/Try it and you'll be one dead mokin' goak,/ Bandicut threatened cheerfully. /Bad enough I have to put up with it from these cretins. From you I expect respect./
Charlie hesitated.
/// Oh. Now I think I see. ///
Bandicut slid a plate of cultured eggs onto his tray, along with some toast and a cup of roastamoke, and looked for a quiet place to sit. He knew he wouldn't get through breakfast without more ribbing from his coworkers, but most of it turned out to be good natured. He was finally starting to feel almost good—except for a busrobot that was chittering annoyingly at him as he dumped his own breakfast tray—when Eddison walked in and asked loudly, "So whose team are they putting you on, Bandicoot? Whose equipment gets fried today?"
Bandicut handed his empty tray to the robot to shut it up. "Well, now I guess that's up to Herb, isn't it?" he said mildly. "If we're both lucky, it won't be yours."
/// Who's Herb? ///
Charlie asked, preventing him from hearing Eddison's reply over the muttering of laughter, which was probably just as well.
/Herb Massengale. The mining supervisor./
/// You don't sound happy. ///
Bandicut followed the general movement of workers down the corridor. /I think, if I had a choice, I'd rather work with Lonnie Stelnik,/ he said.
/// My.
Are all of your supervisors so unpleasant? ///
Bandicut chuckled. /Well, now, haven't you just put your finger on it. Lemme put it this way. Lonnie Stelnik's self-centered and ambitious, but at least he's no dummy. Cole Jackson's different—he's a cowardly rule-worshiper—but give him his due, he's not dumb, either. But Herb Massengale? Well, you'll see./
Charlie seemed thoughtful.
/Why so quiet, suddenly? Are you wondering why you aliens ever bothered listing humanity on the roll call of sentient species?/ he asked. When there was no answer, he added, /We are on the rolls, aren't we? Of sentient species?/
/// Mmm. ///
/What the hell does that mean? Oh, I get it—that was a joke, right?/
Charlie seemed to clear his quarxian throat.
/// Sort of.
But the truth is,
I'm wondering about the people in authority here.
Their character . . . well, we must take it into account,
when we make our plans. ///
/Ah./ Bandicut grunted. /I wish I could offer you more encouragement on that score./ He followed a group of men toward the ready room, but paused when he heard Gordon Kracking's voice behind him in the corridor.
"Bandie—didn't you look at the postings this morning?"
He turned around. "No, I looked last night. Why?"
Krackey caught up with him. "You're not supposed to be here. You're supposed to be upstairs for a hearing on your accident."
"You're sure?"
"Sure I'm sure. I work on the system board, don't I?"
Bandicut grinned. "Reprieve! Thanks, Krackey." He turned and started back the other way, heading for the pole up.
*
He ascended the pole with a few easy arm-over-arm pulls and stepped off on the third and top floor of the station. The briefing room was just past Cole Jackson's office, near the station commander's. He could hear Jackson's voice, and Lonnie Stelnik's. What fun, he thought. /Charlie, if they start grilling me, be ready with some good answers, all right?/
/// I'll do my best. ///
"There he is!" said Stelnik, as Bandicut walked into the cramped conference room. The station commander's administrative assistant, a thin Chinese woman named Li Chang, was there also.
"You might have let a guy know," Bandicut said, taking a seat. "As of last night, you had me slated for the mines this morning."
Cole Jackson pushed up his eyeglasses and smiled. "Don't worry, John. We'll get you right back down there. But first we'd like you to look over your report and tell us if there's anything you'd like to add or change." He pushed his glasses up his nose again and handed Bandicut a hard copy of his report.
Bandicut glanced at the paper. "Has Pacho found the problem yet?"
Stelnik snorted. Jackson answered, "Mr. Rawlins has not yet determined the cause of the malfunction, no. In fact, he admits to being rather puzzled." Jackson glanced at Stelnik as though expecting a vulgar characterization. When none was forthcoming, he continued, "Therefore, John, it's especially important that you search your memory for anything that could illuminate the cause of the incident. We're holding up the survey for the time being, but we can't do that forever."
Bandicut nodded, and frowned down at his report. /For a pack of lies, it looks pretty reasonable,/ he muttered to the quarx. He swallowed, trying to maintain a normal expression. "No, I wish I could help you, but I think this really about covers it," he said. /Give or take an alien or two./
/// Only one. ///
"Take your time, John. This is important."
"Well, yes, but—"
"Let me emphasize," Jackson said, with a sideways glance at Chang, who would be reporting to the station commander. "We have certain quotas to fulfill—"
"You can't put quotas on finding alien metal deposits," Bandicut pointed out.
"Perhaps not. But we have quotas on volume and tonnage to be processed, and it is very important that we meet those quotas," Jackson said, somewhat more sternly than was necessary. "This is not a game! We are here at enormous expense to the MINEXFO consortium, and there are important products to be developed from our findings. It is crucial that we demonstrate progress. There are consortium shareholders to satisfy, and potential competitors who might want to replace us here. I just want to make sure you understand that, John."
"I understand it," Bandicut said testily. "I'm ready to go back out as soon as you fix my rover."
Jackson sat back, pressing his hands together in front of his face. After studying Bandicut for a moment, he nodded, with another glance at Chang, who had not said a word and looked as though she did not intend to. "Very well. But we cannot do so until we are certain we have established safe working conditions." He cleared his throat noisily. "Well, then, if we might go through this report, we will try to clarify any points of confusion. Lonnie, would you like to take it from that angle?"
Stelnik's eyes glinted as he sat forward and said, "Indeed. John, tell me—with reference to your report of lost communications and navigation—what was your first indication of trouble yesterday?"
Bandicut took a breath. /What did you tell that robot?/ he whispered silently.
/// A voltage spike,
scrambling the nav settings . . . ///
He caught himself in the act of nodding to the quarx, and let the movement continue as a nod to Stelnik. "Well, Lonnie—I was just out of visual range of marker Wendy when I saw a fluctuation in the nav. I suspected a voltage spike. But the comm dropped out before I could call in . . ."
If his listeners were forming opinions, he could not discern it on their faces as he continued spinning his tale.
*
"Thank you, John. We'll be in touch as the investigation proceeds, and we'll call you back if we have further questions. You can report to mining ops now."
"Right. See you around, Cole. Lonnie."
The quarx spoke softly as he slid back down the pole to the first level.
/// What was the purpose of that meeting, John? ///
Bandicut stepped off and walked toward the ready room for the second time that morning. /Charlie, you've just witnessed modern management at its best. What you saw was a careful effort by Jackson to make sure that he and the company are covered, if any questions arise—either about safety, or productivity./
/// Uh-huh. ///
/Plus, Lonnie was probably hoping to catch me in a lie, because that would prove how sharp he is./
The quarx didn't sound happy.
/// Uh-huh. Anything else? ///
He reached the ready room. /Plus, let's give them credit. I suppose they really were trying to figure out what the hell happened./
He let out a long breath. /And I have to say, my quarxian friend, that the hypocrisy of all this has not escaped me. I do not feel too wonderful about having, yet again, lied through my teeth./
Charlie was silent a moment, but Bandicut could feel the mental tension building. When Charlie answered, it was in a very soft voice in the center of his consciousness.
/// I do understand, John Bandicut.
I share your ethical misgivings. ///
/You do?/
/// Yes, but I am afraid I must say, as well . . .
that meeting did not give me reason to feel
that we would dare entrust our secret
to those individuals. ///
Bandicut nodded, his vision clouding as he realized what the quarx was saying. They were not going to be sharing their secret with anyone, anytime soon. But neither could he muster any good reason to disagree.
"BANDICUT! Get the hell over here!" Herbert Massengale was standing in the doorway to his office, clipboard in hand. As Bandicut approached, Massengale glared at him. "I just got the bad news, Bandicut. You're on my team."
"So I'm told."
"Now, what the fokin' moke am I supposed to do with a nine-pin-head goak who don't even got his pins anymore?" Massengale rapped his knuckles on the clipboard in disgust.
/// What's he talking about?
What's a nine-pin-head goak? ///
/It's an, er, "affectionate" nickname for neurojackers./
/// Affectionate? ///
/Well . . . no. See, he doesn't neurolink himself, and he hates the guts of anyone who does./
/// That doesn't seem reasonable. ///
/What's reasonable got to do with it?/
"What are you grinnin' about?" Massengale growled. "You look like you're plugged into a mokin' computer right now. Are you gonna go zombie on me before you even start?"
Bandicut felt his face redden. He was going to have to learn to talk to Charlie without looking like an idiot. "Herb, if there's something you have for me to do, maybe we could just get on with it," he said, straining for politeness.
Massengale stared at him as if Bandicut had just done something to his nice clean windshield. "Yeahhhhh. We're shorthanded on the crawlers. Report to Bronson on number three." Without waiting for an answer, Massengale strolled away.
Bandicut curled his lip downward. It was more or less what he had expected. He knew nothing about crawler operations. If he were lucky, he would merely get in the way, instead of becoming an active hazard to the operation.
Shaking his head, he reported to the equipment window and signed out an outdoor exposure suit. When he had finished gearing up—and it had been a long time since he'd checked a suit so carefully—he went outside through the pressure lock, looking for Crawler Three and Bronson. He peered about the vast unroofed crawler bay, trying to figure out where he was supposed to be. Two of the huge mining machines had already pulled out of their docking bays and were lumbering off toward the work fields, amber beacons rotating in the perpetual night of the Triton sky. About a hundred meters down the docking bay, he spotted a faded, dusty numeral 3 on another crawler. As he set off toward it with a loping stride, its beacons flicked on, glaring in his face. He hurried, calling out on the comm. "Bronson!"
The crawler chief was halfway up a ladder on the transom of the enormous machine, one hand raised to wave the driver on. He turned his helmeted head and lowered his hand. Bandicut could just make out a frown through the faceplate. Bronson's voice moaned with an exaggerated, aggrieved tone through the background chatter on the comm. "What the—Bandicut! Now don't tell me that asshole Herb sent you out to work with me!"
Bandicut halted at the base of the crawler and looked up with a grin. "Can I quote you to the boss on that? Especially the asshole part?"
Bronson snorted, white eyes gleaming through the visor from an almost invisible black-skinned face. "Lissen—I'm the mokin' boss out here, and unless you wanna try mind-meldin' with some a' that rock out there, I suggest you shut up and get your tailpipe up in that hold. So how ya' doin', anyway, Bandie?"
"Okay. What am I supposed to do here?"
"Oh, whatever my man Jake tells you," Bronson drawled. "Now, get your tail up there. We're late already."
Bandicut gave Bronson a jaunty salute and grabbed a ladder up to the work cabin. As he climbed, he saw Bronson mounting the ladder to the roof of the crawler and heard him drawl: "Get 'er movin', Fitznell." The massive machine rumbled for an instant, then lurched forward, just as Bandicut was ducking through the cabin threshold. He lost his balance momentarily, slamming his left shoulder into the bulkhead. Grabbing the handrail with a curse, he heaved himself the rest of the way in and pulled the door closed behind him.
The inside of the crawler looked more like a small, machine-filled factory than a vehicle—except that it was in jerky motion. He was on a narrow platform that connected to a series of catwalks spanning the interior. A suited man was standing at a forward control panel. He turned, saw Bandicut, and waved him over. Bandicut threaded his way forward, ducking to avoid cables and pipes. Below him on his left, two mining drones hung in their cradles like enormous crabs waiting to go scuttling over the mine bed. Farther to the left, he vaguely recognized the shadowy bulk of the power reactor and ore processor.
/// I gather
you're not too familiar with this equipment. ///
/Nah, I was shown around one of these things when I first arrived on Triton, but I haven't had any reason to be inside one since./ He finally reached the man at the control panel. It was Jake Looks-Over, a part Amerind whom he knew from games of EineySteiney in the rec lounge. "Hi, Jake. What can I do here?"
Jake grinned behind his faceplate, eyes bright against a burnished face. "Hey, Bandie! That depends, I guess. You just along for the ride, or did they send you in from the frontier to find out what real work is like?"
Bandicut grabbed another handhold. "I was hoping I wouldn't have to do any real work. From what I hear, you guys need more brains than brawn out here."
Jake raised one eyebrow toward a monitor on the control board, where a woman's helmeted face was visible. "You hear that, Amy? John Bandicut's here to give us the benefit of his brains. Someone must've squealed on us."
The woman's face jounced with the vibration. Bandicut realized that she was driving the crawler. "Haven't I been threatening all along to squeal on you guys?" she said. Bandicut could just see the landscape moving outside the cockpit, past her head.
"Fitznell, whose side are you on, anyway?" Jake protested.
"You guys must be hard up if you want me out here helping you," Bandicut said. "But that's what they tell me to do, so I do it."
Jake nodded. "Well, we can put you to work driving a miner. An ace pilot like you ought to be able to handle some drones, right?"
"That depends. How hard is it?"
Jake grinned without answering.
Bandicut peered at the external monitors. The crawler was rumbling down a long access road out of the main camp. Soon it would begin descending into a vast depression a kilometer or so to the west. The mining area was ringed with lights that glared and shifted surreally in the monitors.
"We'll be there in five minutes," Jake said. "You can stash your lunch in that locker."
"Lunch?" Bandicut croaked.
"No one told you to bring a lunch? Hoo boy, you're going to be one hungry customer by the time we're done here." Jake shook his head. "Well, never mind. You want to go up and have a look from the cab before we strap you in? That okay, Amy?"
"Sure," said the driver.
Jake hooked a thumb toward a ladder on his left. Bandicut mounted the ladder, glancing nervously to see where he would fall if he slipped. The sight of the vibrating machinery caused him to tighten his grip on the handholds. He caught a handle at the top, a hatch slid open, and he climbed up into the back of the cab.
Amy Fitznell's helmeted head bobbed as she drove. She glanced up into the overhead mirror, her visor shifting in th
e polished glass. "Hi, Bandie. Have a seat and take a look around."
Bandicut slid into the right-hand seat and peered out the forward window. In the perpetual Triton gloom, the crawler and roadway lights combined to make an eerie highway landscape. Two crawlers ahead were turning off into various sectors. "Which one we going to?" he asked.
"Northwest sector." Fitznell, scanning the instruments and monitors, looked every bit as busy as a pilot. Bandicut felt a little envious; he wondered what it felt like to drive one of these monsters. "Eat your heart out," she murmured, as though reading his mind. "Mine's bigger than yours."
Bandicut laughed.
/// What's that mean? ///
/Never mind. Too hard to explain./
"Better go back and let Jake get you squared away," Fitznell said.
"Okay, thanks for the look." Bandicut exited the way he had come.
As he stepped off the ladder onto the work platform, Jake pointed to one of the mining drones hanging in the cradles. "Bandie, I'm putting you on drones three and four there. Think you can handle 'em?"
Bandicut grimaced. "You sure you want me to run those things? I don't know the first thing about it."
"Don't worry, I'll check you out." Jake pressed several switches, then spoke again in a fast rattle. "Okay, now listen. You're gonna be riding the drones on the inside track. It'll be easier at the start, 'cause I'll be tracking the outer walls on the first pass. But when we get tight on the inside, you'll have to watch your step. Okay? Go get yourself strapped into that jump seat."
Bandicut peered to his right and spotted the jump seat folded into the crawler's outer wall. "Get going," Jake said. "We'll be on station in a minute." Bandicut made his way along the catwalk, pulled the seat down, and turned to sit, facing back toward Jake. "Strap up and plug in your comm," Jake instructed.
Bandicut found the straps and, with some difficulty, got them buckled and adjusted. "When was this setup designed?" he muttered. "Last century?"
"As a matter of fact . . . yes, I think so," Jake said. "Plug in your comm."
He located the jack and did so, and Jake's voice became slightly clearer in his ears.
"See that control board on your right? Lift it into position in front of you."
The Chaos Chronicles Page 10