VP Bailey (as she preferred to be called) yammered inanely and aggressively about how we'd have to get results, and how badly upper management and Corporate Security wanted answers, and how this and that was important to this person and that person...and it just went on and on. It was almost comical how she kept us sitting there, doing nothing, while berating us in advance for getting nothing done.
I say almost. Really, not at all.
Mercifully, this pointless tirade only lasted three or four months, and, after a brief catered lunch, those of us in the group were finally able to leave the woman behind and go off to our forensic data laboratory.
And it really was one: a wide room filled with dedicated research and simulation work stations that looked state-of-the-art. I was excited when I walked in, and, to be honest, immediately frightened that I'd be seen as a fraud right off.
I would have six co-workers, three of whom were career Corporate types. One of these was our Admin Coordinator (or AC). His name was CPM07 Branden Ursga, and was an Admin official who had transferred laterally at some point from the military. The other two were current officers in Corporate Security Space Branch -- both qualified gunners off Liquidator, and both CPM05's.
Rank was everything to the Handshake. In a nation largely free of many of the more pernicious class issues other societies were forced to deal with, Corporatespace had created one all its own. Every citizen had rank from the moment they were born. Rank described hierarchy, but also profession to an extent.
CPM designated someone in Corporate Management. CPW referred to a Corporate Worker, usually a tradesperson, laborer, or office drone. CPT was for engineers, technicians, and their support staff. CPS referred to a member of Corporate Security, either the Air, Space, Planetary, or Oceanic Branches. And there were many others. After one's rank was a number -- anything from 00 to 10. The higher your number, the higher your rank. By law, rank designations were all equal; CPM's and CPW's, for example, with the same rank number, were on the same social level.
Lateral movements from one letter designation to another (implying a change of career) were fairly common, and a person was only limited by their ambition. It was simple, in theory. People being what they were, the reality was not.
Designating itself a Constitutional Meritocracy, the Montaro TranStellar Commercial Federation rewarded its citizens equal to their value. People who did fine work, made fine money. People who didn't, were coached and trained, or retrained in something new, until they finally found their niche in life.
The problem here was in defining what the word value really meant.
Just like everywhere else, charismatic people, whatever the profession, tended to be over-venerated -- often, precipitously so. Sure, they might suck at their jobs, but darned if they didn't look good doing it! And the opposite was also true: someone with, say, Stinna's personality might never rise very far, no matter their skill.
This tendency also created jobs-for-life for people who, while excellent at the work itself, were largely unpleasant or difficult to deal with. So long as they continued to get the job done, it was pretty hard to extract them, no matter how miserable everyone else was.
So, it was not a perfect system, but it was better than many, and the people, by and large, seemed satisfied. Certainly no one in this group was complaining.
The rest of us were, technically, independent contractors. From a couple of civilian support vessels that had jumped in-system as part of an Admin task force attached to the Team sub-fleet, we had two spacecraft engineers unassociated with the freejump project. They were obviously sweating hard to play catch-up with tech designs they'd only just received clearance to study.
The mystery man of the group, named Kwon Ti, reminded me so much of Siddel I almost called him that at one point on the first day. His casual slouching frame, dark shades, and charcoal suit were simply too precious. Ti was an acknowledged expert in stealth space designs, with a background that had been cleared from above even VP Bailey's head.
And then there was Ejoq Dosantos, who (surprise-surprise) no one seemed to know what to do with.
The other gunners had been hand picked by their superior officers for this assignment, and alternately looked at me like I was the poor relation of the family, or a strange extra-dimensional object that defied the human intellect to fully comprehend. I just smiled and nodded. Heck, it had been all I could do to keep from zoning out entirely while our fearless VP had been trying to inspire us with her encouraging words.
"Okay, let's hit the deck running," CPM07 Ursga said, bringing up a holo display that I thought had appeared directly in front of me, but had, in fact appeared in front of all of us simultaneously, the lab's tracking sensors and variegated display dropping a smaller, viewpoint-specific version of the image before each member. I held off on sounding surprised or impressed, but this was top-shelf equipment -- an interface design I'd only seen on tech newsvids. It showed a perfect miniature version of Jaybird. "We're going to follow the final flight from dock to destruction. I want to watch it straight through as a group, then we'll begin the incident breakdown."
There were chairs and tall stools, and we each found one where we could view the playback in relative comfort, our holo pop-ups moving and tracking with our faces as we jockeyed seats. The feed was a multi-channel one, allowing our AC to switch between the data broadcast from the doomed ship, and various simultaneous external sensor captures from the drone swarm, that he ran concurrently. The point-of-view was certainly different, but the events themselves were nothing new to me.
I was looking forward to seeing details of the jump process, but this feed carried no information on the actual technology or its activation, since the individual members of the group had stratified clearances. Those two engineers and the Seven (rank shorthand) were the only ones allowed access to factual information on the tech -- and then, only insofar as management felt it pertained to the investigation. It would be the AC's call as to what aspects of this mountain of detail were need to know for the rest of us.
So, while the playback was mostly a refresher, at least it put names to the crew.
A crew I had killed.
CPT06 Benjamin Uoule, pilot of the ship, and a senior engineer on the project; and CPM05 Denice Kryor, co-pilot.
Self-defense or no, I had to sit through hours of imagery, ocassionally face-to-virtual face with ghosts who had every reason to haunt me.
It was not comfortable. I press the point.
But I didn't break down, or shed tears. It had been a frantic kill, but a morally clean one.
They had jumped us. Twice.
They had made to fire -- had, in fact, fired. I simply drew first.
This was gunnery.
Angles and vectors, power allocation and system preps, legality and morality, life and death.
My life. Their deaths.
I didn't like watching my handiwork in such a clinical way, having such emotional knowledge of at least half the battle, while burdened with the absolute necessity to quash it.
No, that part wasn't fun. That part wasn't a normal element of the gunner's work.
But I'd signed up for something no one was ready for, least of all me, and there wasn't a single...
"Ejoq!"
The Seven had been addressing me, and I hadn't been listening.
"Sorry! I was...I was wrapped up in this."
"I wanted your opinion on the weaponry control systems. Don't get so focused that you lose touch with reality. And I'm not in the habit of repeating myself."
"And I'm not in the habit of being spoken to like that. I'm a civilian contractor, Seven, and a foreign national, so you can talk to me like a man, or you can talk to an empty stool. It's your call."
I just stared at him through the phantom freejump that hovered in front of my face with its phantom crew. He didn't seem angry, really, but flummoxed, and at a genuine loss for words. Finally he stopped the playback, and looked around at the others.
"Give u
s the room...er, can I have a few minutes with Ejoq, please, everyone?"
There was a lot of wide-eyed wondering in the faces that got up and walked out, but they did it quickly, and without a word.
"This is a new record for me," I said to him, after the door slid closed.
"How's that?"
"Getting fired within an hour. I've lost jobs quickly before, but is an all-time high. Or low."
He moved over to the side to get some coffee, offering me one. It was pretty good stuff -- just powdered, but nice when hot. I accepted a cup, and we sat down to have that talk I knew so well.
Or thought I did.
"I'm sorry," he started off, sitting across from me and looking contrite. "I'm a career man, and I'm used to things happening in a certain way. But I recognize that it's not the only way, so I'm not firing you. It wouldn't help SpecSign, and it wouldn't help me. If I lost a member of the group this fast, I'd probably be next."
"SpecSign?"
"Special Assignment 228-1-L -- our mission here. Slang."
"Well, as long as it's not SpecAss," I said with a grin.
"Oh, that's an old joke," he responded, matching my tone and smile. "It's what we call the ones that suck. I really don't think this job has to, and you can't deny the importance."
"I absolutely don't. Look, Seven, I'll make you a deal -- I promise not be so touchy all the time, if you promise not to be quite so spit-and-polish. We're both professionals in our own way. SpecSign needs those different perspectives. I'm sure we can meet in the middle somewhere."
"I'd like that, Ejoq."
We shook on it, he called the others back in, and we all sat down to pick up the thread of the earlier conversation.
The Seven repeated his question, despite his habits, and I launched in on the reasons for my general detestation of so-called all-in-one gunnery interfaces, such as the one that had been installed on Jaybird.
Frankly, as I spoke, I couldn't help but feel a thread of anger. I buried it under droll anecdotes, and some hard data to support my point of contention, but still, it was there, whispering, nagging.
CPM07 Branden Ursga was a man who could keep his eye on the prize, but knew when and how to make amends. That placed him on a very short list of quality bosses I'd ever worked under. The fact that I was deceiving this group -- his group -- well, that put me on a list too.
And not one I liked.
* * *
My assigned quarters were in a quiet section of Mylag Vernier. I rated better than I expected, I guess, because I only had one roommate. They even gave me a choice between this arrangement, or a small but private sleep cube. The cube stacks were over near the main drag, though, and it seemed kind of noisy there.
They had me paired up with a guy on the cleaning crew -- one CPW03 Barney Carsons. He was a big fellow with dark skin and a deep, smooth voice that could have melted hearts by the millions had he been a vidstar. He'd been told that before, apparently, and seemed to take no stock in it. Barney had had a previous roommate who'd transferred out a few weeks before, but he wasn't resentful about losing his exclusive on the place. If anything, he appeared happy to have the company. His schedule was congruous with mine, so we decided to go out for a beer that first night, just to get acquainted.
Over near Spoke Plaza, a large open mall centered around the bank of personnel and cargo elevators in one of the six radiating pillars of the station, was a tavern called Samples. Like many of the small businesses aboard, it was a privately-owned concern with an operating license issued by, and a lease with, Mylag Vernier, Inc., the property management company that ran the day-to-day operations of the station for the Montaro corporation. In fact, Montaro was the actual owner of the management firm, while it also owned the station, so it was really just collecting rent to pay itself. That seemed like an added layer of complication and expense, but I didn't doubt they somehow found it profitable.
The proprietor and employees of Samples would have had to pass security background checks to be out here, but other than that, they were all simply civilian entrepreneurs and workers living in a small remote town where some research was being carried out. The pub was very relaxed in style, its decor tending toward faux wood grains and over-stuffed chairs and couches. The tables were big and there was even a back room, closed off at the moment, that was used for parties and special events. They had two import beers on tap, and two others apparently brewed here on-station. There were also a fair range of spirits, wines, meads, and ciders. Not bad for deep space!
A tall waitress with curly hair took our orders, and then left us alone
"So...Special Assignment, huh? That'll look good on your résumé. Can't talk about it, though, right?"
"No, I can't, sorry. Tell me about your job."
"Ah," he just waved it off. "Cleaning floors, trash collection, the usual. You into sports at all, Ejoq?"
"Well, I guess it depends on your definition. There are these professional gunnery competitions back in the Alliance that I follow pretty closely. Big money in them, actually."
"Yeah? I never heard of that. I'll have to check it out. I like smackball, myself."
"Single or group play?"
"Group competitive. We have an amateur league, here on-station -- I'm captain of our team, The Vernier Vipers. But I'll watch any kind of smackball."
"I caught the Internationals last year on vid," I told him. "Those Guildies were on fire."
"Oh, they're unbeatable this year too! I'm a Storrin Eagles fan -- over here in Corporate? We've got no chance this season! It's the manager! That chump, Jane Fountiss? She couldn't organize a one-person sit-in!"
So we talked and drank. In the end, we both agreed that we'd get along just fine. Especially whenever smackball was the topic. I thought it a pretty stupid game to be honest, but it seemed politic to listen to his obsessive chatter, and agree to watch his team play some time over at the station rec-center.
Sports talk aside, as a roommate, Barney was a gem. Quiet when it mattered, clean, respectful. He seemed a creature of habit, and had teammates who, I guess, were pretty similar. He insisted that I meet them, so I did, after work a couple days later.
We went back to Samples, which was their hangout spot. One-by-one over the course of a couple hours, the other members of the Vernier Vipers arrived and joined us. We had to put two tables together to seat them all. A proper smackball team has at least ten players. The Vipers, being in the amateur leagues, only had seven, and was forced to juggle them about in both practice sessions and actual games in order to cover all positions.
In addition to Barney, there was Elaki Kobb, a thin, energetic woman in her mid-thirties; Tip bin Horro, a laconic fellow in his twenties who told the group several funny anecdotes; Lili Mallorian-Janowski, a loud woman in her early forties who flashed me a big smile that somehow didn't reach her eyes; Fanny Botelle, a small, baby-faced woman that looked to be in her teens, though I learned later was actually thirty-four; Gussert Norris, a tall, lean man with graying hair, probably in his mid-fifties, but in excellent shape; and Paul Fr'uu, a stocky guy in his thirties, who spent much of the night complaining about his wife.
Jumbled, disconnected, and numbing as the collective conversation could be, I, nonetheless, had a good time. The pub setting allowed for a much easier approach to these people and their alien lives than I might otherwise have found on my own. There was laughter and stories, crabbing and camaraderie.
They were a mixed bag, to be sure, and I didn't really retain their names or details that night -- it took a while. But I talked with them, drank, and laughed a bit too, and by the time we were all leaving?
Well, I was just one of gang.
* * *
It was during work, later in the week, that I first got a call from someone named Shady Lady.
At that very moment, I was piping the display from my wristcomp to the pop-up holos we all used in the lab. I had my rig set to public availability so everyone could receive the display -- this, so as to pre
sent some data about gunnery interfaces.
I answered without thinking: swipe, and it was open, right there in front of everyone...and before my heart could even skip a beat!
Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!
But it was just a contact number, no message.
The others whistled and laughed, expressing surprise at the fat little lothario I apparently became in my off-hours. They waxed about a secret tryst with some mysterious dragon lady in need of discretion.
I must have blanched the instant I'd opened the message, because my face burned as the blood returned to it.
They laughed at my blushing, too, until the Seven -- Brand, as he liked to be called in regular conversation -- reigned us back. In a moment, I finally found the specific data points I'd been after, circled them on everyone's displays, and we continued our work.
* * *
It was the first crew meeting in a week, and, though virtual, still seemed risky as heck. Both John and Stinna assured me that no one could listen in, nor could the sources or destinations of the conversations be tracked. In fact, they said, the entire thing was being wiped from the Mylag Vernier comm record, even as it was being recorded. All calls through the station's switchboard were recorded and archived as a matter of course, and could be called up by StaSec at any time. The people of this station, including myself, had all signed confidentiality waivers when they came aboard, so there wasn't even the illusion of privacy.
SS1 and SS2 had had the time to get really comfortable poking around in the cracked systems. It seemed unlikely this kind of thing could go on for much longer, but they were the specialists and they were confident. That was enough for Chris and Mavis, so it would have to be enough for me.
Dieter was actually back aboard the ship right then. He'd needed some cold-status info from the starjump system, for the sake of the new propagators in the fabrication queue.
Risk Analysis (Draft 04 -- Reading Script) Page 18