“Oh, I … dunno. A lot of times, isolated colonies develop odd beliefs … extremist views …”
“Are you talking about religion?” Elfrida flushed; she’d been avoiding that word. Vlajkovic shook his head. “Did you see any churches out there, temples, mosques? Religion is the only problem we haven’t got.”
Elfrida felt disappointed, rather than relieved. She knew they were hiding something. She pushed, “Yeah, but all this gengineering. It’s kind of grey-zone, legally speaking. Isn’t it?”
Gates rearranged the cookies on the plate, his mouth set in a line. “Nope. We develop models for a post-terraforming ecology on Venus. That’s the mission, that’s what we do.”
“I just find the secrecy a bit odd.”
“As we discussed, people on Earth get nervous about geningeering. Which is why it has to be done out here.”
“Of course.”
“Don’t worry,” Vlajkovic said. “We’re not cloning human beings, or anything like that!”
Clattering footsteps interrupted the conversation. A swirl of Black Watch plaid parachuted down from the loft and grabbed two handfuls of cookies. Then it headed back to the ladder.
“Jake!” Richard yelled. “That’s antisocial! Say hello to our guest!”
“Hello, guest,” said a boy’s voice from inside the plaid cloak.
“Also, too many cookies before dinner!”
Elfrida laughed. “I forgot you had two children. Jake?”
“Our hearts’ delight,” Gates said glumly.
Elfrida was just as happy to take a break from the conversation. She winked at the men and climbed the ladder to the loft.
It was a teenager’s lair, electronics everywhere, smart posters on the steeply pitched underside of the sandcastle’s roof. Jake sprawled in front of a surround screen. He had Vlajkovic’s skull-like face.
“Hi there. What are you playing?”
“Nothing,” Jake said with his mouth full of cookie. He picked up a headset and fitted it over his blue-dyed hair.
The screen showed a twilit desert, machines zipping around. “I was just curious,” Elfrida said.
Jake suddenly smiled. He took off his headset and offered it to her. “Want to try?”
“Sure.”
“You’re an adult, so I guess you have retinal implants?”
“No, contacts.”
“That works. You won’t need the screen. Want the gloves?”
“No, I don’t want to mess up your game. I’ll just take a peek.” Elfrida took the headset and resized it to her skull. Her contacts flashed up a log-in screen. She entered her Space Corps ID and the local network password she’d been given on arrival.
And stubbed her toe on a stone, and went tumbling—slowly, in one-third Earth’s gravity—towards regolith as flat as a skillet. Pebbles sprayed up around her in slow motion when she hit.
She rolled.
Leapt agilely to her feet.
She wasn’t doing it. Jake still had control of the game. She had the sensory feeds, was all.
A six-legged spider, standing on its hind pair of legs, pointed at her with a front leg and mimed hilarity, clutching its thorax.
The spider had a jackhammer attachment for a head, surmounted by improbable Bambi eyes.
Elfrida looked down (Jake doing it, not her). She, too, had six legs, the middle ones vestigial clamps.
She turned in a circle. She was standing in front of a crawler unit whose treads dwarfed her. And that was just one of the crawler units supporting a bucket-wheel excavator of monstrous size. Its spindly boom angled down to a point about a kilometer away in the stygian gloom. Linear spurts of dust rose from its head.
Smaller bots, ranging from the size of a house to the size of a car, scurried and rolled and trudged alongside the bucket-wheel excavator. They picked up the rocks that fell off the excavator’s conveyor belt, scanned the ground, dug scrapes, took samples. Dumptrucks loaded themselves and jolted off towards an even larger machine on the horizon.
~Do you wish to proceed? said a bland, high voice in the earphones of the headset. Elfrida jumped.
~I get it. This isn’t a sim. It’s a feed, she subvocalized. ~And you’re ..?
~I am the mechanical intelligence of the phavatar you are currently operating as an observer. My designation is VC000632. But you may call me Gonzo. That is Jake’s nickname for me.
~VC000632, what am I observing here?
~This is UNVRP’s surface mining operation. It is presently located on the volcanic flood plain of Borealis Planitia, at 75.4° N, 101.2° W, at the edge of the territory claimed by Wrightstuff, Inc.
The whole cavalcade was moving west at a jogging pace. Left behind, Elfrida’s phavatar stood alone on the plain. The rocks were starting to get some color in them. Faded browns and greys.
Jake made her turn 180 degrees.
She stiffened.
The eastern horizon glowed like the door of a furnace. White-hot light limned the hills. Streamers of solar gas fingered the darkness.
“Run! For God’s sake, Jake, run!”
Vlajkovic’s voice broke into her immersion. Without willing it, she turned and bounded over the rubble-strewn plain. She had forgotten the trick of running on four legs, but that was OK, because she wasn’t running, Jake was.
The rest of the mining crew had already got a long way ahead.
Hands snatched the headset off her skull, jammed it onto Jake’s. The kid was amazingly good at this. He had been running blind, without being able to feel his feet, just watching the screen. Now that he had positional feedback, he ran faster. The screen returned to its original murky state.
Vlajkovic shook a fist at his son. “Not. Funny.”
“Da-ad. I’m not stupid. I wasn’t going to stay there much longer. Anyway, Gonzo can operate in the sun.”
“You could have lost him.”
“No, I couldn’t. He’s viable up to 130 degrees. It’s only just above freezing where he’s at.” Jake glanced at Elfrida. “So, how did you like having six legs?”
“You’ll have to try harder than that to creep me out,” Elfrida smiled. “I’ve operated vinge-classes before.”
“Oh.”
“She’s Space Corps,” Vlajkovic said. “They do telepresence missions all the time.”
“Well, I haven’t done a lot of work with industrial phavatars like these,” Elfrida said modestly.
Jake scowled. “Good for you. Now please leave me alone. I have to work.”
Vlajkovic drew her down the ladder. Gates was recycling their coffee cups, shaking the dregs of liquid into the liquid collection bucket.
“Funny,” Elfrida said. “I almost forgot that this is officially a mining facility. Is he working on the trial run for the Phase Five ramp?”
She had forgotten Vlajkovic’s still-unexplained opposition to the Phase Five ramp. She remembered it now, but he just shrugged. “Are you gonna report us for letting a twelve-year-old operate a vinge-class?”
Twelve. She had overestimated his age because he was taller than her. Spaceborn. “I don’t think there’s actually any law against it. If he’s mature enough not to break it …”
“He won’t,” Gates said. “He knows how much they cost.”
“He’s been doing it for years,” Vlajkovic said. “No accidents yet.” He reached for his coat, signalling to her that it was time to go.
Elfrida sought to reassure them. “Well, it was great to get a feel for the mining operation.”
She’d expected to do that in a telepresence cubicle in Operations, not in the loft above Vlajkovic’s living-room.
“Sigh,” Vlajkovic said. “It’s pretty basic. Move around the planet, staying ahead of the dawn. Machinery is powered by microwave charging beams from solar arrays in orbit. Ore gets processed by our mobile vacuum smelter. Just like the big boys do it further south, at one-one-hundredth the scale.”
Gates said, “Terrestrial strip mines used to generate tons and tons of overburden: soi
l and soft rock that ultimately was discarded. But here, since the planet is more or less made of metal, we can just scrape the surface off and melt it down. We’re peeling Mercury like an orange, round and round.”
Elfrida said, “I’m just curious to know why Jake isn’t in school. It’s a legit question, OK?”
“And the answer,” Vlajkovic said, “is that he’s good at this. Better for him to work, develop his skills, than waste another five years learning about the history of doggone Earth … and end up unemployed, like the rest of the kids in this hab.”
Elfrida raised her hands, palms out. “It is not my fault.”
Vlajkovic glared. Then he forced a smile. “I know, I know, not everyone from Earth is the enemy. Just feels that way sometimes. Come on, Goto. Let’s get that coat of splart on your sandcastle, so you can move in tonight.”
vii.
“I am not living in this mud hut,” Cydney said.
“It isn’t a mud hut. It’s a sandcastle.”
“Mud, sand, whatever. I feel like I’m in a village back home.”
Cydney originally came from Xhosaland, where her father was a big deal.
“One of those places where Joburg buppies go to get in touch with their roots. By living in a freaking wattle and daub hut, and switching off their network connection.”
“Nobody’s asking you to switch off your network connection,” Elfrida said, nettled. Her new neighbors had helped her to fix up the sandcastle. It now held an ergoform sofa jarked flat for a double bed, a splarted-sand desk for Cydney to work at, a rail for all the new clothes Cydney had bought on the Starliner, and of course the carpet, now contentedly digesting the fleas that had come out of the second-hand sofa. All right, so it was cramped by Earth standards, but by space hab standards, this was luxury.
Cydney was still ranting. “Are we going to get to eat umngqusho, too? And will there be drumming sessions? I know, let’s all sing hymns!”
“They don’t have any churches,” Elfrida said.
“They don’t have any showers, either. I guess that’s why they smell so authentic.”
“Cyds?”
“What?”
“You do know you’re a raging snob?”
Elfrida’s tone was gentle. Cydney looked thunderous. Then she threw herself full-length on the sofa-bed. “My father’s a chieftain. I can’t help it.”
“What’s umng-thingummy?”
“Samp and beans.”
“What’s samp?”
“Like cornmeal.”
“Well, I don’t think they have that. These people seem to be mostly from a more northern background.” An observation she was trying not to make flickered across her mind like lightning, and faded. “They probably have beer, though. Isn’t that also traditional?”
“Smile,” Cydney said, kicking her. The sandcastle was so small that she didn’t have to get up to do it. “I have to go. There’s that reception for the candidates. Are you coming?” Her tone anticipated a refusal.
“Sure!” Elfrida said.
“Really?” Cydney’s face lit up. “What are you going to wear?”
“Um …”
“You can borrow something of mine.” Cydney bounced to her feet. Elfrida felt relieved. She was afraid there might still be some fleas in the sofa-bed.
★
Finding something of Cydney’s for Elfrida to wear was easier said than done. Elfrida was the more curvaceous of the two, to put it kindly. In the end, she had to wear one of the dresses Cydney had bought on the Starliner. Dress was a euphemism. It was four leaf-shaped pieces of adhesive serge, connected by straps. She wore a nude skinsuit under it so she wouldn’t freeze. That didn’t stop people from staring as they slunk through the village on their way to the reception.
“Don’t worry,” Cydney said. She was sporting a scarcely more modest gown, which exposed her goose-pimpled (but toned) midriff. “It’s a formal event.”
The reception was being held in the former ballroom of Hotel Mercury. When they got there, Elfrida wanted to sink into the floor. Cydney had misjudged the dress code. The event was not formal, but Luna casual. Most of the men were in three-piece suits, the women in sweeping gowns. “How could you do this to me?”
“You look great.”
“I look like a hippopotamus in a bondage costume.”
But there was Dr. Hasselblatter, and then the lights dimmed. The acting director of UNVRP (Dr. Ulysses Seth, who had temporarily taken over after Charles K. Pope’s death) hobbled onto the slogan-plastered stage and gave a speech.
Under cover of the semi-darkness, Elfrida sidled up to Dr. Hasselblatter. “Sir?”
He was with his wife. “Goto, what are you wearing?”
“We thought it was a formal event. Sir, could I have a sit-down with you? Maybe tomorrow?” It was cheeky of her to try and pin him down. But she wanted him to commit to a meeting before his schedule filled up with campaign activities.
“What’s it about?”
“Sir, my job.”
She still hadn’t got any clear definition of her duties. Now that she and Vlajkovic were on friendly terms, she didn’t want to go behind his back. But maybe Dr. Hasselblatter could supply her with a rundown of the HR department’s current projects, so she could come up with inputs that would favorably impress Vlajkovic.
“Ja, ja. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that.” Dr Hasselblatter touched his wife’s arm, murmured apologetically. “We might as well do it now.”
“Now?”
Dr. Hasselblatter nodded at the stage. “Seth is eighty-six. Been working here since it was two men living in an inflatable. Should’ve retired years ago. He’s going to ramble on until it’s time for his meds. I see some chairs over there.”
Dr. Hasselblatter guided Elfrida to the back of the ballroom. On the way, he dumped his half-drunk G&T on the end of the bar and snared a fresh one. “Non-sharia-compliant,” he winked. “Don’t tell Fatima.”
Elfrida felt the need of a drink herself. “Sir, as you mentioned, Mike Vlajkovic is a little difficult to work with. I haven’t been able to get him to give me any current list of the HR department’s responsibilities or ongoing projects, anything like that.”
“I’m not surprised. He’s trying to exclude you.”
“From what?”
Dr. Hasselblatter took a gulp of his G&T. “Here’s what he hasn’t told you. The HR department’s top priority right now is hiring for the Phase Five ramp.”
“OK, that makes sense. And?”
“There are twenty-five slots to fill. Mostly engineering and telepresence positions.”
“It seems like we’ve got plenty of local talent to choose from.”
“Everyone else will have to go.”
“… Sir?”
“Everyone. Including dependents. Including that charming little community in the intake shaft. The R&D program is being shut down.” Dr. Hasselblatter’s face was expressionless beneath his immaculate silver hair.
“Oh my God, sir.”
“Now you know why Vlajkovic is dragging his feet. And now you know what your job is, don’t you?”
“To resettle them,” Elfrida said faintly.
She had been brought here to destroy the UNVRP community. To evict them from their home and resettle them on some distant asteroid.
“Our own people, sir!”
“Not ours,” Dr. Hasselblatter said, reminding her where her loyalties lay—with the Space Corps, UNVRP’s sub-contractor for dirty work. “This was Charlie Pope’s decision. It was finalized at board level before he tragically passed away, so don’t bother making puppy-dog eyes at me.”
“You don’t like it, either, sir.”
Dr. Hasselblatter’s eyebrows drew together. “Did I pick the wrong person for this job, Goto?”
“No, sir.”
“You are an experienced field agent. You’ve successfully evacuated more people from more rocks than anyone else. OK, I know 4 Vesta doesn’t really count, but still. I ha
ve confidence that you can do this, and do it in a manner that befits the high ethical standards of the Space Corps.”
Dr. Hasselblatter guided her back to the bar and ordered her a straight scotch. Elfrida took it.
“Look at it this way,” Dr. Hasselblatter said. “You’ve seen the community. It’s a mess. Unemployed youth, freeloading illegals, babies having babies, gengineered pets running wild, this peculiar fad for carpets. They’re out of control, spending taxpayer money on research that has nothing to do with Venus. I had hoped that you would come to the same conclusion I have, which is that this community is dysfunctional, and should be resettled on Ceres or some other UN-approved destination, for their own good. The kids all have spaceborn syndrome, don’t they?”
“Not of life-threatening severity, sir. The gravity here is better—”
“Than on Luna. Yes, yes, I know. Just get on with it, Goto. I’ll expect your preliminary assessment in a week’s time.”
★
Cydney saw Elfrida running out of the ballroom. She pinged her, but got no response.
She’s always getting worked up about nothing, Cydney told herself.
She had an uncomfortable feeling that she should go after Elfrida. But how could she? They’d all sat down to supper now. It would be rude to leave.
And such a waste.
Covertly vidding with a microcamera concealed in her reconstructed left ear, Cydney turned her head to get footage of Dr. Ulysses Seth, Dr. Abdullah Hasselblatter, and Amanda Patel—a big fish from some NEO or other—at the next table. She couldn’t overhear their conversation. But there was plenty of clickbait at this table, too. Zazoë Heap sat across from her (not next to her, thank God; Zazoë was really boring). On Cydney’s right sat Pyls O. Mani, the World Bank’s candidate for the directorship of UNVRP, and on his right was Mork Rapp, the environmentalist.
But the woman on Cydney’s left intrigued her most of all.
Drop-dead gorgeous, with cushiony lips and waist-length black hair, Angelica Lin—the bereaved girlfriend of Charles K. Pope—wore a black gown with a modest cleavage. ~She’s in mourning, Cydney subvocalized to her feed. ~That’s class, guys.
Angelica Lin’s internet profile was unadorned, belying her unwilling fame. She projected a keep-away vibe. But the very fact she was here spoke terabytes.
The Sol System Renegades Quadrilogy Page 66