“Thank Eliza and Paul for that, Jack. They brew their own, except for some imports. And most of those are strictly for tourists.”
“Then raise a glass!” Jack raised his, but gently: I had finally coached him to remember how liquids can slop in Lunar gravity. “To Eliza!”
“And to Paul!” We drained our brews. This became our regular stop whenever the Grand Inspection brought us nearby, and Eliza always treated us like honored guests. I suspect that’s why Jack did right by her and the Old Town in the end.
The Grand Inspection lasted nearly four months and true to his promise of transparency, Jack pushed a daily report out on the nets for anyone who cared to pull it. For a while, the journos hung stories on that hook: a dozen variations on the theme “Brockway cleans up.” They made Jack something of a momentary celebrity. He’s not sim-star handsome, mind you, but he’s got your basic healthy good looks. So, they kept him near the top of their pops for a while. Eventually, the repetitive sameness of the daily reports turned them away. Another inspection report from Jack, another repair status report from Murkowski, ho hum. They found another story to leech, and Jack faded into the background. There he stayed until the Eco Summit, and again until—well, I’m getting ahead of my story here.
Meanwhile, the news pops also made me something of a celebrity, at least around here. I was often in the background of Jack’s reports. As he relied on me more, sometimes he even had me make the reports when he was tied up in meetings with Admin. So I got a fair amount of pop time for an Intern, and my buddies here in the Old Town didn’t let me live it down.
They recorded my pops, and then one of them applied morph and sim transforms to the feeds. Sometimes they drew thought balloons with obscene thoughts. Sometimes they shrunk me. Sometimes they gave me an extra 20 kilos of flab, like I needed that. But their favorite trick was to morph me into a character they called “Scotty the Skunk”. They said that when I came off work, I had “that smell”; and I believed them, until I realized they said that even on days where I’d spent all day in the office. But you will have to watch for that: when you’re around “that smell” long enough, your nose gets desensitized and you might never realize it’s still on you. Another unofficial motto of Eco Services: “Bathe early, bathe often.”
And then, when the Grand Inspection was done, Jack held his Eco Summit: a week-long series of meetings with Jack and his department heads, plus field team leads, expert contractors, community liaisons, CTU administrators, parts suppliers, and anyone else who Jack thought could contribute. An old engineer once told me, “‘Meeting’ rhymes with ‘beating’.” But as week-long meetings go, it was astonishingly not painful.
Jack was smart: he let Murkowski organize the agenda and chair the sessions while he sat back and listened and probed—and cut through the bull when needed. He recognized that Murkowski’s a natural talent for Admin, as her later career proved. By then, I was Jack’s permanent Intern, having learned his work methods over the months, and I got to watch the whole thing up close. Now, I hate meetings as much as the next engineer—but if Administrator Murkowski’s chairing a meeting, I know it won’t be a waste of time.
I’ll never forget Jack’s closing address. Simple and brief: “Citizens of Tycho, you are rich. You can’t see it right now because your government has treated you shabbily. But you’ve kicked the varmints out, and it’s time you saw some changes. Since you hired me for this job, I’ve been inspecting machines, but I’ve been meeting people—as many as I could. And I tell you, Tycho is rich in people: hardworking, smart, and dedicated. No, I’m not trying to sell you something—I’m just telling you straight: you’re a great people, and the previous administration held you back. With a government as hard-working as you, there’ll be no stopping us. And today, we’re taking steps to become the Eco Services you deserve.”
And then Jack submitted his overhaul plans. Eco had made emergency repairs since Jack came on board plus running double shifts to catch up on maintenance, but that was all miniscule compared to Jack’s new plans. Modernization, reinforcement, redundant backups, monitoring systems, transparency, efficiency … Really, all of our current quality metrics were all there in Jack’s plans. It wasn’t just recovering from the Teller years: it was a complete rethinking of the role of Eco Services in Tycho Under. For once, the journos were incapable of hyperbole: when they called it brilliant, that was simply a fact.
And like something out of Sophocles—what, you don’t think a big bum like me can read the classics?—buried deep in Jack’s ambitious plans were the seeds of Jack’s downfall: the CR Program. Containment and Reclamation: Jack’s plan to do something about “that smell”.
Like so many others, Jack fixated on “that smell”. He knew we couldn’t waste the volatiles. He accepted the basic soundness of our super scrubber designs. But he just wouldn’t accept that we had to let “that smell” vent before scrubbing it. He was convinced to his core that there had to be a way to filter out the volatiles and let out purified air, all without venting into the treatment chambers.
It’s not like he was the first to have this idea, but Jack was sure there was an angle no one had considered yet. “Scott,” he told me, “it’s inefficient: let the gases disperse and then run them through scrubbers to reclaim them? We should be able to run them straight to the scrubbers.” I pointed out that dispersing helped the gases to separate naturally, so we could concentrate the scrubber energy where it was most effective, but he waved that off: “That just takes engineering savvy. We’ll find another way to separate them.” Jack started sketching out his vision for the Containment and Reclamation Units; and the final units looked a lot like those early sketches with a small mountain of engineering savvy added in.
But then, Jack made his one really big error: he did the detailed design and prototyping of the CR Units himself, trusting only himself to get his vision right. That’s a classic engineering error: the Two Hats Pattern. You can work on the project or you can manage the project, but you can’t do both. You can only fail at both.
The best engineering managers will tell you how the Two Hats Pattern leads to failure. They know that it always applies—except to them. Deep in their hearts, where they won’t admit it to anyone, they’re sure that they are different, or that this project is different. Maybe they’ll rationalize it: yeah, this is a bad idea, but I’ve got no one else to spare. Or yeah, this is a bad idea, but this part is so important that I can’t trust it to anyone else. They convince themselves that this time it won’t be a mistake. We always know better when it’s the other guy, but never when it’s us.
When Jack finished his CR design, he tried to explain it to me. It was only later that I understood it—far too late. “See, Scott, the trick is in the separation. With the old approach, we let ‘that smell’ vent into the chamber, eventually passing through multiple series of filters. Venting lets the gases separate; but we still have all kinds of gases passing through all kinds of filters and scrubbers, even when those filters and scrubbers won’t apply to those particular gases.
“But if we could separate the gases more effectively, then we could guide each gas only to the filters or scrubbers that apply to it. The reduced scrubber energy will provide almost all the energy we need for separation.”
“But how will we separate more effectively?”
“I’ve licensed some new tech: nano-ionizers. They’re little molecular machines that can ionize a gas—well, except inert gases, of course—in a way that falls somewhere between mechanics and electronics and chemistry. It’s a real breakthrough and highly efficient. Once they’re ionized, we can use mag fields sort of like a mass spectrometer to guide them on separate paths based on molecular density. Each CR shell then has a number of outlets positioned to release different gases into different scrubbing ducts. The components that make up cleansed air can just be piped back into the ventilation system.”
“Wow. I can see that. I think. But … I can’t see how it could possibly use less e
nergy than our scrubbers.”
“Not less energy; but not excessively more. And then here’s the really sneaky part: by confining the gases close to the treatment units—basically wrapping the treatment units in CR shells—we maintain those gases at their original, non-dispersed pressure. That’s a weak but measurable positive pressure, and we can use that to help drive the separation. It’s still a slight increase in energy usage, but it’s well within our budget. And it’s a small price to pay to get rid of ‘that smell’.”
I was still new—still somewhat sensitive to “that smell” myself. And if Jack thought it was important, then I thought it was important. So I studied Jack’s designs until I had the basics down cold. Every CR unit is unique, a shell fitted around some existing equipment, but I became an expert at fitting and installing the ionic separators.
I received a de facto promotion. Oh, Jack couldn’t really promote an Intern, but after the initial pilot test, he made me his field rep for CR installations. There was plenty for him and Murkowski to do in bringing his vision to Eco, too much to let him spend much time on CR.
So, title or no, I was effectively in charge of CR installations throughout Tycho. And I tell you, the real engineers resented me! One in particular, Irina Stewart, called me names behind Jack’s back: “Jack’s Boy” being the least offensive. Oh, I hated her too. She wrote me up for the smallest infractions, and she was brutal on my review boards. Looking back, I think she was more right than I was—more right than Jack was. That was too much responsibility—too high a placement for an Intern. A real engineer might’ve caught Jack’s mistake in time.
In a way, I got even better than a promotion: Jack attached my ID as a rider on his comp credentials, giving me almost Director-level powers on the nets. That was a sacred trust that Jack placed in me, and I was determined not to disappoint him. I told no one about the comp credentials. Well, until the night came when I had to.
So I got real familiar with the Treatment sectors, including sector 7, one level down from here. When I could, I ended my day in sector 7 so I could clean up and come here to unwind. Without Jack here as a buffer, my buddies stepped up their humor at my expense. My pop career was over, but not Scotty the Skunk’s! He frequently inserted himself into the sports and news feeds over the bar. I left myself a recurring pop to make sure I always bathed before coming up here.
The pilot went pretty smoothly: all gases conformed to the expected profiles within margins of error. After that, it was a regular procedure: use scan bots to build 3D models of the equipment to be contained; run the models through fitting algorithms to design the CR shell; order the shells from local fabricators; install the ionic separators; and hook them into the ducting system. Oh, and one more thing: for pressure-balancing reasons, Jack decided to bring the whole CR system up at once rather than phasing it in. Sound engineering decisions are sometimes counterintuitive and Jack made this seem like one of those, but I fear he wanted to show his brilliance off in a “grand opening”.
But, Jack knew that sometimes when you schedule a dog and pony show, the dog dies and the pony runs away. Things go wrong and you need a dry run to work out the bugs. So we were going to unofficially power up the CR system, let it run overnight, and check the gas readings in the morning. Then we’d fix the bugs and try again the next night. Jack scheduled three nights of dry runs and then the grand opening.
Even though the CR units were 100% automated, you’d think we’d all be camped out in treatment, waiting for the dry run results. Jack wouldn’t have any of that. “They’re automated. What kind of confidence are we showing if we have to watch them?” Jack’s confidence was infectious; and frankly, watching the test results was boring. So after monitoring the meters for an hour, Jack ordered everybody except the night crew to go home.
Naturally, I cleaned up to head to the Old Town. Jack went off to a party. His success had made him quite a star with Tycho’s elite, and he got invited to all the major events. All the movers and shakers wanted his ear. He was flying high … like Icarus. See? Again with the classics! Don’t underestimate this old man, kid—I have depths you’ll never guess at.
There were maybe two dozen diners and drinkers scattered around the tables and seated at the bar that night. I swung up onto a bar stool between two old drinking buddies—Adam Stone from CTU Rescue and Al Grant from Bader—and called out, “Eliza, a weiss when you can.” Eliza nodded as she hustled into the back room.
“Evening, Skunky.” Adam tilted his glass a bit in my direction.
“Evening, Moose. Al.” Adam may be the largest, strongest looney I’ve ever met. When he’s coming down a tube, he looks to fill his lane and half the cross lane as well. And though he looks like nothing but muscle from ear to ear, he’s one hell of a mechanical engineer. Al, on the other hand, is a wire-thin guy and all nervous energy. They make an odd pair, with a partying reputation in half the bars in Tycho.
“You hit the cycler tonight, Scott? I ordered a steak. I’d hate to have you ruin my appetite.”
“Clean as a brand new air bottle, Al. Smell!” I shoved my arm right up under his nose.
“Careful, Scott. You know he likes his meat rare. He may mistake you for his entree.”
I yanked my arm back as Al reached for his steak knife. It’s a close call which Al enjoys most, a good steak or a good beer, but it’s not safe to stand between him and either one.
Eliza showed up with my beer, and I ordered a sandwich. We drank and ate and talked, sometimes trading jibes with Eliza as she passed. They asked me how the CR Project was going, and I asked Al how the crops looked at Bader Farms. Adam never talked about Rescue work, and we knew better than to ask.
At our third round, Adam whistled. “Man, Skunky, are you sure you hit the cycler? You’ve got quite a whiff about you tonight.”
“Very funny, Adam. Want to see my cycler receipt? Over fifty-eight mils down the drain, enough water to get even your carcass clean.”
Al sniffed. “Sure, but did they run out of soap?”
“You, too, Al? This ‘Scotty the Skunk’ stuff’s getting pretty old.”
Al put his beer down, a sure sign that he really was serious. “I hate to be rude, but you smell a bit rank tonight.”
Whatever they smelled wasn’t strong enough to reach my desensitized nose. Assuming they really smelled anything—both of them could play deadpan if they wanted to. I decided to play along. “Fine! I can see where I’m not welcome!” I turned on my stool …
And then I saw it: here and there in the room, people had their noses crinkled up and faces twisted in disgust. Most were clustered near our end of the bar or over at a table in the far corner near the latrines. I got up and walked to that corner. I didn’t have time to be inconspicuous—I just crouched down and looked under their table. There between their legs, I saw a municipal air duct.
I went back to our end of the bar where it curved around and joined the wall. “Adam, can you stand up, please?” Adam caught the tone in my voice. He didn’t joke, didn’t question—just stood. Behind his beefy legs was another municipal air duct.
I pulled out my gas scanner and held it to the vent. Mostly it was standard municipal air, but there was a trace of hydrogen sulfide: 4.7 parts per million. Not dangerous, but certainly not safe. I stepped back a pace and took another reading: 3.8 ppm. Another step back: 3.0 ppm. “That smell” was definitely coming from the vent.
Just then, a woman from the far table came up to the bar. “Eliza, it smells like something died over there. Can we open the tube door and let some of the smell out?”
As Eliza was putting down her bar rag, connections formed in my brain. I could see what might be wrong. I jumped in. “No. Eliza, turn on the Closed sign and seal the door.”
The look in Eliza’s eyes should’ve knocked me dead right there. “Scotty, are you telling me how to run my bar?”
“Sorry, yes.” I pushed my comp credentials into Eliza’s console. “I’m acting for Jack now. There’s some kind of E
co malfunction here. Until we know how widespread it is, we don’t know if it’s safer here or out there. I have to assume we need to contain it.”
“Safer? Contain it? Are we in danger?”
“I don’t know. Probably. Maybe. But we’re not guessing—we’re analyzing. If I find it’s more dangerous in here, you’ll all be out in the tube with me pushing you along. Adam, Al, get those people up. Don’t panic them, but get some distance between them and those vents.” Adam went into Rescue mode, assessing the situation and taking action. Once she realized I was serious, Eliza also took charge, sealing the doors and herding and cajoling the bar crowd.
I got on my comm and contacted Treatment. “Sector 7, Treatment, Engineer Stewart speaking.”
Ah, hell. “Engineer Stewart, this is Mr. Wayne up in the Old Town tavern. We have a sulfide leak. You need to shut down the CR Units.”
“Hmph. Jack’s Boy, that’s lousy form for a report. You’re sure you’re not just drunk? Stinking drunk, maybe?” She laughed at her own joke, doing nothing for my mood.
“Stewart, check your meters. Mine shows sulfide at—5.0 ppm. It’s climbing.”
“All right, Intern, I’ll check.” There was a pause. “Sulfide duct shows 0.003 ppm post-scrubber. I’m going to trust my industrial meter over your belt unit. I’d say you haven’t calibrated yours lately, rookie.”
“Damn it, Stewart, I can smell the sulfide!”
“Then take a bath, Intern!” She laughed again and disconnected.
But she was right: her meters were hundreds of times better than mine. Why was she reading purified air post-scrubber?
I looked again at all of the gas readings. And there was something … I pulled some of the numbers into a calculation. And suddenly, it almost made sense. I pulled up a diagram of an ionic separator, and the last piece fell into place. “Oh, shit.”
Therefore I Am - Digital Science Fiction Anthology 2 Page 12