by R L Dean
The pilot was good, as expected of an Apex employee, and it was a smooth touchdown at the VIP Landing Zone. Alexandria paid special attention to certain departments within the company and one of those was Human Resources. She said that more than anything it gave her the pulse of the company. Greg had picked up more about running a successful business from her than from the old man himself, even if he was the one that put up the seed money for his security company.
As soon as the cabin's lighting switched over to its normal color Greg's men were climbing out of the seats and filing to the exterior hatch. When the vestibule extended and locked onto the shuttle they were ready. They looked like a line of business men in suits wearing black flak vests with the words VANGUARD SECURITY in white on the front and back.
When the airlock cycled his people funneled into the vestibule. A few of them would wait inside while Alexandria made her way off the shuttle. He stood and stepped aside. When she pushed past the seat and into the aisle he wanted to emphasize that this was not a good idea, but experience had taught him that it would be useless. Alexandria was neither indecisive nor wishy-washy. This was what she was going to do.
Alexandria rarely left Earth, but after a moment of testing her footing she made it into the vestibule with some semblance of grace. Greg took up the rear.
In the tram tube several of his people were standing at the security desk, along with a dozen UNSEC soldiers carrying rifles and wearing assault gear. As Alexandria reached the desk the guy sitting at the chair smiled in greeting.
"Welcome to Harmony dome, Misses Reinhardt."
"Thank you," she replied and put her eyes to the retinal scanner. When she stepped aside he went next.
"Mister Stockerman," the desk guy said. "You may keep your stun batons, but I'm going to have to ask you and your team to leave your firearms here."
He frowned, along with several of his people. The security scanners picked up everything, of course, because that's what security scanners were for.
A soldier wearing sergeant stripes shifted a little and said, "You know the rules."
Yes, he knew the rules. UNSEC frowned upon private security entering their domain with firearms. He would have to get a contracting job with them before they would allow his people to walk around with any type of projectile weapons, but he had hoped for some professional courtesy.
The sergeant gave him a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"Greg, don't make a fuss," Alexandria told him.
It wouldn't have done any good anyway and likely would have gotten his team booted back to the shuttle. He ordered them to turn over their pistols and insisted that Alexandria wait until they passed the retinal scanner. While they waited she called her husband and told him she made it safely then read something on her handcomm.
The VIP tram was already waiting for them and they piled on.
Greg had been to Harmony several times, training with his people in low g, as well as attending to Apex Mining business that Alexandria wanted him to conduct personally. Most of his dealings were with the rep's office, but she sent him to the plant once to investigate the major theft of company equipment. He found the perpetrators and they were prosecuted to Alexandria's satisfaction, but in that case his real job had been to enhance the attitude of the security company that she contracted to protect the plant— as in get rid of the clowns you have at the plant now and replace them or you will be replaced. If he had the manpower he would have tried to get her to let him put his people there. He could have at least attested to their training. As it was, he functioned as her Chief of Security for the corporate office and her personal bodyguard in a private capacity. Those were his official duties on the books, anyway.
The tram took them to the Landing Zone station inside the dome, where a taxicart with a cover was waiting for them. The cover served no real purpose other than to make the low, square cart look different than the standard ones— make it look important. Alexandria, he, and three of his men piled in. The rest of his team followed in two other normal carts.
Harmony's streets were narrow black pavement, most of them flanked by sidewalks or moving walkways. The dome had been planned from the foundation up. There were no areas that 'grew', no neighborhoods that spontaneously appeared. Its size was fixed. Everything was divided in to districts and while colors and names changed frequently as businesses and owners came and went, the dome's layout and roads stayed the same.
Five minutes later the cart was on the straightway that would take them to the access tunnel that led to the Apex plant. The first thing he saw was the people. A small prefab stage with a podium and chairs was set up in the street, the arch of the heavy concrete and metal tunnel yawning over it. A crowd of plant workers in coveralls and carrying signs stood in front of it looking around while UNSEC soldiers flanked the area. News crews were setting up at the base of the stage. Greg immediately pegged the crowd at close to two-hundred. He frowned. The numbers were half again what he expected.
A UNSEC soldier standing with two men in dark suits motioned to them and the cart driver turned, and slowed to a stop at the curb. Greg recognized both the suits. The tall, thin man that reminded him of a diplomat was Harrison Davenport, the Apex rep, and the other man wearing a plant hardhat was Chester Thorndike, the plant manager. His team was thoroughly briefed on both of them.
The men in the cart with them made it out of their seats before Alexandria looked at him and frowned— as in let's go. He climbed out to the curb and extended a hand to help her. She wouldn't want an undignified misstep in the lighter gravity.
"Misses Reinhardt, it's a pleasure to see you, mam," Davenport said, smiling.
Davenport and Thorndike started glad-handing Alexandria as the second cart pulled up and his men jumped out.
"An injury to one is an injury to all!"
Greg turned toward the sound of the yelling. Ludwick Chaserman was suddenly walking out of the crowd of the plant workers. A mix of UNSEC soldiers and his own men began forming a line in front of approaching crowd.
"An injury to one is an injury to all ... an injury to one is an injury to all ... and injury to one is an injury to all!"
Greg had a complete dossier on Chaserman. The man was good at the whole strike and protest thing. He had the background as a plant worker— in the trench with the troops so to speak— and the voice of a foreman. Chaserman was a man that a welder, power technician, pipefitter, or hauler pilot could respect.
"Misses Reinhardt," the sergeant yelled over Ludwick and his chanting protestors. "I'm Sergeant Benjamin Weathers."
Weathers gave Alexandria a sort of polite half-salute and in return she asked, "Who did you piss off to get this job, sergeant?"
He smiled and might have shrugged, but the assault armor made it hard to tell. "Low man on totem pole, I guess."
Well it was nice to see he had a sense of humor. Greg didn't find anything humorous about this situation, Alexandria's attempt at levity notwithstanding.
"Anyway, mam," Weathers continued. "For your safety I recommend sticking close to your security detail. We are cordoning off the block to allow room for your exit, but the streets are public access and more people are showing up. It's about to get real crowded real soon.
"This would work better if we coordinated," Greg told him.
Weathers shook his head. "My orders are different. Miss Reinhardt is a private citizen and the stage is on Apex property."
Greg immediately understood. Weathers could not officially coordinate with them but he had just given Greg his plan. The UNSEC soldiers would remain on the streets and sidewalks, and his own men could focus on the stage.
Alexandria looked at Davenport and Thorndike, then asked, "We're on the same page?"
Their answers were lost in the noise of Ludwick's protestors. "Alright," Greg said to the mic in his left ear. "Make a path to the stage, she's about to move."
Instantly Vanguard security officers moved to form a line on the sidewalk toward the stage. Lucille
Jimenez, one of his better officers, stood at the steps to the stage, one hand on the hilt of her stun baton and her dark ponytail bobbing as she turned her head this way and that.
Alexandria turned from the two men to him and nodded. She was ready.
Greg escorted her like a knight guarding a princess, one arm out, one behind her back. He didn't have enough people to form a complete barrier to the stage, so they moved with him and Alexandria.
"You're not planning anything we didn't discuss, are you?" Greg asked loud enough for her to hear.
"What? No," she replied. "Just like we discussed."
She rarely surprised him, it was in her nature to set a course and stay with it until the end, but he had to ask. Part of what made him a good Chief of Security and bodyguard was a sense of paranoia.
Ludwick ramped-up the noise level, or more protestors were joining in, and he half expected somebody to throw something. God, this could get messy, he thought. In so many ways. When they reached the stage with no incident he allowed himself to breathe a sigh of relief. Lucille moved along the edge of the stage as Alexandria walked briskly— smiling like a star and holding up her hand to the crowd— to the podium. She never did anything by half measures ... and in this case it made Greg sweat. She was going to pour on the faux charm— and everyone would know it. That was the point of the exercise, and all the bogus words she spoke would be that much more so because of the nuances of her physical presence. Alexandria Reinhardt, the blue eyed, pale haired angel descended from Earth to fix everything that was wrong at the plant— but not really. Right down to her designer pants suit that cost more than any two plant workers made in a year, this was all to alienate them. Greg got all that, still it would have been safer if she had sat in a studio back at corporate and did this.
His people formed a line between the stage and news crews. As Alexandria reached the podium Greg stepped to the back of the stage, with Davenport and Thorndike sitting in chairs just to his right. Lucille moved off further to the right.
"Porter take up position behind the stage," he said. Porter was by the steps leading up to the stage, he peeled away and disappeared out of Greg's line of sight. The gate security weenies were behind them, but he wanted someone in the space between them and the stage.
Alexandria stood in front of the podium with a smile on her face, waiting for the chants and yelling to stop. Ludwick made his way back through the crowd to the front. Feeling a little powerless and missing the familiar bulk of his pistol in his vest holster Greg watched the former plant foreman-cum-union rep turn to the crowd and hold up his hands.
"Alright, alright," he yelled. "Let her speak." As the crowd died down Ludwick turned to look at her and shrugged. "We're not unreasonable men. Have your say."
With all eyes on her Alexandria began her speech.
"Thank you all for coming today." The podium's sound system carried her voice across the street to echo against the permafab walls of an apartment building. "I understand that you have some concerns ..."
"What are you going to do about rad shielding?" Someone yelled. The question hung there in silence for a moment, Alexandria looking out across the crowed. Ludwick, with his arms folded across his chest, glanced back, then turned toward her again. Someone yelled yeah, and others joined in, shouting questions.
Ludwick waved a hand back at them and they quieted down again.
"I see. Very well," Alexandria said. "You want to get down to business, I respect that." She cleared her throat, then continued.
"First let's discuss the issue of healthcare. It's a concern for everyone here, including myself. These bodies ... breakdown. No matter whether you work at a plant or inside an office, time is relentless."
"Lady get to the point!" That was from a guy standing near Ludwick.
Unperturbed Alexandria pushed on. "To talk about healthcare and health benefits I think we first need to establish a common lexicon, or language, to have an open dialogue ..."
Ludwick's crowd, already worked up, was growing restless. Greg watched as they shifted on their feet, frowned. There was an almost preternatural feeling that something was about to happen— the hairs rising on the back of his neck— right before it did.
"For healthcare to be effective, for not only our plant employees but also ..."
Out of the corner of his eye Greg saw a blur twisting in the air ... then a wrench slammed in to Lucille's chest.
That cinched it.
Greg flew in to motion, eyes only for Alexandria. Her head turned sharply toward the threat just as he physically grabbed her and started ushering her off the stage. A hardhat bounced off the stage in front of them. Simple agitation turned in to chaos. As he half-pushed-half-carried Alexandria down the steps he heard Ludwick's voice shouting to calm down. His people began to close ranks as he got her down from the stage and headed to the taxicart.
"Lucille," he said to his mic.
"Yes sir?"
Through his earbud her voice was small but she didn't sound hurt. That was a relief.
"You okay?"
"Bounced off the jacket."
Good, that's why they wore them. By the time he pushed Alexandria into a seat UNSEC soldiers were closing ranks around the crowd of yelling plant workers. The hardhats became a thing, he saw a couple more bounce off the pavement.
No driver. Where's the driver? Crap. Greg jumped in the driver's seat as more of his people piled around Alexandria.
"Well I thought I would get a little further," she yelled. "I had at least two paragraphs drafted."
Of course she did, because it was Alexandria. He ignored her comment and yelled, "Get her strapped in!"'
It took a moment to find the ignition. A long moment, he thought. Maybe he needed to do some training on these things. The little electric motor buzzed as it started. He pressed the acceleration pedal and jerked the wheel away from the curb. As he sped away, he saw the rest of his people climbing into the second cart.
This little endeavor had been like feeding a reactor pentane fuel rods. Which was exactly what Alexandria had wanted.
17 - Mat
Over the last five days the Sadie's velocity had climbed to 32,000 kpm. Mat stood on the hull, between the empty clamps that once held the number one canister. The ion drive kicked out a bluish white beam from the main thruster. It was like a flashlight projecting from the back of the ship. That feeble light would continue to accelerate them at small fractions of their increasing velocity for the next seventy hours, then the process of deceleration and maneuvers and hard burn would start again. The physical stress had a tendency to make him weary down in his bones.
Oh well, at least the ribs are healing, he thought. The wonders of modern medicine and a straight course were doing the trick. He turned and walked to port, the hull of the forward section curving 'down'. The number two canister rose to meet him, and he checked each clamp that held it and its last partner, the number three canister, in place. Tight as always.
Mat made his way back to the Engineering deck's maintenance hatch. When he cycled through the airlock and pulled his helmet off he found Haydon at his customary workbench. There was a coil of flex tubing tied to a hook on the table, and Haydon was digging through the tool cabinet welded to the bulkhead over the workbench.
"How's our girl?" He asked.
Haydon turned and looked down at him, then pushed a little, so his magboots came in contact with the deck. He smiled and nodded his head back. Through the window on the hatch to the small machine shop where Mat saw sparks flying.
"She's a little worker, boss," Haydon said. "She found what was wrong with the dehumidifier in the main access tube. Some other things, too. I'm cutting some tubing for her now."
Mat nodded. Misaki had kept busy most of the week. She showed up in Engineering and told Haydon to put her to work, but as far as he could tell that arrangement somehow got switched around. Haydon didn't seem to mind, though. But this wasn't what he was asking about.
"I meant the other stu
ff," he clarified. She refused the last two planned doses of the drug, small amounts to help her go through the pain of withdrawal. It couldn't be easy for her.
"She got sick today," Haydon replied. "I think her stomach hurts, but she doesn't say anything about it."
For a moment Mat thought about going in the machine shop and telling her to take it easy, but this was so obvious her way of coping. And he remembered her words about acting normal, she wouldn't break. She'll figure it out, just leave her alone.
"She's a real engineer, boss," Haydon was saying. "Not a hack like me."
Mat smiled. "Oh, think I'm going to try and replace you?"
"No, boss. I wasn't thinking that. I just meant, maybe try to keep her around. There's lots of stuff she can do here."
"Real engineers are expensive. She would probably want a stake in the ship."
Haydon stared at him for a moment, then said, "Well, make it part of your stake."
Mat laughed, glanced once more at the flashes and sparks in the window of the machine shop hatch and left Engineering.
Making his way to the Crew deck he stopped by the cabin Yuri and Haydon shared. Since the Sadie was in a long, straight course, Yuri was in rare form. The half bottle of bourbon Mat normally kept in the galley was missing and Yuri himself was passed out in his rack, secure in his webbing— probably Haydon's doing— and there were several plastic drinking tubes floating around the room. Mat gathered them up and put them in the disposal. Then out of habit checked Yuri's breathing. His aunt always said when you invite someone into your home you invite their problems as well. Of course, his aunt would never have turned away someone in need, either.
Mat left the cabin, wondering if he was going through these routines simply to keep his mind off the tug. The things he saw, and did, over there. His worry for Misaki kept his mind occupied most nights, but as she became less dependent on him it freed up an increasing amount of time for his mind to wander to those events— the flickering corridors and dead bodies. The bullet hole he put in the pilot's neck.