Citadel

by John Ringo

  "Calm down," Doug Purcell said. The welding crew manager had been working for Apollo since the days when all they had was the Monkey Business and a couple of BDAs. Before that he'd worked in the drilling industry so he'd seen his fair share, and more, of dust-ups like this one. "I do have to admit this seems like a violation of Six-Three-Eight-Four-Nine-Delta."

  He also had an elephant's memory for regulations.

  "Nope," Price said. "Checked just before I come up here. Niner-Delta refers only to personal suits. Nothing about sleds. Doesn't mean I did it. But it does mean it's not a violation."

  "I see a new reg being written," Mr. Purcell said, sighing. "And you insist that you did not do this?"

  "I'd admit it if I did," Price said. "It was a sweet set-up and since it's not covered by regs I'd be in the clear. Who was the last guy before me to use the sled?"

  "Uh..." Mr. Purcell said, accessing his plant. "Allen."

  "The FNG?" Price said, chuckling. "No way an FNG did this. And Allen's Mister Pure. His big problem is he isn't tough enough. But he's been putting up with Gursy's crap so I guess he might slide."

  "I want somebody's hide for this," Gursy said. "I don't care if it's covered by regs or not, it's a safety violation!"

  "You're one to talk with all the crap you pull," Price said. "Gursy, here's the lowdown. I don't know how you made it through probe. Because nobody on the crew likes you one damned bit, nobody trusts you and if you were probe we'd have voted you off the island. I joke. Everybody jokes. Some of them get rough. You're just a buddy-screwer. I don't like that on my crew. Joking's one thing. Being a buddy-screwer's another. So you want to bitch about this hard enough, we can put in an official request for transfer as incompatible. I noticed you come to us in the middle of a placement zone. Which told me you'd already got one transfer. But I decided to let it slide. Some crews you got to be one kind of guy to work with them. Quick enough, I figured out why you were kicked off a crew."

  "I think we need to break up this little pow-wow," Mr. Purcell said, raising his hands. "Mr. Gursy, you're off shift. I'm not going to have anyone as agitated as you in the Black with a laser in your hand. Mr. Price, if you could stay a moment."

  "You try to kick me off the crew, I'll appeal," Gursy said, standing up.

  "You just do that," Price said, not looking up. Of course, he didn't really need to since he was Gursy's height sitting down.

  Mr. Purcell leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms, looking at the team lead.

  "I didn't do it," Price said, holding up his hand with three fingers extended. "Honest."

  "Then who did?" Purcell asked.

  "Allen," Price said instantly.

  "Really?" the manager said, looking amused. He'd been around this game long enough to enjoy a really good joke. You either developed a sense of humor about such things or you got out.

  "Yeah," Price said. "He stuck it up with a piece of scotch tape. He didn't know who was going to use the sled but he figured it was going to go back to Three, which Gursy always uses 'cause he's a buddy-screwer."

  One and Two were reserved for Mr. Purcell and other construction managers. Three was the next closest to the door.

  "You're sure of this?" Mr. Purcell said.

  "Why do you think I made sure I parked it at Three?" Price said. "I said I didn't do it. I didn't say I didn't help."

  "Mr. Allen seems to be doing well..." Mr. Purcell said.

  "If you're asking if I think he needs to be transferred, the answer is no," Price said. "I'd take three of Allen over Gursy. In fact, if it's a choice of Gursy or Allen, I'd take Allen, even though he's a probie. Usually when a guy's been on a crew and he knows what he's doing, even if he's an asshole, guys would rather work with him than a probie. But Gursy's an asshole and a buddy-screwer and everybody knows it. He does what he has to to get by. Allen works his tail off."

  Mr. Purcell leaned back and closed his eyes, his lips working from side to side. After a few moments he opened them and regarded the team lead.

  "You ever want to sit in this seat?" Purcell asked.

  "Sure," BFM said. "Some day."

  "What's your primary motivation going to be?" Purcell asked.

  "The good of the guys," Price said.

  "Wrong," Purcell said. "Dead wrong. Depends on which seat you're sitting in what, exactly, your motivation is. But in this seat, working for Apollo, the answer is: The best long-term interest of the company. Allen is a probationary tech, still not very good at his job and not yet a net asset to the company. Gursy is a trained tech and while I could wish he was more motivated in his position, he is a net asset."

  "So you're saying get rid of Allen, who's a damned good kid, for a jackass like Gursy?"

  "Not saying that," the manager said. "If I was at BAE, and God save me from another such assignment, the answer would be yes. If I was still at Shell the answer would be yes. But there's a reason I work for Apollo. Here's the thing. When you sit at this desk, there are two things you have to think about: What's going to make the company money and what's going to do it in the future. That's all."

  "Then I don't want to sit at that desk," Price said.

  "Don't be so quick to judge," Purcell said, smiling. "The work is physically much easier than spending all your time in the Black and the pay is generally better and always steadier. And it's not quite the selling your soul you're thinking. You ever met Tyler Vernon?"

  "No," Price said, furrowing his brow. "And hell no. I don't got nothing against him, seems like a straight up guy and I think he runs a good company. Seems to care about his people. But I never come near meeting him. I mean, I see his ship in the bay from time to time, but..."

  "He, rarely, teaches a class on business ethics for Apollo managers," Purcell said. "Fascinating guy. I mean, you know the history. But I mean personally he's a fascinating guy. The course is titled 'Capitalism Clothed' and it's a mandatory class for management at Apollo. The title's a take on Naked Capitalism. You get it?"

  "Got it," Price said, smiling a bit.

  "You think you get it," Purcell said, crossing his arms. "The first point of the class is to point out that every economy is at some level naked capitalism. We just put various clothes on it. Unions are naked capitalism clothed in the rhetoric of organized labor."

  "You said the U word," Price said.

  "I know," Purcell said, grinning. Apollo was death on organized labor. "I'm pretty sure only Paris is listening and he doesn't talk. But one of the things Vernon talks about, once he's gotten everyone understanding the lingo, is Apollo clothing."

  "Heard that," Price said, frowning. "I thought it was those shirts you all wear."

  "He's... inspirational when he talks," the manager said, rubbing the Apollo symbol on his golf shirt. "'Apollo was the Greek god of the sun, of philosophy and art and as his burning chariot was the light that brought philosophy and art to the barbarian West, Apollo's first mission is to carry the light of civilization into the Black. The light of the sun is the clothing of Apollo and it is the clothing of this corporation.' I can't do it. He's got the knack, I don't."

  "That's our boss?" the team lead said, chuckling. "Huh."

  "The thing is, he's got a different vision from most other corporate heads," Purcell said. "He even admits it's a vision that probably won't last. But the vision extends beyond the next quarter, beyond the next year. 'Think not of the profit of the moment save to cover the necessary expenses of the corporation. Apollo will be leading the way to the stars long after we are dust. Think, rather, of the next generation. And make me a megacredit in the meantime.' Enlightened self-interest, the importance of safety to the bottom-line... He does go on."

  "Sounds like it," Price said.

  "If I transfer Allen, he's going to have to reestablish himself with a crew and the rate of second-term failure on probationary transfers is so high he's unlikely to make the cut," Purcell said. "But Gursy's the type who is going to figure out who did it eventually and up the ante. Which means he'l
l probably do something that's critically unsafe. I know the type of old. On the other hand, he's already had not one but two transfers. Which means if I request a transfer for incompatibility, he's going to get grounded."

  "And then he owes Apollo for the rest of his life," Price said. "I'm not shedding any tears."

  "And, again, the rate of repayment of the loans is actually minuscule," Purcell said, sighing. "Think about this, though. In this particular instance, Gursy is the one who was the victim. So I'm penalizing the victim."

  "That's a really backward way of looking at it," Price said, his brow furrowing.

  "I'm sure that will be Mr. Gursy's argument, or his lawyer's, in the lawsuit," Purcell said, smiling thinly. "But the truth is, I doubt that Mr. Vernon wants people like Gursy in his company and I think he'd probably take to Allen. Even though it is in the best short-term interest of the company to retain Gursy, it is in the best long-term interest, with some risk, to retain Allen."

  "So get rid of Gursy and keep Allen?" Price said.

  "Since I work for Apollo, yes," Purcell said. "That is in keeping with the overall mission and philosophy. If I was still with Shell or BAE, Allen would be transferred so fast he wouldn't have time to pack. And don't let the door hit you in the ass. As it is, that's what I'm going to have to do with Gursy."

  —|—

  "Drac, I need a quick word with Butch," Price said, sliding into the probie quarters.

  "You want me to...?" Vlad said, confused.

  "Go get a Coke or something," Price said. "This won't take long."

  When Vlad was out of the room, Price picked the newbie up by his collar and slammed him against the bulkhead.

  "You ever try to pin something like that on me again, I will violate rule Niner-Delta in a way nobody will ever trace and you will be sucking vacuum for the rest of your very short life."

  "Yes, Mr. Price," Butch gasped. The team lead was a mountain. Struggling was pointless.

  "That being said," Price said, lowering him to the deck, "and an understanding being reached, it was a very slick job. Not quite slick enough, but pretty slick. You also just barely missed being transferred."

  "Yes, Mr. Price," Butch said. He knew better than to say "Sorry." It was the worst possible thing to say. You took your chances and you took your lumps if you got caught.

  "Gursy is getting transferred," Price said.

  "Mr. Price?"

  "It was Purcell's call, not mine," Price said. "He's already gone. There's going to be some grumbling but not much. Nobody really liked the asshole. But you'd better keep your nose clean as snow for the rest of your probation. I'll tell the crew it's time to back off. They won't quit, mind you. But they'll back off. Just keep learning your job and keep your nose clean."

  "Yes, Mr. Price," Butch said.

  "You may call me BFM."

  CHAPTER FIVE

  "You're not bad for a FUN," Jablonski said, watching as Dana carefully went through the port gravitics relay checklist.

  Despite their relatively small size, the Myrmidons were enormously complex. The main power was supplied by a twelve gigawatt matter-energy converter located directly behind the engineer station. That drove a repulsor drive capable of pulling four hundred gravities of delta-V. Pulling that much acceleration would turn a human to paste, though, so the craft had to have an Inertial Stabilization System, ISS, that kept the internal gravity more or less normal. More or less because beyond one hundred gravities of acceleration the system started to fall behind. At full drive, the internals—crew and cargo—were subjected to three gravities of acceleration.

  In addition to the drive and ISS, there were four magnetic grapnels capable of localized gradients of over nine hundred gravities. They were designed primarily to lock onto a ship for boarding but from what Dana had heard they were mostly used as ersatz tug systems. The Myrmidons could only "reverse" at sixty gravities so they were better for pushing than pulling. But they got stuff moved in space eventually.

  Since you had to get in and out of the boat somehow, there was a forward ramp and air-lock system as well as an emergency hatch in the flight compartment. The ramp was for terrestrial landings, which very few of the coxswains on the Troy had ever done. For Dana it was just another damned thing to check. Not to mention the "useless as tits on a boar hog" as AJ had pointed out, landing jacks.

  Then there was the air lock. Air locks for more or less Terran sized sophonts, which included Glatun and Horvath, were fairly standardized across the local arm. The air lock was essentially two hatches with a space a bit shorter than the width of the Myrm between. A squad of Marines could stack up in the space to do an entry.

  The hatches were fairly conventional steel with a high-tech sealant and fairly normal wheel-latches. They had to be authorized for opening from the engineer of the boat and checked for closure. The detectors were futzy as hell. And you wanted to make sure the hatches were sealed before you went into the Black. Most of the time, if there was time, the engineer would get out of the flight compartment and do a manual check. Especially if Marines were the ones doing the closure.

  Searchlights, shields, double four-terawatt lasers for close-air support, avionics, more superconductor relays than a terrestrial power plant, the boat's engineer had to know all of it well enough to, at least, detect faults and report them for repair. In general, with the lack of higher support due to the way the Navy was growing and the lack of bay space on the Troy, most repairs took place in the bay with ENs, engineers first class, and EMs, petty officer engineering mates, sweating and cursing in suits.

  To make full rate, an engineer apprentice was required to demonstrate that he, or in Dana's case, she, could just locate and analyze faults, not repair them. In a suit, in microgravity, in vacuum, in the dark.

  And they had to meet minimum standard capability as coxswains in case the cox was disabled during an "evolution."

  "Checks completed, EN," Dana said, straightening up and trying to keep from rubbing her back. Checking the gravitics mostly meant bending over for hours. The one good thing about Jablonski was that he barely seemed to notice her as a girl. "No faults detected."

  "Check completed, aye," Jablonski said, making a notation on his pad. "No faults detected, aye. Good check."

  "Good check, aye," Dana said.

  "Break it down," AJ said. "We have mandatory flight fun time this afternoon."

  "Flight fun time" translated as physical training. There was a basketball court and a gym. Dana spent most of her work-out time in the gym since there wasn't a good gymnastics set up.

  She'd been a cheerleader in high school but mostly she'd been into the gymnastics. If she hadn't "blossomed" a bit young she might have made the pros. It was one of the reasons she was ahead of the curve for training in microgravity. With enough time on parallel bars, micro wasn't a really big issue. She still wasn't good in micro, but she could manage simple tasks.

  "Break it down, aye," Dana said, gathering up the tools and carefully stowing them away. The stow point for the boat's tools was to the starboard side of the flight compartment, just to the side and aft of the engineer's station. Over the compartment was a post-production welded on set of clamps with a crowbar installed. The second day she'd been working on the boat, AJ had come in with the crowbar, the clamps and a laser welding set and grimly welded the crowbar into place. He hadn't said anything about why but it wasn't until the crowbar was in place that Twenty-Nine was listed as flight-certified.

  She'd wondered about the crowbar—it wasn't part of the standard tool-set and it seemed to hold some particular significance—but she hadn't asked. There were no stupid questions, but she had learned that there were answers you only got at a certain point in your training. She suspected the Significance of the Crowbar was one of them. She'd figured out some of the meanings. "Going crow" on a boat, or a person, meant beating the hell out of a part, or a person. But there seemed to be more. One time when Sean's boat had had a mid-space malfunction he had mentioned it "look
ed like crowbar time." And EM Hartwell had been pretty grim. There was some significance to the crowbar.

  She'd find out when it was time.

  —|—

  "We have a special event for you today, boys and girls."

  Chief Petty Officer John Wagner looked like a recruiting poster. Tall, blond and mustachioed, he simply reeked of being God's gift to women. His good point was that he wasn't an ass about it and had never so much as hinted to Dana. On the other hand, he seemed to positively enjoy passing on the worst possible news to the flight. So the fact that he'd fallen out for "flight fun time" meant that they were probably not going to like the result.

  "With the activation of C-West, there are four new grav ball courts open," the chief said, grinning broadly.

  There was a collective groan from the assembled flight.

  "So it's helmet and pads time," the chief finished, grinning ear to ear. "Fall out for MWR draw."

  —|—

  "What's wrong with grav ball?" Dana asked. She was actually pretty excited. She'd heard about the sport but the only people who seemed to play it were the Marines. And she'd been pointedly warned about playing them.

  "Where to start?" Sean said, receiving a set of knee and elbow pads and a helmet from the MWR civilian manning the desk. "You know the rules?"

  "Sort of like hockey," Dana said, accepting her own pads. "Five-person teams. One goalie, two forwards, two defense. Two goals. Once you catch the ball you can't push off from the walls, you have to pass. Okay, hockey and ultimate Frisbee. You can bounce the ball off of any wall. Move it down the court to get it in the enemy goal."

  "Ever really thought about it?" Sean asked. "The walls have padding. Some. You've got to be able to bounce the ball, so it's not real thick. Then there's the viewing wall made out of optical sapphire, which is, let me tell you, very, very hard stuff. Note the pads and helmet. The first Marine unit to play it had about ten percent injuries that required doctor's input. Of course, they have since created jungleball, which you don't want to play."