“Well, not here. The working stiff bars don’t come with the fancy view…” Davies waved a hand at the large window a few tables over. The stars, visible in the low lighting, would take just over a minute to complete a rotation. “…or the nice comfy gravity.” He smiled at Ivan, the expression still lacking any trace of friendliness. “You might want to practice a little more with low-gee before you visit up-axis, noob.”
The waiter returned with the drinks—a tequila shot for each crew member. He set the glasses down, but no one reached for theirs. There was likely a tradition of some sort in play. Ivan watched Robinson, seated beside him, for cues.
Captain Andrew Jennings, at one end of the long table, stood up. Tall, grey-haired, and spare of build, he was every inch the lifetime spacer. A buzz cut and thick mustache gave him the aura of a movie cowboy, yet somehow he still managed to make the standard utility coveralls look like a uniform.
“Gentlemen and ladies.” He paused to scan the table, pointedly looking at each person, perhaps memorizing their faces. “We have lucked out and managed to get a relatively unexplored section of the belt in this tour’s Stakes Lottery. Things haven’t gone particularly shiny the last couple of trips, and we’ve had to say goodbye to some of our crew. I’d like to welcome our newest members, Ivan Pritchard and Arcadius Geiger.” The captain gestured toward Ivan and the other new member. “Arcadius is a veteran spacer, having crewed with the Forward Motion and the Serene Starlight on several occasions.”
Geiger nodded to the table in general, and muttered something noncommittal in a slight German accent.
Gesturing toward Ivan, the captain continued, “Ivan is a first-timer, but is also a top-rated computer specialist, so we’re looking forward to perhaps a little less drama with setting up the mining robot A.I.s this time around.”
Several of the crew whooped and clapped their hands. Ivan grinned and bobbed his head, embarrassed by the sudden attention.
“As you know, it takes only one good strike to set you up for life. It’s why we do this. Well, that and the luxurious lifestyle.” The captain flashed a tight smile to general laughter.
He raised his glass, and everyone at the table stood, shooters in hand. “To the Mad Astra and her crew. And may this tour be our big score.” The crew members raised their drinks and tossed them back in unison.
Hah-woof! Tequila shooter. Not used to those. Ivan’s eyes watered, and he put every ounce of will-power available into the task of not coughing as he sat down.
He turned to find Robinson watching him with an amused smile. “Not used to tequila, sprout?”
Ivan blew out a breath. “I’m more of a whiskey drinker.”
“Captain buys the first drink,” Davies said, leaning forward. “But after that, we’re on our own, sprout.”
Ivan’s eyes widened as he realized he’d just acquired a nickname. He turned to glare at Robinson.
Robinson shrugged and grinned. “Sorry.”
The captain picked that moment to stand again and address the crew. “I know this isn’t your venue of choice, people. I admit to a certain sympathy. The prices would get you an entire meal at other establishments. So, I will leave you to enjoy your remaining liberty. I’ll see you all, I hope, on the Mad Astra in two days’ time.”
The crew stood, and with a final nod, the captain turned and left.
Robinson poked Ivan with an elbow. “Let’s go get our gear and get settled in. We’ll see about some entertainment later.”
Ivan nodded to Davies, who favored him with a blank look, and followed Robinson out.
* * *
The transient accommodations on Olympus Station were clean, efficient—and tiny beyond belief. This style had been around in Japan since the 20th century, and it was ideal for overnights. Ivan eyed his bunk—literally a square tube running straight into the wall. Perhaps twice shoulders-width, it consisted of a thin mattress, some slide-open storage cupboards on the walls, and a pull-down locking hatch at the front for privacy and security. The compartments were stacked three levels deep, with a narrow ladder running between the stacks to access the upper bunks. Low-intensity lighting 24/7, combined with muted autumn colors, encouraged sleep and discouraged socializing. Shared bathroom facilities, at floor level, completed the offering.
It was clean, at least. The slightest whiff of disinfectant indicated that cleaning staff was on the ball. The restrooms looked well maintained, and the paint on the walls, if not exactly bright, was at least not peeling. No rust, of course. Corrosion on a space station could be fatal. No doubt inspection and maintenance would be draconian in its thoroughness.
The Burrows, the place was called. Ivan was pretty sure it was a bad play on the word ”boroughs”, but couldn’t bring himself to care enough to ask. As a junior crew member, he found himself stuck on the top row. In the one-quarter-gee of level seventeen, it wasn’t an onerous climb, but inconvenient if you needed to use the facilities in the middle of the night. Ivan sighed, draped his backpack over his shoulder, and climbed the narrow ladder. After easing himself in, he distributed his possessions into the appropriate cubbies, pulled down the door, and closed his eyes for a moment.
* * *
Ivan jerked awake, startled by the banging on his hatch.
“You alive, sprout? Do we have to order ourselves a replacement noob?”
Blinking the fog from his eyes, Ivan looked at his watch. He’d been asleep for more than two hours. He turned on his bunk and pushed the hatch up to see Davies, hanging from the side ladder by one hand, and still grinning. That grin was going to get old really fast.
“C’mon, sprout, we’re going up to Callahan’s. This is a good chance for you to look around while we protect your virginal butt.”
“Should I be doing that, this early? You said yourself—”
“You have to start somewhere,” Robinson yelled from the floor below.
Ivan bobbed his head in acknowledgement and began pulling himself out. Davies moved down the ladder to get out of his way.
At the bottom, Ivan found Davies and Robinson; the other new guy, Arcadius Geiger; Cirila Heinrichs, the geologist; and Aspasia Nevin, the scooter pilot.
“This looks serious,” he said, looking around.
“Only the drinking,” Nevin answered, favoring him with a scowl that Ivan was beginning to realize was her default expression. Without waiting for consensus, she turned and headed for the exit from The Burrows. For someone so short, Aspasia covered a lot of ground in a very short time, and gave the impression that she was more inclined to go through people rather than around.
Geiger and Heinrichs followed, Cirila snickering at a muttered comment from Kady.
Robinson slapped him on the shoulder as they brought up the rear. “We’re going to be on the Astra for six months, kid. Best to satisfy your inner delinquent before departure.”
The Burrows was close to one of the elevators that ran through the Wheel from the rim to the hub. They entered, and Ivan scanned the panel. Thirty levels made up the Wheel, each button labeled with both a floor number and the gravity value at that level. Davies pressed button twenty-seven, the doors closed, and the elevator began to rise.
Ivan staggered a little as the entire car seemed to shift. Robinson put out a steadying hand and chuckled. “The car swivels to keep down toward the floor, despite Coriolis forces. You’ll get used to it.”
* * *
Callahan’s didn’t fit the stereotype. All the Vid shows suggested that a spacer bar would be dark, smoky, filled with shady characters doing shady deals in the corners. The reality was clean, well lit, with lots of tables, and several Vids showing various sports and news channels. Ordinary people sat around, drinking and talking. It could be any bar on Earth, except for the tenth-gee gravity and the preponderance of mining crew coveralls as a fashion statement. That, and the visible curvature of the floor.
Ivan looked around. “No windows?”
“Windows cost mo
ney, noob. The engineering, design, and materials costs of putting a potential weak point into the hull jack up the price of the real estate. This is the low-rent area.” Davies motioned to an empty table. “And the choices for alcohol are limited, since everything is synthesized spaceside. Not a whole lot of blue agave being grown up here.”
They sat, Ivan and Seth on one side, Cirila and Kady opposite, with Tenn and Aspasia each getting a side to themselves. The waiter approached and Seth ordered the first round. “Synthol shots, and a juice for the sprout.” Everyone grinned at Ivan. The waiter left without comment.
“Why do I feel like I’m being set up for something?” Ivan looked around the table.
“No real secret, Ivan,” Kady said. “Your first drink of liquid in low gee can be, erm, entertaining.”
The drinks arrived, with a yellowish juice for Ivan. “What is it? Just generic juice?”
The waiter returned a tight smile. “It’s whatever’s currently being made, and quite often it’s a blend. Today, it’s orange juice.”
Ivan raised his eyebrows in an expression of resignation, and raised his glass. “To me squirting this out my nose!” He knocked back the glass of juice to the surprised chuckles of his crewmates.
There were several moments of expectant silence before Ivan explained, “We did all kinds of low-gee simulations at the training academy. I’ve already done all my squirting.”
Groans of disappointment sounded around the table, and Seth motioned to the waiter for a proper drink for Ivan.
The drink, when it arrived, smelled more like something you’d use to disinfect a wound. Ivan could feel the look of disbelief written on his face, as his nostrils attempted to pucker. The poorly suppressed snickers from his crewmates confirmed his impression.
“That, noob, is synthol.” Davies grinned his usual smug grin. “They tend to make it a little over proof. Bottoms up.”
“If I drink this, can I get something nonlethal next?”
Seth laughed. “The whiskey-like substance actually isn’t half bad. Let’s get this over with, okay?”
Ivan raised his glass and knocked it back. It took everything he had to avoid spitting it all over his table mates. He found himself remembering the tequila shot with fondness.
Some infinite time later, he had forced the liquid down his throat and the various abused internal organs had stopped protesting. He scrubbed his face with his hands and said, “Hmm, not melted off. I don’t suppose I could get some juice?”
Seth turned to Davies. “I don’t think you’re going to take him down without getting out-and-out abusive. What say we move on to the serious business of drinking?”
Davies shrugged at Seth, gave Ivan something that he supposed he could interpret as a smile, and signaled for the waiter.
“So,” Aspasia said. “You’re a computer guy. That’s good.”
“Because I can help set up the robots more quickly?” Ivan cocked his head.
“No, because Lorenza will kill you instead of us.”
“Y’know,” Ivan replied. “I’m beginning to think I’ve signed up with the IMM Psychos-R-Us. Is everyone in this crew a homicidal maniac?”
Aspasia guffawed. “Just Lorenza. Tenn, over there, isn’t a psycho. Just a jerk.”
“My adoring fans,” Davies winked at her.
Heinrichs laughed, and Ivan saw Geiger twitch. He sympathized—Cirila’s laugh had a certain nails-on-chalkboard quality, and Kady was sitting right beside her. Hopefully she wasn’t the jolly type.
There was a moment of silence, then Seth sighed and spread his hands in a pleading motion. “We’re all a bit on edge, Ivan. I’m guessing you bought into the Mad Astra because a share was cheaper than any of the other mining ships advertising for crew, right? Did you wonder why?”
Ivan shook his head. “My wife is an actuary, Seth. I know the Astra is having financial difficulties. The thing is, we didn’t have a choice. We’d have had to wait at least another cycle to be able to afford a full-price share. We’re taking a chance, but Judy likes the odds. Honestly, she says the Astra’s share is discounted more than the numbers would support.”
Eyebrows went up, and a few of the crew looked at each other.
Davies gave Ivan an appraising look. “Well, okay then.” Tenn bought the next round, synthetic whiskey this time, and raised his shot glass. “To Ivan’s wife. Here’s hoping she’s right.”
Ivan grinned at the unexpected tribute. He downed the shot and smacked the glass to the table.
Not bad. Not terrible, anyway. You could get used to it.
Things got a little blurry after that.
* * *
The promenade that ran around the first level of the public wheel was always busy, with pedestrian traffic flowing in both directions. Automated shuttles ran in a roadway below the promenade level, and could be boarded at periodic traxi stations.
The promenade levels of the two habitation wheels were the crown jewels of Olympus Station, and a popular tourist destination. Expensive restaurants, exclusive shops, and art galleries all tastefully announced themselves, trying to entice the wealthy tourists to come in and spend their money. Two hotels, both five-star, each serviced one of the wheels.
In the open areas between businesses, the architects had placed public seating areas. Carefully designed to give an illusion of privacy, they allowed the weary traveler to take a break while admiring the view through the enormous transparent-aluminum viewports. Decorative ferns and less identifiable plants separated the seating into small, intimate groupings.
There was no problem with budgets for windows on this level. And, more important, these open areas didn’t require you to buy something in order to sit.
Ivan stared out, enraptured, as various ships ponderously floated into and out of docking bays up on the hub. He found himself amazed at the variety of vessels, from ancient clunkers that couldn’t possibly be space worthy to the newest, shiniest Benz-Gilmore high-end models.
No military craft, though. The Navy ships all docked at the other end of Olympus Station’s double-wheeled hub. He would have loved to see some of those, but he would need a security clearance to get through the hub access point.
Other people came and went. They seemed to belong to three general groups. The passengers and tourists were easy to spot—with few exceptions, their clothing and accessories all screamed money. Next were the station staff. Their clothing, while tasteful and of good quality, was deliberately designed to be a step down. I’m an employee, it said, but of good class.
Then, there was Ivan’s group: ship’s crew, characterized by either the blue travel coveralls, or occasional shipboard tee shirts and shorts. He hadn’t quite figured out where the Navy brass and ship’s officers fit into this hierarchy.
“Hey, sprout. What’s doing?”
Ivan turned and looked up to see Seth Robinson approaching. Despite having inadvertently given Ivan his now thoroughly glued-on nickname, Seth seemed to be a decent sort, engaging in only the minimum amount of hazing required to get by.
Ivan waved a hand at the window. “Enjoying the view.”
Seth nodded as he sat, moving carefully.
“Head hurt?”
Seth smiled but ignored the question. “I make sure to come here every time I pass through the station. For most of the tour, space just looks like metal walls painted in pastel colors. If you ignore the gravity and the curved deck, you could be on Earth. This,” Seth waved at the window, “is the stuff that makes it real.”
They watched in silence for a few minutes. Ivan was okay with the quiet. If cornered, he would admit that his head hurt as well. He wanted to ask how much they’d drunk the night before, but couldn’t get up the nerve.
A gasp from some onlookers made Ivan sit up straight. As people pointed, Seth commented, “SSE frigate. Wow, did not expect to see one of those here.”
Ivan nodded slowly, all his attention focused on taking in every detail. T
he Sino-Soviet Empire military vessel displayed the typical SSE design philosophy—heavy armor, massive weapon emplacements, and no concession to esthetics. The dull gray finish only showed a clear profile in direct sunlight.
Passersby were stopping and gathering at the view windows as the behemoth slowly moved past, heading for a docking beacon. Ivan could hear muttered questions and complaints. Relations between the Sino-Soviet Empire and the United Earth Nations government were frosty at best, and adversarial the rest of the time. While it was unlikely any SSE personnel would actually be at liberty in Olympus Station, even the possibility created a significant level of public tension.
Within a minute, the ship had drifted out of sight and the crowd began to disperse, to occasional loud commentary about unwelcome visitors. Seth and Ivan settled back in their seats, both enjoying the changing view as ships continued to move in and out. After a few minutes, Seth broke the silence. “So what’s your story?”
“Eh?”
“Why asteroid mining? Lost at love? Adventure? Money? Joining the Foreign Legion? Fleeing the law?”
Ivan looked at Seth, frowning. “What? You’d get stopped at Customs.”
“I was kidding about the last one.”
“Ah.” Ivan was silent for a moment. “Money. You know what it’s like.”
Seth nodded. “Yeah, good old reality. More people, fewer jobs, fewer resources, less and less room.”
“What about you?”
“The same, mostly. It’s the most common reason for being up here. Of course, if you like it and can make an adventure out of the whole thing, that’s a bonus. I think I fit in that category.”
Ivan realized that he and Seth were going through the too-casual probing for common attitudes and opinions, the cautious circling of two people who might end up being friends. Well, a friend was never a bad thing to have.
“I have a family to support, so the adventure angle isn’t really on my radar.”
“That’s too bad.”
“How do you mean?” Ivan turned to Seth, frowning.
“The family. I don’t have one. My pay goes straight into my bank account. A little spending between tours or on Olympus Station doesn’t make much of a dent, and you can’t do much with your money on board. Unless you play poker.”
The Singularity Trap Page 2