18 May 2012
3753 Cruithne: Cockroach Base
It was only a nickname, but it stuck; USSF/NATO didn't even know the object was there until three years before the Treaty of 1989 and even then, they thought the nearest occupied Edger location was on one of Neptune's moons. So you imagine the shock and denial when it turned out, post-Treaty, that they'd been at 3753 Cruithne all along.
04 May 2012
Frothup: Dropping In, Part 14
USSF-Reserve Lt. Rannie Wu didn't find the situation nearly as amusing as I did. Efficient as ever, she dismissed my guffaws with an incredulous glance and by the time I had my breath back, she was interrogating Handsome Dave and the two Edgers. We'd adjourned to the mostly-empty storeroom at the end of the hall, containing a haze of smoke, a ridiculously-tiny car and a card table and two chairs where Handsome Dave and the FCS Agent had been sitting, smoking and swapping information. The young assistant fetched additional chairs; by the time I sat down, resolved to keep my yap shut and my ears open, Rannie already had her phone out and was starting to brief Lupine's Security Director Mike Mathis — and through him, someone at Frothup Public Safety.
The Edger Extension Agent was determined to get involved; if I understood what I was overhearing, Mike was uncertain about it and local law enforcement wasn't too happy, either. Despite Dave's assurances, Rannie was deeply suspicious of the Edgers. And speaking of unhappy— as soon as the Lt. was sufficiently involved in her call, Handsome Dave had taken the opportunity to retrieve his phone, moved his chair to the edge of the group and had, though some combination of guilt, masochism and/or a strong sense of duty, managed to get through to The Chief; by my watch, it was well after dinner, shiptime. From the steady stream of quiet "Yessir, nosir" Dave's conversation could have been going better. He seemed unusually willing to take it without trying to explain himself; he's diplomatic but not spineless. Suddenly, he said, "No, she's here, Chief," and handed the phone to me. Ow.
There's no point in my attempting to transcribe the conversation. Suffice to say, I did not get through unscorched and at the end of it, there was no doubt where I would be the next day — in class at Irrational Numbers — or that I would be leaving the investigating to the professionals. I never did get a chance to explain my present involvement was entirely Lt. Wu's doing. It probably wouldn't've helped if I had; the Chief had been blindsided by Dave's abrupt disappearance and he was determined to get all the cats herded, no matter what it took. When he wound down and rang off, I handed the phone back to Dave, with a whispered,"Whew!"
Dave looked surprised. "You know why," he not-quite asked.
I didn't and my expression said as much.
"Oh! ...I don't know how to say it. Jonny Zed had a stroke early this morning and we lost at least three crew yesterday. Supposedly the Chief was in sickbay most of last night — I hear he had a close call."
I nodded, not wanting to interrupt..
Dave went on, "There's nothing official, but this happening, right after Captain James...."
All I could come up in reply was, "Oh, geesh." It seemed unlikely but with everything else that had happened, not improbable.
Twenty minutes later, my fellow Lupine crew members and I were on the road. I was failing to appreciate the back seat of a classic Beetle, while all 6' 4" of Handsome Dave was carefully occupying the front passenger seat.
The situation had ended almost cordially between ship, planet and FCS rep, with the local law agreeing to an FCS "liaison" and Sheriff Mike reluctantly going alone. Lt. Wu hadn't liked that much, nor had she liked the Agent Kimball's cheerful claim that she'd barged in only minutes before he'd been about to have Dave contact Lupine. Once we were crammed into the Bug and underway, she started to lecture Dave and he very diplomatically pointed out that A) she was not in his chain of command B) he'd already been in in contact with his boss and C) she was still not in his chain of command. It was not a happy ride.
I let things simmer for a block or more — at least Rannie wasn't fighting the traffic this time — then leaned forward to ask, "What was that in the hall with the guy?"
Rannie shrugged. "What 'that?'"
"The fight. Or whatever."
"That was a cocky Mil/Space idiot getting set down, was what. He is one, you know -- they always have them at the front desk of these offices. 'Space Marine,' hah!"
"No, I mean — USSF ran me through unarmed fighting and zero-g basics, but I was a tech-spec. Was that some kind of special martial art?"
She snorted. "You've seen too many Bruce Lee movies. It was just normal hand-to-hand, a little more than you'd have been taught. Great exercise, you know."
That last with barely a flicker of her eyes in my direction — I do kind of fight my waistline.
"Yes, but—"
"'But' nothing. I'm quick, I work out — and I do have an advantage on young Tech Huckleston: my training followed 12 years of gymnastics. And none of that kung fu movie silliness!"
I noticed Dave giving her a speculative look. Maybe he finds her personality abrasive but it seemed to me he might be willing to overlook it.
* * *
The Edger Extension Agent was determined to get involved; if I understood what I was overhearing, Mike was uncertain about it and local law enforcement wasn't too happy, either. Despite Dave's assurances, Rannie was deeply suspicious of the Edgers. And speaking of unhappy— as soon as the Lt. was sufficiently involved in her call, Handsome Dave had taken the opportunity to retrieve his phone, moved his chair to the edge of the group and had, though some combination of guilt, masochism and/or a strong sense of duty, managed to get through to The Chief; by my watch, it was well after dinner, shiptime. From the steady stream of quiet "Yessir, nosir" Dave's conversation could have been going better. He seemed unusually willing to take it without trying to explain himself; he's diplomatic but not spineless. Suddenly, he said, "No, she's here, Chief," and handed the phone to me. Ow.
There's no point in my attempting to transcribe the conversation. Suffice to say, I did not get through unscorched and at the end of it, there was no doubt where I would be the next day — in class at Irrational Numbers — or that I would be leaving the investigating to the professionals. I never did get a chance to explain my present involvement was entirely Lt. Wu's doing. It probably wouldn't've helped if I had; the Chief had been blindsided by Dave's abrupt disappearance and he was determined to get all the cats herded, no matter what it took. When he wound down and rang off, I handed the phone back to Dave, with a whispered,"Whew!"
Dave looked surprised. "You know why," he not-quite asked.
I didn't and my expression said as much.
"Oh! ...I don't know how to say it. Jonny Zed had a stroke early this morning and we lost at least three crew yesterday. Supposedly the Chief was in sickbay most of last night — I hear he had a close call."
I nodded, not wanting to interrupt..
Dave went on, "There's nothing official, but this happening, right after Captain James...."
All I could come up in reply was, "Oh, geesh." It seemed unlikely but with everything else that had happened, not improbable.
Twenty minutes later, my fellow Lupine crew members and I were on the road. I was failing to appreciate the back seat of a classic Beetle, while all 6' 4" of Handsome Dave was carefully occupying the front passenger seat.
The situation had ended almost cordially between ship, planet and FCS rep, with the local law agreeing to an FCS "liaison" and Sheriff Mike reluctantly going alone. Lt. Wu hadn't liked that much, nor had she liked the Agent Kimball's cheerful claim that she'd barged in only minutes before he'd been about to have Dave contact Lupine. Once we were crammed into the Bug and underway, she started to lecture Dave and he very diplomatically pointed out that A) she was not in his chain of command B) he'd already been in in contact with his boss and C) she was still not in his chain of command. It was not a happy ride.
I let things simmer for a block or more — at least Rannie wasn't fighting the traffic this time — then leaned forward to ask, "What was that in the hall with the guy?"
Rannie shrugged. "What 'that?'"
"The fight. Or whatever."
"That was a cocky Mil/Space idiot getting set down, was what. He is one, you know -- they always have them at the front desk of these offices. 'Space Marine,' hah!"
"No, I mean — USSF ran me through unarmed fighting and zero-g basics, but I was a tech-spec. Was that some kind of special martial art?"
She snorted. "You've seen too many Bruce Lee movies. It was just normal hand-to-hand, a little more than you'd have been taught. Great exercise, you know."
That last with barely a flicker of her eyes in my direction — I do kind of fight my waistline.
"Yes, but—"
"'But' nothing. I'm quick, I work out — and I do have an advantage on young Tech Huckleston: my training followed 12 years of gymnastics. And none of that kung fu movie silliness!"
I noticed Dave giving her a speculative look. Maybe he finds her personality abrasive but it seemed to me he might be willing to overlook it.
28 April 2012
Frothup: Dropping In (Fragment)
"'Tar Zany?'" Rannie Wu gave the Edger cop a doubtful look and turned back to the topo map on the wall. "It's not even on this map."
The big man leaned over her shoulder, his artificial leg clicking and humming as he moved. "Tarzany. Right there. On the edge of rice-growing territory."
"Except it's named 'Edgar."
"No one calls it that. --At the peak of the War, Mil/Space built their planetary defense command bunker in the hills outside of town. Dug in almost solid granite. Huge job."
Rannie frowned. Why couldn't people get to the point? "And...?"
He smiled. "It never came to that. You -- USSF and NATO never found us. General Filiaggi's guys were mostly withdrawn and what we did here, was produce food. Rice, soybeans, corn. Stepped production way up."
Geez O Pete, where was he going with this? Rannie reminded herself she was a guest here; 2/O Dr. Schmid had been at pains to point out this was the biggest transfer of tech between a former Edger world and an Earth-flagged spacecraft, ever and that every crew member who hit dirt was a de facto ambassador for Earth. She made an effort to smile back and cocked an eyebrow questioningly at the local.
"Come harvest, the warehouses were full and the bunkers were mostly empty, so the Edgar Co-Op improvised: they took them over. Blasted new entrances, eventually."
"I see," the hell I do, she thought.
"So, they started calling them burrows instead of bunkers, and put up signs so drivers would know where to go..."
Rannie still didn't get it.
Aberstwyth's top cop was mildly embarrassed to explain. "The signs said 'To Edgar Rice Burrows.'"
She couldn't help it. She rolled her eyes. Edgers!
"Before you knew it, everyone was calling the place 'Tarzany.' And that's where it looks like your missing Stardrive parts were taken."
The big man leaned over her shoulder, his artificial leg clicking and humming as he moved. "Tarzany. Right there. On the edge of rice-growing territory."
"Except it's named 'Edgar."
"No one calls it that. --At the peak of the War, Mil/Space built their planetary defense command bunker in the hills outside of town. Dug in almost solid granite. Huge job."
Rannie frowned. Why couldn't people get to the point? "And...?"
He smiled. "It never came to that. You -- USSF and NATO never found us. General Filiaggi's guys were mostly withdrawn and what we did here, was produce food. Rice, soybeans, corn. Stepped production way up."
Geez O Pete, where was he going with this? Rannie reminded herself she was a guest here; 2/O Dr. Schmid had been at pains to point out this was the biggest transfer of tech between a former Edger world and an Earth-flagged spacecraft, ever and that every crew member who hit dirt was a de facto ambassador for Earth. She made an effort to smile back and cocked an eyebrow questioningly at the local.
"Come harvest, the warehouses were full and the bunkers were mostly empty, so the Edgar Co-Op improvised: they took them over. Blasted new entrances, eventually."
"I see," the hell I do, she thought.
"So, they started calling them burrows instead of bunkers, and put up signs so drivers would know where to go..."
Rannie still didn't get it.
Aberstwyth's top cop was mildly embarrassed to explain. "The signs said 'To Edgar Rice Burrows.'"
She couldn't help it. She rolled her eyes. Edgers!
"Before you knew it, everyone was calling the place 'Tarzany.' And that's where it looks like your missing Stardrive parts were taken."
27 March 2012
Just Tell Me It Isn't A Beamed-Energy Weapon (Plus..)
Plus Some Notes On MIL/SPACE, the private contractor that serves (more or less) as the Far Edge's DoD. --An outsider's impression, mind you.
But first, this:
Surely it is not what it looks like?
....MIL/Space is odd in not having sergeants. Or any of the lower ranks, for that matter. Instead they've got "Techs," on the notion that there is no such thing as a non-technical Space Marine. They might be right, but that means the guys (and gals) who would otherwise be Drill Instructors are instead DTs -- or HETs, Human-Engineering Techs. I would recommend one refrain from snickering, percussive maintenance being a possibility. The basic Tech skill would be "fighter." Insignia resembles older US types, with one or more symbols between rocker and chevron. (Yes, worn point down. Why? I could guess but I'll go with the semi-official answer: "Aerodynamics.") A Tech is a "general specialist" and all but a raw enlistee or one-striper has at least one area of particular skill besides battle in both shirtsleeves/planetary and vacuum/zero-G environments.
The higher ranks are (slightly) unusual as well, mostly in having a simplified rank structure and insignia and the measures taken to ensure a remarkable degree of exposure to actual combat conditions. Pogues and fobbits are, simply, not part of the system. This has its own inefficiencies, which the enterprise appears quite willing to tolerate.
But first, this:
Surely it is not what it looks like?....MIL/Space is odd in not having sergeants. Or any of the lower ranks, for that matter. Instead they've got "Techs," on the notion that there is no such thing as a non-technical Space Marine. They might be right, but that means the guys (and gals) who would otherwise be Drill Instructors are instead DTs -- or HETs, Human-Engineering Techs. I would recommend one refrain from snickering, percussive maintenance being a possibility. The basic Tech skill would be "fighter." Insignia resembles older US types, with one or more symbols between rocker and chevron. (Yes, worn point down. Why? I could guess but I'll go with the semi-official answer: "Aerodynamics.") A Tech is a "general specialist" and all but a raw enlistee or one-striper has at least one area of particular skill besides battle in both shirtsleeves/planetary and vacuum/zero-G environments.
The higher ranks are (slightly) unusual as well, mostly in having a simplified rank structure and insignia and the measures taken to ensure a remarkable degree of exposure to actual combat conditions. Pogues and fobbits are, simply, not part of the system. This has its own inefficiencies, which the enterprise appears quite willing to tolerate.
11 November 2011
Frothup: Tourist!
Not to impugn the Edger tendency to be...cryptic...this is one of the doors to a bookstore across from my autotel and down a ways:
At least I'm pretty sure it's a bookstore, based on the window displays and other signage. So far, it hasn't been open when I've been around.
Edgers!
At least I'm pretty sure it's a bookstore, based on the window displays and other signage. So far, it hasn't been open when I've been around.Edgers!
09 November 2011
Frothup: Dropping In Part 13
[TO THE BEGINNING]
Focused on the immediate threat, I forgot all about the approaching car until it squealed up to curb next to us, a bright orange VW Beetle with plenty of years on it. The boys all jumped back and I stepped the other way. The driver's door popped open and Rannie Wu followed it like she was on springs.
She was in full USSF Reserve uniform, with sidearm. She faced my confronters, five and a half feet of stern fury, hand on the Beretta, not quite drawing it. "Gentlemen! So nice of you to entertain my shipmate. But it's time to go now, don't you think?"
They didn't stop to discuss it; they faded back, avoiding her glare.
I've never been happier to see the impatient Lieutenant. She hissed at me, "Don't just stand there, you idiot, get in the car!"
I complied with alacrity. The door groaned shut and I pushed the lock button down. Then, my phone rang. Y'know, Tim might have a point.
Lt. Wu glanced my way. Her phone was ringing, too. "General alert. Ignore it." She looked back at the departing locals, who were far enough away to feel safe shouting "Fascists!" at us.
"Idiots," Rannie remarked. "Thugs." She turned, sat down and had her door shut and the car in gear and moving all in one swiftly fluid sweep. "At least you're not missing. One of your clever little friends has put himself in serious trouble. I might as well get you up to speed."
The gist of her update was simple enough: Of course things had been falling apart while I had been, as The Chief later put it in his usual sensitive way, "frittering away the afternoon on shoptalk." I'd been his last call in search of Handsome Dave. When it turned out I had no idea where he was, either, The Chief had notified Lupine's Security Director, Mike Mathis that we had a crewman missing. Mike had redirected his forces on the ground, which meant interrupting Rannie Wu's intel contacts and rousting T away from her book. They'd both been dispatched to Aberstwyth Admin: City Hall, close enough, and seat of the planetary government; also "police" (Public Safety) HQ, consisting a set of dingy offices, a server for "Peace Alerts" and a cell stacked with paperwork. It wasn't a third the size of Aberstwyth Port Security.
It was more than big enough for Aberstwyth's Director of Public Safety, his assistant, T, and — by phone from the ship — Lupine Security Director Mathis. It was Rannie Wu who made it crowded, despite being the smallest person in the room. —Mind you, I got all this second-hand from Rannie and T (who does love a good yarn); but I've had my run-ins with the USSF-I Lt. before in both of her capacities and I don't doubt T's version in the least.
From Lt. Wu's standpoint, her reaction was understandable; the earlier sabotage had been abruptly followed by an outrageous daylight theft and what looked like a crewman's kidnapping; now she was learning the "planetary police force" consisted of three individuals and a computer bulletin board. That was a quarter the size of Lupine's Security and fewer than the number of known USSF-Intelligence reservists aboard ship.
She was already there when T arrived, angry enough to spit nails. The DPS, a well-padded middle-aged fellow with a complicated-looking artificial right leg, was standing next to his desk, looking harassed; his assistant, seated at the desk, watched with a wary expression. A computer monitor on the desk had been turned so it could be seen from most of the room.
Rannie was standing nearly toe-to-toe with the police chief, hands on hips, every visible muscle tensed. "You're kidding me. You have got to be joking. We've had sabotage, brazen theft and now a kidnapping and you...have done...nothing?"
While Lt. Wu spoke, T edged in the door and stood quietly. The assistant DPS noticed and raised a hand in a "hold-on" gesture. At the same time, T realized her boss was on the monitor: Lupine's "Sheriff" Mike Mathis.
The DPS — he was dressed in the usual shorts-and-loose-shirt, though his were all tan and sported a badge and a nametag reading, simply, "JIM" — eased his weight partially onto the desktop and gained a little space. "Ma'am—" he began, earning a glare, "Loo-tenant Wu, we have put alerts on the server, did so as soon as they came in. Every security service and department that can connect to the web will see 'em. Port Security tells me they are 90 percent sure they know who bollixed your noisy shuttles, Hack at Irrational Numbers is doing all anybody can do to figure out who stole your ship's new engine parts and as for this "kidnapping," your man is only four hours late. I think you're over-excited."
Rannie drew a deep breath and it's hard to say what she might've done or said in reply, because T did what any good ship's cop would do: divert, defuse, deflect. "Hey there, Lieutenant Wu, Mike, um, Jim and—"
Rannie turned towards T. The Assistant DPS demonstrated peace-officer instincts; she stood up and leaned over the desk, right into Rannie's path, holding out her hand. "Arabella. Arabella Washington. And you must be Ta-"
"She certainly is," Rannie said. "And she's late."
That was enough of an opening for Jim to get farther back and Mike Mathis to pipe up, "Lt. Wu, as far as I know, you're the only crewperson on-planet with a vehicle. T got here as fast as she could."
Rannie kind of huffed at that but it shut her full boil down to a simmer. Arabella and T traded wry looks.
Mike continued, "T, I've been bringing everybody up to speed. Our friends here aren't so sure Dave's really missing; they don't know him like we do." True enough; while there's no such thing as a short conversation with Handsome Dave — what we call The Dave Treatment is in large part a natural gift for being a good listener — the man is as dependable as a clock. "I've put a temporary hold on squirt-boosters after the next launch up; we've got eight hours at least. I want you and Lt. Wu to round up your pal Roberta and the two pilots we've got down there, and I want a read on the preacher, that George Wells and his buddies. I was gonna send his sister down on the next drop but DPS McAlheny tells me he's not running a prison."
The DPS leaned in. "'Jim' is fine. All I have is a place to hold folks who get intoxicated and won't go home, idiots who keep fighting, that sort, overnight or a couple days until they can get adjudicated. Somebody rates locked up, and I'm not sure Miss Irene Wells does, you'll have to negotiate for bonded storage."
I'm glad I heard about that after the fact — the last time I'd seen Irene Wells, she was in the process of arranging my death and nearly succeeded. Trained as some kind of Edger last-ditch militia and probably not too tightly wrapped, she'd turned murderous while following her brother on his mission to bring his philosophy to the Hidden Frontier. (See Another Day for the whole story).
Mike looked resigned. "She rates a cell on this ship; she admitted to all charges and invoked the Agreement."
Jim shrugged, "Not how we'd handle it. If she is under charges, all it takes is for her to swear pax and post a surety so she need not be confined; she would be on the next homeward ship or posted forfeit." Aberstwyth might have switched sides but their legal system was still mostly Far Edge: restitutional justice and what strikes me as naive faith a person's word is their bond, at least when backed up by a big chunk of cash they'll lose if they break it. (Edger ship law is different and altogether harsher; instead of jail, they give vacuum-breathing lessons. The offense rate is low but the recidivism rate is even lower).
Mike said, "I know how you'd do it. So she's staying put. I still need to locate my people and I don't care how clean he is, Wells and his merry band need checked out."
Even Jim agreed to that much — "As long as nobody has their privacy invaded." The assistant DPS was put to calling up the public information on Wells, who had a lecture meeting slated for that very evening; T did a follow-up on all crewpersons known to be on-planet, narrowing down an already short list and ending up with one location-unknown in addition to Dave: me.
For reasons that I'm sure must have looked sensible to someone — T just looked at me like I was an idiot when I interrupted her description to ask why — on Frothup, celphone location data is only available if the customer dials 999 for emergency help; lacking GPS satellites, it is localized to the cell level, which information is given to ambulance and/or security providers by the phone company's own call center. Okay, lacking that, they could have simply called me; they could have called my boss, especially since he was the guy who told them Dave had gone missing. Instead, they tried Irrational, learned Finley and I had left and for where, spent a little while finding out there was one (1) listed phone number for the "Co-operative," a telephone answered by uncooperative persons, and sent Rannie to retrieve me.
I guess it worked out. Certainly even with the hyper-efficient, cranky Lt. Wu irked at me, I was happy she found me when she did.
She always makes me feel like I should've spent more time at the mirror; where I'm looking pretty rumpled by the time I arrive at Engineering in the morning and the less said about my hair, the better, Rannie Wu looks sleek, uniform (Merchant Service or USSF-Reserve) perfectly in order, long reddish-black hair pulled back in a ponytail with not a strand out of place, and the kind of skin and coloring that makes makeup redundant. Being annoyed makes her, if anything, look even more poised. That said, she appeared to have reached a state somewhere past simple irk, positively humming with controlled anger. Sitting next to her as she slewed the elderly Bug around and zoomed back towards the main road, I tried to make sense of it. "You think Dave got kidnapped?" was what I came up with.
She gave me a sidelong glance, then looked back at the street ahead, downshifting and passing an automated truck. "I haven't made any conclusion. It could have happened. Your supervisor and Mister Mathis want to locate David. I was supposed to be working with one of the Security shift supervisors, finding how someone got access to sabotage our squirt-boosters in a secure facility, so I was available."
It made sense — Lt. Wu's actual job is inventory control and analysis, a kind of perpetual audit of Stores & Cargo that can make the difference between profit or loss — and, sometimes, between surviving and not. Scuttlebutt has it the United States Space Force had trained her as an intelligence analyst, searching out the effects of Edger smuggling on trade to pinpoint who they were dealing with on Earth and where they were landing, a kind of spy-accountant. When peace broke out, she got RIFfed the same as I did — except that as an officer, they kept her on as a reservist, provided she could find a job in the newly-civilian merchant fleet. You might think "inventory control" was dull routine but in fact, knowing exactly what and how much the ship has of, well, everything at any given time is essential, if Lupine is to avoid coming up short lightyears away from any possible resupply. With T to check the physical arrangements and Rannie going over the records, they'd make a formidable investigative team. She seemed plenty formidable to me, taking the corner on dark yellow (literally yellow fading through orange to red, many of Aberstwyth's traffic lights being plain weird) and very nearly two wheels. I didn't even know an old Bug could do that.
Rannie made a frustrated sound, something between a hiss and a sigh, and got the car around slower traffic and into what passed for a fast lane before continuing, "Since I was the only one who bothered to obtain a vehicle, I was the only choice. Now that I've found you, though—" She broke off as another driverless truck changed lanes in front of us. Another pulled up next to the Bug and both slowed to the speed limit. Rannie frowned and huffed, "Oh, not again."
I tried not to smile. It had that Edger feel: unlikely to be chance and it beat either a traffic ticket or impact-testing the little car.
Rannie had puzzles on her mind other than traffic control."There's something being overlooked. Frothup is allied with NATO and we're all such friends—" (Looking back only a few minutes, you sure could have fooled me about that) "—but FCS still has a presence here and nobody — not the local 'police,' not Mr. Mathis — wants to even notice it. We have a chance to see what they're up to, right now."
I asked, "Hadn't I better report in first?"
She snorted. "Hah! Aren't you even a little curious?"
I wasn't, my previous encounters with avid Federation of Concerned Spacemen members not having been especially safe or, in one case, even sane, but she was driving. Besides, the Purser's Department can make your life pure-dee hell without even trying; getting on Rannie's bad side would not be wise. So I just shrugged.
"The FCS office is only a short distance away. A nice little visit couldn't do any harm."
I had my doubts about every part of that statement, but I wasn't doing the driving.
True to form, she had rented a fancier phone than the minimum the Starship Company will cover and even without GPS satellites, it tracked its own location pretty well on cell triangulation and dead reckoning. She already had the address programmed in.
The place was on the far side of Aberstwyth from the port and a couple of blocks South of us. We were there in ten minutes. FCS Hall was a plain-looking industrial building, with block walls and a sheet-metal facade. Double doors opened into a tiny lobby, with another set of doors directly ahead. A sign on them read "CLOSED," above a list of coming events, some already past. To the right, a ticket window and a door next to it labeled "OFFICE."
Rannie strode through like she was serving a warrant; I trailed after. It looked like the lobby of a small business; a stocky, fit-looking and very blond young man behind a desk started to ask,
"Can I help—?" Then he took in Rannie's grim expression and uniform and stood up. "Hey! You stop right there!" He was armed and his right hand was on the butt of whatever kind of pistol he was carrying. I couldn't tell what it was and I didn't much care.
I'm not brave, or bulletproof either. I sidestepped, hands held out. I remember thinking, irrelevantly, that his eyes were an unusual color, very light hazel, almost gold. He had a laser-leveled flat-top haircut, too. His plain shirt and slacks looked almost like a uniform, right down to a nametape reading "T. HUCKLESTON" over a chest pocket.
Rannie ignored the gun and me as well. She marched right up to the desk, commanding the space disproportionately to her size. "The War ended a long time ago; don't be silly, young man." To my surprise, it worked. He took a step back, uncertain. Rannie put her hands on the desk and leaned across, right into his personal space. "Are you in charge of this office?"
"Um, no. No ma'am. That would be Hank. Uh, Hank Kimball. I am his assistant."
Rannie nodded curtly. "Then fetch him."
"Not until after four! Ah — I mean, he is not here." But the protesting assistant had taken a quick look towards a door in the wall to his right.
Rannie smiled in a way that promised nothing good and said, "You're not much of a liar. Shall we try again?"
The young man set his jaw. "He is not to be disturbed!"
Rannie's smile got wider. "I'm sure he wouldn't find a friendly visit disturbing. Why don't you ask him?"
It's not that she's all that persuasive or physically intimidating; Lt. Wu possesses the kind of tenacity found in bulldogs and IRS agents and when you factor in her propensity to operate in a perpetual simmering snit, she can only be resisted for so long and then you've either got to shoot her or give in. The assistant seemed to be giving the first option serious consideration; he glanced around a bit wild-eyed, but his hand finally left the gun. I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding and made an irrelevant mental note that he had one of those clunky plastic-frame guns. I was trying to figure out which one it was — some of them don't even have a real safety — when Rannie abruptly turned and strode to the door the young man had glanced towards.
"Come along," she said, opening it to reveal a long hallway.
The assistant said, "Hey—!" But he'd lost the initiative; he caught up with her in three long steps and I hurried after, the door closing behind me. He started to put a hand on her shoulder but she spun around, one hand up.
"Ah-a," Rannie chided.
"No, wait, you do not even know where you are going."
"I'm sure you'll rectify that."
He shrugged, started to edge past her and made an abrupt feint, both hands and one foot in motion; Rannie converted her warning gesture into an odd block that involved kicking off from the wall and turning. By then, I'd stepped back; whatever ninjary it was, I wanted no part of it. They froze for a moment and then started trading move for move, evading, blocking, each moving to grapple and never quite connecting, faster and faster. I had no idea what to do — I'd about made up my mind to go grab a chair from the room we'd just left and try to hit the attacking Edger with it, when he began to laugh. Rannie stopped in mid-attack, puzzled. He held up both hands in surrender and tried to say something, stopped and started over, "Okay, lady, no shooting!"
"Why not?" Sure enough, Rannie's hand was on her still-holstered sidearm. Again.
"Pax! I yield. You are no ninety-day wonder, Lieutenant."
Rannie looked daggers at him, "But you just had to try?"
He grinned. "Affirmative."
"Hmpf."
There's no telling how long they'd've gone on like that, but they didn't get much time. The door at the far end of the corridor opened and a stranger looked out, exhaling a long blue ribbon of smoke. Handsome Dave was looking over his shoulder, a cigarette dangling in his mouth.
"Huck! Technician Huckleston! What is going on out here?" the stranger asked.
The young Edger had turned away from me by then but his body language spoke volumes. And as my fellow Engineering Tech Dave recognized me and then Lt. Wu, his expression took a similar turn: Uh-oh. Or possibly even Ohsh-t!
It had been another long day, even allowing for Frothup's 30-odd hours; they both looked so much like kids caught raiding the cookie jar that I started laughing so hard I had to lean against the wall.
[CONTINUED IN PART 14]
Focused on the immediate threat, I forgot all about the approaching car until it squealed up to curb next to us, a bright orange VW Beetle with plenty of years on it. The boys all jumped back and I stepped the other way. The driver's door popped open and Rannie Wu followed it like she was on springs.
She was in full USSF Reserve uniform, with sidearm. She faced my confronters, five and a half feet of stern fury, hand on the Beretta, not quite drawing it. "Gentlemen! So nice of you to entertain my shipmate. But it's time to go now, don't you think?"
They didn't stop to discuss it; they faded back, avoiding her glare.
I've never been happier to see the impatient Lieutenant. She hissed at me, "Don't just stand there, you idiot, get in the car!"
I complied with alacrity. The door groaned shut and I pushed the lock button down. Then, my phone rang. Y'know, Tim might have a point.
Lt. Wu glanced my way. Her phone was ringing, too. "General alert. Ignore it." She looked back at the departing locals, who were far enough away to feel safe shouting "Fascists!" at us.
"Idiots," Rannie remarked. "Thugs." She turned, sat down and had her door shut and the car in gear and moving all in one swiftly fluid sweep. "At least you're not missing. One of your clever little friends has put himself in serious trouble. I might as well get you up to speed."
The gist of her update was simple enough: Of course things had been falling apart while I had been, as The Chief later put it in his usual sensitive way, "frittering away the afternoon on shoptalk." I'd been his last call in search of Handsome Dave. When it turned out I had no idea where he was, either, The Chief had notified Lupine's Security Director, Mike Mathis that we had a crewman missing. Mike had redirected his forces on the ground, which meant interrupting Rannie Wu's intel contacts and rousting T away from her book. They'd both been dispatched to Aberstwyth Admin: City Hall, close enough, and seat of the planetary government; also "police" (Public Safety) HQ, consisting a set of dingy offices, a server for "Peace Alerts" and a cell stacked with paperwork. It wasn't a third the size of Aberstwyth Port Security.
It was more than big enough for Aberstwyth's Director of Public Safety, his assistant, T, and — by phone from the ship — Lupine Security Director Mathis. It was Rannie Wu who made it crowded, despite being the smallest person in the room. —Mind you, I got all this second-hand from Rannie and T (who does love a good yarn); but I've had my run-ins with the USSF-I Lt. before in both of her capacities and I don't doubt T's version in the least.
From Lt. Wu's standpoint, her reaction was understandable; the earlier sabotage had been abruptly followed by an outrageous daylight theft and what looked like a crewman's kidnapping; now she was learning the "planetary police force" consisted of three individuals and a computer bulletin board. That was a quarter the size of Lupine's Security and fewer than the number of known USSF-Intelligence reservists aboard ship.
She was already there when T arrived, angry enough to spit nails. The DPS, a well-padded middle-aged fellow with a complicated-looking artificial right leg, was standing next to his desk, looking harassed; his assistant, seated at the desk, watched with a wary expression. A computer monitor on the desk had been turned so it could be seen from most of the room.
Rannie was standing nearly toe-to-toe with the police chief, hands on hips, every visible muscle tensed. "You're kidding me. You have got to be joking. We've had sabotage, brazen theft and now a kidnapping and you...have done...nothing?"
While Lt. Wu spoke, T edged in the door and stood quietly. The assistant DPS noticed and raised a hand in a "hold-on" gesture. At the same time, T realized her boss was on the monitor: Lupine's "Sheriff" Mike Mathis.
The DPS — he was dressed in the usual shorts-and-loose-shirt, though his were all tan and sported a badge and a nametag reading, simply, "JIM" — eased his weight partially onto the desktop and gained a little space. "Ma'am—" he began, earning a glare, "Loo-tenant Wu, we have put alerts on the server, did so as soon as they came in. Every security service and department that can connect to the web will see 'em. Port Security tells me they are 90 percent sure they know who bollixed your noisy shuttles, Hack at Irrational Numbers is doing all anybody can do to figure out who stole your ship's new engine parts and as for this "kidnapping," your man is only four hours late. I think you're over-excited."
Rannie drew a deep breath and it's hard to say what she might've done or said in reply, because T did what any good ship's cop would do: divert, defuse, deflect. "Hey there, Lieutenant Wu, Mike, um, Jim and—"
Rannie turned towards T. The Assistant DPS demonstrated peace-officer instincts; she stood up and leaned over the desk, right into Rannie's path, holding out her hand. "Arabella. Arabella Washington. And you must be Ta-"
"She certainly is," Rannie said. "And she's late."
That was enough of an opening for Jim to get farther back and Mike Mathis to pipe up, "Lt. Wu, as far as I know, you're the only crewperson on-planet with a vehicle. T got here as fast as she could."
Rannie kind of huffed at that but it shut her full boil down to a simmer. Arabella and T traded wry looks.
Mike continued, "T, I've been bringing everybody up to speed. Our friends here aren't so sure Dave's really missing; they don't know him like we do." True enough; while there's no such thing as a short conversation with Handsome Dave — what we call The Dave Treatment is in large part a natural gift for being a good listener — the man is as dependable as a clock. "I've put a temporary hold on squirt-boosters after the next launch up; we've got eight hours at least. I want you and Lt. Wu to round up your pal Roberta and the two pilots we've got down there, and I want a read on the preacher, that George Wells and his buddies. I was gonna send his sister down on the next drop but DPS McAlheny tells me he's not running a prison."
The DPS leaned in. "'Jim' is fine. All I have is a place to hold folks who get intoxicated and won't go home, idiots who keep fighting, that sort, overnight or a couple days until they can get adjudicated. Somebody rates locked up, and I'm not sure Miss Irene Wells does, you'll have to negotiate for bonded storage."
I'm glad I heard about that after the fact — the last time I'd seen Irene Wells, she was in the process of arranging my death and nearly succeeded. Trained as some kind of Edger last-ditch militia and probably not too tightly wrapped, she'd turned murderous while following her brother on his mission to bring his philosophy to the Hidden Frontier. (See Another Day for the whole story).
Mike looked resigned. "She rates a cell on this ship; she admitted to all charges and invoked the Agreement."
Jim shrugged, "Not how we'd handle it. If she is under charges, all it takes is for her to swear pax and post a surety so she need not be confined; she would be on the next homeward ship or posted forfeit." Aberstwyth might have switched sides but their legal system was still mostly Far Edge: restitutional justice and what strikes me as naive faith a person's word is their bond, at least when backed up by a big chunk of cash they'll lose if they break it. (Edger ship law is different and altogether harsher; instead of jail, they give vacuum-breathing lessons. The offense rate is low but the recidivism rate is even lower).
Mike said, "I know how you'd do it. So she's staying put. I still need to locate my people and I don't care how clean he is, Wells and his merry band need checked out."
Even Jim agreed to that much — "As long as nobody has their privacy invaded." The assistant DPS was put to calling up the public information on Wells, who had a lecture meeting slated for that very evening; T did a follow-up on all crewpersons known to be on-planet, narrowing down an already short list and ending up with one location-unknown in addition to Dave: me.
For reasons that I'm sure must have looked sensible to someone — T just looked at me like I was an idiot when I interrupted her description to ask why — on Frothup, celphone location data is only available if the customer dials 999 for emergency help; lacking GPS satellites, it is localized to the cell level, which information is given to ambulance and/or security providers by the phone company's own call center. Okay, lacking that, they could have simply called me; they could have called my boss, especially since he was the guy who told them Dave had gone missing. Instead, they tried Irrational, learned Finley and I had left and for where, spent a little while finding out there was one (1) listed phone number for the "Co-operative," a telephone answered by uncooperative persons, and sent Rannie to retrieve me.
I guess it worked out. Certainly even with the hyper-efficient, cranky Lt. Wu irked at me, I was happy she found me when she did.
She always makes me feel like I should've spent more time at the mirror; where I'm looking pretty rumpled by the time I arrive at Engineering in the morning and the less said about my hair, the better, Rannie Wu looks sleek, uniform (Merchant Service or USSF-Reserve) perfectly in order, long reddish-black hair pulled back in a ponytail with not a strand out of place, and the kind of skin and coloring that makes makeup redundant. Being annoyed makes her, if anything, look even more poised. That said, she appeared to have reached a state somewhere past simple irk, positively humming with controlled anger. Sitting next to her as she slewed the elderly Bug around and zoomed back towards the main road, I tried to make sense of it. "You think Dave got kidnapped?" was what I came up with.
She gave me a sidelong glance, then looked back at the street ahead, downshifting and passing an automated truck. "I haven't made any conclusion. It could have happened. Your supervisor and Mister Mathis want to locate David. I was supposed to be working with one of the Security shift supervisors, finding how someone got access to sabotage our squirt-boosters in a secure facility, so I was available."
It made sense — Lt. Wu's actual job is inventory control and analysis, a kind of perpetual audit of Stores & Cargo that can make the difference between profit or loss — and, sometimes, between surviving and not. Scuttlebutt has it the United States Space Force had trained her as an intelligence analyst, searching out the effects of Edger smuggling on trade to pinpoint who they were dealing with on Earth and where they were landing, a kind of spy-accountant. When peace broke out, she got RIFfed the same as I did — except that as an officer, they kept her on as a reservist, provided she could find a job in the newly-civilian merchant fleet. You might think "inventory control" was dull routine but in fact, knowing exactly what and how much the ship has of, well, everything at any given time is essential, if Lupine is to avoid coming up short lightyears away from any possible resupply. With T to check the physical arrangements and Rannie going over the records, they'd make a formidable investigative team. She seemed plenty formidable to me, taking the corner on dark yellow (literally yellow fading through orange to red, many of Aberstwyth's traffic lights being plain weird) and very nearly two wheels. I didn't even know an old Bug could do that.
Rannie made a frustrated sound, something between a hiss and a sigh, and got the car around slower traffic and into what passed for a fast lane before continuing, "Since I was the only one who bothered to obtain a vehicle, I was the only choice. Now that I've found you, though—" She broke off as another driverless truck changed lanes in front of us. Another pulled up next to the Bug and both slowed to the speed limit. Rannie frowned and huffed, "Oh, not again."
I tried not to smile. It had that Edger feel: unlikely to be chance and it beat either a traffic ticket or impact-testing the little car.
Rannie had puzzles on her mind other than traffic control."There's something being overlooked. Frothup is allied with NATO and we're all such friends—" (Looking back only a few minutes, you sure could have fooled me about that) "—but FCS still has a presence here and nobody — not the local 'police,' not Mr. Mathis — wants to even notice it. We have a chance to see what they're up to, right now."
I asked, "Hadn't I better report in first?"
She snorted. "Hah! Aren't you even a little curious?"
I wasn't, my previous encounters with avid Federation of Concerned Spacemen members not having been especially safe or, in one case, even sane, but she was driving. Besides, the Purser's Department can make your life pure-dee hell without even trying; getting on Rannie's bad side would not be wise. So I just shrugged.
"The FCS office is only a short distance away. A nice little visit couldn't do any harm."
I had my doubts about every part of that statement, but I wasn't doing the driving.
True to form, she had rented a fancier phone than the minimum the Starship Company will cover and even without GPS satellites, it tracked its own location pretty well on cell triangulation and dead reckoning. She already had the address programmed in.
The place was on the far side of Aberstwyth from the port and a couple of blocks South of us. We were there in ten minutes. FCS Hall was a plain-looking industrial building, with block walls and a sheet-metal facade. Double doors opened into a tiny lobby, with another set of doors directly ahead. A sign on them read "CLOSED," above a list of coming events, some already past. To the right, a ticket window and a door next to it labeled "OFFICE."
Rannie strode through like she was serving a warrant; I trailed after. It looked like the lobby of a small business; a stocky, fit-looking and very blond young man behind a desk started to ask,
"Can I help—?" Then he took in Rannie's grim expression and uniform and stood up. "Hey! You stop right there!" He was armed and his right hand was on the butt of whatever kind of pistol he was carrying. I couldn't tell what it was and I didn't much care.
I'm not brave, or bulletproof either. I sidestepped, hands held out. I remember thinking, irrelevantly, that his eyes were an unusual color, very light hazel, almost gold. He had a laser-leveled flat-top haircut, too. His plain shirt and slacks looked almost like a uniform, right down to a nametape reading "T. HUCKLESTON" over a chest pocket.
Rannie ignored the gun and me as well. She marched right up to the desk, commanding the space disproportionately to her size. "The War ended a long time ago; don't be silly, young man." To my surprise, it worked. He took a step back, uncertain. Rannie put her hands on the desk and leaned across, right into his personal space. "Are you in charge of this office?"
"Um, no. No ma'am. That would be Hank. Uh, Hank Kimball. I am his assistant."
Rannie nodded curtly. "Then fetch him."
"Not until after four! Ah — I mean, he is not here." But the protesting assistant had taken a quick look towards a door in the wall to his right.
Rannie smiled in a way that promised nothing good and said, "You're not much of a liar. Shall we try again?"
The young man set his jaw. "He is not to be disturbed!"
Rannie's smile got wider. "I'm sure he wouldn't find a friendly visit disturbing. Why don't you ask him?"
It's not that she's all that persuasive or physically intimidating; Lt. Wu possesses the kind of tenacity found in bulldogs and IRS agents and when you factor in her propensity to operate in a perpetual simmering snit, she can only be resisted for so long and then you've either got to shoot her or give in. The assistant seemed to be giving the first option serious consideration; he glanced around a bit wild-eyed, but his hand finally left the gun. I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding and made an irrelevant mental note that he had one of those clunky plastic-frame guns. I was trying to figure out which one it was — some of them don't even have a real safety — when Rannie abruptly turned and strode to the door the young man had glanced towards.
"Come along," she said, opening it to reveal a long hallway.
The assistant said, "Hey—!" But he'd lost the initiative; he caught up with her in three long steps and I hurried after, the door closing behind me. He started to put a hand on her shoulder but she spun around, one hand up.
"Ah-a," Rannie chided.
"No, wait, you do not even know where you are going."
"I'm sure you'll rectify that."
He shrugged, started to edge past her and made an abrupt feint, both hands and one foot in motion; Rannie converted her warning gesture into an odd block that involved kicking off from the wall and turning. By then, I'd stepped back; whatever ninjary it was, I wanted no part of it. They froze for a moment and then started trading move for move, evading, blocking, each moving to grapple and never quite connecting, faster and faster. I had no idea what to do — I'd about made up my mind to go grab a chair from the room we'd just left and try to hit the attacking Edger with it, when he began to laugh. Rannie stopped in mid-attack, puzzled. He held up both hands in surrender and tried to say something, stopped and started over, "Okay, lady, no shooting!"
"Why not?" Sure enough, Rannie's hand was on her still-holstered sidearm. Again.
"Pax! I yield. You are no ninety-day wonder, Lieutenant."
Rannie looked daggers at him, "But you just had to try?"
He grinned. "Affirmative."
"Hmpf."
There's no telling how long they'd've gone on like that, but they didn't get much time. The door at the far end of the corridor opened and a stranger looked out, exhaling a long blue ribbon of smoke. Handsome Dave was looking over his shoulder, a cigarette dangling in his mouth.
"Huck! Technician Huckleston! What is going on out here?" the stranger asked.
The young Edger had turned away from me by then but his body language spoke volumes. And as my fellow Engineering Tech Dave recognized me and then Lt. Wu, his expression took a similar turn: Uh-oh. Or possibly even Ohsh-t!
It had been another long day, even allowing for Frothup's 30-odd hours; they both looked so much like kids caught raiding the cookie jar that I started laughing so hard I had to lean against the wall.
[CONTINUED IN PART 14]
15 July 2011
Frothup: Dropping In, Part 12
[TO THE BEGINNING]
As I've said, Finley managed to deflect what looked to me like an outpouring of long-suppressed wrath from the hyperspace engineer and we parted from him on at least neutral terms. Once we were making our way back across the gravelled chaos of the "Cooperative," Finley started to chuckle.
I didn't think it was funny. "What got into him? It's just a telephone."
"It is for you. —There's a reason he's not working over at Tweed. Or anywhere else."
"Oh?"
"You ever notice how the best 'Drive people, the top navigators and automation designers, all tend to be a little different?"
I thought about it. Take Lupine Engineering: we're an assorted lot but pretty typical of the genus geek, it seemed to me: at turns hyperfocused and distractable, not always so great with the interpersonal stuff. Okay, not average, but who is? "Not really. But I didn't mean to upset him."
He misread my expression (or did he?) "Ha! You do know what I mean. Your tutor — did Tim ever even introduce himself? — is a real extreme case, is all. Did him good to be reminded some of us have bosses."
We parted company at the park. Finley headed toward the Tweed building and I walked back towards my autotel, keeping an eye out for a bus or a marked stop. (I really should have looked up the returning bus schedule!) The anti-Earth graffiti on the park gate was already starting to blur and fade. Frothup's long days meant there was still plenty of light and so far, there'd been no hint of rain. The corner where I'd stepped off the bus didn't have any of the usual signs. The one by the autotel'd had read...Oh, duh. "Phi-Low Transport Stop 6." I hadn't noticed any barcode nonsense syllables on the bus, though.
I kept walking, figuring I'd come to Thoth Street in a few blocks and walk the rest of the way unless a bus happened by. A big, fading, half-painted over poster on the side of a building three stores high caught my attention. It looked like had shown a row of tractors working vast fields; the text at the bottom was illegible but at the top, I could make out "H..LP FCS...IGHT..." and below that, "...e Food Army...." The Far Edge had been in a bad way right after withdrawing from Lyndon/Linden, the oldest settled planet and the only one with four names: It was their breadbasket. They'd called it Peace-and-Prosperity, which has always struck me as wishful thinking. Still, the settled region is great for farming and the easily-mined coal at Pitty doesn't hurt. After they'd skipped out at Lyndon, they'd had to go with Plan B. Frothup had been one of a pair of worlds found suitable for rapid agricultural expansion. The other one had failed, (rumor says very badly), but things had worked out here. It put me in happier mood — the place didn't have that many people, only a few towns and just one large city; we'd find the stolen 'Drive amplifiers and if some of the people were hostile, so what? Most were not. Weren't. I corrected myself and wondered if I was starting to pick up the accent. Things weren't so bad. Raub and Handsome Dave would get the sabotaged squirt-boosters squared away, I'd finish the class on the new 'Drive amps I was supposed to be taking, we'd check out the recovered units, install them and it's all be back to normal.
Picture me, if you will, strolling along on a fine later afternoon, reading old billboards, gawking at buildings and the somewhat overwhelming arch of blue sky overhead, starting to be dotted with clouds from the direction of the port, the city's hum briefly broken by the distant Ba-bam! pop-pop of a squirt-booster leaving port. I spotted the little exclamation marks of a course and attitude adjustment scrawled high in the sky. I looked for the wavering star of Lupine herself without success; held "parked" at low-orbit altitude on the fusion/MGHD drives, far above the far side of the port from the city, reflectivity reduced by the barely-idling drive that keeps realspace effective mass manageable, it didn't take much of a cloud to hide the ship from view. Closer to sunset, she'd sparkle against the darkening sky but it was still too early for that.
When I looked down, I had company. Three young men — late teens, maybe, or a little older — had arranged themselves on the sidewalk ahead, blocking my path. One wore a dark T-shirt with the circled-A-and-star, and a truculent expression. The shirt hung so long that only the ragged cuffs of denim shorts could be seen between and his legs. His companions looked a little uncertain; both were dressed in dungarees and tan tropical-type shirts, almost like a uniform. All of them had buzz-cuts, grown out to various degrees.
What the heck, I smiled and said, "Howdy," as the distance closed.
The T-shirt wearer gave me an insolent once-over, shrugged. "You are a long way from home, lady."
One of his companions snickered. "Yeah. Long way."
Well, that was true, but it wasn't friendly. I stopped farther away than I usually would and tried to look around without appearing to. Still— "Not as far as you'd think." Nobody else in sight. Two intersections down, traffic came and went, but never turned our way.
He snorted. "Too far, Earth-girl. Nobody wants you people here."
"Hey, look, I'm just goin' where they tell me—"
One of his pals, the guy who'd snickered, "You people are hanging a warship over us!"
The ringleader took a step towards me. "Nearly bombed us by accident, is what I hear. Or was it an 'accident?'"
I wondered who'd been telling tales out of school? Our would-be saboteurs? Oh, there was no winning this one. It was worth a bluff; I stood up straight and gave them my best schoolteacher look. "I don't know what kind of wild rumors are goin' around, gents, but Lupine has been a plain cargo and passenger ship for twenty years, we never park over settled lands and the ship hasn't got any bombs."
He gave me a nasty smile and rubbed his hand over his scalp. "Right. Like Earth would tell the truth. The whole city heard your misfire the other day!"
Misfire? —Right. Butch's seat-of-the-pants corrections on our wild ride down, lower and louder than usual, especially for a port more used to little Edger bell-ships whistling and buzzing down. I looked him square in the eye and lied, "Just the normal sound of normal squirt-booster operations, Mister—?"
"We reject your empty titles! 'Normal?' Do you think we are all deaf?"
He was nearly shouting and way closer than I wanted. Oh, this was going well. I hoped my increasing panic wasn't showing.
The snickerer took a step closer, too. I held up both hands in front of myself what I hoped was a placating manner and thought about pocketknife in my wright pocket. I was wishing for the first time since Linden/Lyndon that I was armed with something a little scarier. Still, you can't let 'em know they're getting to you, right? I smiled, "Not at all. I think you're used to different ships." I took a sidestep and saw a car turn onto the street from the busy crossroad and head our way, a bright speck. I sure hoped they would keep on coming.
The guy in the FCS T-shirt shook his head. "Lies. Nothing but lies." He stepped within arm's reach, his buddies close behind.
Now I really wanted to be carrying a gun. I'm not all that great; I probably wasn't was gonna quick-draw and do an El Presidente against three guys at close range, especially since there was a good chance they were armed, this being a former Far Edge planet. The way things were going, it sure looked like I was about to discover Edgers were not the least bit sexist about administering a curb-stomping and I would rather have some other options.
If I'd been a little smarter — or paid attention in the self-defense classes T and Ian take turns giving — I would have stepped back, increased the distance. As it was, I thought it would make things worse, so I stood my ground. It wasn't helping.
[CONTINUED HERE]
As I've said, Finley managed to deflect what looked to me like an outpouring of long-suppressed wrath from the hyperspace engineer and we parted from him on at least neutral terms. Once we were making our way back across the gravelled chaos of the "Cooperative," Finley started to chuckle.
I didn't think it was funny. "What got into him? It's just a telephone."
"It is for you. —There's a reason he's not working over at Tweed. Or anywhere else."
"Oh?"
"You ever notice how the best 'Drive people, the top navigators and automation designers, all tend to be a little different?"
I thought about it. Take Lupine Engineering: we're an assorted lot but pretty typical of the genus geek, it seemed to me: at turns hyperfocused and distractable, not always so great with the interpersonal stuff. Okay, not average, but who is? "Not really. But I didn't mean to upset him."
He misread my expression (or did he?) "Ha! You do know what I mean. Your tutor — did Tim ever even introduce himself? — is a real extreme case, is all. Did him good to be reminded some of us have bosses."
We parted company at the park. Finley headed toward the Tweed building and I walked back towards my autotel, keeping an eye out for a bus or a marked stop. (I really should have looked up the returning bus schedule!) The anti-Earth graffiti on the park gate was already starting to blur and fade. Frothup's long days meant there was still plenty of light and so far, there'd been no hint of rain. The corner where I'd stepped off the bus didn't have any of the usual signs. The one by the autotel'd had read...Oh, duh. "Phi-Low Transport Stop 6." I hadn't noticed any barcode nonsense syllables on the bus, though.
I kept walking, figuring I'd come to Thoth Street in a few blocks and walk the rest of the way unless a bus happened by. A big, fading, half-painted over poster on the side of a building three stores high caught my attention. It looked like had shown a row of tractors working vast fields; the text at the bottom was illegible but at the top, I could make out "H..LP FCS...IGHT..." and below that, "...e Food Army...." The Far Edge had been in a bad way right after withdrawing from Lyndon/Linden, the oldest settled planet and the only one with four names: It was their breadbasket. They'd called it Peace-and-Prosperity, which has always struck me as wishful thinking. Still, the settled region is great for farming and the easily-mined coal at Pitty doesn't hurt. After they'd skipped out at Lyndon, they'd had to go with Plan B. Frothup had been one of a pair of worlds found suitable for rapid agricultural expansion. The other one had failed, (rumor says very badly), but things had worked out here. It put me in happier mood — the place didn't have that many people, only a few towns and just one large city; we'd find the stolen 'Drive amplifiers and if some of the people were hostile, so what? Most were not. Weren't. I corrected myself and wondered if I was starting to pick up the accent. Things weren't so bad. Raub and Handsome Dave would get the sabotaged squirt-boosters squared away, I'd finish the class on the new 'Drive amps I was supposed to be taking, we'd check out the recovered units, install them and it's all be back to normal.
Picture me, if you will, strolling along on a fine later afternoon, reading old billboards, gawking at buildings and the somewhat overwhelming arch of blue sky overhead, starting to be dotted with clouds from the direction of the port, the city's hum briefly broken by the distant Ba-bam! pop-pop of a squirt-booster leaving port. I spotted the little exclamation marks of a course and attitude adjustment scrawled high in the sky. I looked for the wavering star of Lupine herself without success; held "parked" at low-orbit altitude on the fusion/MGHD drives, far above the far side of the port from the city, reflectivity reduced by the barely-idling drive that keeps realspace effective mass manageable, it didn't take much of a cloud to hide the ship from view. Closer to sunset, she'd sparkle against the darkening sky but it was still too early for that.
When I looked down, I had company. Three young men — late teens, maybe, or a little older — had arranged themselves on the sidewalk ahead, blocking my path. One wore a dark T-shirt with the circled-A-and-star, and a truculent expression. The shirt hung so long that only the ragged cuffs of denim shorts could be seen between and his legs. His companions looked a little uncertain; both were dressed in dungarees and tan tropical-type shirts, almost like a uniform. All of them had buzz-cuts, grown out to various degrees.
What the heck, I smiled and said, "Howdy," as the distance closed.
The T-shirt wearer gave me an insolent once-over, shrugged. "You are a long way from home, lady."
One of his companions snickered. "Yeah. Long way."
Well, that was true, but it wasn't friendly. I stopped farther away than I usually would and tried to look around without appearing to. Still— "Not as far as you'd think." Nobody else in sight. Two intersections down, traffic came and went, but never turned our way.
He snorted. "Too far, Earth-girl. Nobody wants you people here."
"Hey, look, I'm just goin' where they tell me—"
One of his pals, the guy who'd snickered, "You people are hanging a warship over us!"
The ringleader took a step towards me. "Nearly bombed us by accident, is what I hear. Or was it an 'accident?'"
I wondered who'd been telling tales out of school? Our would-be saboteurs? Oh, there was no winning this one. It was worth a bluff; I stood up straight and gave them my best schoolteacher look. "I don't know what kind of wild rumors are goin' around, gents, but Lupine has been a plain cargo and passenger ship for twenty years, we never park over settled lands and the ship hasn't got any bombs."
He gave me a nasty smile and rubbed his hand over his scalp. "Right. Like Earth would tell the truth. The whole city heard your misfire the other day!"
Misfire? —Right. Butch's seat-of-the-pants corrections on our wild ride down, lower and louder than usual, especially for a port more used to little Edger bell-ships whistling and buzzing down. I looked him square in the eye and lied, "Just the normal sound of normal squirt-booster operations, Mister—?"
"We reject your empty titles! 'Normal?' Do you think we are all deaf?"
He was nearly shouting and way closer than I wanted. Oh, this was going well. I hoped my increasing panic wasn't showing.
The snickerer took a step closer, too. I held up both hands in front of myself what I hoped was a placating manner and thought about pocketknife in my wright pocket. I was wishing for the first time since Linden/Lyndon that I was armed with something a little scarier. Still, you can't let 'em know they're getting to you, right? I smiled, "Not at all. I think you're used to different ships." I took a sidestep and saw a car turn onto the street from the busy crossroad and head our way, a bright speck. I sure hoped they would keep on coming.
The guy in the FCS T-shirt shook his head. "Lies. Nothing but lies." He stepped within arm's reach, his buddies close behind.
Now I really wanted to be carrying a gun. I'm not all that great; I probably wasn't was gonna quick-draw and do an El Presidente against three guys at close range, especially since there was a good chance they were armed, this being a former Far Edge planet. The way things were going, it sure looked like I was about to discover Edgers were not the least bit sexist about administering a curb-stomping and I would rather have some other options.
If I'd been a little smarter — or paid attention in the self-defense classes T and Ian take turns giving — I would have stepped back, increased the distance. As it was, I thought it would make things worse, so I stood my ground. It wasn't helping.
[CONTINUED HERE]
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