Risk Analysis (Draft 04 -- Reading Script)

by David Collins-Rivera

  This was purely knee-jerk. Without question, an over-reaction. But it made me feel better. It made my head hurt less (because the nerveblock really wasn't cutting it).

  I could reacquire contact numbers as people called me. I could install new gunnery assessment tools for my work over in R&D and with SpecSign. I could get new copies of anything I needed...and if I couldn't, well, that was just too bad. I didn't call Ghaz to let her know I would be late, because I no longer had the number.

  When I left home, I studied the crowds that passed by. I studied maintenance people, delivery people, security people. Some of them knew me, and some of these smiled and waved. Most of them didn't know me, and didn't smile and wave. Any man with any weight on him got my special attention, whether he wore a floppy hat or not.

  If there was someone following me now, I couldn't spot them. Probably, there wasn't.

  I kept looking anyway.

  * * *

  Some time during the night -- night to me, that is -- the first three of the Team personnel vessels docked with Mylag Vernier. The officers and grunts that came aboard hit the deck running.

  At work, both Ghazza and Jake Hammerhülse gave me annoyed looks when I slipped late to the Departmental meeting no one had told me about. The place was darkened, and the big overhead Tri-D was alive with a slowly spinning image. It was a starship design I didn't recognize. By the hushed, big-eyed looks on people's faces, I wasn't alone in this. Nearly every member of R&D was present, most of them standing up in back, as I was, since there weren't enough chairs by a long measure.

  "I'm not authorized to speak freely about department operational modifications that may or may not be in the wind," a tall woman I'd never seen before expressed darkly. She wore a three-piece power suit, and had a schoolmarm face and prunish manner that seemed very well-oiled. She was standing in the middle of the room and gestured to the ship image. "But, for the moment, let's just say that R&D is set to have a...change of priorities. Everyone in this room is about to become very familiar with the project above my head. This is the XFO-32 design, fresh from Sigmar Research, ILLC. No, you've never heard of them -- they're new. A codename for this vessel is yet to be assigned. Whatever you are doing at the moment...forget it. You aren't just pausing your projects, you are scrapping them."

  This got the kind of loud, shocked, angry mutterings you might imagine, and she seemed to have expected it, because she stood there motionless, waiting for the negative energy to wane.

  "Management, you are likely surprised that this announcement has leapfrogged you. That was deliberate, and the reasons for it will be explained in due course. Group members, this heads-up is so that you have time to clear your plates. I don't care how much work you've put into whatever it is you're doing as individuals or sub-groups. It ends as of this moment. Your only immediate priority, as a department, is to make way for something new...something radical."

  "It already is," an older guy on the other side of the room put in -- quite loudly, I thought. He had a gray beard, and long hair to match, and looked very angry. Quite a few others in the darkened room shared the expression.

  The woman ignored him, and them.

  "Priority One Shutdown Protocols are now in place for all projects being pursued by this Department. That gives you exactly one-hundred twenty hours -- five days -- to break down, pack up, and hand over all Corporate intellectual property and hardware to an authorized Team Transitional Group, which will remove said IP to another location."

  "What's going to happen to it?" came a woman's voice from somewhere I couldn't see.

  "I have no idea. It is not my concern, nor is it yours any longer. Mylag Vernier is getting a new direction. I strongly suggest that each of you either align to it, or make an appointment with Human Resources to apply for an exit package. Supervisors and group leaders...I will be convening another meeting in this room in exactly one hour, where we will be going over details. Attendance, as might you might imagine, is mandatory. That is all."

  She nodded once, then walked out a door on the far end, with a V-shaped wake of subordinates in tow. The Tri-D faded out, while room lights came up.

  The noise was significant.

  "Of all the days to be late!" Jake snapped, coming over to me through the angry, animated crowd. He could put some volume into his voice when he wanted to, which carried nicely over the noise.

  "Sorry," I replied. "If I'd known..."

  "No one knew," he said sharply, then stabbed a warning index finger in my face, before moving off to yell at someone else for probably even less reason.

  Ghaz was talking to a few of the other people from Onboard Defense whom I'd met the day before, on my walk-through. I didn't remember any of their names. Eventually, she made her way to me, tapping her wrist.

  "Yeah, sorry. So...this came out of nowhere? Who was that?"

  "Indya Parqua...LPM VP of CID."

  "Please...these acronyms...?"

  Her expression wasn't great to begin with, like pretty much everyone else's, but this made her sigh in exasperation.

  "Local Project Management Vice-President of Corporate Information Distribution."

  "How was I supposed to know that?"

  She stared at the floor, gathering her reserve.

  "After one day's time, you weren't. My apologies. This is absolutely blind-siding. But being late doesn't help anything. And it certainly doesn't make OD look good in front of the suits."

  "I know. Like I said, I'm sorry. New schedule, and all..."

  She took that for what it was worth. Even so, her thoughts, and even her irritation, didn't really seem to be about me. She glanced back at the Tri-D unit with a worried frown.

  "Onboard Defense will get a shake-up," I put in. "Guess I'm out."

  "Why do you say that?"

  I gestured to the empty air where the image had been.

  "That thing was sporting an acceleration track on the dorsal hull, which means they want to launch it from military ships and stations, just like Team fighters."

  "That's Hull Design's problem."

  "Sure. But, do you really think they're going to install Civilian Class weaponry on a cutting-edge military vessel? Suddenly, I'm irrelevant."

  She looked back at the nothingness left from the announcement.

  "You might not be the only one."

  She sounded worried, and I saw my SpecSign detail coming to a close before it even started.

  Ghazza and Jacob were locked in the second meeting all shift, while the rest of us were doing nothing. Someone had even ordered in a lot of food from a local vendor, and put on music as we waited. It might have been the worst party ever.

  When the LPM VP of CID called for a break, Ghaz appeared from the meeting room, and sought me out.

  "You were right, Ejoq. They want to install defense systems on this thing that only Team will be able to legally operate. I'm sorry."

  "No problem. Where's that leave the rest of the Department?"

  "Not sure," she confessed. "I have some experience with miltech contractors, but they may want to bring in their own people. Jacob, of course, has extensive experience with military ship construction and maintenance."

  "Does he? I didn't know. Do any of the others have that kind of background?"

  She thought that a few of the group might be on the next shuttle out, but couldn't say for sure just yet. She had to go back after a time, and just offered a goodbye. I hadn't even been assigned a desk or locker yet, so there was nothing to clean out.

  I left R&D, turned in my decrypting badge, and went to the pub. It was too early yet for Barney and the gang, though they were getting together the following shift, I knew.

  I was on my second bitter when a call came in. It was Ghaz.

  "Hold off on booking out-system."

  "What's up?"

  "We could use your help after all. I have another meeting right now, so just come in as normal tomorrow, okay? On time?"

  I assured her I would, said goodbye agai
n, then rang off. I thought about looking up Seven Ursga's public contact number in the station registry, but decided I didn't need or want to. All I could say is that changes were afoot; not what they were, just that they were. That wasn't even worth answering the comm for.

  "What do you do, again?"

  Laydin had come up behind while I was staring at the wall, lost in thought. I jumped up involuntarily, and took a half-step toward the door before stopping myself. The chair would have fallen over if she hadn't caught it.

  "Oh, man! Sorry! I...you startled me."

  "I can see that. Are you always this twitchy?"

  "I haven't been sleeping well," I stated, regaining my seat. It wasn't even a lie.

  "You do know that booze can interrupt normal sleep patterns, right?"

  "Are you saying I'm cut off? It's been a weird day, that's all."

  "For me, too, apparently, since I have to deal with you." She cocked an eyebrow. Her vague mouth wasn't smiling.

  "Fine. I'll leave after this one."

  "No one asked you to leave, Ejoq. Stop being so prickly! Something's clearly bothering you. I don't mind listening."

  "Work has been a challenge, that's all."

  "And, I ask again: what kind of work is that?" Her brown eyes were frank, and she had one hand on a hip.

  "I...can't say."

  "Oh...that kind. Well, if its any consolation, I've seen a lot of people come though here doing jobs they can't talk about. It takes a toll."

  That wasn't any consolation, but she didn't press it further, and gave me my space thereafter.

  It would have been uncomfortable sitting there alone (save for the beer), but Barney and the gang started drifting in after a bit, and they got me laughing almost immediately. Tip bin Horro was a worker in the one-and-only linen supply house on-station, and had some ridiculous customer service story to tell from his last shift about a badly regenned lady he'd never seen before, who was "...in ah taurrable, taurrable hoory, jung mun!" She was a running gag for the rest of the night, and I howled every time he did her voice. Laydin gave me a strange, flat glance at one point from across the pub while I was doing so, and I raised my hands to her in silent wonder. A patron drew her attention away before it was clear what that was even about.

  Barney actually showed up last, because he had to run back to the apartment after work, and get his smackball gear.

  "New basket, new basket!" he announced loudly enough for the entire pub. "Just came in on the latest parcel courier. Polycarbonate frame and smack, flexpack pocket, fiberwrap glove...butta, baby, pure butta!"

  He held his new smackball implement high, like it was a golden idol and and his teammates were the awaiting faithful. The reaction was all he could have hoped for.

  "You went with a Size 8 frame?" Elaki asked, in wonder.

  "The 10's are too big," Barney replied, authoritatively. "I used 10's when I first started, before I knew better. That extra length is no good if you keep scuffing the deck."

  They ooo'd and aaah'd over the thing for a long while, passing it around the table.

  I'd played smackball a few times when I was a kid, but it had been fifteen years, at least. I never liked it much. Sports weren't my thing -- team sports even less so. For that matter, I hadn't even done much solo play on the mini fold-down smackball tables often installed in the recrooms of interstellar ships. The difference between that version of game, and team play, was night and day. Really, they were distinct games; even the baskets were drastically different.

  This new one of Barney's was long, scoop-like, and with an integrated glove. The back side of the scoop was composed of a flat plate, or smack, used to block or deflect the ball as it careened around the spherical court. The glove part was woven together with smart materials that cinched down automatically when the player put it on their preferred hand and gripped the basket's internal handle, yet it let go easily after a slight tug, when the player released the grip. We all tried it on for size, and when it was my turn, the thing was bizarre, indeed, extending from my arm. Though very light, it seemed hulking and awkward, and made me feel off-balance.

  "Looks great on you!" Barney declared, in direct contradiction to my thoughts. He had a habit of doing that, somehow. "With Keenin gone, we need somebody for a full roster."

  That made me laugh out loud. The thought of putting on gym clothes and a team jersey was high comedy.

  "Yeah, that's not going to happen!"

  But Barney had fired an opening salvo in a battle that the others immediately joined.

  "C'mon, Ejoq," Tip urged, "it's a lot of fun."

  "Yeah," Fanny Botelle put in, emphatically. "You're here with us every night, anyway."

  "Can I bring my beer?"

  "No alcohol or recdrugs in the gym."

  "Just come to practice once or twice," Barney concluded. "You might be surprised."

  Frankly, I was simply surprised that I agreed.

  * * *

  I dashed at the scurrying little ball as it rolled quickly past, lost my balance, and tumbled to the white, hard rubber deck of the court. The Vernier Vipers laughed. I laughed. It was really stupid!

  Barney trotted over to our side from Green One, so as to clear the spherical plug that was hovering silently and rock still above our heads. It floated in the center of the much larger spherical smackball court. From my point of view, he was standing on the inside lid of a round teapot, looking down at me. From his point of view, I was doing the same, artificial gravity lending exactly one Terran gee to us all, no matter where we were within the court.

  Actually, the plug had half-a-gee along its surface, so anyone who got up there could bounce around, balloon-like, and face any part of the court above their heads (from that POV), in just a few skips. Such a maneuver was beyond me -- and most of the rest of them with Keenin gone. He'd been the team's resident adrenaline junky, and could apparently pull off amazing stunts. Elaki had practiced with him a bit, too. Plug use was uncommon in amateur play, I was assured, after whimpering at the sight if it hanging there. Jumping back and forth, with or without team assists, took tremendous training to do safely and effectively. Professional smackballers made it look simple and fun, but I was assured that, without years of practice, it absolutely wasn't and wasn't.

  "You okay?"

  "Winded, not wounded," I assured, getting back to my feet. I used the basket on my right hand as a crutch, only half-pretending to be lame, and it got chortles that I appreciated. Barney moved back to his side of the court, out of my eye-line behind the hovering plug, but his voice echoed easily.

  "Just take it easy. It's disorienting at first."

  "It's been a long time," I stated, very much feeling it, "it was a kids' court, anyway...a lot smaller than this. And there was no plug: I can't tell where the ball's coming from until it's right on top of me."

  "That's the idea," Elaki confirmed.

  She was on my team for this practice session, and hovered around the nook designated for the Blue hemisphere -- that is, us. The other team had Green.

  Lili Mallorian-Janowski was on Blue Three, Starboard position, and Fanny was her opposite. To me, Fanny seemed to be standing on the wall.

  None of us needed to stay in our assigned positions, though it was generally a good idea. So long as we didn't tread over into the rival team's hemisphere (or hemi), it wasn't a penalty. Penalties were points; they didn't stop or slow the game at all, they simply adjusted the score. Make a penalty, and your rivals gained a point. You might not even know you'd done anything wrong, except that the hemi floor would flash a second or so for the team that won the point: a steady pulse in their color for a normal point, a stuttering pulse for a penalty point...at least, that's how it was done in pro-quality courts like this one, which had dedicated AI's as score-keepers and referees.

  The object of the game was to roll the ball across the hemi line into the other team's side, have it go all the way around the court without them stopping it, and then catch it again when it
crossed back over. That represented a single point, which garnered the steady flash. Use of the basket allowed players to accelerate the ball to very fast speeds (I'd caught one in the ankle earlier, so I can attest to this from painful experience). The smack, on the underside of the basket, was used to either block, deflect, pass, or even launch the ball. Experienced players often favored smack use over that of the scoop.

  There were numerous exceptions to the scoring rules, of course, mostly spinning around the nebulous concept of controlling the ball. Teams could also call for time-outs, which were governed by other rules, none of which I understood. I did know that a game was broken into two halves, with a ten-minute break in between. A half was composed of ten rounds of play, each of which were two minutes in length. Rounds were properly known as skirmishes. There were rules for breaking tie scores, rules for contesting penalties, rules for swapping out players mid-skirmish, and much more.

  An actual game usually took about an hour, start-to-finish, including time-outs and the break. For this practice, though, there were no points being recorded, nor any real skirmishes taking place; we just launched the ball and caught the ball...or, in my case, flailed and fell and laughed a lot. If it was just fun the Vipers were after, I was the man for the job: between my horrible playing, my cursing, and my doomed fat-man sprints for the ball, we were all in a pretty jolly mood. But if it was a winning team roster they were aiming for, well, they needed to keep looking.

  I did manange to scoop up the ball at one point, and immediately tried launching it over the line. It wasn't as easy as the others had made it look! The ball flew out of my basket when I pulled back, rocketing away behind me like I'd intended to do it. Both Blue 01 (Quator) and Blue 03 (Starboard) were laughing so hard over that, they let it cruise right on past and across the line.

  "Thank you!" Barney called out, unseen behind the plug, before sending it whistling along the floor back at us.