Plague Planet (The Wandering Engineer)

by Hechtl, Chris

  “Yes?” Sprite asked.

  “What happened to the people there? The people in the resorts and the people in the prisons?”

  “According to what records I've managed to access, the prisoners stayed in prison until basic utilities broke down. Most of the correctional officers were bots so they couldn't break out.”

  “Oh?”

  “There were maybe a thousand on each island. A few attempted to escape, with predictable and final results for each attempt. Eventually those that served out their sentences were released to the mainland.”

  “Ah,” Irons replied. “Where they had no work, no means of income... credit was about useless...”

  “True. They were released near the resort. Resort security had been breaking down over time, it eventually failed. The people within were sheep.”

  The admiral winced. “Lambs to the slaughter?”

  “Something to that effect. People saw them as parasites, they demanded food and goods but didn't contribute to the welfare of the colony. When they lost power no one helped them, in fact many probably helped burn them down and looted the place.”

  “Possibly,” Irons replied.

  “The prison islands were all controlled by a network of computers in the resort. When it went down...”

  “No back up?” Irons asked, now surprised.

  “No back up and it was also their primary source of power. With both gone the bots ran out of power. The prisoners escaped.”

  Irons winced.

  “Yes it's as bad as you think it was, at least on the west coast. It took time, but eventually the smarter ones either formed their own posses or joined existing mobs.”

  “Ah,” Irons said nodding.

  “Many of the white collar criminals that survived the riots disappeared into the population. A few made names for themselves as mayors or as victims of someone with an ax to grind.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Anyone who tried to set up a city or center of government during the dark times were torn down. They just drew a big target around themselves that said they had goods to steal and come get them. Eventually the lesson was learned and everyone kept a low profile.”

  “I'll bet,” the admiral replied as he finished wiring the console he had been working on. “POST?”

  “Power On Self-Test complete Admiral, this substation is ready for business,” Sprite said as the admiral climbed out from under the console and dusted his hands off. He smiled politely to the rather frumpy looking man nearby.

  “It works?”

  “It's working now,” the admiral replied, pointing to the sea of green lights on the console. It controlled the hydroelectric facilities on the river. The engineer adjusted his glasses with finicky precision and then went over the board, checking his clipboard. He hummed slightly.

  “It looks good.”

  “I've done what I can. You need to replace the turbines in shaft two though, they were badly made. The others could be replaced in turn with better made materials when they come available.”

  “Oh?” the man asked absently.

  “Copper cladding would act as an antimicrobial preventing the muscle growth problem you've got that is clogging your systems.”

  “Interesting,” the man murmured. “Though I believe the otters who service that equipment might object,” he said.

  “True,” the admiral said with a nod. “Anything else?”

  “Can you look at the feeder station? We're losing energy there,” the man said.

  “Sure Mr. Martin, no problem,” Irons replied walking out.

  “Not so much as a thank you,” Sprite murmured for his ears alone.

  “I'm not doing it for thanks,” Irons replied. “Proteus, transmission station design. Sprite can you do an encyclopedia check for historical precedence to help us along?”

  “Oh very well. Though I don't see why, you've repaired four others this week already,” Sprite grumbled, getting to work as the admiral pounded down the wrought iron stairs to the ground door below.

  “Any word on the sleepers?” he asked as his eyes adjusted to the bright sunlight as he opened the door.

  “No, not a word. Apparently they are storing them until they finish wrangling over what to do with them,” Sprite replied, sounding disgusted. “Apparently they don't want to put the genie back in the bottle once they get them out.”

  “It would be tacky of them. 'Um, can you folks get back in the pods? We want to sell you to someone else,'” the admiral mocked as he reached the rusted iron door. Text and image files of transmission substations were flashing in a window on one side of his HUD. He oriented onto the spaghetti mess of wiring and sighed.

  “This is going to take a while,” he said.

  “Well, since the fuel is still a problem and the contracts in Gotham and Metropolis are stalled on the company’s ends we don't have much else to do,” Sprite sighed.

  “True,” Irons said, walking to the fence protecting the transmission equipment. He could hear it hum, feel the electrical energy crackling around it. His eyes narrowed, some of the energy was going through the fence. Either someone had gotten smart and electrified it, or something was using it as a ground. Either way they were losing a lot of energy there, it wasn't designed as an electric fence.

  “The fence is hot,” Sprite warned unnecessarily. The admiral grunted. “Admiral, I think you've been going about this wrong. Or at least partially wrong.”

  “In what way?” the admiral asked, studying the fence and lines. Proteus highlighted each as it traced the connections.

  “Have you ever heard the expression, 'Feed a man a fish you feed him for a day, but teach a man to fish you feed him for life'?” Sprite asked.

  The admiral grunted. “So your saying this isn't working?”

  “We're talking about localized impacts admiral. It's time we looked at the bigger picture. Instead of fixing a clinic in Podunk out in the boonies, or handing over a text book it's time to get with the industries and pass on what we've got. If one balks others might not and just the idea of competition and of others getting a jump over them will force them to listen.”

  “True,” Irons replied thoughtfully, looking away from his current project. Sprite was right, he'd neglected the big picture in favor of the little one. Strategic over tactical. He'd been so focused on it... it had been therapy in some ways, salving his bruised ego after Antigua, but still. She was right, they needed to remain focused on the big picture. Slowly he smiled a little. Fox was a nice guy and all, he didn't want to screw him over, but if his board was dragging its heels maybe giving the data to other companies might light a fire under their asses.

  “I know that smile. You're up to something,” Sprite replied warily. He had a mischievous smile and her readings of his emotional stability read pure mischief, which boded ill for someone.

  “True. You know me so well,” he teased. “Think you can set up feelers to manufacture other goods?” the admiral asked.

  “Such as?” Sprite asked.

  “Oh I don't know, medical supplies, factory equipment, the basics. Start small though and feel it out. Sell the blueprints or hell, give them away if you can't find a buyer. Same for the manufacturing steps involved. Start with what you think they can absorb,” he said.

  “That's a broad order admiral,” Sprite replied cautiously.

  “Use your initiative and your discretion.”

  “I'll need bandwidth,” she cautioned.

  “Take all you need. Link to Phoenix and get him involved. He's probably bored and lonely.”

  “Understood,” Sprite replied, practically rubbing her virtual hands together in glee. This was something of interest to her... and it would further their cause immensely.

  ...*...*...*...*...

  “You were right,” the admiral said quietly, lying in bed sometime later. He'd almost ended up camping in his air car that night, there hadn't been any available rooms in town. The local doctor had taken him in out of gratitude and possibl
e pity when he heard Irons on the phone trying to find a room. It was annoying, he'd spent hours helping the man out with his clinic. One question about the sleepers and the doctor had turned gruff and taciturn.

  The room wasn't much but it was shelter for the next couple of hours as another thunderstorm raged outside. It didn't help shelter him from the storm brewing within. He was frustrated. He should be happy, he'd achieved a lot today. But he'd done that every day for nearly a month on this planet. It felt like he was running in place, not getting anywhere and Sprite had pointed out exactly why.

  “About what?” Sprite asked.

  “I was so focused on the tactical side, using it as a balm, that I neglected to see the strategic side,” he said finally.

  “I think...” Sprite said slowly. “I think you did it for several reasons, most likely subconscious. You tend to dive into engineering projects to distract yourself from your emotional side. But I also think you weren't happy about some greedy person not only getting credit, but also getting rich off of what you provide them with.”

  “Something like that,” the admiral said, rolling onto his side. “Yeah,” he admitted. “That bothered me. This planet is a lot like Pyrax. It's one big snake pit. Someone getting the credit.... I'm not sure I care about that. But gouging people on something I handed over for free... yeah. And if they held up critical supplies like medicine?”

  “Yes that would be frustrating,” Sprite replied. “We need to screen for individuals more interested in the common good than in their own profit. Some profit is fine, a healthy dose of self-interest is common in organics, but some here...”

  “And Digones had trouble finding an honest man!” Irons snorted bitterly.

  “It's not just finding one Admiral, it's finding one who will remain honest in the long term,” Sprite responded. “Though Fox is a good bet. He's accessing everything from why copper is microbial to how to make and put glycerin in pressure gauges.”

  The admiral nodded. “Good for him.”

  “But I'm still concerned no one has called about that. I'm concerned he's just taking the info and running with it. Hoarding it.”

  “Yeah, power corrupts,” Irons sighed and closed his eyes. “Well, we'll work on it. Night Sprite.”

  “Good night Admiral,” Sprite responded automatically.

  ...*...*...*...*...

  Helen put the word out to be on the lookout for Admiral Irons. Her staff asked if they should contact the authorities but she shook her head no. “No, he said he's going around helping the clinics. If he does, I want them to put him back in contact with me immediately,” she said.

  An hour after the word went out she got a call back from Doctor Quincy over in Wex village. Wex was a small town near the great lakes. The elderly man was something of a womanizer, splitting his time between his house, his beloved boat on the weekends, and his practice. He served as the local doctor, coroner, and mortician.

  Quincy reported that Irons had been over that day, the man had spent the day improving his practice and repairing virtually every machine in sight before he'd ended up sleeping at the doctor's house in his drafty guest room. “I almost didn't do it. He's a nice guy and all, but weird. Freaked a lot of people out with what he was doing. People don't act that way! It's not natural I tell you!”

  “Is he there?” Helen asked patiently.

  “No, he got into his air car after breakfast and left this morning,” Quincy replied absently. “But I tell you...”

  Helen ground her teeth together. When Quincy wound down she clicked her teeth. He quieted. “Did he say where he was going?” she asked patiently.

  “No, I'm not sure. He just waved good bye and left.”

  “All right, thank you doctor. If you see him again please pass on the message that I wish to speak with him again. It's very important,” she said. She'd heard that someone was putting out feelers to the medical industries for new medicines, equipment, and supplies. She had a feeling she knew who it was, but she wanted a hand in whatever he was stirring up.

  “Sure, sure director,” the old man said. “Good day,” he said almost as an afterthought.

  “Good day to you too doctor,” she replied as the dial tone clicked on. She grimaced and hung up. “Manners,” she murmured.

  She put in a call to Hank. Hank was scared, he sounded paranoid, talking in almost monosyllables. She tried to reassure him and then offered to put him up. He readily agreed. He babbled on about someone was after him, how his room had been broken into.

  “Then it's settled. Get here now. Take the next transport Hank, tell them to bill me,” Helen said firmly. She had thought about it. If she could get her hands on Hank's replicator it would go a long ways to cutting her supply cost. She could rework the budget from that.

  “I'm already packing,” Hank replied. “I can send for the other stuff or I can make more. I've got what I really need here,” he said.

  “Catch the red eye flight then,” she said with a nod.

  “I will, thanks Doctor Richards,” he said.

  “It's Helen, Hank, don't you forget it,” she said with a smile. “I'll talk to you once you are here,” she said.

  “Will do. Have a good day, I'll hopefully see you tonight,” he said just as she hung up.

  ...*...*...*...*...

  Fat Larry had also heard about the sleepers and was interested in them as well. He was also aware that the competition was as well. Hodges had taken a mild interest, but not enough, apparently he thought they were too hot a product to move.

  Larry however thought differently. He sent Books to check them out and maybe steal a couple of the sleepers if possible. He knew his people wouldn't be able to make off with the entire kit and caboodle, but if they played it right they maybe could get in, pull a switcheroo and make off with the goods before anyone knew what was going on.

  He could always ransom them back to whoever wanted them the most later. Hell, maybe he'd start an auction! He was pleased with the whole idea and had even arranged a cut out. If things got too hot the sleepers and whoever pinched them for him would end up as gator food.

  Books looked around the area. Their source was right on the money. Which he should be, considering what money he'd been promised for the tip. Not that the little putz had lived long enough to enjoy it, the boss had said no loose ends.

  No, Books knew he was on thin ice. He'd managed to scrape by when Biscuits had been popped, and that whole mess with the Irons contract had damn near punched his ticket permanent like. But he'd managed to convince the boss he hadn't been involved, which he hadn't been. He didn't know who did it, but the boss had killed Biscuit's wife, parents, and kid just to be sure.

  That had bothered him, popping them. Fat Larry was a bastard, having Books himself do the deed. He'd sat at the supper table with them, bounced the kid on his knee for years and years. Damn it. He'd kept it clean, going in at night and killing them with his garrote one at a time. He kept imagining Irons or Fat Larry in his cross hairs each time he'd killed one of them. A few days later whoever had put the contract out on that smug bastard Irons had gotten the message and canceled it though, so it had saved his bacon.

  And now, here he was running his own crew. Funny how life turned out like that. Of course he knew he was responsible for them all, and he was very much aware that any one of them could turn on him with their own ice orders an instant he let his guard down. Going out for a ride with the boys had a lot of connotations in his profession, all of them negative. Usually you waited until the target let his guard down, smiling and such to him as you shoved a knife in his back or put to rounds in the back of his head.

  He slept in his room with the door locked and a chair propped under the knob. He couldn't be too careful, but he couldn't look too nervous either, that'd get you killed just as easily. But so far, the past couple weeks had worked out. Irons hadn't gotten clipped, he'd actually been thankful for that, and he too was still alive.

  “No one around?” Benny asked. Books lo
oked at the kid.

  “Everyone's got to eat sometime kid. I heard this is the guard’s lunch hour,” he said with a grimace.

  “That a fact,” the punk snidely said. Books slapped him upside the head.

  “You're here to do a job, not run your mouth. How about doing the job? Case the back side. See if there's a door or window open. Don't touch nothin in case it's rigged.”

  “Gotcha,” Benny said, moving out. He was good, nonchalant, not slinking around and potentially drawing attention to himself. It was ballsy doing this in broad daylight. Books had counted on no one being around, but he'd forgotten this was a warehouse town, people worked here. It wasn't like the houses where they went off to work, no here, they worked here, sometimes taking shipments in at any hour of the day or night. Great.

  But it seemed to be working out, no one was around this area, everyone was off at the lunch wagons or nearby restaurants or bars. He and his crew had watched them all file out of the buildings a few minutes ago and then disperse. No, if anything, now was the time. Night time would be too dangerous, too easy for a jumpy guard to sound an alarm if Benny tripped over his own two feet.

  “How many of them are there?” Rory asked from behind him.

  Books looked over his shoulder briefly. “Boss said plenty. Five or six. I think six. He said get them all, though it might be better to just take a few. We'll play it by ear.”

  “We doing it now?”

  “No, we'll come back later. Now I just want a look around. Get a feel for the layout you know?” Books said. Rory grunted in irritation, obviously scared and wanting to get it over with. Well, that was just too damn bad Books thought. He was a thinker, a planner. He'd let Biscuits go because the big lug had a way about him, and it was fun to watch. If anything happened he'd just point to the thick headed fool... as he had with the whole Irons incident. But here, no, best to be careful.