Vasily & The Works (Tales from the Middle Empires Vol III)
Page 12
#
Three days of blackness, punctuated by the occasional mechanical burp or flash of the lights that was either ominous or hopeful. The lower managers and supervisors had drained away along with the curious (and mercenary) who had initially gathered outside the walls. The word got out that Alexseyev Works had suffered a calamity and had crashed. Rumor had it that the much-ballyhooed Alexseyev multicore had blown up in a dramatic, fiery cataclysm of silicon, plascrete, and gaskets. Rival oligarchs knew that to be false — satellite recon showed that nothing so obvious had occurred. True, the heat signature of the grounds had changed, but that only proved what everyone knew: nothing was being made at the Works. That was indeed a calamity, because any interruption of a major concern’s output could have disastrous financial consequences, for both the concern and its vendors and suppliers on-world and off. But it was far worse in the spacecraft sector, where logistics spanned both human years and light-years, and where the customer base had a very long memory. The lack of any information coming from the Works exacerbated these problems since it showed that not only the mechanical and electronic heart of things had failed, but also the human heart within it: the Alexseyevs. The talk had been for some time that the blood had run downhill over there; that the hereditary pool of the family had waned and clouded; that the glory days lay far in the past. And, that the scion and heir lacked . . . stature, to say nothing of expertise. Stories resurfaced and were repeated and embellished about Vasily as a child, as an adolescent, as a teenager: how he had been so little exposed; how he had always been humored and indulged in his tantrums; how there had been some scandal concerning his matriculation qualifications. The talk turned sordid and petty. Then it became common wisdom that the Works would never rise again. So much for the Chernow-Alexseyev compromise!
Faithful Inchrises remained at his beloved Works, thrashing his supervisor’s cart until its cell was drained, then switching to an ancient scooter that operated on gyroscopes, and finally resorting to a forklift powered by the plentiful gases that the Works channeled and trapped from its own soil. Inchrises dutifully made the rounds of every part of the works, topside and underground. He checked his comm constantly for any signs that the multicore had resuscitated the internal network, but no indications appeared. Once, he ventured down to the clean room, using a heavy-duty plasma torch to light the way. But the entry telltale stared at him insensate — black, unreceptive. Inchrises wasn’t surprised that everything to do with the clean room was automated, but a hundred reasons why it was wrongheaded occurred to him. No doubt the same reasons had occurred to the makers. So why had they done it? The access to the multicore itself was manual, but only the Alexseyevs knew where it was and how it worked.
Unable to penetrate these mysteries, Inchrises continued to check in regularly with the tower, providing updates (monotonously similar) and asking after Mrs. Alexseyev. Vasily remained secreted in the apartment, unwilling even to admit the supervisor.
“She needs rest,” Vasily said through the door. “We’re doing fine in here. I’ll let you know when I require something.”
Four days, five. All the fresh food was gone or spoiled. Meals consisted of scrounged canisters and cold-packs that the workers had stowed or otherwise left, vending oddities, stale beer left over from some picnic a season before, and very fine wine from the Alexseyev hoard. Coffee there was in plenty, and other beverages, but the stilled water pumps made what flowed from the taps brackish and uncertain. Vasily had arranged for Inchrises to leave crates of supplies outside the residence door.
“They’re at the gates,” Inchrises reported to Vasily during one such delivery. “Your rivals. Spies. It’s only a matter of time before they try it. My free-link on the comm reports rumors that the Oligarchs are meeting. We’ll be carrion, Mr. Vasily. We have to do something. What’s that smell, Mr. Vasily? Are you okay?”
Vasily deflected these inquiries and sent Inchrises away again. Vasily leaned his forehead against the door.
“Great Riveter, let the multicore live. I know something’s going on. I’ve seen the signs. Please let it happen soon.”
Whether it was the Great Riveter, or some nightmarish and terrible consciousness smeared across the sky, or some other power or process besides, on day six of Vasily’s steadfast vigil the Works awoke. It lazily blinked the lights two times as if shaking itself free from a dream. The tower’s mechanical systems creaked and groaned as gravity redistributed their lubricants around their hubs and spindles and gears. Pipes gurgled as water flowed again. The house sensors in unison chirped a long “ready” tone before settling back to their dull glowing telltales. Somewhere down in the Works, a deep boom resounded — the foundry had come back to life.
Inchrises was at the door again before Vasily could even make it outside. This time, Vasily opened the door. The supervisor held a rag over his nose and visibly quailed before the stench.
“Your mother, Mr. Vasily?” Inchrises appeared to have pieced matters together.
“Yes. She’s been dead since the beginning, since just after the lights went out.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Vasily.”
Vasily shrugged. “It couldn’t be helped. Not if I’m to revive and regenerate the Works. The old and the useless must be cleared away. Isn’t it wonderful, Inchrises? Didn’t I tell you this would happen?”
Inchrises’ eyes widened.
“You look as if you’d seen a ghost, Inchrises,” Vasily went on. “I know you didn’t believe. None of you did.” He puffed out his chest. “I admit, I got worried at the end. But I had faith, you know. I even asked the Riveter. Can you believe that? Me? Asking the Riveter for help?”
Inchrises made the sign of the rivet-shot. “Y-yes, Mr. Alexseyev,” Inchrises said through his make-shift mask. “But what has happened, exactly?”
“First,” Vasily said, ignoring Inchrises’ plea. “First you must call in the best, most loyal of the security team. Get them back. Pay them double.”
Inchrises looked at his wrist-comm. A tiny hammer — the symbol for the Works’ internal network — blinked on and off.
“I’m not sure we’re up yet, Mr. Alexseyev. I can get the word ready, send it out as soon as system’s up.”
“Terminal?” Vasily called out towards the ceiling. “Terminal, are you available?” No response. The sensor telltale pulsed faintly. “Okay then,” Vasily continued. “Security is first. If you can’t check the gate status on your comm yet, get down there to see if it’s back online. Warn the security people about the situation. You know what to do. Then personally oversee the defense command room until you know everything is locked down.”
“What will you do, Mr. Alexseyev?”
“I shall be at my lab. I can’t stay in here any longer. In fact, I’m closing this place up. I’m going to seal this level permanently. Rough it a level below.”
“And Mrs. Alexseyev . . . ?”
“I don’t know. The blast-furnace, perhaps. Once it’s up and running again.”
Inchrises looked straight ahead, restraining any show of surprise. “I will see about the gate, Mr. Alexseyev. I should go.”