by Wil McCarthy
“Tell it to the miners,” Conrad said, stomping out of the room.
He did manage to restrain the urge to break his hand again, but he stomped and cursed his way through the levels of Newhope's tall needle, and through the mating airlock, and through the longer, twistier corridors of the thirty-kilometer-wide Inner Belt asteroid known as Element Pit. When he got to the scene of the crime, the perpetrators were still standing around, looking down at two bloody heaps of Conrad Mursk.
“That one is going to cost you,” Conrad told them angrily. “Once is a moment of weakness. Or unbearable passion, which is even easier to excuse. But twice is just bad manners, and stupid besides. You may have asked yourselves why I'm not armed, why I'm not concerned once again for my safety. Have you? Have you asked yourselves that? Because it's a question very pertinent to these negotiations.”
“We don't want your fuffing cash. We can't use it,” said the leader of the miners, whom Conrad had never been formally introduced to, but who matched the description of Leonard Chang, the erstwhile director of these facilities. If so, then he was from Earth. More specifically, from Eastern Russia, where he'd no doubt grown up with every privilege an Earth boy could have.
It was a damn sight more privileges than an asteroid miner in Barnard could ever hope for, and Conrad's sympathies did extend that far. It was a sour deal, and there was no point trying to sell it any differently. But Planet Two needed metals (especially iron) and rare earth elements (especially neodymium), and Conrad's job was to see that they were delivered on time. And he knew as well as anyone that if he didn't succeed, things would get even worse. Even here.
“You may want to flush that voice buffer,” Conrad told the man impatiently. “I've heard that, what, five times now? And very little else. Yes, you want a new element mixer. You want a new print plate for your fax machine. You want your mommy to come and kiss the boo-boos for you, but she's not coming. She told me so in bed this morning.”
“You've got a foul mouth, Navy Man.”
“And you've got a bloodstained wrench, Mr. Chang. I'm not in a terribly good mood, and the law takes a dim view of these things, and at this particular time and place, it so happens that I'm the law. Now before you start swinging those things again, you do need to ask yourselves: why is this man not armed? From the outset I was against sending armed escort along with Newhope. Hell, I was against arming Navy ships in the first place. I mean, who have we got to fight? But it was never my decision, and as it happens there's a commander named Ho Ng, in a ship called Tuitake or King's Fist, loitering about a megaklick downsystem from here, stealthing in the glare of Barnard.
“Maybe you've seen him on TV? Fighting in the arena? The exact weapons at his disposal right now are classified—I'm not even sure I know myself—but I have commander Ng's assurances that he can depopulate this asteroid without significant harm to its facilities or stores. And if that happens, the whole stinking lot of you can be replaced with freshly printed children who don't know enough to complain about the conditions. Is that clear? Are there any specific points I can elaborate on, to broaden or deepen your understanding? Because against my better judgment I'm going to give you one more chance.”
Conrad hated making threats, especially because he couldn't afford to make empty ones. But just now he had what Barnardean negotiators called nima, or “hand.” Except for control over his own physical safety—a minor point at best—all the advantages were his, and he couldn't afford to take no for an answer. Thus, he meant every word he said, and in fact if the tactical situation were known to Ho Ng, Conrad would probably be ordered back to Newhope, and Xmary advised to withdraw the ship to a safe distance so these people could be murdered where they stood. Like most things in life, it wasn't Conrad's decision, and he really was giving these dirty-faced ladies and gentlemen a break. Out of the goodness of his own twice-murdered heart.
“Why should we believe that?” Leonard Chang demanded.
And Conrad answered him with a level gaze: “At this point, sir, I don't care if you believe it or not. But I hope your backups are current, which they would be already if you people had opened on a more conciliatory note. The matter is very close to being out of my hands, so if you like, you can just try whatever you want and see how it plays out. Or, if you're feeling useful, feeling civil and pleasant and remorseful for your crimes, you can start loading bar stock and I'll decline to report any of this. Not because I like you, but because I have a job to do, and your tragic death would interfere with it.”
Not surprisingly, that really did give the miners pause. They lowered their pipes and wrenches and galley knives, and Leonard Chang looked around at them, cooling them off with a warning glare.
“Pardon me if I'm not overwhelmed with . . . your generosity,” he said to Conrad. “We've got people getting injured, getting sick, getting old in the time it takes you Navy types to cycle back and forth to P2. There is no quality of life here, just slavery. That's the only word that describes our circumstances.”
“I'm sorry you feel that way,” Conrad told him sincerely. “Another way to look at it is that you all volunteered for this, and you're fuffing heroes. Or you were until a few minutes ago. Look, P2 needs those elements, and if you interfere with their flow, you might as well be dropping bombs on the planet's surface. You want to talk old age? You want to talk injury and death, Mr. Director? You need a print plate. Everybody needs a print plate. And to build a print plate—even one!—requires neodymium, and certain other materials that simply aren't found on P2. Not where we can get at them, not in meaningful quantities. But I don't have to tell you that, right?”
With that, the light went out of Chang's sails, and he slumped against the corridor wall, dropping his gaze to the floor. “We never wanted anyone to get hurt. Really. But you have to understand, Navy Man, we just can't keep this up. I wish you would replace us with children, fresh in body and spirit and mind. It would take them years to burn out. Decades.”
“But they'd lack experience. The mine's efficiency would plummet.”
“Aye. They'd lack experience. Lucky for them.”
At this, in spite of everything, Conrad felt a flicker of sympathy for these men and women. Everyone had it rough these days, but certainly it was true that some had it rougher than others, through no fault of their own. And the simple fact was, Conrad had heard almost precisely the same complaints from the deutrelium refiners, the particle smashers, the antimatter runners, and even, yes, the Navy crews themselves. Everyone in space, basically. Because yeah, it was one thing to declare a state of economic emergency, and quite another to maintain it indefinitely.
“Look,” he said. “You and I both know I can't get you a medical-grade fax machine. I couldn't if I wanted to, if I made it my life's work. King Bascal himself couldn't get you one, because there just aren't enough to go around. That's what ‘shortage' means. But there are some older industrial models kicking around, and if I call in some favors, I could probably get you one of those. That will give you everything but your health, and your health is still, as I say, available with periodic Naval visits, as always. That's no different than people have on the surface of the planet. Well, not terribly different.
“But try to understand, sir: you hold no cards at all in this negotiation. When you speak up, when you act out, all the government of P2 hears is that you care more about yourselves than about the plight of the colony. If they find out you're cracking skulls in addition, there is probably nothing I can do. You'll be killed, and your core memory slots will be reallocated to someone more in tune with the needs of the colony. That's not a threat, just a frank observation. For me to warn you at all is an act of charity.”
“Maybe you've got a good heart,” one of the miners suggested, in a tone that might've been snotty or sincere, or anything in-between. It'd been a long day, and Conrad just couldn't tell anymore.
“Don't start with me again,” he warned, pointing a finger at the man who'd spoken. “I'm offering two billion in cash, and first
dibs on a thirdhand industrial fax. It's better than you deserve, and costly for the kingdom, but there you have it.”
Now the miners were all looking at their feet, saying nothing.
“Bloody hell, people, what do you want? A kiss on the forehead? That hundred tons of bar stock isn't going to move itself. Go print up some robots and let's get moving.”
The miners looked at each other and Conrad, as if uncertain what to say next. Finally, Chang piped up. “Hopefully you begin to understand our problem, Mr. Mursk. We haven't got any robots, nor the means to print them. The best fax machine we have at the moment has a print plate about the size of your chest, and it hasn't got the resolution to print a block of wellstone. Ergo, no computers, ergo no robots. Not real ones, anyway. We can automate—we have automated—but it's like working with grasshoppers. You can't turn your back on them, because they haven't got the slightest idea what you want them to do. Just what you tell them.”
Conrad favored Chang with a glare, and Chang swallowed and added, “We've got some grappling servos and powered carts down on level four that help with this kind of work. I'll, uh, send Jonesey and Schrader down to fetch them.”
Conrad nodded, and said to him, “Fine. And then let's take a walk, you and I. There are other serious matters to discuss.”
And here, if such a thing were possible, Chang's shoulders slumped even farther. “This is about the antimatter?”
Actually, it was about taking mental notes—forcibly, if necessary—from Chang's crew, so if they absolutely had to be replaced, their replacements would have a leg up on the learning process. It was a delicate subject, better broached to them by their own management, not some stranger in a uniform. But that was an interesting response, which gained Conrad's full and immediate attention. “Walk with me,” he said, with that particular quiet firmness people had a hard time ignoring.
The conversation was both brief and illuminating. “I studied metallurgy during the exile training,” Chang said to him while they walked, as though that explained or excused anything. “Not matter programming, you understand, but the old-fashioned mixing and melting of actual atoms. Had to study something, right? Part of the punishment. I wish to blazes I'd studied something else, but when they thawed me out here at Barnard, I compounded the error with a short-course degree in the geology of minor planets. It seemed like such an exciting idea at the time: hollowing these little worlds, sniffing for the precious metals inside them. A treasure hunt, you see? But lo, these hundred and thirty years later, here I still am. Poorer than when I started.”
“What do you want me to say?” Conrad asked impatiently. “We came here as children, but we've got to live as grown-ups. Things are what they are, and it's our responsibility—all of us—to sort it out. And we have forever to accomplish it.”
“So they say,” Chang grumbled, “but we've cause to doubt it here in the mines. Would you believe me if I said this place was haunted? Ghosts are invisible fossils, I've always thought—quantum impressions only an archaeologist could find. But I've got trustworthy people claiming to have seen them: dead friends, dead strangers, walking around. And it surprises me not at all. Have you ever buried a friend, Mr. Mursk? Packed her in a freezer and shipped her off to heaven knows where? Pray you never do, sir. You seem like a decent fellow, and I wouldn't wish that on you.”
This was getting a bit chummy for Conrad's taste. He did have a job to do, and experience had taught him that sentimentality and clear judgment were enemies far more often than they were allies. “Let's talk about the antimatter,” he said.
“It was an accident,” Chang answered, much too quickly. “The mass crusher out in the L-Belt got shut down as a money sink, but twelve years ago the king was still screaming for neutronium. ‘Neubles! Bring me neubles, you lazy ingrates!' And our plan seemed, you know, efficient. Hunting societies used every part of the buffalo, right? Which is not the least bit surprising, because what the hell else did they have?”
They walked through corridors tilted strangely against the artificial gravity. Some of the rock walls were polished mirror-smooth, a finish Conrad admired and also envied, since on P2 the chlorine etching—even indoors—would take the shine off a surface like that within a year. Other areas looked as though they'd been chipped out with picks and sledgehammers, which was also interesting though certainly less aesthetic. But the contrast told him more about the troubles here than Leonard Chang's flapping mouthparts ever could.
Anyway, Conrad waited patiently for further information, meanwhile attempting to piece this man's story together in his own head. There had been a demand for neubles, even as recently as that, in the now seemingly foolish hope that a collapsiter grid—true teleportation, systemwide—could rescue the colony from its logistical difficulties. And since there was not a single neutronium barge here in Barnard—not one ship capable of harvesting and squeezing the worthless dust of interplanetary space, of forming it into liquid neutronium and sheathing it in diamond spheres—there had long been talk of using mine tailings instead. Every part of the buffalo, yes: very little of what was dug from these tunnels was actually useful metal. The oxygen—a primary component of the residual tailings—could of course be sold as a consumable to the other space industries and facilities, or burned with hydrogen to produce water, which generally brought a slightly higher per-kilo price. But what did the colony need with more carbon, more silicon, more lithium and sulfur? Squeezing it into neutronium was a logical—if costly—alternative.
But Conrad had spent a bit of time on Mass Industries barges back in his youth—enough to know that you couldn't squeeze neutronium on any sort of piston or anvil. You could start that way—people generally did—but by itself that would never get you anywhere near the required pressures or densities. For that, you needed an antimatter explosion, and therefore more-than-modest supplies of stabilized positronium in quantum confinement. That was pretty much all Conrad knew, but it was enough for him to smell a rat, to sense the outlines of the trouble Leonard Chang had tried to conceal here.
“You thought you had escaped inquiry,” he probed. This was one of his stock phrases, and since almost everyone had something to hide somewhere along the way, it almost always yielded interesting results.
This time was no exception; Chang quickened his pace and got in front of Conrad, turning to look him straight in the eye. “Sir, our official report was truthful. There was an unintended explosion in the blasting chamber, fortunately mitigated by a suspension of carbonaceous dust in the air, which absorbed a lot of the gamma and X. Kept the asteroid from cracking into little shards, eh? But it involved all of our positronium. On my honor, I swear to you, every molecule of that material was accounted for.”
“Antimatter must never fall into the hands of noncertified personnel,” Conrad warned, though he still had no idea what was going on.
“It hasn't, sir, I swear to you. Our books and facilities are open to your inspection.”
“I know they are,” Conrad said seriously. And then, on a hunch, “You're taking me to the blasting chamber now?”
“Yes sir,” Chang said, “because I want you to understand. Other than the accident itself, we have been meticulous. When you've seen it I think you'll agree we've done all that we reasonably could.”
“Except tell the truth,” Conrad replied.
And Chang found something interesting down at his feet, and studied their backward stride a little before answering, “Aye. Except that.”
And here the corridor bent through a sharp turn whose floor seemed even more particularly tilted against the gravity, and from there it all opened out into a large chamber. Conrad's first thought was that it was a hundred meters or so across, but as he followed the bright lights fading off into the distance, he realized the chamber was in fact a polished sphere at least a kilometer in diameter. The blasting chamber, yes. Bigger than the interior of a neutronium barge, but certainly not too big for the job at hand: containing the explosive conversion of matter an
d antimatter into pure energy. And yet, for some reason at clear odds with this purpose, a sort of transparent axle or conduit ran from the ceiling of the sphere to the floor beneath—a hollow cylinder of diamond, bathed in white light. And at the center of this tube was a deformity of some sort: an invisible pinpoint distorting the view all around it, bending light rays into double and triple rainbows, puckering the entire geometry of the room.
Conrad cursed in his parents' Gaelic, which, being a passionate language, was finely honed for such things. Then, just to be sure, he cursed in Bascal's Tongan.
“Yeah,” said Chang, with probably as much rue as a man's voice could safely hold. “I know it.”
“You've been concealing a black hole in your mine. For twelve years.”
“We slipped a decimal point in the ordnance calculations,” Chang said defensively. “Well, we slipped several. But accidents happen everywhere, right? And I hasten to add, this is a safe black hole, relatively speaking. It's got about half a neuble's mass on it; so its event horizon is too small to swallow protons, obviously, or Element Pit wouldn't be here, and this conversation wouldn't be happening. We'd've been crushed through the eye of yonder needle within a few minutes of the accident that birthed it.”
“Uh-huh,” Conrad agreed, fighting hard not to appear surprised. Ideally, he should seem to be a step or two ahead of anything a rogue like Chang might do or say.
“But it can take in two or three electrons before the like-charge repulsion starts holding them out,” Chang went on, “so it's a charged particle, and an ordinary magnetic fusion bottle is sufficient to contain it. It's funny, if you think about it, that the charge of one electron can hold up a billion tons of mass. But it's a lucky thing, eh? Gravity is weak enough to be toyed with; electromagnetism just is.”
“This is a serious fuckup,” was all Conrad could think to say.
“Aye, sir. We're well aware.”
“I expect you are,” Conrad began, and would have launched into a longer lecture on the propriety of concealing one's fuckups from the authorities who might actually be able to do something about them. He would have done this, yes, had his curiosity not gotten the better of him. “What's the radius of that tube?” he asked instead.