by S. Walker
Frustrated anger. Which was the problem, really.
Jake floated nearby, eyes watching the group but not really seeing it. "They're going to riot." He said it quietly, mostly to himself. Then he glanced at Mark, who nodded stoically. "I guess the question is, how long do we wait to tell everyone? The moment she knows," he spit the pronoun out like a curse. "There's gonna be a purge. Has to be. Too many people know what happened, too many witnesses. Even an Upper might not be able to wiggle out of an inquiry that bad."
That was pretty much what Mark thought as well. Executives could get out of a lot, but premeditated murder of an entire workforce was a unique category of offense. Not because of the life lost; it was about the money with Corporate. Always. Even the worst indentured worker contract had clauses for willful mismanagement leading to death. It would be a huge debit against Targer's record if it came out she'd written off over a hundred people, consigning them to die in vacuum.
Now Jake was considering the other side of the problem. "But if we tell everyone else first they're gonna space that bitch immediately. Which would feel good as hell, I don't mind telling you." Both men felt that was an understatement and a half. "But then if rescue's more than a couple of days away we'll run out of oxygen with no way to pressurize a new area." He thought about that for a while, nervously cracking his knuckles one at a time. It was a nervous tic (and impressive to do wearing a skinsuit) but it also bothered some people if he did it too often. Mark wasn't one of them. He figured it was a good trade for not having to fill the silence himself and that alone was worth a world of small popping noises.
"Well... damn. Any chance she heard anything?" Mark gave him a negative shake. Emergency skinsuits from a kit only came with basic radio, set to a single shared channel. His was a personal unit, with a wide autoscan on it that picked up all bands. "Could you get a broadcast out to them? Get a talk going, ask for some kind of time estimate?" He shrugged-- maybe? Jake scowled, then scratched furiously around his collar. "Well, shit."
Mark quietly agreed. Then he waited as the smaller welder slowly came to the same realization he'd thought about.
It took a minute, right up until the second group came through with Executive Targer in the lead. She was already issuing orders, complaints and threats to anyone in the vicinity. Most of them contradictory, but always in a demanding tone that couldn't be ignored. But both of their eyes fell on the real problem: Her son Thomas, quietly floating behind her with his small arms full of emergency shelter material. A helper trailed the boy quietly, carrying the supplemental high-O2 recycler that hooked into the shelter and kept it habitable.
"Dammit," Jake looked troubled. "If this goes bad- well, I guess that's more a 'when' than an 'if'- what're the odds the little Minyer gets caught up? I wouldn't mind seeing her get what's coming but I don't like the thought of him on my conscience."
And there was the problem. Wherever the elder Targer went her son Peter Minyer wasn't far behind. Separating the two was a tricky thing, especially if everyone suddenly decided a little mob justice was in order. Mark had a plan, but it depended a lot on his friend and some good timing. But first there were priorities. "Mealtime?"
It was part of the ritual of breaking in a new living area: Executive Targer would lead the way to the emergency kits and authorize each one open with her wrist ID. Handpicked loyalist grabbed the rations inside, inventorying them and keeping a wary eye on anyone coming too close. When everything was sorted (and the best cherry picked) everyone else would line up for a ration or two, depending on if they were currently in favor with her group or not. It was another control, another privilege used against the majority. Mark didn't like it.
He still lined up with the rest to get a ration. This time it was Jason Robes handing them out: A big, mean looking man with the worried look of a broken worker. He handed ration packs to both welders without making eye contact, then turned away the man behind them with a grunt. "Exec says you're out this time, Lyle. Come back next one."
"What! What did I do!" The unfortunate victim yelled, then switched quickly to begging. "Please, I need a- just half a pack, alright? I'll share, okay? I just can't do this any more. C'mon, Jason! For the love of dying stars I was at your promotion party last year! Help me out."
He just looked away, motioning the next person up. Mark saw Lyle contemplate getting physical, gloves fisting and body tightening. Before anything happened the big welder put an arm around the desperate man, pushing them both off the floor at an angle that took them away from the line.
"What are you doing!" Lyle yelled. "I need that- what?" He looked down in confusion as Mark put the ration pack in his hand. Then he looked up again, stunned and hopeful. "Really? Are you sure?"
Mark just nodded, carefully anchoring and giving Lyle a pivot point to swing around. "It's okay." He muttered quietly. Conversations were bad to begin with. Add on social cues and gratification and he just couldn't handle it much. "Won't be long, now."
That last was too much. He recognized the mistake immediately when Lyle's head snapped around, eyes squinting hopefully. "You know something, don't you." Then, that insane jump of logic that rode everyone's thoughts these days: "There's a rescue coming? You know, don't you! Say something! Say it!" His tone was rising and the compartment was small. This might be bad.
Mark frowned, mentally berating himself for not preparing for this. Or at least for not taking the easy road of saying nothing at all. This was why he avoided conversations-- it was a deep game, full of nuance and guessing that seemed more like mind reading than just exchanging information. But now Lyle was on a tear and he needed to derail him.
An idea struck. Mark glared downward and held a hand out. "Give it back."
Lyle immediately pulled the ration away. "What? No! You gave it to me!"
"Fine. Then shut up." He watched as the other man sprang away gracelessly, bouncing off an overhead in his haste. That went rather well, he thought. Better than expected. Maybe he should practice ways to end conversations? It could be easier to do that instead of coming up with something on the fly. Less risk.
He went to find Jake, mildly relieved to have that resolved.
But Lyle didn't forget. And gossip was in thin supply these days, so over the next few hours the whisper went around: Rescue was coming. Rescue was in the system already, only a day away. No, rescue was here and the Executive wasn't telling anyone. Someone should do something. Not me, you. Or both of you. Some of us, maybe.
The whispers circled the room, creating a tension all their own. Eventually word reached someone in Targer's group, who promptly relayed the rumors to their despot.
And now they were having a showdown.
A half circle of angry workers held one end of the room, facing off against Targer's smaller group of loyalists on the other. She stood shoulder to shoulder with her people, eyes narrowed and voice strident. "How dare any of you question me," she repeated, throwing her voice around the room like a weapon all its own. "When I'm the one saving all of you, constantly? Who authorizes the hatches? Me! Who turns on the atmosphere? Me! Who opens the emergency lockers, unlocks the systems, sends for help? That's right-- me!"
"So where's the rescue!" Someone shouted from the back, voice muffled and hidden in the dark.
"Who said that?" She demanded in return. No one stepped forward to claim it. After a long moment she glared at each of the group facing off. "I see you. I see all of you. Petrov, Jens, Cabel-- you're off rations until next time we move." The three named workers looked stricken and immediately protested. Targer shouted them down. "Shut it! As for the rest of you-- disperse. Now. Or you'll get the same. Try me."
They didn't, stepping back into the darkness. But the muttering wouldn't stop, wouldn't fade away. The Executive spent a moment looking hard into every dark corner, making a point of claiming the field of battle. After a moment she tapped one of the loyalists on the shoulder and retired to their corner, grouped around the ration bag and the inflated survival tent for her
son.
Mark waited a few minutes, shared a concerned look with Jake, who returned a 'get on with it' sort of motion. They'd already talked over the plan. Well he proposed the problem and then Jake talked, Mark mostly frowned or nodded in the correct places until it was worked out. The only objection he made was regarding who the face of the plan was going to be: Someone had to talk and he didn't like it. But Jake rightfully pointed out his lack of special status and the trust the Executive placed in Mark already.
In the end he gave up. Conversations were bad, arguments were worse. So instead he spent several hours rehearsing lines to use, nervously memorizing each. Backups were planned just in case. And if all else failed he'd be sure to rely on silence-- that was a tested approach.
With a deep breath he pushed off and floated towards the Executive corner. Time for the first conversation.
It was Jason Robes that spotted him coming, pushing off to meet at the midpoint before he could get through their perimeter. "Hold up," he ordered, one palm flat to check Mark's momentum. They traded force, moving slightly away from each other. "What do you want? Executive doesn't want to be bothered."
Mark deployed his first line. "I need to check the emergency shelter."
Jason was poised to tell him off, but that made him hesitate. Peter Minyer needed that shelter, and he was the Executive's son. That elevated the request to dangerous levels. It was a bad spot to be in, really, and Mark sympathized. The social implications were all over the place and penalties for a bad call would be horrendous. He could actually see the relays clicking in Jason's mind until all circuits pointed to default. "Wait here," he grunted, then kicked slightly off to consult with leadership.
He didn't wait long before Rachel Targer herself was kicking forward, stopping her momentum with a harder stiff arm to his chest than necessary. "What's this about the shelter? This better be good, Independent, or so help me-"
Mark tuned out slightly, letting her ramble several more threats. He expected this. It was fine. But the moment she took a breath he deployed the second prepared line: "Skinsuit recyclers are failing, too much use." That was true and Targer knew it. A solid opening line that built a good foundation for follow-up. "Shelters have bigger units, but they're not meant for long term use." This was also true, adding on to the first statement. Like building blocks of conversational trust. Now the closer, which was a mix of truth and lie: "I can check it for problems."
And that was the brilliance of Mark's plan: Simplistic statements that built a house of worry for the Executive to live in. Once the idea started it would grow. Flesh out, gain details and concerns until the only way out was-
"Fine. Check it. But watch yourself and if anything goes wrong I will have your head, Independent." She kicked backwards, snapping impatiently for her entourage to get out of the way. Mark avoided eye contact and drifted through, locating the emergency shelter and moving to it. A moment later he was outside the transparent bubble, looking through to the concerned and interested boy inside.
He hadn't planned for this, but thankfully Thomas didn't try to start a conversation. He just floated inside the purified air, small lungs struggling with the heightened oxygen provided by the recycler as he watched Mark check the recycling unit attached to the side. Mark made a big show of it, too-- removing the cover with a small handheld unit, then cranking a testing unit to life and touching it to each component. Lights flashed, numbers moving across the dim screen.
After a suitable length he frowned, then reverse the process to put components back and seal the cover. He gently spun in place to locate the Executive, then drifted over with a gentle push of one hand on the overheads.
She spotted him coming, noting his frown at once. "What? What is it?"
Time to deploy his next line. "The recycler is starting to fail." Which was a lie, but he'd practiced it enough to not trip over the words. Targer immediately opened her mouth, but he hurried onward before the tirade started. "It's still working. But someone needs to check it every few hours, in case it goes out without anyone noticing."
The hook was set. Hard. He watched the Executive process the problem and come to the only conclusion possible: There was literally no one else who had the certifications. "You." She demanded, one finger poking his patched skinsuit. "You'll check it. Every hour. Until I tell you otherwise and no, I don't care if you have to sleep. If something goes wrong you tell me immediately. I hold you personally responsible, Independent Thompson."
She kept saying that like it would hurt him somehow. But Mark honestly enjoyed the sound of it, so he wasn't bothered. Instead of nodded, eyes downcast and to one side. "Yes, ma'am." Then he waited through another long spew of threats and casual slurs until she was exhausted and he could drift off back to his claimed corner.
Where Jake was impatiently waiting. "Well? Did it work?" He looked relieved when Mark nodded. "Alright, perfect. That's a load of worry off." He lowered his voice to a whisper. "When rescue comes-- dead stars it better be soon, I can't much more of this-- you'll be able to grab the kid, right? Tuck him away against whatever happens? Because brother, I think it's going to be bad for a certain Executive."
Which Mark couldn't disagree with. He'd already come to the conclusion Rachel Targer needed to die.
He'd thought about it, after all.
Chapter 16
State of Rescues
They held a war council in the break room.
An exhausted Lieutenant Jamet sat shoulder to shoulder with Janson, quietly passing a squeeze bottle of sweetener back and forth for their caf mugs. Both of them still wore skinsuits with the helmets folded backward, which made their side of the table a bit more crowded than normal. That should have bothered her more, honestly. Especially since she hadn't seen the inside of a sanitizer for nearly two days. But if the big engineer cared he didn't let on and in return she tried her best not to comment on the musk he put off.
Across the table Emilia had her head pillowed across one forearm, visor turned sideways and her free hand gently gripping an empty mug. Black hair spilled over one shoulder, twisted and knotted from getting jammed too long into a suit. Paul rested on the bench next to her, his unreal height making the short technician seem even smaller in comparison. At least the clunky air cast was off; it turned out Medical hadn't been completely ruined, just isolated due to damage. Now his broken arm was reduced to just some swelling and a pressure cuff-- he'd offered to describe the process, but only got as far as "mechanical rebreakage" before Jamet begged off.
All four of them looked almost as wrecked as the Kipper. Everyone's eyes had enough baggage to fill a cargo hauler, held up by sheer willpower and the fading edges of adrenaline highs.
Oddly it was Captain Siers who kept the energy up, making caf and dispensing refills with the adroit motions of a habitual addict. "Stick with me, everyone. We'll get a down cycle soon. But we need to discuss some options, first."
Emilia talked straight into the table, breath clouding the stained surface with every word. "Anything Comm-related is toast, sir. Not much I can work with up there." She huffed suddenly, blowing crumbs off the side and onto the floor.
"I pulled the images you took," he agreed, then carefully filled her mug again. "I'm not expecting miracles. How's our network infrastructure?"
She flicked two fingers without looking up. "Lost about half our data storage and a bunch of computational power. Drift charts are still good, so we can leave if the drive gets fixed. Other than that," her drink scraped across the table, then tilted into her mouth. "Don't plan on automatic course corrections any time soon."
At the mention of navigation Siers flicked a glance at Jamet. She nodded back, surprised at how good it felt to be able to fill that role. "Understood. How about stores? Are we going to starve?"
"We're fine." Emilia sighed. "Although everything's freeze dried and evaporated now. The food prep unit is going to taste funky as hell."
Janson leaned over and patted her arm. "Ah can always cook f' us, if you l
ike." Everyone groaned in chorus, making the big man grin knowingly. Jamet figured it was some sort of inside joke... although after sampling his earlier efforts she might understand a bit more than she wanted.
Siers checked for refills, then casually pulled a flask from his pocket and added a dose to his own cup. "Paul? Arm alright?"