rubbed up against the pretended airs and graces, always coming away chafed.
“How about you, boss?” asked Guernsey. Ward wasn’t expecting to be quizzed, and didn’t like the prospect of thinking about an answer too much. Thinking of the nicer places he had been seemed like an effective way of reminding himself where he resided now.
Ward mentally berated himself. After all, he had suggested the game, he couldn’t think of a good reason to back out now.
“I don’t know,” he mused. “Recent memory? I guess Ri-La.”
Labra hummed thoughtfully. “Haven’t heard of that one.”
“Ri-La’s a LEO Hab,” he said, as if by stating that Ri-La was a Low-Earth Orbit Habitat explained everything. “I went there as part of a case back in ’73. The whole place had been built by some old Terran magnate named Xian. Some Chin gentleman born in the previous century, who made his fortune running bio, shipping and software. Before he died, he had a Hab commissioned in orbit for his wife and kids, then invited his entire extended family to move in with them so they could have their own orbital estate all to themselves.”
The Cronian Incident (The Formist Book 1) Page 2
