Calculated Risk

by K. S. Ferguson

  Roshal laughed. "Tug crew? You ever been to the asteroid belt before? Naw, it's just an old ore-hauling tug, not some star cruiser. I call it Ol' Betsy after a girl I almost married. Helps remind me why I stay single. So do you work for EcoMech or not? Seems like working in the family business oughta be pretty cushy. I wonder why a man would walk away from that."

  Good news at last. He'd found someone who could get him off the station. All he had to do was side-step the familial interrogation and get Roshal to agree.

  "I always had an independent streak." He began to feel every one of those myriad boot prints on his back and legs, not to mention the ache in his ribs. "If Levine's done a bunk, I guess you won't be operating Ol' Betsy much longer. I should think you'd be first in line for promotion to station manager."

  "That kinda all depends, doesn't it?" The shipping manager squinted up at the synth-blood, tilting his head to read the label. "Huh, like I thought—out of date."

  Rafe stared up at the bag, and the heart monitor missed a plink. The stuff lasted forever. Just how old was it?

  "Depends?" he mumbled.

  "On whether there's any station left when the dust settles." The man swept his unfriendly gaze over Rafe and shook his head. "The guys would have to vote me in as station manager, and they'd rather have Ed, assuming little ol' Independent Mining can prove it owns the place, of course. Don't know as I'd put money on that happening."

  Rafe tore his eyes from the bag. "If EcoMech owns the station, it'll be up to Leon Goldman to decide."

  "You think that Goldman guy would promote me?" Roshal sauntered off.

  Truthfully? Leon would eat you alive. But Rafe didn't say that. "Goldman's no fool. He'll want someone who knows the operation so the station produces efficiently through this transition."

  "Hmm," said Roshal from somewhere across the room. "If I'm going to work for a man, I like to meet him first, face to face. Maybe you could call him on the radio and arrange that?"

  "Might be possible." Hope flickered to life. Progress at last. He felt better already. "Consider that you might make a better impression if you showed him how you'd taken command."

  "Yeah? What do ya got in mind?"

  "You could take me to the EcoMech ship with you, and I could introduce you to Goldman. You'd gain his favor by defusing this potential hostage situation." Rafe waited to see if his bait worked.

  Roshal appeared at the foot of the cot, scratching at his rough cheek. "I can't drag that cot to the airlock. Besides, I wouldn't get too friendly a welcome home if the guys find out I helped you."

  "I'm restricted only until this evening. If we go then, I can walk." A small stretch of the truth, but if he didn't get off the station, he could face another angry mob. "I'd make the risk worth your while."

  "Oh?" Roshal leaned closer, showing a mouthful of yellowed, uneven teeth. "What's a trip worth to you?"

  "A thousand credits?" He held his breath.

  The man threw back his head and laughed. "Not enough."

  "Five thousand." He could hear the desperation in his voice. "Ten."

  The shipping manager sauntered toward the door. "I'll think about it."

  Rafe went slack, energy reserves gone, uncertain whether he'd see another day.

  Chapter 8

  Kama laughed inwardly as the tech charged past her out the door of the com center. A few words conveying a phony request to help Janice Fisher in the infirmary, and the man had flown from his desk like air rushing from a hull breach. She locked the door behind him and took his seat at the console. The smile slid from her face as her call to Samir connected.

  Slim and muscular, dark hair touched with gray at the temples, and olive face ominous, Samir filled the view screen. "This is unexpected."

  "I apologize for disturbing you outside our normal communication channels," she replied, acknowledging their unsecured line. "I wanted to let you know that I'd arrived safely. I would have contacted you sooner, but the station experienced communication issues."

  One almond-shaped eye twitched. "Issues?"

  "Yes, but it didn't prevent me from sending your birthday present. It's on a cargo drone headed for Earth orbit. It left here shortly after I arrived. I wasn't able to check your present's condition." She held her breath.

  Samir went very still. She expected frost to form on the view screen so cold was the displeasure in his gaze. He hated complications, and she'd barely started listing them.

  "Inconvenient. I'll see the package is retrieved." He smoothed the front of his immaculate gray suit with long, thin fingers.

  She plunged on. "Unfortunately, your present isn't complete. Pieces are missing, and other collectors have taken an interest."

  His hand stopped in mid-stroke. "Other collectors?"

  Kama swallowed. Sweat moistened her palms where they rested on the console. He really wouldn't like the next news. "There's also a problem with the grant work I'm to do here for Independent Mining. Seems EcoMech claims to have bought the place, and Leon Goldman came in person to take possession. He has Rafael McTavish in tow."

  The intensity of Samir's stare rocked her back from the console.

  "Is Mr. McTavish aware of your presence?" he asked in a deadly calm voice.

  "We've been introduced," she replied.

  "It's a large station. Enjoy those parts where Mr. McTavish is not found," he ordered, his brows pulling down.

  "Well, that's the thing," she said, her voice rising in pitch. "There's a bit of a shooting war going on here, and he's been taken prisoner by the miners."

  His brows shot up, and then he mastered his composure. "Just tell me the rest, and quickly."

  "The station ownership seems to be in dispute, which may have repercussions for our little, uh, project. I expect EA will be on the scene soon." She licked her lips. "I'd like to be gone before they arrive."

  Samir tapped fingertips on his chin while he stared into space. He returned his gaze to her. "Oasis values you more than my present. Expect retrieval in the next six hours. Can you get clear of the station? I'd prefer a remote pickup."

  "Wait," she said, puzzled. "Why one or the other? Why not both?"

  He sighed. "It's a resource issue, some kind of maintenance problem… one that may require your consultation to fix."

  Kama frowned. So they were down to one working fast transport prototype instead of two. A normal ship couldn't arrive for at least twenty-four hours, and the remaining prototype wouldn't get there any sooner if it chased down the drone first. The thought of staying on the station another day took her breath away, but she wouldn't risk failure for the Sharma Network because Levine escaped. She gritted her teeth.

  "Go for the drone. I can hold on here."

  Samir shook his head. "Varun won't permit it. You come first."

  She slapped a hand on the console. "Like hell! If you send the ship for me instead of the drone, I quit. You can tell Varun I said so."

  He stared at her, and she glared back, unblinking, until her eyes burned. He looked away first.

  "All right, but stay away from McTavish and out of trouble."

  ***

  Every miner Kama passed on the way to the business office had some kind of weapon in his hands: lengths of pipe, hammers, laser cutters. And they all had murder in their eyes. With her delayed prospect for rescue, she felt like a tightrope walker working without a net.

  She hoped Browning had those guards in place—and that they could be trusted. The stunner she'd given McTavish wouldn’t stop a mob. Despite Samir's warning to steer clear of him, responsibility for the danger he faced fell squarely on her shoulders. She'd check in on him later, she promised herself. Her promise did nothing to ease her guilt.

  His gibe about her ability made her hackles rise, but she'd show him. With complete access to the station's computer network, she'd make sure no copies of the contract remained for prying eyes; then she'd ferret out who Levine sold it to. And she'd find out where the money had gone, too. Money trails always led to th
e guilty party. The miners didn't need McTavish's help.

  Kama stepped into the business office. Thick crystal portholes in the carpeted deck showed distant Jupiter and the surrounding starscape endlessly circling as the station's gravity carousel spun. The great red giant crossed the window and vanished. Bloodshot light fell dead on the pitted steel walls. Looking at all that empty void through the glass made the hairs on her neck rise.

  A miniature Mongol horde marched in neat ranks across a glass-fronted cabinet near Levine's desk. More than half were painted, mounts and men lit up in vivid color and intricate detail. The rest awaited decoration. She imagined him filling the lonely hours out here, brush in hand. Like his quarters, his office was all right-angles and razor-edged folds, a desert where a speck of dust would die of loneliness.

  Miss Patty sat at the desk, staring at a blank screen and dabbing tears from the corners of her eyes with a lacy handkerchief. The woman sniffled once and hid the handkerchief in her lap.

  "Now what do you want?" Her voice shook.

  "Browning asked me to look at your business server, and see if I can figure out what's going on."

  The manager's assistant tucked a few stray strands of dyed platinum blonde hair back into the bun on the top of her head. Beneath her makeup, the worry lines and the dark circles under her eyes aged her plain face ten years. She was probably closer to seventy than the sixty or so that Kama originally thought. What brought a woman like her out here?

  "That's just like Ed, making decisions without consulting anybody. He's a bully," Miss Patty said.

  "I'll need an account on the system, one with administrator rights," Kama said, dumping her duffel on Levine's beat-up desk next to an archaic terminal and a delicious-smelling plate of scones.

  The woman didn't budge from the chair. "I'm not sure I should give you unrestricted access, especially when Donald—Mr. Levine—isn't here to authorize it."

  She ground her teeth. "I'm doing this because Ed asked me, and since Levine did a runner, I have all the authorization I need."

  "Yuri's in charge whenever Mr. Levine leaves the station, not Ed. Did Yuri give you permission?"

  "Yes," she lied in a syrupy voice.

  "I'll need it in writing." Miss Patty's chin rose, fire in her eyes. "For the files."

  Kama considered returning to her quarters and just hacking the system. It would be faster and a lot less aggravating, but the woman was bound to rat her out if she did. With EA involved, she couldn't afford the fast, easy route. What could she use as a lever to dislodge the insufferable old busybody?

  "Certainly, I'll be happy to find Yuri and get permission in writing. Would you mind drawing up something that states why you delayed my access?" she asked, smiling and rolling doe eyes at the woman. "I mean, if things get violent again and the courts think that violence could have been prevented by reviewing the records sooner, I don't want to take the blame. A wrongful death lawsuit would wipe out my savings and keep me working until I'm ninety."

  "Well…" The fire in the woman's eyes morphed to concern, and she moved out of the chair. "If you give me a written statement saying you had authorization, I guess that would do for now. But you need to bring me Yuri's written permission at some point."

  "Of course, happy to," she replied, struggling to keep a straight face. "Now if I could just have the administrator password?"

  Kama shifted a framed photograph of Levine aside to make more room on the desk. In the picture, he was a small man in a precisely creased suit, smiling nervously at the camera with his hands folded in front of him. Apart from a thin gold wedding band on one finger, he seemed completely colorless. He looked too mousy for a thief, she decided, but then, he hadn't stolen the Oasis secret; it had fallen in his lap.

  Miss Patty removed the photograph and carried it to an adjoining office that wasn't much more than a cubbyhole with a desk. She scribbled something on a filmie and returned, clutching it to her chest. With a look of disapproval, she handed over the filmie.

  "There's your password."

  Kama could hardly believe her eyes. The old bat had written the password down instead of just telling it to her. Yes, filmie sheets could be blanked after use so their nano-substrate could be reused, but it you knew what you were doing, it was possible to retrieve what had previously been written. And the password was only six characters. She could have cracked it in less time than it had taken Miss Patty to write it down. She wondered in what century the woman received her computer training.

  She flicked on the desktop terminal. While it booted, she extracted a stick drive from her duffel and attached it to the archaic machine.

  "What's that for?" the assistant asked.

  "Oh, uh, it has a virus checking program that we Oasis techs always run on a system before interfacing with it."

  "You won't be installing that, will you? Mr. Levine is very fussy about what goes on the system. He doesn't want any downtime because some software update blocks processes or closes ports in the firewall."

  Kama rolled her eyes, then reached in her bag, pulled out a pair of black silk gloves, and slipped them on. A few taps on her nanocom and she had it networked with the station system. She moved the clunky keyboard aside.

  "Don't worry; the scanning software stays on the stick drive," she assured the woman. But the seek bot won't. She waved her hands in the air, as though she played an air piano. A torrent of computer code ripped across the screen, and the assistant sucked in a noisy breath. Bot uploaded, records downloading.

  Kama eyed the plate of scones, and her stomach growled. "May I have one of these?"

  Miss Patty touched a hand to her cheek, eyes on the screen, and pursed her lips. "I'm sure they're stale by now."

  She took that as tacit permission, stripped off a glove, and snatched a scone. It had a tender, crumbly texture that made her mouth water. Two more bites finished it. A hint of sweetness vied with the tart fresh fruit embedded in the batter.

  "Ohh," she moaned, regretting all her impatience with the woman. "Mmm, they're wonderful! Did you make these yourself?"

  Miss Patty's shy smile cracked her pancake make-up. "Well, yes. I bake things for our morning break most days, but with Donald… Mr. Levine not… "

  "Where do you get the strawberries?" Kama asked, trying to get a berry into her mouth and keep it off the desk. "Do they really deliver fresh fruit out here?"

  Miss Patty shook her head. "Oh, no. I get them from our hydroponics bay. But you must have been there already, mustn't you?"

  Well, I'll be… She reached for the last scone, and crumbs cascaded down her coveralls. The woman bounced up with a wastebasket, and helped brush her down.

  "Thanks," Kama said, blushing.

  "You made a bit of a mess of yourself, didn't you?"

  She looked at the huge red hydraulic fluid stain on the coveralls she still hadn't had time to change out of, and grinned ruefully. "Just a bit."

  "Don't worry. It'll wash right out."

  "I hope so. This is my favorite pair." She watched the assistant tidying every tiny crumb from the desk and floor and wondered whether Levine and the woman were more than co-workers. Had he shared his secrets with her?

  "You do realize that Levine isn't coming back?"

  Miss Patty jerked upright. "Mr. Levine is no coward, and there's no proof that he's done anything wrong. He's a wonderful manager, always very careful about his work. He'll spend hours checking and rechecking the daily reports on discovery and production, making sure he's got all the facts exactly right for the monthly roll-up.

  "If anyone gets sick or injured, he makes sure they get proper medical attention over at the jump gate station, not just from that half-baked med tech we have. He takes his responsibility for the men very seriously, not like some around here. He wouldn't abandon them."

  Incredulous, Kama rocked back in the chair. "But there's video of him sneaking away on an unmanned cargo drone in the middle of the night! Where was he going?"

  The woman narro
wed her eyes and stared down at Kama. "Maybe he was fleeing for his life."

  "Fleeing from whom?" she asked, her voice rising in disbelieve.

  "Ed Browning, for one. He's a dangerous man with a vile temper. Just yesterday afternoon, he was in here shouting at Mr. Levine. He nearly put his fist through the desk."

  "Really?" Kama said, drawing her face into a false expression of shock and disapproval. Things were finally getting interesting, and she sat straighter. "What were they arguing about?"

  Miss Patty turned her face away, color rising from her neck and disappearing under the makeup. "Oh, I couldn't say. My job requires discretion."

  After ten minutes, Kama thought about putting her own fist through Levine's desk. No amount of cajoling wheedled the information from the assistant. Eventually, Miss Patty cleared the scone plate from Levine's desk and left, taking her infuriating secret with her.

  Time to get down to business. She checked first to see what the seek bot had returned. Sure enough, there was the Oasis contract for a phenomenal amount of wassonite—a document that also contained undeleted comments some fool had left marching down the margins. The comments detailed a managerial debate of Oasis' negotiations with other facilities for massive amounts of the rare mineral. Oasis' competitors would kill for advance knowledge of their plans, especially for something on this scale.

  She replaced the old version with a new one—minus the comments—and made sure to cover any signs of her actions. To her surprise, she found no evidence of the contract attached to outgoing mail sent by anyone on the station. Had Levine been the only honest man in the galaxy and not sought to take advantage of Oasis' mistake? Then why did he run? And what about the buyout mess? Was it really some kind of scam cooked up between EcoMech and Galaxy after all? A clammy cold crawled over her skin.

  Kama turned her attention to Independent Mining's bank records. She'd expected a single account; she found two dozen. Money flowed in from hundreds of sources, swirled around through the accounts, splitting and recombining like snowflakes in a blizzard, and then gushed out again to a lengthy list of businesses and to the miners themselves as wages and dividends. None of it made any sense, except for the part that showed most of the current account balances near zero.