Lost in Transmission (22 page)

“Great. That's a great comfort to me, Mr. Mursk. You really know how to cheer a girl up.”

“Okay,” he said, sighing. He'd just met this newly minted person, and should not presume to solve her problems for her. Like his own long-ago teenage angst, it had a solid basis in reality. And unlike the brash young Conrad, Wendy had no real context for judging her circumstances. It was all new to her; she was waking up and looking around, finding the world not entirely to her liking but having no idea what to do about it.
Welcome to life, baby girl.

Like a solar sailor in a difficult turn, he shifted his mirrors and tried a different approach. “Listen, Wendy, you should come by my office sometime. Just ask directions from any block of wellstone; the place is no harder to find than this house. I'll introduce you to a nice young man, and maybe he'll show you around. He's not
too
nice, you understand—he has his own way of doing things. But I gather that won't be a problem for you. It must be . . . very exciting, seeing everything for the first time like this.”

She shrugged again. “I guess. It all seems kind of normal.”

Ah, youth. A child could grow up in the fires of hell itself and still consider it normal.

“Take my word for it, then. This is a magic time which will never be repeated no matter how long you live. In later years you'll look back and wish you had treasured it more.”

She looked at him for several seconds, then asked, “Why do old people always say stuff like that?”

Conrad thought for a while before answering. “Because it's true, I suppose. Because we hope to be listened to, though we know we will not.”

Was he really as old as all that? Did it show? Had he dug himself into so deep a rut that any break in the routine was this unsettling? He was
philosophizing,
for crying out loud. Conrad Mursk, the ne'er-do-well space pirate and summer camp hooligan! But no, that was hardly fair to the original Conrad Mursk, who had never asked to grow up into . . . what? A man who worked hard all the time, never playing, decade in and decade out?

It was a troubling thought, and it panicked him so greatly that when Bascal finally arrived, the first thing Conrad said to him as he stood in the doorway—flanked by a pair of looming Guards—was, “I need a new job, Bas. Your Majesty, Sire, I need to be someplace far away. Your daughter here—who by the way you should've told me about!—has persuaded me that my life needs shaking up. And she's correct. How did I not see this? Why didn't you tell me?”

“Um, I did,” the king said, blinking. “Didn't I?”

“Can you get me out of here? Bas, I need adventure, or anyway I need change. Sudden, dramatic change—the kind that keeps a person young.”

“But you're the greatest architect in the world,” the king protested. “You're
building
a world for the rest of us to inhabit. It's what you always wanted, right? You had to come six light-years to achieve it!”

“I wanted it, yes, but not forever. Not some unchanging rut to last me all through eternity. Have I never thought this through before? There has to be something
next,
doesn't there? Or my life is over, and the fact that I'll never die becomes an actual liability.”

“May I come in?” Bascal asked with mock impatience.

“Oh. Sorry, yes.” But Conrad, lost in his thoughts, continued to block the doorway. “You've said it yourself: there are other architects. I don't have to build the whole world. If I'm going to live forever then I should be out there, experiencing things. Right? Maybe my childish ambitions are something I'm supposed to outgrow. We used to be
pirates,
for crying out loud. Every day a new adventure.”

Laughing, Bascal nudged Conrad out of the way and stepped inside. One hulking Palace Guard trailed in behind him. “That wasn't what you said at the time, boyo. You were a miserable mutineer who never stopped trying to get us out of that business. And you were successful in the end, if I recall correctly. We were caught and punished. Did you forget that part? Or sleep through it?”

“I was a fool, then. Just get me away from here, away from myself, so I can't fall back into this habit. Send me somewhere. Make it an order, a proclamation.”

“Okay, okay. Calm down.” The king pulled out a chair and sat down next to Wendy. “As it happens, I know of a job which just opened up, for which you're uniquely qualified. Yesterday I wouldn't have dreamed of asking, but it seems the situation has changed. How would you like to work in space again?”

“Perfect,” Conrad said, seizing on it and nodding vigorously. “The stars, the vacuum . . . When do I start?”

“Four days. Actually, ninety-seven pids.
Fuck
I hate this planet's clock. It's three months from now, all right? On December first.”

“You
designed
the clock, Bas.”

“God designed it, my boy, to keep this place from ever quite feeling like home.”

“Hey, what about me?” Wendy protested from the kitchen. “Mr. Mursk, you said you had a young man for me. You said you'd show me around, or he would, or something. You just got done telling me how that pirate stuff was all in the past. What were you, lying?”

Bascal looked from Conrad to Wendy and back again. “It sounds as though I missed something. Perhaps something better missed, something a good father ought not to want to know. Wendy, fear not, I will order Conrad to keep his promises to you, provided they are honorable. And Conrad, with this Guard as my witness, I do hereby legally request your presence at Skyhook Station at the top of the Gravittoir, there to travel to Bubble Hood, for rendezvous with your ship. I can't make it an order, much as I'd like to, but my suggestions have considerable impact on those who disregard them.”

“Fine,” Conrad said, allowing himself to relax. The situation was fixable. In fact, he had all of eternity to fix it, and this was just the first step. “What's the job?”

Bascal smiled wickedly. “Why, first mate of the QMS
Newhope
. She's got a systemwide procurement tour coming up, and I need someone onboard I can trust to speak for me. The captain is an old girlfriend of yours, I'm afraid, but that's just the sort of problem we immorbids have to put up with in life. So? What do you think?”

Conrad mulled it over for about a tenth of a second before saying, “With this Guard as my witness, Sire, I accept.”

And thus was sealed the fate of a planet.

chapter sixteen

a death in the mines

Various events transpired, some interesting but most
rather dull and repetitive, adding little to the collection of memories and impulses and rote responses which called itself Conrad Mursk. But life is long, and in the fullness of time Conrad found himself screaming, covered in blood, furiously uploading notes into a neural halo as his internal pressure dropped and the lights around him dimmed. He stopped screaming, and then he stopped breathing, and moments later he was stepping out of
Newhope
's sole remaining fax machine, in the forward inventory.

Shit.

“Life signs went flat, so I ordered another backup,” said Money Izolo, who was crouching beside the machine, performing some sort of routine maintenance again. “Sorry, man.”

Shit. Double shit. Murdered again, right when he was at his most charming. Conrad was slow to anger these days, but he surprised himself—and Money—by slamming the wall hard with his fist, shattering several bones with an audible and decidedly painful crack. Then of course he just had to step into the fax again, to correct the damage. He had grown accustomed, as in the old days, to having the fax right here at hand. It really did change your outlook, your self-image, your views on pain and injury. Still, death was never a thing to be taken lightly.

He turned a baleful gaze on Money Izolo. “Should you be messing with that thing while I'm printing? If you fuff up the wrong thing at the wrong time, could my pattern be permanently erased? Or worse, mangled?”

“There are safeguards,” Money replied easily, barely pausing to glance up from his work. “The only way I could erase you is if I was trying to, and even then it would take some effort. You worry a lot, sir.”

“Wouldn't you?” The observation irritated Conrad, who after all had just been violently killed. Twice!

But Money ignored that and said, “Besides, this old gal's getting cranky in her autumn years. She's lasted us well, but she's full of stripes and defects, and not even Brenda really knows how to fix those. She can take a look when we get back to the drydock at Bubble Hood, but ‘old' is a hard thing to fix. What we need is a new one.”

“Tell it to the miners,” Conrad said, stomping out of the room.

He did manage to restrain the urge to break his hand again, but he stomped and cursed his way through the levels of
Newhope
's tall needle, and through the mating airlock, and through the longer, twistier corridors of the thirty-kilometer-wide Inner Belt asteroid known as Element Pit. When he got to the scene of the crime, the perpetrators were still standing around, looking down at two bloody heaps of Conrad Mursk.

“That one is going to cost you,” Conrad told them angrily. “Once is a moment of weakness. Or unbearable passion, which is even easier to excuse. But twice is just bad manners, and stupid besides. You may have asked yourselves why I'm not armed, why I'm not concerned once again for my safety. Have you? Have you asked yourselves that? Because it's a question very pertinent to these negotiations.”

“We don't want your fuffing cash. We can't use it,” said the leader of the miners, whom Conrad had never been formally introduced to, but who matched the description of Leonard Chang, the erstwhile director of these facilities. If so, then he was from Earth. More specifically, from Eastern Russia, where he'd no doubt grown up with every privilege an Earth boy could have.

It was a damn sight more privileges than an asteroid miner in Barnard could ever hope for, and Conrad's sympathies did extend that far. It was a sour deal, and there was no point trying to sell it any differently. But Planet Two needed metals (especially iron) and rare earth elements (especially neodymium), and Conrad's job was to see that they were delivered on time. And he knew as well as anyone that if he didn't succeed, things would get even worse. Even here.

“You may want to flush that voice buffer,” Conrad told the man impatiently. “I've heard that, what, five times now? And very little else. Yes, you want a new element mixer. You want a new print plate for your fax machine. You want your mommy to come and kiss the boo-boos for you, but she's not coming. She told me so in bed this morning.”

“You've got a foul mouth, Navy Man.”

“And you've got a bloodstained wrench, Mr. Chang. I'm not in a terribly good mood, and the law takes a dim view of these things, and at this particular time and place, it so happens that
I'm the law
. Now before you start swinging those things again, you do need to ask yourselves: why is this man not armed? From the outset I was against sending armed escort along with
Newhope
. Hell, I was against arming Navy ships in the first place. I mean, who have we got to fight? But it was never my decision, and as it happens there's a commander named Ho Ng, in a ship called
Tuitake
or
King's Fist
, loitering about a megaklick downsystem from here, stealthing in the glare of Barnard.

“Maybe you've seen him on TV? Fighting in the arena? The exact weapons at his disposal right now are classified—I'm not even sure I know myself—but I have commander Ng's assurances that he can depopulate this asteroid without significant harm to its facilities or stores. And if that happens, the whole stinking lot of you can be replaced with freshly printed children who don't know enough to complain about the conditions. Is that clear? Are there any specific points I can elaborate on, to broaden or deepen your understanding? Because against my better judgment I'm going to give you one more chance.”

Conrad hated making threats, especially because he couldn't afford to make empty ones. But just now he had what Barnardean negotiators called
nima,
or “hand.” Except for control over his own physical safety—a minor point at best—all the advantages were his, and he couldn't afford to take no for an answer. Thus, he meant every word he said, and in fact if the tactical situation were known to Ho Ng, Conrad would probably be ordered back to
Newhope
, and Xmary advised to withdraw the ship to a safe distance so these people could be murdered where they stood. Like most things in life, it wasn't Conrad's decision, and he really was giving these dirty-faced ladies and gentlemen a break. Out of the goodness of his own twice-murdered heart.

“Why should we believe that?” Leonard Chang demanded.

And Conrad answered him with a level gaze: “At this point, sir, I don't care if you believe it or not. But I hope your backups are current, which they would be already if you people had opened on a more conciliatory note. The matter is very close to being out of my hands, so if you like, you can just try whatever you want and see how it plays out. Or, if you're feeling useful, feeling civil and pleasant and remorseful for your crimes, you can start loading bar stock and I'll decline to report any of this. Not because I like you, but because I have a job to do, and your tragic death would interfere with it.”

Not surprisingly, that really did give the miners pause. They lowered their pipes and wrenches and galley knives, and Leonard Chang looked around at them, cooling them off with a warning glare.

“Pardon me if I'm not overwhelmed with . . . your generosity,” he said to Conrad. “We've got people getting injured, getting sick, getting
old
in the time it takes you Navy types to cycle back and forth to P2. There is no quality of life here, just slavery. That's the only word that describes our circumstances.”

“I'm sorry you feel that way,” Conrad told him sincerely. “Another way to look at it is that you all volunteered for this, and you're fuffing heroes. Or you were until a few minutes ago. Look, P2 needs those elements, and if you interfere with their flow, you might as well be dropping bombs on the planet's surface. You want to talk old age? You want to talk injury and death, Mr. Director? You need a print plate. Everybody needs a print plate. And to build a print plate—even one!—requires neodymium, and certain other materials that simply aren't found on P2. Not where we can get at them, not in meaningful quantities. But I don't have to tell you that, right?”

With that, the light went out of Chang's sails, and he slumped against the corridor wall, dropping his gaze to the floor. “We never wanted anyone to get hurt. Really. But you have to understand, Navy Man, we just can't keep this up. I wish you
would
replace us with children, fresh in body and spirit and mind. It would take them years to burn out. Decades.”

“But they'd lack experience. The mine's efficiency would plummet.”

“Aye. They'd lack experience. Lucky for them.”

At this, in spite of everything, Conrad felt a flicker of sympathy for these men and women. Everyone had it rough these days, but certainly it was true that some had it rougher than others, through no fault of their own. And the simple fact was, Conrad had heard almost precisely the same complaints from the deutrelium refiners, the particle smashers, the antimatter runners, and even, yes, the Navy crews themselves. Everyone in space, basically. Because yeah, it was one thing to declare a state of economic emergency, and quite another to maintain it indefinitely.

“Look,” he said. “You and I both know I can't get you a medical-grade fax machine. I couldn't if I wanted to, if I made it my life's work. King Bascal himself couldn't get you one, because there just aren't enough to go around. That's what ‘shortage' means. But there are some older industrial models kicking around, and if I call in some favors, I could probably get you one of those. That will give you everything but your health, and your health is still, as I say, available with periodic Naval visits, as always. That's no different than people have on the surface of the planet. Well, not terribly different.

“But try to understand, sir: you hold no cards at all in this negotiation. When you speak up, when you act out, all the government of P2 hears is that you care more about yourselves than about the plight of the colony. If they find out you're cracking skulls in addition, there is probably nothing I can do. You'll be killed, and your core memory slots will be reallocated to someone more in tune with the needs of the colony. That's not a threat, just a frank observation. For me to warn you at all is an act of charity.”

“Maybe you've got a good heart,” one of the miners suggested, in a tone that might've been snotty or sincere, or anything in-between. It'd been a long day, and Conrad just couldn't tell anymore.

“Don't start with me again,” he warned, pointing a finger at the man who'd spoken. “I'm offering two billion in cash, and first dibs on a thirdhand industrial fax. It's better than you deserve, and costly for the kingdom, but there you have it.”

Now the miners were all looking at their feet, saying nothing.

“Bloody hell, people, what do you want? A kiss on the forehead? That hundred tons of bar stock isn't going to move itself. Go print up some robots and let's get moving.”

The miners looked at each other and Conrad, as if uncertain what to say next. Finally, Chang piped up. “Hopefully you begin to understand our problem, Mr. Mursk. We haven't got any robots, nor the means to print them. The best fax machine we have at the moment has a print plate about the size of your chest, and it hasn't got the resolution to print a block of wellstone. Ergo, no computers, ergo no robots. Not real ones, anyway. We can automate—we
have
automated—but it's like working with grasshoppers. You can't turn your back on them, because they haven't got the slightest idea what you
want
them to do. Just what you tell them.”

Conrad favored Chang with a glare, and Chang swallowed and added, “We've got some grappling servos and powered carts down on level four that help with this kind of work. I'll, uh, send Jonesey and Schrader down to fetch them.”

Conrad nodded, and said to him, “Fine. And then let's take a walk, you and I. There are other serious matters to discuss.”

And here, if such a thing were possible, Chang's shoulders slumped even farther. “This is about the antimatter?”

Actually, it was about taking mental notes—forcibly, if necessary—from Chang's crew, so if they absolutely had to be replaced, their replacements would have a leg up on the learning process. It was a delicate subject, better broached to them by their own management, not some stranger in a uniform. But that was an interesting response, which gained Conrad's full and immediate attention. “Walk with me,” he said, with that particular quiet firmness people had a hard time ignoring.

The conversation was both brief and illuminating. “I studied metallurgy during the exile training,” Chang said to him while they walked, as though that explained or excused anything. “Not matter programming, you understand, but the old-fashioned mixing and melting of actual atoms. Had to study something, right? Part of the punishment. I wish to blazes I'd studied something else, but when they thawed me out here at Barnard, I compounded the error with a short-course degree in the geology of minor planets. It seemed like such an exciting idea at the time: hollowing these little worlds, sniffing for the precious metals inside them. A treasure hunt, you see? But lo, these hundred and thirty years later, here I still am. Poorer than when I started.”

“What do you want me to say?” Conrad asked impatiently. “We came here as children, but we've got to live as grown-ups. Things are what they are, and it's our responsibility—all of us—to sort it out. And we have forever to accomplish it.”

“So they say,” Chang grumbled, “but we've cause to doubt it here in the mines. Would you believe me if I said this place was haunted? Ghosts are invisible fossils, I've always thought—quantum impressions only an archaeologist could find. But I've got trustworthy people claiming to have seen them: dead friends, dead strangers, walking around. And it surprises me not at all. Have you ever buried a friend, Mr. Mursk? Packed her in a freezer and shipped her off to heaven knows where? Pray you never do, sir. You seem like a decent fellow, and I wouldn't wish that on you.”