Dean Ing

by Down

  DOWN & OUT ON ELLFIVE PRIME

  BY DEAN ING

  The space habitat was the perfect planned colony. But people kept disappearing—until the disaster struck.

  Responding to Almquist's control, the little utility tug wafted from the North dock port and made its gentle pirouette Ellfive Prime Colony seemed to fall away. Two hundred thousand kilometers distant, blue-white Earth swam into view: cradle of mankind, cage for too many. Almquist turned his long body in its cushions and managed an obligatory smile over frown lines. "If that won't make you homesick, Mr. Weston, nothing will."

  The fat man grunted, looking not at the planet he had deserted but at something much nearer. From the widening of Weston's eyes, you could tell it was something big. closing fast. Torin Almquist knew what it was: he eased the tug out, watching his radar, to give Weston the full benefit of it.

  When the tip of the great solar mirror swept past. Weston blanched and cried out For an instant, the view port was filled with cables and the mirror pivot mechanism. Then once again there was nothing but Earth and sharp pinpricks of starlight. Weston turned toward the engineering manager. wattles at his jawline trembling. "Stupid bastard," he grated "If that'll be your standard joke on new arrivals, you must cause a lot of coronaries.''

  Abashed, disappointed: "A mirror comes by every fourteen seconds, Mr. Weston. I thought you'd enjoy it. You asked to see the casting facility. and this is where you can see it best. Besides, if you were retired as a heart case, I'd know it." And the hell with you. he added silently. Almquist retreated into an impersonal spiel he knew by heart, moving the tug back to gam a panorama of the colony with its yellow legend, L-5'. proud and unnecessary on the hull. He moved the controls gently, the blond hairs on his forearm masking the play of tendons within.

  The colony hung below them, a vast shining melon the length of the new Hudson River Bridge and nearly a kilometer thick. Another of its three mirror strips, anchored near the opposite South end cap of Ellfive Prime and spread like curved petals toward the sun, hurtled silently past the view port. Almquist kept talking. "... Prime was the second industrial colony in space, dedicated in 2007. These days it's a natural choice for a retirement community. A fixed population of twenty-five hundred—plus a few down-and-out bums hiding here and there. Nowhere near as big a place as Orbital General's new industrial colony out near the asteroid belt."

  Almquist droned on, backing the tug farther away. Beyond the South end cap, a tiny mote sparkled in the void, and Weston squinted, watching it.

  "The first Ellfive was a General Dynamics-Lever Brothers project in close orbit, but it got snuffed by the Chinese in 2012, during the war.

  "I was only a cub then,” Weston said, relaxing a bit. This colony took some damage too. didn’t it?"

  Almquist glanced at Weston, who looked older despite his bland flesh. Well, living Earthside with seven billion people tended to age you. "The month I was born,” Almquist nodded, "a nuke was intercepted just off the centerline of Ellfive Prime. Thermal shock knocked a tremendous dimple in the hull, from inside, of course, it looked like a dome poking up through the soil south of center."

  Weston clapped pudgy hands, a gesture tagging him as neo-Afrikaner. "That’ll be the hill, then. The one with the pines and spruce, near Hilton Prime?"

  A nod. "Stress analysts swore they could leave the dimple if they patched the hull around it. Cheapest solution—and for once, a pretty one. When they finished bringing new lunar topsoil and distributing it inside, they saw there was enough dirt on the slope for spruce and ponderosa pine roots. To balance thousands of tons of new processed soil, they built a blister out on the opposite side of the hull and moved some heavy hardware into it.”

  The fat man's gaze grew condescending as he saw the great metal blister roll into view like a tumor on the hull. "Looks slapdash,'' he said.

  "Not really: they learned from DynLevers mistakes. The first Ellfive colony was a cylinder, heavier than an ellipsoid like ours." Almquist pointed through the view port. "DynLever designed for a low ambient pressure without much nitrogen in the cylinder and raised hell with water transpiration and absorption in a lot of trees they tried to grow around their living quarters. I'm no botanis, but I know Ellfive Prime has an Earthside ecology—the same air you'd breatne in Peru, only cleaner. We don't coddle our grass and trees, and we grow all our crops right in the North end cap below us."

  Something new and infinitely pleasing shifted Weston's features. "You used to have an external crop module to feed fifty thousand people, back when this colony was big in manufacturing—"

  "Sold it," Almquist put in. "Detached the big rig and towed it out to a belt colony when I was new here. We didn’t really need it anymore —"

  Weston returned the interruption pointedly: "You didn't let me finish. I put that deal over. OrbGen made a grand sum on it— which is why the wife and I can retire up here. One hand washes the other, eh?"

  Almquist said something noncommittal. He had quit wondering why he disliked so many newcomers. He knew why. It was a sling-cast irony that he. Ellfive Prime's top technical man, did not have enough rank in OrbGen to be slated for colony retirement. Torin Almquist might last as Civil Projects Manager for another ten years, if he kept a spotless record. Then he would be Earthsided in the crowds and smog and would eat fish cakes for the rest of his life. Unlike his ex-wife, who had left him to teach in a belt colony so that she would never have to return to Earth. And who could blame her? Shit.

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "Sorry; I was thinking. You wanted to see the high-g casting facility? It's that sphere strapped on to the mirror that's swinging toward us. It's moving over two hundred meters per second, a lot faster than the colony floor, being a kilometer and a half out from the spin axis. So at the mirror tip, instead of pulling around one standard g, they're pulling over three g's. Nobody spends more than an hour there. We balance the sphere with storage masses on the other mirror tips.”

  Restive, only half-interested: "Why? It doesn't look very heavy."

  "It isn't," Almquist conceded, "but Ellfive Prime has to be balanced just so if she's going to spin on center. That's why they filled that blister with heavy stored equipment opposite the hill—though a few tons here and there don't matter."

  Weston wasn't listening. "I keep seeing something like barn doors flipping around, past the other end, ah, end cap. He pointed. Another brief sparkle. "There," he said.

  Almquist's arm tipped the control stick, and the tug slid farther from the colony's axis of rotation. "Stacking mirror cells for shipment," he explained. "We still have slag left over from a nitrogen-rich asteroid they towed here in the old days. Fused into plates, the slag makes good protection against solar flares. With a mirror face, it can do double duty. We're bundling up a pallet load, and a few cargo men are out there in P-suits pressure suits. They—"

  Weston would never know, and have cared less, what Almquist had started to say. The colony manager clapped the fingers of his free hand against the wireless speaker in his left ear. His face stiffened with zealot intensity. Fingers flickering to the console as the tug rolled and accelerated, Almquist began to speak into his throat mike—something about a Code Three. Weston knew something was being kept from him. He didn't like it and said so. Then he said so again.

  "... happened before," Almquist was saying to someone, "but this time you keep him centered. Radar Prime. I’ll haul him in myself. Just talk him out of a panic: you know the drill. Please be quiet, Mr. Weston,” he added in a too-polite aside.

  "Don’t patronize me.” Weston spat. 'Are we in trouble?"

  "I'm swinging around the hull; give me a vector," Almquist continued, and Weston felt his body sag under acceleration. "Are you in voice contact?�
�� Pause. "Doesn't he acknowledge? He's on a work-crew-scrambler circuit, but you can patch me in. Do it."

  "You're treating me like a child."

  "If you don't shut up. Weston, I will. Oh, hell, it's easier to humor you. He flicked a toggle, and the cabin speaker responded.

  "... be okay. I have my explosive riveter, said an unfamiliar voice; adult male, thinned and tightened by tension. "Starting to retro-fire now.”

  Almquist counted aloud at the muffled sharp bursts. "Not too fast, Versky," he cautioned. "You overheat a rivet gun, and the whole load could detonate."

  "Jeez, I'm cartwheeling," Versky cut in. "Hang tight, guys.” More bursts, now a staccato hammer. Versky’s monologue gave no sign that he had heard Almquist, had all the signs of impending panic.

  "Versky, listen to me. Take your goddamn finger off the trigger. We have you on radar. Relax. This is Torin Almquist, Versky. I say again—"

  But he didn't. Far beyond, streaking out of the ecliptic, a brief nova flashed against the stars. The voice was cut off instantly. Weston saw Almquist's eyes blink hard, and in that moment the manager's face seemed aged by compassion and hopelessness. Then, very quietly: "Radar Prime, what do you have on scope?"

  "Nothing but confetti. Mr. Almquist. Going everywhere at once.

  "Should I pursue?”

  "Your option, sir."

  "And your responsibility."

  "Yes, sir. No, don't pursue. Sorry.”

  "Not your fault. I want reports from you and Versky’s cargo-team leader with all possible speed." Almquist flicked toggles with delicate savagery, turned his little vessel around, arrowed back to the dock port. Glancing at Weston, he said, "A skilled cargo man named Yves Versky. Experienced man: should’ve known better. He floated into a mirror support while horsing those slag cells around and got grazed by it. Batted him hell to breakfast." Then, whispering viciously to himself. "Goddamn those big rivet guns. They can’t be used like control jets. Versky knew that."

  Then, for the first time, Weston realized what he had seen. A man in a pressure suit had just been blown to small pieces before his eyes. It would make a lovely anecdote over sherry, Weston decided.

  Even if Almquist had swung past the external hull blister he would have failed to see, through a darkened view port, the two shabby types looking out. Nobody had official business in the blister. The younger man grimaced nervously, heavy cords bunching at his neck. He was half a head taller than his companion. "What d'you think, Zen?”

  The other man yielded a lopsided smile. "Sounds good." He unplugged a pocket communicator from the wall and stuffed it into his threadbare coverall, then leaned forward at the view port. His chunky, muscular torso and short legs ill-matched the extraordinary arms that reached halfway to his knees, giving him the look of a tall dwarf. "I think they bought it. Yves."

  "What if they didn't?"

  Zen swung around, now grinning outright. and regarded Yves Versky through a swatch of brown hair that was seldom cut.

  Hey, do like boss Almquist told you: Relax! They gotta buy it.

  "I don't follow you."

  "Then you'd better learn to. Look, if they recover any pieces, they'll find human flesh. How can they know it was a poor rummy's body thawed after six months in deep freeze? And if they did decide it’s a scam, they'd have to explain how we planted him in your P-suit. And cut him loose from the blister, when only a few people are supposed to have access here; and preset the audio tape and the explosive, and coaxed a decent performance out of a lunk like you, and," he spread his apelike arms wide, his (ace comically ugly in glee, "nobody can afford to admit there's a scam counterculture on Ellfive Prime. All the way up to Torin Almquist there'd be just too much egg on too many faces. It ain't gonna happen, Versky."

  The hulking cargo man found himself infected by the grin, but: "I wonder how long it'll be before I see another egg."

  Zen snorted, "First time you lug a carton of edible garbage out of Hilton Prime, me lad. Jean Neruda's half-blind; when you put on the right coverall, he won't know he has an extra in his recycling crew, and after two days you won’t mind pickin’ chicken out of the slop. Just sit tight in your basement hidey-hole when you're off duty for a while. Stay away from crews that might recognize you until your beard grows. And keep your head shaved like I told you."

  Versky heaved a long sigh, sweeping a hand over his newly bald scalp. "You'll drop in on me? I need a lot of tips on the scam life. And—and I don’t know how to repay you.”

  "A million ways. I'll think of a few, young fella. And sure, you'll see me—whenever I like."

  Versky chuckled at the term young fella. He knew Zen might be in his forties, but he seemed younger. Versky followed his mentor to the air lock into the colony hull. "Well, just don't forget your friend in the garbage business,'' he urged, fearful of his unknown future.

  Zen paused in the conduit that snaked beneath the soil of Ellfive Prime. "Friendship,'' he half-joked, "varies directly with mutual benefit and inversely with guilt. Put another way," he said, lapsing into scam language as he trotted toward the South end cap, "a friend who's willing to be understood is a joy. One that demands understanding is a pain in the ass.”

  "You think too much,” Versky laughed. They moved softly now, approaching an entry to the hotel basement.

  Zen glanced through the spy hole, paused before punching the wall in the requisite place. "Just like you work too much." He flashed his patented gargoyle grin. "Trust me. Give your heart a rest.'

  Versky, much too tail for his borrowed clothing, inflated his barrel chest in challenge. "Do I look like a heart murmur?"

  A shrug. "You did to OrbGen's doctors, rot their souls—which is why you were due to be Earthsided next week. Don't lay that on me, of scam; I’m the one who's reprieved you to a low-g colony, if you'll just stay in low-g areas near the end caps." He opened the door.

  Versky saw the hand signal and whispered, "I got it: Wait thirty seconds." He chuckled again. "Sometimes I think you should be running this colony.”

  Zen slipped through, left the door nearly closed, waited until Versky had moved near the slit. "In some ways," he stage-whispered back, "I do." Wink. Then he scuttled away.

  At mid-morning the next day. Almquist arranged the accident report and it's supporting documents into a neat sequence across his video console. Slouching behind his desk with folded arms, he regarded the display for a moment before lifting his eyes. "What've I forgot, Emory?”

  Emory Reina cocked his head sparrowlike at the display. Almquist gnawed a cuticle, watching the soulful Reina's eyes dart back and forth in sober scrutiny. "It’s all there," was Reina's verdict. "The only safety infraction was Versky's, I think.

  "You mean the tether he should've worn?”

  A nod; Reina started to speak but thought better of it. the furrows dark on his olive face.

  "Spit it out, dammit." Almquist goaded. Reina usually thought a lot more than he talked, a trait Almquist valued in his assistant manager.

  "I am wondering." the little Brazilian said, "if it was really accidental.” Their eyes locked again, held for a long moment. "Ellfive Prime has been orbiting for fifty years. Discounting early casualties throughout the war, the colony has had twenty-seven fatal mishaps among OrbGen employees. Fourteen of them occurred during the last few days of the victim’s tour on the colony."

  "That’s hard data?”

  Another nod.

  '"You're trying to say they’re suicides.”

  "I am trying not to think so." A devout Catholic, Reina spoke hesitantly.

  Maybe he's afraid God is listening. I wish I thought He would. "Can't say I’d blame some of them." Almquist said aloud, remembering. "But not Yves Versky. Too young, too much to live for."

  "You must account for my pessimism." Reina replied.

  "It's what we pay you for, Almquist said, trying in vain to make it airy. "Maybe the insurance people could convince OrbGen to sweeten the Earthside trip for returning people. It might be cheape
r in the long run.”

  Emory Reina's face said that was bloody likely. "After I send a repair crew to fix the drizzle from that rain pipe. I could draft a suggestion from you to the insurance group,” was all he said,

  "Do that." Almquist turned his attention to the desk console. As Reina padded out of the low Center building into its courtyard, the manager committed the accident report to memory storage, then paused. H;s fingers twitched nervously over his computer-terminal keyboard. Oh, yes. he'd forgotten something, all right. Conveniently.

  In moments, Almquist had queried Prime memory for an accident report ten years past. It was an old story in more ways than one. Philip Elroy Hazen: technical editor, born 14 September 2014. arrived on L-5' for first tour to write modification work orders 8 May 2039. Earthsided on 10 May 2041; a standard two-year tour for those who were skilled enough to qualify A colony tour did not imply any other bonus: The tour was the bonus. It worked out very well for the owning conglomerates that controlled literally everything on their colonies. Almquist's mouth twitched: well, maybe not literally...

  Hazen had wangled a second tour to the colony on 23 February 2045, implying that he'd been plenty good at his work. Fatal injury accident report filed 20 February 2047.

  Uh-huh; uh-huh! Yes, by God, there was a familiar ring to it: a malf in Hazen's radio while he was suited up, doing one last check on a modification to the casting facility. Flung off the tip of the mirror and— Jesus, what a freakish way to go—straight into a mountain of white-hot slag that had radiated like a dying sun near a temporary processing module outside the colony hull No recovery attempted: why sift ashes?

  Phil Hazen; Zen, they’d called him. The guy they used to say needed rollerskates on his hands: but that was envy talking. Almquist had known Zen slightly, and the guy was an absolute terror at sky-bike racing along the zero-g axis of the colony. Built his own tri-wing craft, even gave it a Maltese cross, scarlet polymer wingskin, and a funny name. The Red Baron had looked like a joke, just what Zen had counted on. He'd won a year's pay before other sky bikers realized it wasn't a streak of luck.