Mining Games

  “It appears it was still manned.”

  Ian Roberts stared and eventually exploded into laughter. “Thanks, I needed that.”

  “I wish it was a joke. Until a few hours ago, mining station B-114 was still under the supervision of maintenance officer Vladimir Koulikov.”

  “How? How is this possible?”

  “Well, he’s been there for exactly 152 years.”

  “What? It’s gotta be a mistake.”

  “That’s what I thought. I went through old records, but this mining facility was established before the destruction of station ‘Colonial Pride’, which held founding records. I was unable to access the original file.”

  “You obviously found something since you have a name.”

  “Yes. Until twenty minutes ago, all contact with B-114 had been extremely limited. We knew the facility was there; we receive its production every quarter, but we could not get its status because of a transmission error.”

  “Why wasn’t this failure looked into?”

  “Production was always secured. A maintenance effort was never considered.”

  “I see. So why now? Why do we know all of this now?”

  “Because the man’s contract was not renewed. He’s coming back here. We just received a coded message. A very brief computer generated text response, but the first info from B-114 in over a century and a half. It was accompanied by some other data that I couldn’t decipher.”

  “Renewed? How long was it for?”

  “Originally, eight years or six months’ actual work time. Fully automated facilities were not possible when he was sent out. Maintenance officers would be frozen and awaken in case of major failures or malfunctions. From what I read, no one has worked this way for more than ten years.”

  “But he did. How?”

  “Could have been a very easy place to mine. Could have benefited from better equipment to start with. There are many possible explanations.”

  “What’s your guess?” asked Ian.

  “Maybe he was good. Maybe he cut down intervention time by an incredible margin, and there wasn’t anything he couldn’t handle. Maybe he didn’t get bored. How should I know?”

  “Amazing…what else do you have?”

  “Not much. Apart from his name? He comes from a time before the laws and reforms on DNA modifications.”

  “You gotta be joking.” Ian got up and walked to a well stocked bar.

  “Figure it out for yourself. He’s been there for 152 years and those laws only came into effect 110 years ago. Legally, I wonder if that couldn’t give him some sort of immunity.”

  “An interesting notion, probably worth mentioning to our legal department. Wait a minute, that would mean he was born on earth?”

  “In his day, everyone was. Assuming he was 30 years old when he started his maintenance work, he would have been born around 2025.

  “Incredible! I can’t wait to meet him. When will he be here?”

  “Two months.”

  “Perfect! I want to organize something to celebrate this icon of the company! I want his picture on every screen in the next two hours with details of his odyssey. Do you have his picture? Is he photogenic?”

  Ian started pacing the room with a bounce in his step. “We’ll need a press conference, a global one. This is gonna appeal to everybody. Our communication department’s got to nail this. Two months? Should give us time to insert his story into the yearly report. Nell, this is exactly the type of thing to ease some tension from the next board meeting. Are you taking notes? Am I recording this?”

  “There is more. Although I couldn’t retrieve all the information required, some files are so archaic that our system couldn’t read them, details of Mr. Koulikov’s contract with us were explicitly clear. He was to be remunerated according to an exponential grading system based on the amount of time he spent on B-114. Very generous modifications were done to the original agreements after other candidates failed to stay on these stations for more than a few years. He renewed his extended, full-term contract eighteen times and is entitled to a substantial payment in a now-defunct currency, or company shares.”

  “How many shares?” purred Ian with suspicion.

  “1.25 billion.”

  “That’s…that’s ridiculous!”

  “I know. The grading system never anticipated someone actually completing the full term so many—”

  “Who else knows about this?”

  “Only you and me.”

  “Why don’t we keep it that way for now, shall we, so we can give this situation a bit of thought.”

  “Agreed. In all honesty, I must say that the thought of a controlling interest falling into the hands of a…spacer is extremely disturbing.” A long pause followed. “I can try to decipher the rest of these old files. Maybe we could find out more information about Mr. Koulikov.”

  “Do it. This is an old mystery that could become a serious headache.”

  Nell left his office while Ian was already turning back to his giant screen. As soon as the door slid shut, he called in a clear voice. “Dona, please locate Martina Summers for me.”

  Mrs. Summers is presently at the main pool. Do you want to announce your interest in communicating with her?

  “Yes, priority one.”

  Ian mixed himself a stiff drink and waited for Space Alloy’s senior lawyer to get back to him.

  * * *

  When Nell Stevens returned to the president’s office, Martina Summers had been fully briefed and was sitting across the room. A summary of the situation was displayed on the wall with the amount of shares owed to Vladimir Koulikov covering half of it.

  “Did you find anything else?” asked Ian.

  “Yes. I have his statistics while on B-114, the details of his 549 interventions and 1587 EVA’s.”

  “What about Koulikov himself?” asked the lawyer.

  “Only his aptitude test results and some personal information. Intense psychological evaluations of every candidate were conducted through the 18 month training program. All potential maintenance officers had to go through it.”

  “And what do these tests show for our friend?” asked Ian.

  “A loner by nature. He was the trainees team leader and elected spokesperson. He was 28 years old when sent to B-114 and is now 30. He effectively spent 703 days awake, or the equivalent.”

  “What was his formation? Where is he from?”

  “Born in Philadelphia from Russian immigrants, he grew up in Boston and graduated from…I couldn’t get that, sorry. He was a mining specialist on Earth and even wrote a speleology book.”

  “Speleology?” echoed Martina.

  “The study and exploration of caves on Earth.”

  “Anything else we should know?” asked Ian.

  “Not much. He had no next of kin, which was a requirement for all participants, and an I.Q. of 160.”

  “Hmm, obvious intelligence manipulation on top of common freezing process adaptability. What else?”

  “Actually, his brain wasn’t touched, he only received physicals.”

  “Really? An I.Q. of 160? No wonder he was a loner,” Ian was staring at his glass. “Okay, we’ve got a picture of our man, which is what we wanted. What’s going to happen when he gets here?” Ian turned to the lawyer. “Martina?”

  “His claim to Space Alloy shares is totally legal, I’m afraid. His contract proves it without the shadow of a doubt.”

  “Couldn’t that contract be faked?” asked Nell.

  “Absolutely not. Those files are secured, read-only files. They were created and coded according to Space Alloy protocol.”

  Ian leaned forward and spoke. “Considering the situation, I’m wondering about the consequences of a direct approach at preventing Mr. Koulikov’s appropriation of Space Alloy shares. Could the spacecraft bringing him back suffer a malfunction? I mean, this is old technology. What are the odds of him meeting technical difficulties?”

  “Not very high. Consider his
efficiency handling all types of trouble during his time on B-114,” said Nell. “I must point out that the communication problems we experienced in the past have been only partly rectified, and all remote control of his spacecraft would be impossible.”

  “Could Koulikov have done this on purpose? Surely he knows he now partially owns SA.”

  “Hard to say,” admitted Nell. “According to his psych tests, he was very materially detached. One evaluator wrote in his remarks that he suspected Koulikov of falsifying results. No reason or explanation for this was given. We can’t assume much.”

  “What about an external intervention while he’s on his way?” proposed Ian.

  “Meaning?” asked Martina.

  “An interception.”

  “As long as his presence out there is unknown, nobody will ever suspect anything. You could say you were neutralizing a badly directed mineral packet. Standard procedure.”

  “I think it would be best for SA,” admitted Ian.

  “Oh, definitely. But don’t all shuttles have collision warnings?” asked Nell.

  “Over a hundred years ago? I really don’t think so.”

  Martina wondered out loud. “The only thing is, this ‘interception’ can only be considered if his presence remains unknown. Satellites and probe sensors will pick it up, and casual disposal will no longer be an option. But something else is worrying me.”

  “What’s that,” asked Ian as he got up and nervously clasped his hands.

  “The fact that he could receive data from SA, even though he couldn’t respond to us. He knows everything about us. Everything. A man with an I.Q. of 160 would certainly know better than to return without taking precautions.”

  As if to answer her, the gentle tone of a priority one message resounded in the president’s office. He took the call on his giant screen, and a young face appeared.

  “Sorry for the interruption, sir, but we received an extraordinary message a few moments ago.” Ian noticed cheering technicians in the background. They were in the station’s traffic control center. “Shall I put it through?”

  “Please.”

  Her face vanished, replaced by the under-lighted and discolored primitive interior of an old spacecraft. A tired looking man with jet black hair neatly tied behind his head and brown wrinkled eyes spoke without smiling. The voice was hoarse and emotionless, like a computer talking without a human dialogue protocol.

  “This message is addressed to the direction of Space Alloy. My name is Vladimir Koulikov. I was the maintenance officer on B-114 for the past 152 years. I have decided not to renew my contract. I am heading for the company head office orbiting the moon. I will await your docking instructions once in orbit, but might not be able to respond right away. Thank you.”

  The unfriendly face vanished, and Ian looked at his colleagues.

  “Well, that takes care of that.”

  * * *

  Vladimir stared at recordings of space station Galvitra on his main screen. It permanently housed 3,000 Space Alloy employees and offered relief time to the many rotating crews working in various parts of the solar system. An incredible engineering feat. Too bad he couldn’t watch his approach through the small windows of his module which were scratched, scraped, and damaged beyond visibility. Outside cameras had failed or been scavenged long ago for other uses during his time on B-114.

  When every wall panel of his living room rattled and settled, he knew he had reached his final destination. Wearing his best overalls, Vladimir floated to his decompression chamber and waited for the green light. The LED finally blinked and he opened the hatch. A pale corridor was waiting, and Vladimir tentatively floated across the small distance to another hatch. The air was clean and fresh and a bit hotter than what he had experienced for so long. He emerged into a large storeroom with sliding doors of different sizes on three sides and an imposing pile of colorful containers in a corner. His module was tied down in the middle of it all, sticking out like a rusted nail on a shiny chrome plate.

  Five people were waiting for him. Vladimir straightened himself awkwardly and smiled at the welcoming committee. He turned to the president and offered his hand.

  “Mr. Koulikov, it is a pleasure,” said Ian Roberts pleasantly. “Allow me to introduce my associates. This is Nell Stevens, my personal assistant, and here is Martina Summers, our chief legal advisor.” Their hands were strong and wiry against Vladimir’s weak fingers. “This is Ray McArthur, our senior medical officer. And last, but not least, Emily Burns, our psychotherapist.”

  After spending so much time without human companionship, the sight of a woman like Nell Stevens reminded him of what he’d been missing for so long. She could have been a model posing for a magazine cover.

  “Good to meet all of you,” said Vladimir. “I’m sorry about the communication failure.” He had been unable to send other messages after departing from B-114.

  “Please don’t apologize about anything, Mr. Koulikov. What you accomplished is nothing short of extraordinary. On behalf of all Space Alloy employees, welcome back!” The president was ecstatic.

  “Thank you.”

  “I have organized two visits before we officially meet the press. A thorough medical examination and a moment with Mrs. Burns.”

  “I feel perfectly fine.”

  “I must insist. Normally we would have quarantined you, but I took it upon myself to personally welcome you. A medical exam is unavoidable.”

  “Whatever you think best.”

  “You are a brave man, Mr. Koulikov,” said the doctor. He was staring at the module. Dust was floating from a warped and bent metallic panel to the air filters above and a small rivet actually detached itself and drifted away. “This thing is falling apart.”

  Following this remark, the group dispersed around the old spacecraft as if on an inspection. Only Nell Stevens remained next to the astronaut.

  “What is that?” She was pointing at a tube anchored to the module’s side. Twisted and welded metal parts were holding it in place.

  “It was part of a mining drone, its main engine. I needed it to make course adjustments on my flight here.” Vladimir was staring at her while she looked at the part.

  “So you welded a rocket to the side of your module and linked it to your computer for trajectory corrections?”

  “Something like that,” said Vladimir with a smile.

  “You don’t look like a spacer.”

  “I don’t?”

  “That’s a compliment, by the way. Why’d you finally decide to stop mining?”

  “Honestly? I got bored.”

  “You’re going to disappoint a lot of journalists.”

  “Oh, I can come up with better reasons.”

  “I think you’d better. Lots of press conferences coming up.”

  “I do okay under pressure.”

  “I’m sure you do. Are you a bit afraid of your new life?”

  “Afraid?” He looked her up and down admiringly. “Not really. The future looks promising.”

  She laughed. “Lots of things changed while you slept. Think you can adapt to it all?”

  “Absolutely. We Capricorns are renowned for our adaptability.”

  “What are your plans for—”

  “We’ll review Mr. Koulikov’s achievements later and marvel at his ingenuity and adaptability, I’m sure. But for now, Doctor, we have a schedule to keep,” interrupted Ian.

  “Of course. Please follow me, Mr. Koulikov.” Dr. Ray McArthur launched himself across the bay to a small corridor at the other end. Vladimir looked around and followed without saying a word. Mrs. Burns was right behind him.

  Just before he vanished inside the tunnel, a last glance showed Ian in earnest conversation with his lawyer.

  “Something wrong, Mr. Koulikov?” The psychiatrist’s gray eyes gleamed and bore through him. Her short, cropped brown hair gave her the appearance of a hawk as she hovered above.

  “Why aren’t they coming with us?”
r />   “We will join them in no time. Their presence is not required for the medical evaluation. I assume you feel insecure at leaving the familiar walls of your little room?”

  “I wouldn’t put it quite like that.” Being reborn would be more accurate.

  “Most spacers exposed to long periods of solitude are somewhat disoriented when they return. Your case is worse because of the elapsed amount of actual time.”

  “I should adapt quickly.”

  Gravity was slowly returning as they headed further down the seemingly endless corridor.

  “Time will tell. Your case is special, but not unique,” said McArthur with a smile as he stopped and opened a door by pressing his hand on a wall indention.

  Vladimir estimated gravity at 20% of Earth’s, and it felt strange to have weight on his legs. They were obviously inside a medical ward, and the doctor headed directly for a large, coffin-like bed.

  “Mr. Koulikov, allow me to introduce you to a universally used medical instrument, the ‘Palmer Scanner’, named after its British inventor. This machine replaces all usual tests performed by members of my profession, and I invite you to lay in it.”

  Without hesitation, Vladimir stretched his frame inside the tube, and McArthur closed the cover. It wasn’t unlike the full body scanners of his own time. A ring glided on a rail over him, and a small device squeezed his left arm. It was over in less than twenty seconds.

  “Hmm,” said the doctor. “It appears your body is suffering from several vitamin deficiencies. Didn’t your food processor correctly balance your diet according to your activities and energy spending?”

  “Not really. I’m not even sure if it was recycling efficiently at the end.”

  “You mean you didn’t have a self-analysis routine? You didn’t take food supplements?”

  “No on both counts. I did have a small supply of supplements, but they were gone at the beginning of my fifth term.”

  “I see. Well, I’ll have you back in shape in no time.” McArthur produced a large wrist band with little sockets on top. He selected four little containers and inserted them in the band. “Your left wrist, please. This device will inject you with the right proportion of vitamins at a constant rate. It will also monitor your blood. It’s painless and discreet.”

  Vladimir looked at the thick, eight centimeter wide apparatus fastened to his wrist. So much for discretion. He felt a small tingle and knew his first dose of vitamins had been injected.