MINING GAMES
by
STEVE S. GRANT
Copyright © 2013 Steve S. Grant
ISBN: 978-0-9917393-2-5
Thank you for your support.
MINING GAMES
The observation deck gave a splendid view of the huge, orbiting facility and the buzzing activity around it. Suited workers were crawling over the unassembled walls of a 200 meter long spacecraft like insects around their nest. Deformed cargoes and tug probes crisscrossed each other in the emptiness, going in straight lines to their destination.
“Ah, there they are,” said Ian Roberts as a shuttle came into view. The woman next to him unconsciously replaced her hair before looking at him.
Ian Roberts was gazing in the distance. All the employees outside were working for him. All the equipment belonged to him: the shuttles, the space station, the entire company. Space Alloy, often referred as SA, had emerged over the last 25 years as the leader in the business of off-earth mining and metallurgy. Ian Roberts had taken over less than four years ago, and his aggressive management style had widened the gap between Space Alloy and its nearest competitor.
In substance, Nell Stevens also belonged to him. As his personal assistant and secret lover, there wasn’t a thing she wouldn’t do for her boss. And he knew it.
The age difference didn’t matter. It never did when one is lured by money and excited by power. Ian trusted her with enough responsibilities to keep her very interested in the business. It also kept her interested in other things.
The shuttle docked and a transparent tube was extended to it. Slowly and awkwardly, silhouettes were seen pushing themselves along the sides, sometimes bumping each other in the process. There were twelve of them, all high ranking company VP’s, all equally prepared for the coming meeting.
“And here come the freaks,” whispered Ian.
A very different shuttle was approaching, an older model that had never kissed any of the solar system’s atmospheres. Once docked, only two figures shot across the transparent tube like divers without once touching the sides.
“Looks like they’re all here,” said Ian. “Anything you’d like to add before we get under way?”
“Not really. We’ve been discussing this for over two months. We did our homework, so there’s nothing to worry about.”
“You’ve never dealt with spacers, Nell. You don’t know how devious they are.”
“We hold all the cards. They have no bargaining power. None whatsoever.”
“This isn’t a theory class, as you’re about to find out. If you ever underestimate a spacer, he’ll screw you pretty badly.”
When she didn’t respond, Ian wondered if she wasn’t considering his last statement literally. With Nell, he could never be too sure.
* * *
The meeting room had exactly 33percent of earth’s gravity, which was very close to One Martian G. It was the maximum their guests could support comfortably, and Ian knew, as he sat at the end of the shiny platinum table, that it would be perceived as an insult by the two union representatives.
He looked at them without blinking, never betraying the odd amusement he felt whenever dealing with spacers. Not that it happened very often since one usually had to travel to Mars to interact directly with the space community. To Ian, they were not totally human.
These people had never walked on Earth, had never felt the wind on their faces, the sun on their skin, the freedom of being naked under infinity. They were a company by-product, descendants of the first Mars colonists. Their long limbs and absence of muscle mass gave them a skeletal appearance. Even looking at their faces was like looking through a glass bottle.
But there was no denying the intelligence emanating from their eyes; these people were the result of a complex and completely unrestricted reproduction program. Spacers were bred for intelligence. The average I.Q. of off-worlders, as they were often called, was over 150. Such meddling with Mother Nature wasn’t without consequences.
“I believe we’re all here, so let’s not delay. Meetings of this sort are always recorded, as you are all aware, but I know from experience that informality leads to efficiency.” Ian straightened in his chair. “Introductions are unnecessary, of course, but I would like to thank our special guests for their presence here today.”
The VP’s clapped hands briefly and without enthusiasm. The two spacers didn’t acknowledge the welcome. They had insisted on making the long trip from Mars for this much desired confrontation and were obviously unperturbed by insincere displays.
“I would like to start by making a slight change to our pre-approved agenda. Point 1.1 should be replaced by a presentation from Mr. Johnson, our esteemed vice-president of finance, who will brief us on the realities of today’s market and the expected challenges of the coming decades. This presentation was made to our board last week.”
Before Johnson had a chance to say a word, Mark Madden, elected representative of the Spacer’s union, raised a thin hand and spoke. “We’re not here to revise the company’s financial statements. Mr. Johnson’s speculations on the next decades will certainly be affected by the issues we have come here to debate. Let’s not waste time over recordable data. We’re here for the workers.”
Johnson looked at Ian; the president was ready for such hostility. He cleared his throat.
“SA’s financial situation affects us all, Mr. Madden, and will have a direct impact on all Space Alloy employees. If SA has difficulties, or faces insurmountable challenges over the next decade, then we’re all in trouble. In order to have an honest discussion on working conditions, you absolutely need to be brought up to date on the viability of our future production.”
The spacer sighed, sank back in his chair, and faced Johnson with an expression betraying impending boredom. The finance VP launched into a well-rehearsed presentation, beautifully supported by 3D videos and cutting edge graphics. The whole presentation lasted well over an hour. Not once during the speech and the ensuing open discussion did the two thin men react or utter a single word. They appeared to be in cryogenic sleep, as they had been during their recent trip.
Johnson’s conclusion was that although some rare metals would always be in demand, more common materials would saturate markets once recycled goods became cheaper than off-world exports. The company’s future was far from guaranteed, and sacrifices would have to be made to prepare for leaner times.
“Well done,” Ian said to his colleague. “With this sobering reality highlighting the challenges ahead, we’re all up to speed on Space Alloy’s latest figures and can resume our planned agenda. We’re more than ready to hear from our Martian workforce representatives.”
The union leader placed elbows on the table and spoke calmly with an international accent rarely heard on earth. “I would like to state that I speak for the entire work force more than 500,000 kilometers from Earth, not just the employees stationed on Mars. As you all know, the current work agreement expires in three months. What better way to start relations with the new administration than to realign working conditions toward a standard similar to Earth’s?”
“An Earth standard? You can’t be serious,” said Virginia Groper, VP of labor relations. She was expected to play a major role in the coming confrontation, and Ian had faith in her abilities. After all, her department had selected his personal assistant. So thinking, he placed a hand on Nell’s thigh under the table.
“I would never joke about such matters,” stated Madden.
“You cannot compare the two workforces. Earth has an unlimited supply, which makes the one-third rule possible.” The one-third rule was a global standard of working one day out of three. Miss Groper kept going. “Also, most professionals—lawyers, doctors, scientists, government officials, and hi
gher management, such as ourselves, certainly don’t work such reduced schedules. These work hours are established for the common workforce, not for specialists of the caliber we have around the solar system.”
“We realize that. But as you said, there is an unlimited supply of willing employees on earth, which makes switching workforces easy. We, on the other hand, are irreplaceable. And at the moment, we’re not happy.”
“Off-world working conditions are very advantageous,” said Miss Groper.
“Oh, they are. But a yearly vacation cap of six weeks does not compare to the one-third rule.”
“The price to pay for the privilege of working in space.”
“That was a selling point for the older generation and the billions still on earth. This entire privileged philosophy is now buried. Workers want earth conditions.”
“Do you realize what that would mean in terms of productivity? You just heard Mr. Johnson, the company would not be able to stay competitive.”
“Our request is not unreasonable if realized over three years. It would only entail a small production loss if, and I have been granted the power to do this, if we push the retirement age from 60 to 65. Many employees would return to active duty if those conditions were ratified.”
“What is a small production loss, Mr. Madden?”
“Twelve per cent.”
“That is totally impossible after what you have just heard. You realize that.”
“We believe it is worth serious consideration.”
“I can’t see how we could possibly accommodate you.”
“It is better than the alternative.”
“What alternative?”
“Zero production.”
Everyone in the room stared in shock. Ian’s hand came off his assistant’s thigh. “Are you threatening us, Mr. Madden?”
“Absolutely. Such procedures used to be called ‘strikes’. A form of protest from unified workers against the tyranny of unrealistic management.”
“But, how can you possibly hope to survive without earth supplies?” The off-world community could not even produce a light bulb on its own; something like a computer chip would be inconceivable. They relied on returning cargo ships to bring them everything from food to toothbrushes.
“Our crops now yield a surplus,” stated Madden. “We’ll survive quite well until we get what we want.”
This information was obviously new. Nobody suspected Martian farms of such efficiency.
“If you go through with such drastic measures, you’ll bankrupt the company,” stated Ian. “That wouldn’t be to our mutual advantage.”
“That is where our opinions differ, Mr. Roberts. In the event of a production stoppage, Space Alloy’s ownership would most likely change, but the installations would remain. We certainly would not mind having this discussion with a new administration and are prepared to go through whatever it takes to make our request considered with appropriate diligence. I would like to state, for the record, that a general strike will take place in three months should we fail to reach an agreement.”
Miss Groper leaned forward. “We’re obviously going to have difficulty finding common ground and making everyone happy. Tell me, Mr. Madden, how were those ‘strikes’ settled in the old days?”
“A good question. Such differences were often resolved when representatives from both parties met with an independent arbitrator who would decide for them. We agree in advance to abide by that person’s decision and trust him or her with our problem. This method rarely satisfied both parties, but had the advantage of being fair for all concerned.”
“Really? It sounds absurd!” said Ian.
“We would be happy to hear alternative suggestions on a settlement procedure.”
Several VP’s spoke up, and a debate erupted. After a few minutes, Ian Roberts closed his eyes and thought ahead to prospective mediators who would be sympathetic to his cause. It was Nell’s turn to squeeze his thigh.
“You were right about the freaks,” she whispered.
* * *
It eventually took much longer to agree on a mediator than to solve the sensitive issues at hand. The process was long and tedious and a final accord was finally reached mere hours before the deadline. As Madden had predicted, no-one was satisfied by the final ruling.
Off-world workers would not benefit from the one-third rule, yet, but were granted an extra four weeks of yearly vacation time. Wages were not an issue. Madden hinted at the possible review of financial compensation at the next meeting.
And this was the most frustrating part of it all: although the chosen mediator had greatly reduced possible damages from anything close to the one-third rule, he had declared a reevaluation schedule of three years.
Only three years.
The freaks would come back and renegotiate with the same savage tactics, the same threats. Information had leaked and Space Alloy’s stock had taken a severe drop in world markets. Ian was losing billions.
The ice rattled in his glass as he paced his office. Nell came in and instantly recognized his mood. She walked to the bar and poured herself tonic water.
“When I first bought the company, my worst nightmares never envisioned something like this,” Ian finally said. “I always expected markets to ultimately decide what would happen.”
“It could have been worse.”
“I know. But it hurts anyway. Our controller wants to change the status of those twelve thousand spacers from permanent assets to human resources. Can’t say I blame him, not after what they pulled.”
“SA’s not threatened by this, we both know that.”
“No, not for the next three years.”
“A lot can happen in three years. Situations can change; power can shift.”
“As always, we think along the same lines.” Ian ordered diagrams on his wall screen, and Nell recognized the current hydroponic facilities spread out in the maze of tunnels under the Martian soil. The report was very detailed and showed anticipated crops for the next ten years as well as expansion galleries. The production increase was well above the population curve.”
“The problem lies in their independence,” said Ian. “They’ve always been at the company’s mercy for all their needs, but now, apparently, they’ve got the means to play hardball.”
“They’re the heart and soul of the company. Nothing we do is possible without their unique abilities.”
“Yes, yes, we all know that. But they are still dependent on earth for their crops. You see, they buy their seeds from Jutrescro, a moon based biological farming firm part of the GPI conglomerate. The head of GPI is Beverly Thompson, an old acquaintance of mine.”
Nell smiled. “Are you thinking what I think you’re thinking?”
“I should have no difficulties acquiring Jutrescro through a discreet share exchange from one of the lesser subsidiaries.”
“What will you do with it?” asked Nell innocently.
“Not sure, yet. Something that will dampen the freaks’ initiative in three years.” He smiled as he raised his glass.
At that moment, Nell admired Ian Roberts more than ever. His confidence and devilish resourcefulness made him irresistible, and she was powerfully drawn to him. She promised herself she would put an even wider grin on his face tonight.
* * *
Consciousness returned slowly, like it always did, and for long, dragging minutes his heartbeat was the only existing sound. Slowly this constant rhythm was replaced by other reviving stimulus; rasping air through throat and lungs, a pounding headache, general discomfort of a naked body. There was no light to blind him when his eyes painfully cracked open.
He sat on the still dripping, perforated plastic bed and massaged his temples waiting for his mind to clear and his vision to focus. When finally stable enough, he slid off and glided toward the shower.
Automated jets splashed and sprayed him with warm water while he leaned heavily on the wall. When the whipping stopped, he slowly toweled him
self and walked inside the single room. His bed had sunk back inside the tank of pinkish fluid and was now replaced by a table.
The man dressed in simple grey overalls and retrieved a cracked plate from the dispenser. He held it under a plastic faucet and pressed a button. Thick brown paste the size of two fingers oozed out in a way similar to soft ice cream. A cup was filled with steaming, yellow tea and he grabbed it without really looking. He carried his food to the solitary chair and sat carefully, taking nothing for granted in the extreme low gravity.
A screen brutally came alive, and he looked away. The pale blue display switched to black text on pale background.
He took a bite while his vision adjusted. The taste varied, but the texture never changed.
INTERVENTION 189
Pressure failure in secondary hydraulic articulation of drilling arm 4.
Computer proposed causes and solutions: None. Visual evaluation and physical maintenance necessary.
Link failure with cleaning drone 34.
Location: Branch F-D 61
Computer proposed causes and solutions: None. Visual and …
…
Congratulations!
You have completed your assignation on B-114 and your contractual obligations are effectively ended. Please consider the following options carefully...
He had always renewed his contract without thinking, not bothering to read what he knew by heart. This time he looked away from the bright message and stopped chewing. His suspended spacesuit stared back at him. Its discolored repair patches already fading, and the dented helmet showing signs of scraping and abuse. The equipment he was working with outside was in similar condition.
On an impulse, he chose the list’s last option.
* * *
“We have a problem,” stated Nell as she stormed into the office.
Ian Roberts stopped reading and rubbed tired eyes. The barren Moon surface slowly appeared in the window behind him as the huge space station slowly rotated on itself.
“What do you know about mining station B-114?” she asked.
“I’m not familiar with individual mining locations.”
Mining Games Page 1