Do Unto Others-ARC

by Michael Z. Williamson

  Caron nodded acknowledgement, but gave most of her attention to the data on her screen.

  Looking up for a moment, she said, "I'm going to recommend relocating another thousand meters down. I think that will optimize tailing and material transport time and costs. If we get below twelve K, we'll need to move again. Ideally I'd want three smelters for a pit this wide, but it's just not viable, given the personnel transport."

  Gisaud looked partly pleased and partly put upon.

  "Moving will hinder us in the meantime," she said.

  "Oh, I'll have a new one built, then transfer this as components elsewhere. I think we can use modular systems. They might be a little tight, but they'll be safer and quicker."

  "That sounds workable, madame."

  "Are you sure? I value your input."

  "I'm sure. The downtime was my concern."

  "I'll make sure you have the resources you need to maintain production. I recall you get a bonus based on overage?"

  "Yes, madame." Gisaud looked faintly embarrassed. She hadn't raised the money issue, but it was something Horace assumed she was concerned about.

  "I'd like to see some of the workers in the area. When do you break for lunch?"

  "We take three shifts from eleven hundred to thirteen hundred."

  "That's soon, then."

  Horace saw the signal from Alex, and nodded. Closer protection. He shifted slightly and took a step, which put him off her left quarter and in a solid blocking position.

  A chime indicated the first lunch break, and a few minutes later several men came in. They shook off cold, banged off dust, and peeled off masks, hardhats and gloves. The stench of atmosphere vented from their coveralls.

  They noticed their VIPs at once, and glanced over. In seconds, they recognized who Caron must be, and stiffened perceptibly.

  "Oh, please relax and sit," she said. "This is informal, and I'm just trying to get a feel for things."

  Horace figured they wouldn't relax much while she was flanked by Bart and Aramis.

  Caron asked, "How's the weather outside?"

  One of them, a slightly round-faced Hispanic, said, "It's about five degrees today. Not bad when dressed. There is a lot of mist, though, from the air and the machines. Damp."

  "Do waterproof clothes help?" she asked.

  He shrugged.

  "Not really. You get sweaty and damp inside anyway. Unless there's actual rain, it's not worth it."

  "How's safety?"

  "The safety equipment is good, but . . . "

  "Yes?" she prodded.

  He looked around, very hesitant, but got some kind of signal from the others.

  "We need longer breaks. Minor injuries happen that shouldn't. It's a long way to carry someone out, and it interrupts vehicle traffic."

  "I'll note that," she said. "That's important."

  Intelligent questions, Horace decided, but he couldn't help but notice she hadn't asked his name and didn't really pay attention to body language. Perhaps he should suggest some observation training manuals. There were various reasons possible, but this man didn't want to talk to her, and the rest were actively snubbing her.

  Elke was at the back. Everyone was busy paying attention to Caron. She shuffled back into a hallway that led to the toilets, and went snooping.

  Yes, they did store some explosive here. There was a logbook, paper type. That indicated either power was unreliable, or some kind of problem with the network. Still, it suited her needs. She picked a handful of caps, some receivers, two blocks of Orbitol and some placer clips. They slid into her pack, it went back onto her shoulders, and she signed an illegible scrawl with barely readable item numbers from the labels. Stuff got used all the time, and with three shifts, no one should know who did it, or even question it.

  From there, she stepped into the toilet for a moment, as cover, then back out.

  As she oozed back into formation, she felt a ping, checked the message as it displayed on her glasses, and muttered to Jason, "We've been told to hurry her out of here."

  "Understood," he agreed.

  It didn't seem like a bad idea. The miners didn't seem actively hostile, but certainly generally belligerent and put upon. They certainly weren't impressed or pleased with her visit. That was a bit odd, given the circumstances. Obviously things weren't happy down here.

  The spokesman was saying, "—very hard work and very long hours."

  Caron nodded. "At least you get to send most of your wages home, though," she said. "That's one of the benefits of the operation."

  The man looked at her very oddly. Elke wondered if he'd have to step in, but it didn't seem a precursor to anything. He just seemed to not be sure what he was hearing.

  She wondered about that exchange as they left. The place didn't feel of Company Store, and the prices she'd seen were very moderate, given the lift cost from Earth, or production cost locally. They had a lot of free perks. The wages were supposed to be on par with the big mines on Earth on top of all the benefits.

  Elke surmised it was a combination of not enough women, too long hours, and being cooped up inside constantly. The endless dreariness would take a toll like that of combat, only more gradual and insidious, and with no relief until departure. It was common with support troops in austere locations, and this was a similar environment.

  That was something to consider, and to mention to Alex to mention to Mister Prescot. These types of men might not admit it, but a garden and sunroom and possibly an occasional campfire would do wonders for morale.

  She swapped signs with Jason, and then said, "Well, I hate to be rude, but Miss Prescot is on a tight schedule. Would you excuse us please?"

  Caron said, "Oh, of course. I do apologize. Thank you all very much for talking to me."

  Jason nodded to Elke's sign, and he and Bart took up the rear and created a solid wall.

  As they passed through the pressure hatch to their transporter, Caron looked over.

  "What was that about?" she asked.

  "Your father messaged us to hurry back."

  "I hope things are well," she said. Then she looked over again. "How did he message you?"

  Elke turned to show the glasses.

  "Ballistic proof, translucent and corner image projection, realtime from various feeds and polarized against blinding attacks. State of the art and not cheap."

  "Very nice. Those are company issue?"

  "These are mine," Elke told her. "They issue something similar, but I prefer not to share and not to need to ask."

  "Those could have great use in our space facilities and while blasting."

  "I believe they're in use for that."

  Caron sighed. "I really need more hands on. I've learned all the math and theory. I need to see how things actually work. That's why I was down here."

  "It's going to take a while to fit in and to learn. That's a problem executives always have with the root level employees."

  "Yes, and I don't like it."

  Pacal smiled politely as Senorita Prescot and her guards left, then grunted and spat. Gisaud was taking her lunch in the office at the rear. Typical.

  "That was strange," he said.

  Binban was agitated himself. He'd controlled it well until now, Pacal thought.

  "It's more than strange. She comes down here made up and in brand new coveralls, talks about the work as if she's doing any, and so very gently asks about the working conditions. What a bitch."

  Ahmad said, "She is a beautiful woman, but without much clue."

  Once started, Binban vented.

  "Her security costs fifty thousand marks a day. A day. For what? Why do they think it's necessary?"

  Bheka said, "She must face some threats."

  "Who'd do anything? They'd be easily identified and found. With that much money, they could make someone disappear just like they were never born. If they didn't have all that money, they wouldn't have to worry, either. Pure greed."

  Ahmad was a generous man, and slow to
anger. "They come from more expensive areas than we," he said.

  "Ahmad, her guards earn more in an hour than we do in a month. She has several. There are others for the men and assigned to the port."

  Ahmad hesitated.

  "Not even Japan or Germany are so expensive," he said.

  "No, of course not. They get paid and they rub our faces in it."

  Pacal said, "We must remain calm."

  "Calm? We should be striking!"

  "I have discussed that," Pacal said, keeping his voice very soothing. They all spoke good Basic English as a common tongue. He wished he could use Spanish to offer more elegance. "We can't do that yet. Soon, I hear."

  "Really? Is your friend reliable, now that he no longer mines?"

  "He is. Also, as a Canadian, he is from a similar culture. I trust him on how they think and work. He will tell us when."

  "It must be very soon. I get tired of being told soon."

  "It will be. There are offers that will affect management and help us. Be patient a little more."

  Caron dictated and hand corrected her notes on the trip. The miners were definitely a bit frustrated. Elke's idea seemed so girly for her, but it was a good one. She suggested some "natural" environment, though it would have to be fake. The suggestion for better emergency response definitely needed followup, but someone would have to do a study on times, cost benefit and types of response needed to make it work. She flagged that for followup.

  It had been a busy day, and now she had a date. With armed chaperones. She clouded up and kept the growl silent.

  Chapter 19

  Jason entered the lobby and nodded to Roger Edge.

  "Going in to see Mister Prescot for negotiation over gear."

  "Yup, Alex briefed me. Do you really need that for show and tell?" He indicated the case Jason carried, that he knew contained a weapon.

  "I do."

  Edge raised his eyebrows.

  "Well, company covers me, and Alex has the rank for this op, so okay."

  "Thanks. Trust me on this one."

  "You realize that was the worst thing you could say, right?"

  "Of course."

  The receptionist didn't pick up on the cues, but gestured for Jason to let himself in.

  He did so. Bryan Prescot's office was large enough for small conferences, had a great, top floor corner view out a sweeping arc of invisible window almost against the dome. Anyone talking to Prescot had to take in that awesome, intimidating view. Well done, he thought. It would be more useful on Earth, but it worked well enough here.

  "How can I help you, Jason?" Prescot asked with moderate geniality.

  Jason got to the point, and opened the bag.

  "Sir, this is the one actual firearm we have. It fires rounds for breaching doors—hinges, locks and such."

  "Yes. I know about them in theory."

  "Engineer to engineer, may I summarize?"

  Yes."

  "Thanks. There is no such thing as a weapon powerful enough to stop an opponent that won't go through an opponent, if we're talking projectiles. That's one. Point two is that known non-lethal weapons do not carry the same deterrent effect. They're fine against normally well-behaved people who might step out of line in a heated moment. They're no good against determined professionals, or sociopaths, either of which might be hired to come after Caron. I understand your concerns about the dome, but it's designed to take impacts considerably more intense than this."

  "I understand the theory. My concern is a point blank hit that could damage a panel. Even a small leak would be significantly bad, if only from a PR point of view."

  "Of course," Jason said. He casually swung the weapon, raised it level and fired.

  The report echoed in the glassed room, seeming to bound from every surface, like very close thunder.

  Prescot threw himself back and down. His reflexes were certainly adequate, Jason thought. He was down before Edge made it through the door. Jason pointed at the window, the weapon and nodded. Edge shrugged and backed out.

  Then Prescot stood, his face furious.

  Jason calmly said, "Allow me to point out the office glass isn't even dimpled. The dome is about forty times as strong. It will take a lot more than small arms fire to puncture it." He hadn't looked at the material as he shot and didn't look now. That added to the effect, he hoped. He knew intellectually there wasn't a scratch on it. It would be neat to see, however.

  Prescot looked angry now. "I can have you on a flight out of here in minutes, Mister Vaughn."

  "You hired me for my expertise, sir. I'm giving you that. You want the best safety for your daughter, yourself and your operation, and I'm telling you how to accomplish that. I will never question your mining expertise. Please don't question mine regarding weapons."

  Prescot was still rubbing his ears. He sat carefully in his chair.

  "Do you drink, Mister Vaughn?"

  "I do, in great moderation. If you are offering I will take one and one only today."

  Prescot pointed at a well-stocked bar. "Would you like Grainnean whisky or American bourbon?"

  Jason looked at the rack and said, "If that's Elijah Craig I greatly enjoy it. It's hard to get on Grainne." He kept the formal, professional wall up.

  Prescot nodded, rose and turned, and was silent while he poured two glasses neat. His own was a double. Jason's was a single. Prescot placed them down on coasters, took a breath and seemed to steady out, and resumed talking.

  "One of the problems I suffer from is that I always get my own way. It's easy for me to insulate myself from just about anything. Even when I'm wrong."

  That was the lead Jason wanted.

  "That's not specific to money or power, sir. It's very common, and I think it's human nature. We want to trust ourselves first, because even if our knowledge is incomplete, it's ours."

  "That's probably it. In any case, I do need to trust the experts I am paying.

  "At the same time," he continued, "I both respect and fear your zealous reputation. I want my daughter kept safe, but collateral damage is worse than the money to fix it."

  Jason realized he was referring to one of their earliest and most controversial missions, around President Bishwanath of Celadon. The collateral damage had been rather large, and Elke had certainly done her best to ensure so. Hell, so did I, he thought. Then there was that thug he'd tossed into the rear of the limo on Earth. A confirmed threat, yes, but still rather visible. But hell, he was paid to be a trouble shooter, not a trouble analyzer.

  "This isn't a war zone, sir. Nor are you going to abandon us. That was a specific incident. Until that point, we'd handled everything through planning and trained reactions with almost no shooting."

  "I don't trust many people, Mister Vaughn. I can't. I don't need to explain why. However, I am convinced I can trust you. Please give me a list of what you need, and I will have it delivered promptly."

  "Thank you, sir. I appreciate the trust."

  "Please bring the list to me personally, and discreetly. I don't plan to deny anything, but it's much easier to prevent trouble if there's no publicity, and I have no idea if I can trust anyone else at this point."

  "I sympathize, sir. Caron's suffering from a lot of the same fallout. I'll bring it personally tomorrow during a briefing."

  "Thank you. Ten o'clock, please. And no matter what happens, please continue to ensure my daughter is safe. Her safety comes above collateral damage, random death, or even myself."

  "We'll maintain our vigilance, sir. You have all our words."

  He saw that Prescot was finishing his own drink, so set his empty glass down firmly but politely on the cork coaster. Real cork. Where the hell did that come from these days?

  "Have a good day, sir," he said, and rose slowly.

  "And you, Mister Vaughn." Prescot smiled at last. "I'll look for your list."

  "Thank you, sir."

  That went okay, Jason thought. Yes, it had been graphic, but it needed to be, and no one else wa
s willing to make the play. One of the good things about Ripple Creek was it did back its people to the hilt. He'd never have made that play with any other employer. This one expected the extreme, though.

  He walked through the door to their common room with a relaxed but jaunty air that was completely fake, but added to the effect, he thought.

  "Guys, I need a list of everything we need as far as weapons."

  Aramis looked axed. "Don't tell me he said 'yes.'"

  "He said 'maybe' with a partial 'yes."

  "How the hell did you manage that?"

  "A little man to man talk. We both have daughters we care very much about. I approached it that way."

  Elke handed him a paper sheet with a list of explosives on it in small, clear type. She had the list ready, of course. He suspected she updated it hourly. Well, at least daily.

  Aramis turned and started scrawling fast. Bart was slower and more cautious. Jason expected it would be easy to read his, and not Aramis'.

  Alex said, "Standard pistol and carbine should do me."

  "Likewise," agreed Shaman.

  Jason said, "So we'll ask for a platoon's worth of support gear, and negotiate down to what we need and then some."

  "I am surprised," Alex said, "that no one has a hide out."

  "But sir," Aramis said, "that would violate the terms of our contract."

  "Remember that," he said. "And don't get caught violating it."

  That was a pretty broad hint, all things considered.

  Aramis wondered why he kept drawing duty at times like this. The scenery was beautiful, but distracting. It wasn't intentional masochism, and he hoped he'd get used to the idea sooner or later. Later seemed to be his only hope.

  Caron wore a basic black gown that had silver accents. For once she wasn't wearing a bodice, and looked much relieved. Her boobs were not quite as dramatic, but she still had plenty of shape in the snug top with the skirt streaming in pleats.

  Elke escorted them in, and looked scorching herself. Aramis was surprised. He knew Elke was healthy and attractive under her façade. She used it on occasion, and he'd seen her naked five and a half times. However, that gown, black at the hem, shading through violet to turquoise at the right shoulder, as it had no left, did amazing things to her. Was she dressed to match their principal? Or jealous? Or just wanted an excuse to spend tax deductible money? He had no idea about her social life.