I’m turning it over and over in my head and I keep asking myself: what should I have done different? Was going back to get them jacks the best thing I could do? I wonder if everybody made it out OK. And I also wonder—if someone did get killed or hurt—if maybe it ain’t my fault a little bit. But what else could I have done?
Cranky Old Tanner is wiping glasses in his sink. “You off work already, Straker?” he asks.
“Hi Mr. Tanner, I say. “Yup, you might say I’m off work. I got fired.”
“Well ain’t that a pisser,” he says, lifting his furry eyebrows and shaking his head. “Heard they had an accident down there. Roof fell, I hear.”
Word in Shacktown travels fast, and it travels directly to Old Tanner. I tell him all about it anyways. I tell him my side of the story, because I’m sure he’ll hear the other side from the net. Old Tanner ain’t a bad sort to talk to about these things; not sure if he really cares or if it’s all just part of the job to him, but at this point I’ll take what I can get.
“Well,” he says, “another bite of the crap sandwich. I don’t see how you deserve to be fired, though. Ain’t like anybody got killed.”
“Oh, is that a fact?” I ask.
“Yup. It’s all on the net. Few bruises is all. The big machine got bent up.”
“Well, that’s good anyways. Ain’t none of them my friend, but I don’t wish no ugly on them neither. But thanks for telling me—I couldn’t bring myself to check my wrist.”
“That superintendent overreacted,” says Tanner, pulling up a fresh beer mug from the grey water. “People have gotten just plain mean here in Shacktown. It didn’t used to be this way. Used to be right cordial. Things just kinda went bad when, well you know…”
“When my Pops ripped everybody off.”
He looks down at his sink and rubs the glass in his hand with extra vigor. “Yea, that was a part of it. Nothing to do with you, Straker. But it was also when Malapert got their fancy water tech. Our guys just couldn’t compete in the market no more. Took the soul right out of the town—everything’s been downhill ever since.”
“Most of that was before my time. You’d think somebody would figure something out by now. Some new way to make money.”
“Oh, well, sure,” he says, nodding. “Things are bound to get better. There’s the stroid mining; that’s about the only thing keeping us afloat. They’ll hit it big one day, just wait. You finish up with the Corps training?
“Yup,” I say. “Couple months back. Now I just need a ride.”
“Well, you’ll get your chance,” he says.
I nod. The ships sally every few months, one should be coming up soon.
Old Tanner leans in. “We got company,” he says, nodding towards the door, then picking up another wet mug.
The Provisional Government marshal is walking in. He’s the face of ProvGov within Shacktown and Tycho and Malapert—pretty much everyplace south of the equator. I had my share of unlovely moments with the marshal in the not-too-far-off past but that’s all behind me now. Old Tanner looks at me over his spectacles. “You want some fried lamb and frittes? It’s what’s on special. Plus it’s all I got.”
“Yea, thanks,” I say. “I’m starved.”
The marshal—Devian Baumann—sits down on the stool next to me. “Beer,” he says to Old Tanner. Then he looks at me and says, “Hello Straker. You been behaving yourself?”
“Hi Marshal,” I say. “Yup, I been so good folks hardly know it’s me.”
“Understand you were involved in a cave-in,” he says.
“I couldn’t bolt the roof fast enough to keep up. I believe they hit some soft rock.”
“Story coming from Ickes is that you left them unprotected,” says Baumann.
“What! That’s a load of codswallop—I’m gonna find that old coot and…”
“Simmer down, Straker. Don’t do anything foolish. Won’t look good at the inquest.”
“Inquest? There’s gonna be an inquest?”
“Yup. They need to figure out who gets the blame. Standard procedure. Somebody could get charged.”
Old Tanner slides the plate of lamb in front of me and a glass of brew in front of Baumann, trying hard not to hear what’s going on. I wait until Tanner goes to the back room, then speak low. “But marshal it weren’t my fault. I warned Ickes to slow down.”
“Well, it’ll be your word against his then.
I feel the blood rush to my face and clench my fists and it’s all I can do to keep from cursing out loud.
“Well, maybe it won’t be so bad,” says the marshal, as he stares straight in front of him at the wall and sips his beer.
“What do ya mean?” I ask.
He takes his time, sips his beer, then says real low: “I mean, maybe I could make it go away.”
“You mean that? You would do that?”
“I said maybe. Maybe you’ll do something good for me too.”
“I’m listening,” I say.
Baumann pulls out a little pad from his jacket pocket and brings up a page. He slides the pad over to me. There’s a notice about a mining mission. The marshal turns on his stool and looks at me. “There’s an asteroid ship leaving in a few days. I got word that they’re short a crewman.”
“Really?” I say, looking up. “Think I could get on?”
“Yes I do. You’re done with training, right? Between salary and profit-sharing, it could be a pretty good take for you.”
“What about the inquest? Don’t I need to be there?”
“I could write it up like you said, like it wasn’t your fault. You wouldn’t be a person of interest. That’s what I could do.”
But I know ain’t nothing for free. “What do I need to do?” I ask.
“ProvGov wants to keep an eye on this ship. “Just keep us informed about what’s going on with this mission, that’s all. In return, I protect you from the inquest and we’ll set you up over at Malapert when you get back. You’ll be out of this dump. It’ll be a fresh start. What do you say?”
I got no reason to doubt him. He ain’t no friend of mine, but he’s mostly been square with me in the past. Plus I reckon the government’s got a right to keep an eye on things. Most important, it’s a way out of the mining fiasco, and it’s a job and a future, and right now that’s two things I need.
“OK,” I say, and nod, covering a fritte with watery ketchup and biting down. My appetite is returning.
“Good. Now get yourself over to the Corps offices. You need to apply today. If you get on the crew, I’ll be in touch.”
“I’m obliged. Hope I get on.”
“I have a feeling you will.” He chugs down the remainder of his beer and waves over to Old Tanner. “The kid’s meal is on me.”
“Thanks Marshall,” I say. “Be talking to ya.”
“Yes you will,” he says, pats me on the shoulder, and strolls out the swinging doors, whistling some happy tune.
* * * * *
A sign on the wall says Overlook. I check the calendar on my wristy; it’s a good time, the libration is at a good state. I should be able to see everything. I deserve a look. I open the scratched-up blue door and start the spiral climb up the tower stairs. This is where Pops first took me years ago—a place where fancy visitors and investors came to see the facility, the one place where they could appreciate the entire enterprise.
I’m a tad winded when I arrive at the top. I walk into the big dome. It’s made of special glass, thick enough to hold the atmo and block most the rays but not a good place to spend time. Locals are told to limit their visits here; the radiation effects are cumulative over a lifetime. One more way to get killed in Shacktown.
There’s only a few other people, keeping mostly to themselves, pointing and talking softly. Everything sounds funny on account of the shape of the walls; I can make out most of what they’re saying even though they’re at the distance. I look over towards Malapert Mountain; I can just see the tip of it glowing in reflected sunlight. The t
op always shines like that. That’s one reason it’s become a tourist mecca, with swimming pools and casinos and attractions for appetites too unseemly to think on, even for me. But Malapert ain’t what I’m looking for, it’s what’s hovering above it.
There she is, making her majestic appearance, that breathtaking sphere perched low in the sky, like a jewel from a fairy tale. The Marble. Earth. Regal and spectacularly blue, painted with green forests and tawny deserts under feathery white clouds, majestic and huge and mighty and awesome. It makes my heart pound. It fills me with a powerful hard yearning. Why would anyone leave such a place?
I shake my head to push back the blues. This is why I don’t hardly come up here. I spend a minute remembering the first time I saw this sight, standing right here with Pops, fresh from Earth. How excited I was. I reach over with my right hand and finger the bracelet on my left wrist, hanging there just below my wristy, where I’ve worn it ever since Pops gave it to me. It fits my wrist now, unlike back then, when it was much too big, always falling off. It’s unique, custom made, with its distinctive rocket and asteroid engraving, a trademark of the renowned Hiromi Yuuta. It reminds me of who I am. Reminds others too. I’ve taken it off half a dozen times, vowing to leave it off and destroy it so maybe people will forget and just leave me be. But I always put it back on.
I look over the monotone of gray and shadows and mountains rippling from here to the horizon. Off to my left I see the terminator line that separates night from day; where the dust rises when the sun hits it and reflects the light in a glowing haze. To my right I see the star-like glint of the New America space colony, hovering out there in a Lagrangian point. It’s the faraway home to all the movers and shakers of cislunar space. Never been there but maybe someday.
In a few more 24-hour cycles, the sun will be hitting the Earth-facing side of Luna. The people of Tycho and the other towns up that way will have to stay in their caves out of the godawful heat and adjust to a new reality after two weeks of night. As for Shacktown, it only means that the sun will beam in from another angle, since we are exactly at Luna’s south pole.
I walk over to the other side of the room and peer down into the blackness of the crater. Shacktown was officially known as Shackleton Crater Telescope Support Facility. Deep in the crater sits the Big Scope. It’s nearly five klicks down from here, where it’s so cold that even gasses stay liquid. Used to be a good bit of water ice down there, but that was scraped out years ago, before the Scope was built.
So should I do this? If I get on the crew, I’ll have to do the spying. I know better than to cross Baumann. I’d have a target on my back the rest of my life. Plus, the people of Shacktown have a big investment in the Consortium and the Corps and they don’t much trust ProvGov. I’d need to leave Shacktown for good. But then I think about Ickes and the superintendent and getting punched in the nose; I think about growing up in an orphanage and the look that everybody gives me when they find out my last name. Why would I want to stay here anyways?
My wristy buzzes; it’s time. I kill the alarm and head back for the stairs. Two stern-looking women are between me and the door, bunched together closely, whispering and giving me the side-eye. They’re looking at the bracelet. “Excuse me” I mutter and circle around them. I can feel their bugging-out beady eyes on the back of my head as I jog down the stairs. It’s that Yuuta kid, they’re thinking. Ain’t no short of ugly in this town. I don’t fit in here and never will.
Screw it. I’m taking Baumann’s deal. If I’m gonna be hated anyways, might as well be hated for something I’ve actually done instead of something Pops did.
I hustle down the stairs, then down one more flight, past the greenhouse to the floor where all the offices are situated. It’s a long corridor, arcing off to the right to match the curve of the crater rim. I come to the door. Corps offices. My heart is pounding like a jackhammer.
I take a breath. I twist the handle.
The room is official-looking. It’s sterile and stern and gives me an uncomfortableness but I reckon I best stay. At least it’s warm. I open the top snap of my coveralls. The man at the desk looks at me with disapproval, then I realize why: dust from the mine is still clinging to my pant legs. I pull out a sticky-roller from a pocket and give it a few passes. Nobody likes dust.
The letters above the front desk say Merchant Astronaut Corps, then below that, in smaller letters: A Division of the Cislunar Consortium. Everybody in Shacktown knows about the Consortium. They had a big hand in populating the town. It’s that collection of companies that has built all the major space structures out there, like the huge satellites that supply Earth with power and the space colonies hanging at the L2 Lagrangian point. Making big things requires lots of steel, so a few years ago they went into the stroid mining business. Pops was a big part of that.
Once the Earthers decided to sell the Big Scope and the crater facilities to the highest bidder, the Consortium snapped it up. Then they changed it around to a commercial enterprise, invited folks to move in, and started water-mining in a big way. But things went downhill in a big way.
I look around. The walls are peppered with space posters. Each ship in the small fleet has its own artistically rendered image. There’s also pictures of stroids they have mined, as well as old Apollo pictures and a collection of vintage movie posters: Star Wars and Star Trek are two that I recognize. There are three men and two women sitting in chairs by the wall, passing time by reading the displays on their wrists, two of them reading something on larger pad displays. All of them are older than me. One of the women looks up at me, and of course once she sees the bracelet she looks back down.
“Name?” says the doughy signing agent seated at the desk.
I turn to face him.
“Oh never mind,” he says before I can answer. “I know who you are.”
He frowns, makes a few rapid finger-punches on his pad, and squints at my file. “Yuuta, Yuuta…here it is. You have completed the coursework I see. So that’s good. All right then…” He hands me a pad. “Here’s the written test. Time limit is three hours.” He shows me to a small exam room off the waiting area. Meanwhile I’m thinking that I really should have prepared better. Too late now. I sit down at a little table and start in.
For two hours I click boxes and fill in answers to questions, struggling to remember all the stuff I learned in the coursework. Once I get rolling, it kinda comes back to me and I don’t have much trouble. Finally, I’m done. I check my work over and hand the pad back to the man behind the desk. He enters a code into the pad.
“I’m surprised you didn’t use the whole three hours. And your test score,” he says, “let’s see how you did…”
His eyebrows pop up and he does a classic double take. I may from the wrong side of the tracks but I ain’t stupid. Come to think of it I’m not sure which side of the tracks is the wrong side. It’s an Earth thing I picked up from an old movie: Dirty Dancing, I think. Need to look that up.
“Um, acceptable,” mumbles the agent, his eyes glued to the pad. “Have a seat and you’ll be called in for the next set of tests.”
The men and women that were waiting have all gone. I take a seat by myself and wait. And wait. I tap my shoes on the carpet, look at the posters, put my head back and remember the sting of getting fired for no good reason.
I pop out of my day dream when a woman storms in from one of the back rooms; I recognize her as one of the women sitting here earlier. She strides past me, her face all crabby and red. She yanks on the door to the outside and is gone in a jiffy. A youngish man in a sage-green lab coat comes from the same back room. He walks to the front desk with an oh well expression on his face. He lays a pad down on the desk and exchanges a few quiet words with the agent. He picks up another pad.
“Yuuta?” he asks, looking at me with a question in his eyes.
“That’s me,” I reply. He motions for me to follow. I walk behind him and his lab coat through a set of double doors at the back of the office suite.
The lab is a large, echoing room with a high ceiling. The upper portion of one wall is glass and I can see technicians sitting at consoles, drinking coffee and chatting. In the middle of the room sits a sort of lounge chair. The technician motions for me to sit in the chair. He asks me to roll up a sleeve. “We’re going to put you through a series of tests,” he says, like he’s reciting from a memorized script. “The tests are run through an immersive simulation.” He takes a hypo and small bottle from a steel roll-around cart and fills the needle. “This is a mild psychotropic,” he says. “It will make the simulation more realistic and help you react more normally.”
I didn’t know I’d be getting a shot. Not real fond of those. “So I’m taking this test high on drugs?” I ask.
“No,” he says, with a wan smile. “It doesn’t work like that. It’s very mild, really, and it only lasts for a short time.”
He wipes a spot on my forearm with a cotton ball. I smell the alcohol and feel the pinch of the needle as he expertly injects the drug. He makes some notations on his pad, then asks, “Do you have any metal on your body?”
“Well I do wear a metal bracelet,” I say.
The technician inspects my wrist. “Oh, that’s right. You’re Straker Yuuta; I just made the connection. So that’s the bracelet. It’s really interesting looking.”
“Thanks I reckon,” I say, taking it off and putting it in the tray he’s holding out.
“Wrist instrument too, please,” he says. “Do you have any metal inside your body?”.
“No, I say as I lay my wristy in the tray. “I’ve had a few broken bones but never needed no metal.” I leave it at that; don’t think he needs the details of my genteel upbringing. There were a few—more than a few—rough patches through the years. Needed stiches sometimes, but no metal.
“All right, that’s good.”
The technician picks up an oversized helmet and shows it to me. Where I would expect to see a visor, there’s a thick transparent plate. A fat umbilical cord trails out the back of the helmet, connected at the other end to a royal blue rack of blinking, humming equipment.
Love and Other Metals Page 2