"I'm trying, Ghaz. That's all I can say." I sighed, then, feeling remorseful. "I'm sorry for biting your head off. Yes, Spoke Plaza was involved, and no, it wasn't pretty. I'm utterly exhausted, but can't sit still. I'll help move equipment, or run errands, I don't care. I have no idea what I'll be doing tomorrow, or if you'll have to talk to Team again, or if I'll be detained in the future. I won't even speculate. Make of it what you will, but I just want to stay busy."
"I'm worried about you," she confessed, at last, voice down. "They say there are spies aboard."
"They say a lot of things. I say that Weaponry has a job to do, and I want to continue to help. For now. While I can. And during those times when I can't -- for whatever reason -- rest assured that I'll be wishing I was here."
That made her chuckle, and she just shook her head. The dark woman then turned to go back to whatever it was she'd been up to before, but then remembered something, and stopped.
"Oh, and Seven Nuellan -- Floy, as you call her -- was also questioned about you today. She's not here now, but she said for you call her when you get in. Apparently she knew you would be getting in, unlike the rest of us. I take it you already have her number...?"
She was smiling, but I just showed my vinegar face, and walked off. I actually didn't have Floy's number, and had to look for it in the directory. She picked up right away. In my eye-view she looked excited and relieved, and spoke very quickly.
"Ejoq! Are you all right? I heard what happened. Some of it, anyway. Was it later on, after...well...?"
"I'm fine, but you know you can't ask me anything, right?"
"Yes. It was explained. I don't like this. I thought you were...I don't know...a civilian. A gunner. Whatever"
"Oh, I am," I insisted, feeling the artificial weight of this artificial world on my head, like a silent pronouncement of guilt and failure. "It's what got me into this. Trust me when I say that what I'm doing is not what I was expecting, when I came here. It all just...evolved. I don't know how, even looking back on it. Did you get home okay?"
This, I added, without skipping a beat, desperate for something else to think about, something other than Branden Ursga stopping a bursting pellet with his face.
"Yes, I did, and I...I need to thank you. I was having a bad night. I made a mistake. It seems so piddling now, so childish compared to what you've gone through."
"No!" I shouted into the jewelry on my clenched fist, and people all around the open bay turned to look. "It isn't! It wasn't. If we could compare mistakes, you'd feel a whole lot better about last night, believe me! Whatever it was that put you in that place, it was far better, and more benign, than anything I managed to do. You're really not that bad, I'm sorry."
She had gone through a spectrum of visible emotions as I spoke: anger over being yell at; curiosity over hinted-at secrets; sympathy for a devil.
"It's my fault, Floy, I..."
"Stop. Ejoq, just stop. You can't talk about it, and I can't listen. And I really don't think you're to blame. I don't know any details, but I still believe that. The man who helped me last night, despite myself, is too careful. He doesn't make mistakes like that."
I had a reasoned argument, but couldn't verbalize it. I was standing in front of the entire department, and felt like all eyes were on me. That was either arrogance, paranoia, or the truth, and I couldn't tell the difference anymore.
"I'm at work," I said after some length. "I'll be here for the rest of the shift."
"They're getting it cleared up. I would come in, but I can't do anything down there just yet. I'm not allowed to do any of the physical labor -- regulations. And while we're talking about can'ts, um...you know we can't really, uh...hang out anymore, right?"
"Is that what that was?"
She laughed like a mule, despite her attempt at a grave face.
"Shut up! You know what I mean. It's against the rules. Fraternizing."
"At this point, Floy, I think I've earned a certain latitude. I doubt you'd hear any crap about it, but, of course...whatever you think is best. Boss."
Her face pinched-up, looking as though she was mitigating the joke with some real, and real sudden, irritation.
"Now you do need to shut up. I'm going to grab some sleep, but I'll be in for firstshift. If you can get off a few minutes early, we'll start testing the limits of your new-found latitude, and grab some breakfast."
"See you then," I agreed, and even managed a smile. Not a big one; not even a happy one, especially; but it was sincere, and that gave it value.
Indeed, that made it priceless.
* * *
Call me unobservant, but I'd never noticed that R&D had burgundy-colored utility drones, as well as red ones. Until I was actively looking, and saw them side-by-side, I couldn't even tell the difference.
Just trying this out was scary. I'd needed to scoot in front of one as it was passing through the security door. Traffic sensors on both sides recorded the comings and goings of the machines (and the human guards made note of it, too). That door was a pinch point, though, and traffic jams right there weren't unusual.
One or two people with bulky stuff would try to go one way, while a drone carrying an even bigger load tried to go the other. A robot was programmed to give way to people, but if there were more machines behind it, or more impatient pedestrians trying to get through, you ended up with a snarl and a lot of cursing.
I waited for a moment when no other people were right there, made sure to be holding a box in my hand, then dashed in the way of a wine-colored drone just as it was approaching the doorway. I spoke the magic words, but it only attempted to get out of my way. When I backed up a step, it moved forward, burdened with what looked like office furniture. I tried again, but it still ignored me.
After a second dance of equal frustration and nervousness, with another machine of the same hue, I finally looked up to see an actual red one waiting in line. I wasn't mad at myself, because that's what practice was for: when the time came to actually move the parts, it absolutely had to go right. A couple rounds of silliness and confusion only cost me time and sweat -- and I had lots of sweat. By now, there were people waiting to get through on both sides of the door, so I let the drone move on, acting all bumbling and annoyed by technology (which wasn't far off the mark).
And wouldn't you know? I never saw another red one leaving the Department for the rest of the shift.
R&D had every color of such-like machines, and the red ones (now that I looked closely), were dedicated to transporting large electronic systems that needed extra stabilization or an onboard power supply for backup. They were generally reserved for specific tasks, then, since none of the others had those same features. Actually, it's possible that a couple of red ones did get used later that day, but I was distracted by actual work thereafter.
Up in the new Weaponry office, we had a heated discussion about energy cell arrangements for some military-grade DEW plasma lances. Energy weapons were in the spec from Team, and they'd even generalized the location for them on port and starboard. That was all well and good, but modern fightercraft needed more than just that, and we were weighing all our options.
I'd never worked with these kinds of lances before, but several of the young turks had. That put me squarely in the back seat, until we came across some hard space considerations in the containment drawers for the weapons, as detailed in Hull Design's latest schematic. Either the lances had to be scrapped, and something else put in there (which would have been really irritating, because the subsidiary systems would also have to go -- and we'd only just gotten that stuff to fit), or we had to double-down, and actually make this happen.
These kids had been trained in the fundamentals, but had never done hands-on repair or design work to any great extent. One of the many (relative) beauties of big-budget military systems was their modularity. In a crisis, swaptronics was the fastest and easiest way to handle pretty much any system fault. Got a relay short? Don't hunt down the offending part, just change
out the entire module! Have a dead crunchcard? Forget replacing it -- it's buried inside a processing core. Just swap out the entire core for a new one. This kind of problem-solving was a wonder to behold under amber and red alerts, providing a level of speed and robustness no civilian commercial outfit could hope to match -- or want to, since it was also appallingly expensive and wasteful, and required a sizeable percentage of cargo tonnage to be dedicated to back-ups of back-ups of back-ups.
But military and civilian vessels operated under very different mandates, and had, therefore, very different -- often, diametrically opposed -- priorities. This also meant that the people who operated them had different approaches to implementing hardware and software solutions.
Everyone looked at me like I was standing on a ball, juggling Indian clubs, when I suggested that we strip the lances apart, power cells and all, and string the components out in a line, rather than try and force them as whole units into under-sized containment drawers. There was room for all the pieces on port and starboard, if we expanded into some dead spaces created by a recent redesign of the armor plating and firewall mounts. Said spaces didn't amount to much, and would likely not survive another HD design draft...unless someone claimed them for active use. I proposed that we do so.
"Lance repairs would be impossible," one fresh-faced boy in a uniform pronounced contemptuously. "How could you get at them with the fuel system in place? It sits right on top."
"With an access panel that we get HD to put right here," I countered, pointing to a rectangular face in the firewall schematic that floated above the table. It glowed brightly when I touched it, and pulsed, like I was poking them all in the eye.
"That's unsafe. You can't have a break in the firewall."
"Not commonly, no, but I have seen it in commercial ship designs before. There must be specs on record they can pull from, for reference."
"Hull Design's already working on full-scale pieces," another put in, dismissively.
"Please! They can't make changes to a couple of printed polymer mock-ups?"
"Probably they could," the same kid conceded, yet while shaking her head, "but they won't. I heard HD is way behind schedule, and their Offs are really cranky with it. We shouldn't piss them off. We have to get along."
"No, we don't," I lectured, because they looked like they were still in class, sitting here in this bright new office, wearing what could have passed for school uniforms. Their mixed faces displayed boredom, impatience, and confusion. "We have to produce. It isn't our job to make their job easy. You want plasma lances? This will get you plasma lances. You want to be all friendly and unobtrusive? Forget your lances; put another system in that'll fit in the available space, and deal with all the back-tracking and redesigning you'll have to do. You're looking at weeks of work for us, versus a hour or two for them, not counting extrusion time for the models."
"They have the discretion to turn us down flat," Ghazza pointed out, though her tone wasn't querulous.
"That's why we don't go to them directly. We go to Jake. We tell him HD pushed out a firewall that's going to set Weaponry back by weeks -- no, make it months. Then, you tell him that they laughed at us when we brought it up. He hates those guys as it is, so this will get him shouting."
Her eyes got big at that, surprise and amusement in evidence. The others all chortled, too, because CPM06 Jacob Hammerhülse had made himself into a legend (of sorts) among this new crop of people -- just the way he had with the old one: temper tantrums down in the bay; pointless posturing and dressing down episodes in his office; and loud diatribes in closed-door meetings that everyone in R&D heard about anyway.
"To be honest," I admitted, "what he actually does around here is a mystery to me. But even so, Jake's an excellent bulldog. Make him think that one of the Sub-D's he responsible for is being slighted in some way, and he'll be barking and snapping at HD until they capitulate -- which they'll probably do immediately, since it's a little thing that will shut him up. Then we thank and praise our great hero for a job well done, and he'll be locked and loaded for the next time."
They liked it. They still didn't like me, but they liked having enemies -- people to hold up in ridicule, and to set themselves against. I'd turned a corner, apparently, because I no longer filled that place for them. The enemy was now outside, across the bay; it was in another office down the row; it held the rank of superior officer in some other Sub-Department. Joining hands around the campfire and singing songs about butterflies and unity wasn't going to get the job done, and it looked like we were all clear on that point at last.
Ghazza thanked me for this later on, when we were alone, going so far as to suggest that I put in for a promotion along the Admin track.
"I think you'd make an excellent Manager."
I burst out with a genuine howl of mirth, which seemed to both amuse and frustrate her at the same time. It took me a moment to compose myself.
"I'm just thinking of your career, Ejoq."
"I used to have one, before this place," I replied, grinning, and feeling quite grateful to her suddenly, because I'd desperately needed the laugh. "Now I don't know what I have, or what I'm even doing."
"You're making a difference here. Some days, you make all the difference. Listen...my husband and I are hosting a little get-together tomorrow, midshift, after work. I'd like to invite you. There are some people you should meet."
"I...have smackball practice," I countered, caught out in the open, and ducking for cover.
"Come late, then. It's an informal thing. Not even a party. Seven Nuellan will be there," she added, without a smirk, but with a definite sparkle.
I don't think I agreed, but I know I didn't exactly decline, because Ghazza left then, sounding like she fully expected to see me.
* * *
"Tip, I'm lined up!"
"Over here, over here!"
"Fanny, hug Starboard for the follow-up, okay?"
"What?! What was the penalty?"
"Ejoq, make the pitch..."
"Smack it! Lili, go the for the smack!"
"Barney, c'mon...!"
"You all right over there?"
"Listen, the Lightning favors fast pitches, and quick follow-ons..."
"No way! How did you catch that?"
"Heads in the game, people..."
* * *
"I'm ready for delivery," Dieter said.
"I need a little time."
"How much time? I've been putting in sixteen hours days up here, Ejoq!"
"Then take a break. I can't talk now, but I'll call later and explain."
In my grainy little eye-view, he looked pissed, not stoned or hung-over. I didn't like that. It was something to worry about, and something to think about, and I couldn't afford those now. Not with so many people around that I didn't know, but who seemed to know me somehow.
People who were talking. Important people.
Because that was the sort who were attending this cocktail party (which is what it what it was, despite Ghazza's dismissive description). And it was looking pretty formal, too. The guests wore uniforms, nice suits, and tasteful dresses. All I'd done after practice was shower and put on a clean jumpsuit.
They drank sensibly. They spoke and laughed quietly. They chatted in easy little groups. Everyone acted like all this was important and meaningless at the same time.
Floy was in her dress grays, across the living room, with a collection of other Team officers. We exchanged looks, but she was pinned down for a while.
"CPS07 Collier," I heard at my elbow, and I automatically turned, "may I introduce Ejoq Dosantos -- one of my best engineers."
I shook the man's hand, but smirked at Ghazza.
"That's generous!"
"I'm hearing very good things about Weaponry," Seven Collier stated. He was a squat, bald man with mocha skin and a watery smile. He struck me as someone important to the project, since I'd never heard of him before, and he shouldn't have heard anything about Weaponry -- good or bad.
<
br /> "It's the leadership," I replied, casting doey eyes at Ghaz, and sighing theatrically. "Every day's an inspiration."
She pushed me with a laugh, and I laughed, and Seven Collier laughed. It was just so funny.
"Dr. Mattor tells me you're from the Alliance."
"I am. And she tells me I should sign on to a long-term contract."
"Sounds like good advice. Any decisions in that regard?" His moist smile sat on his face like an old-time photograph that had been pasted there.
"No."
I returned that grin, feeling the awkwardness mount. His smile eventually faded into something like confusion, but I held on to mine, bright, cheerful. Whatever he was, this man was no friend, and I wanted him to know that I knew that.
"Well, I hope you do consider it, Mr. Dosantos. Pleasure meeting you..."
"And you."
He nodded congenially, then sailed on to less cryptic waters. Ghazza still held a slight smile of her own, but had crinkled brows.
"What was that?"
"Who knows? Strange friends you have."
"I'm beginning to see that," she replied, her expression morphing into slight exasperation. "You aren't going be a complete knothead tonight, are you?"
"I haven't decided. I'll have a drink, and think about it."
"Help yourself," she replied, gesturing to the liquor fountain she'd laid in for the gathering.
I found out later that it was actually her husband, Bomand, who had arranged for the bar-bot, as well as everything else. He was self-organized, and had the available time to manage such things. A thin, dark guy with a pencil-thin mustache, and a quiet, solicitous manner, he struck me as both forgettable and indispensable at the same time. He was an ancient Terran history scholar, and as such, had no business aboard Mylag Vernier -- except that if he wasn't here, his wife wouldn't be either, and they definitely wanted her here.
Risk Analysis (Draft 04 -- Reading Script) Page 32