Elke said, "It is possible to set up a splash on purpose, with a large enough mass of light metal tossed in at the correct angle. I consider it a remote risk, however."
"Yeah, getting shotgunned with metal pellets is not something I enjoy, having tried it before. I can't imagine anyone there would risk it for the money."
"Well, what else is there to see?"
Caron said, "I'm adjusting the itinerary. I really don't need to see a gravity whip up close. It's a giant cable and another control cabin. The smelter was interesting, though. I've seen the orbital docks. We're not taking this boat all the way to the gas giants. So head home. Two days, yes?"
"If you don't care how much metal I ionize and mass I consume, yes."
"I don't. It was worth showing the flag, as it were, but I'm not really accomplishing much out here."
"Right away," he agreed. He had a course plotted and ready, and commenced at once, without notifying anyone.
Aramis kept a journal of notes, with some photos and video, his and Elke's. Someday, it might make an interesting memoir. Some of the team's assignments had been on barely industrialized worlds in constant warfare. Govannon was nothing but bleeding edge technology.
He hadn't seen the space foundry, but the ones running on the surface were bogglingly huge. Plastics labs and fabrication shops did everything from casting raw billets all the way to milling finished goods, through coordinate controls and massive energy expenditure. Glass and some ceramics were easy—silicates were all over the place. The cubic cows were rather disturbing. There were bees, bred to live in the inside farms, and the same geneticists were working on other strains for various colonies. That would generate more income. He wondered what the top limit was, but every line of development also boosted other industries and competitors, as well as providing better, cheaper resources on the whole. This one company—family—was producing so much material wealth that the entire human race was benefitting.
His musings were interrupted by a crashing sound from within the other room, and he jerked alert, grabbing baton and reaching for a pistol that he didn't have. His senses quivered for anything out of the ordinary.
The door opened, and he moved to a mental state that he didn't need, when Caron came through by herself. She was roaring drunk, staggering around. She held a bottle so clear the golden liquid within seemed almost free-floating, except for the black etched label. She had no glass.
"What have you been drinking?"
She spoke very carefully, with heartbreaking elocution. "Welsh gold. Penderyn Aur Cymru Single Malt whisky from a honey-charred barrel with a sherry finish. Two hundred Marks a bottle Earthside. Close to two thousand once imported here. I could drink myself to death on this stuff and my bankers would never notice."
The bottle slipped, and she fumbled for it and tumbled and wound up flat on her back next to the couch, bottle between her breasts, heaving so it spilt a drop with each breath, the drops moistening her lips and tongue.
A little more about her tastes I didn't need to know, he thought.
"We'd notice," he said.
"Yes, you'd notice, and you'd stop me. I can't even fucking die to escape."
"Caron, you're more than entitled to get drunk and hungover. Push it too far and Shaman will IV you."
"Of course he will. Do you want to spread me?"
"Excuse me?"
"You're attractive, decent, and you're not an ore miner, and I'm tired of expensive, perfectly shaped, ultra realistic dildos with no warmth or response." She yanked at her blouse.
Shit. He wasn't going to answer that question because . . . he wasn't going to answer that question.
"Miss Prescot, I'm going to call Elke for backup and see that you get to bed."
She looked disgusted and half sobered. "Yeah. I'll get there myself. Damn your professionalism."
She stood, but not without tumbling and grabbing him for support, her body pressed against his. She undressed on her way to the bedroom, leaving a trail of clothes. It would have been erotic if she had any higher mental faculties left. As it was he just felt sorry for her.
He checked that she did actually fall into bed, naked and sprawled and how many millions could he sell the photos for?
He closed the door and retrieved her clothes, from the lacy black silk panties to the outrageously expensive blouse and slacks, and folded them neatly on to the back of the couch.
Jason entered the apartment for morning shift change. He took a professional glance around, spied the pile, and didn't visibly raise an eyebrow, but Aramis could read it.
"Passed out drunk. Said a few things she didn't mean."
"Gotcha," he said with a nod. "Do we need to call Shaman?"
"She's breathing, well, snoring. I checked periodically. We'll see how she feels when she wakes up."
"She was drinking that?" Jason asked, pointing at the two thirds empty bottle.
"Yes."
"Damn. If they want to give me a bonus, I know what I want." Nice stuff. He'd tried it once, but it wasn't something he kept on hand in quantity.
"I'd best say nothing at this point."
Jason understood that and showed a frown. "Sorry, brother."
"Yeah. I feel sorry for her. I also hate the taunting little bitch." He delivered the last sentence with audible viciousness.
Jason thought about naked skin, fishnets and boots, and a naked woman skinning into a spacesuit. Yeah, he understood that only too well. Aramis wasn't yet twenty-eight, had a background that didn't include a lot of socializing with women, and had to be gibbering nuts inside.
He rolled a thought over for a second, hesitantly gave himself permission and decided Elke should get a photo for the man. Not that they hadn't seen all of her already, but something you could stare at for several seconds without being rude made a difference.
Chapter 21
Alex said, "Joe is really starting to piss me off."
They were gathered around the table in their common room, across the hall from Caron. They needed somewhere to vent and bitch where the principal wouldn't be aware of it and couldn't complain. She and Elke were on the other side.
"He is overly cautious. It interferes with our job," Aramis agreed. The man was demolishing another sandwich.
"No, it's more than that. It's the money grubbing, and I'm sure he's on the take somewhere."
Bart said, "We can't say so, of course."
"Not unless we stumble on concrete proof, and no one is to go digging."
They nodded in agreement. That would raise tensions at least.
Jason put down the trigger group he was tuning and said, "But, he is micromanaging, meddling, and really class conscious, as well as, in my opinion, a bit of a bigot. He doesn't like any of the non-European staff. I watch him twitch when Shaman's around, too."
Shaman nodded. "I see that as well. If it's obvious to others . . . "
Alex shrugged. "Well, we have to deal with him. Just continue to remember that he doesn't give us orders, we don't answer to him, and treat him as an obstacle."
Bart said, "It is interesting that he is more reserved about movement, and it's not just his racism."
"Yeah, he reeks of cowardice," Aramis said.
"Not cowardice," Shaman said. "Deceit. He's grubbing for more money. That's why he wants us replaced with lesser security."
Alex said, "Yeah, there's definitely some of that. He's cringing at the thought of our payroll, not of us hurting him. He's somewhat contemptive of us."
Jason said, "So, Boss, you need to make sure Bryan and Caron continue to like us. I will take the job of keeping Caron happy, and Aramis can do his best with Bryan."
Aramis raised a finger, but grinned.
Alex smiled. They were definitely a much more cohesive team now.
"That aside, we do seem to have reduced the threat level. No poisons, not shots fired, no swarms of anything. I hate to think Caron is stuck here forever, though. HQ is working on a department to do investigations. So we'll
just have to let that stand. And just in case, I've put a list together with Cady. She'll be bringing in all our usual stuff and stashing it so we can get it if we need to, rules or not."
Aramis said, "I have maps, flat and imaged, paper and module."
"You keep doing that. We should never be without a couple of spare routes and access to hardware."
Jason said, "Elke's been acquiring explosive."
"Of course she has. She's psychotic about it, but she's our psychotic. Find her places to stash it."
"Do you think it's going to come to that?"
"I hope not, but these things happen. We can always dispose of it outside. It'll degrade fast and likely not be found."
"That reminds me," Jason said. "I want to take a trip outside, just for interest. We need to consider stashes there, too, outside the locks, just in case."
"In case we wind up outside and cut off?"
"It's happened before."
Alex said, "I'd call you paranoid, but that's my job and I approve. Do it."
He wondered if they were paranoid enough, and just how their principals would react to this kind of discussion.
Bryan Prescot found an irregularity in his morning scan. It was a numerical flaw. Math was his forte, and tiny errors jumped at him, as this one had. He linked through, checked again, then went looking for the source of the discrepancy. After that, he pulled up several detailed files from far down the chart, then still farther. He spent an hour puzzling over where the inconsistency was.
Then he swore. He went over the figures several times. There was just no way it was a mistake. The columns matched closely enough. The problem was, the wrong columns matched.
One column was money disbursed for certain payrolls. The other was the transfer amounts of those payrolls. Those did not match. However, the report on those payrolls did match.
It wasn't an immediate legal problem. Deductions had been taken on the proper amount, so the government had theirs. However, after that, 90% of those funds had disappeared. It wasn't going to the personnel in question, and it wasn't still in the disbursing account.
Instead, it went off into some remote account on Grainne. That bank wouldn't talk, and not much would make them. Of course, Bryan Prescot could make the bank talk, by outright buying it if need be. It would be cheaper, though, to ask Jason Vaughn for any connections he might have.
However, none of that was necessary, because the process in question had been initiated, initialized, and initialed by his brother, who was on his way up now, or better be if he knew what was good for him.
Joe came in, looking flustered and a little defensive.
"What's the problem?" he asked, with a put upon tone.
"Where's the money going, Joe?"
"Money?"
Bryan spun the image around.
"That money."
"Ah. I was able to cut costs."
"You didn't discuss it with me." Bryan couldn't believe the man was going to lie about it further. It was so childish. They'd gotten past that stage forty years ago, hadn't they?
"You weren't here and there wasn't time."
Bryan slapped the desk and pointed out the dome.
"Open Jump Point. Specifically for communication purposes, because we need that more than the money. You could have reached me in twelve hours or so."
Joe stuttered momentarily but didn't respond.
Bryan shouted, "So where's the money, Joe?"
Joe was shaking, and shifted back to a chair. He sat down hard.
"In a safe account. I made sure the taxes were properly paid and then some."
"Yes, and then some. Which would not be necessary if you were openly paying lower salaries. Which means you were hiding it from me!" He hadn't wanted to lose his temper, but he realised he'd lost it before this discussion even started.
"Bryan, I wanted to make sure we had a backup. Just in case of—"
"I authorized that money so our miners could be well paid, not worked as near slaves!"
"I saved the money, even through a contractor, and our operations are above predictions."
"We don't need to save money. We do need to treat people like human fucking beings!"
"They all contracted freely, and the terms are in compliance. You've talked about overpaying people and damaging the economy. They come from very poor nations and are glad to have it. They're quite well off by their home standards."
"The plan was to get professionals and pay them accordingly."
"The professionals are. They're also all European, British or American. Much more reliable than third world rabble, if it comes to trouble."
Bryan looked at his younger brother in confused anger and disgust.
"I can't believe our parents raised such a sociopathic, racist bastard."
"I'm sorry you feel that way," Joe said. Goddammit, he was still trying to talk his way out of it. "Look, if I was wrong, I was wrong. My intent was to save the money for development and us. It was because of that that we had the capital we have now."
"Possibly some of it. We'd have succeeded and kept our honor intact. Now we'll go into the history books alongside the Arabs, Malays, Spanish . . . "
"Pretty much everyone who was successful, yes? And that bothers you?"
Everything the man said was making Bryan fume worse. He needed . . . before he . . .
"I don't want to discuss this. I'm going to fix it. Please leave me to do so, and I'll ensure you get the agreed bonus." He kept his contempt and revulsion masked.
"It'll work out. Things will be fine."
"Yes. Let me work on it. Please."
Bryan realized he didn't know his brother at all. Those wages were below starvation. Even with food and lodging being furnished, and entertainment, they were less than a pittance. They might help a family living in Bangladesh or the Congo, if they didn't mind a chance of never seeing their father or husband again.
Now he was honor bound to fix the problem, pay back wages to everyone he could have tracked down, and offer them all a small amount of stock for their work. It wasn't a lot of money from his position behind those bags of zeroes, which was the point. It would, though, take some time to accomplish. Some of the workers from previous rotations might not even have contact info. This would mean advertising, and PR to spin it.
He'd also heard rumors of safety equipment shortages. That was another several million he'd have to explore. Unbelievable.
He was going to have to cut his brother out of the operation, too. Give him his stock and a chunk to make him happy, and let him retire to Fiji or Aruba. Or Barbados.
So this is how it works out, Joe thought. The bloody idiot had to go and meddle in accounting and payroll, my area, instead of sticking to engineering and socializing.
He considered making another approach, then discarded the idea. Bryan actually believed those illiterate, scrabbling inferiors were their equals. There was a reason they were hired by the thousands with minimal background checks. All they had to do was produce ore. It was a nasty, low-status job, which is why nasty, low-status people were hired. All the upper echelons, doing the intellectual work, were westerners. That was because few third worlders went to college, because few of them had the capacity. That was a combination of societal, dietary early development, cultural and genetic. They really were inferior. It wasn't through any fault of their individual selves, but they certainly weren't equal, and didn't deserve more than a good wage based on their origins. It was economically bad on several levels to pay them Western wages. If Bryan wouldn't accept that reality, he'd just have to be made to.
Though it was past time for that. Joe was nerving himself, and realized he was. So on with the alternate plan.
He dug a secure phone out of his desk. It had been bought with cash and never used. Ideally, it never should be. Still. He left it wrapped in its envelope and punched a number manually.
On the fourth ring, there was an answer.
"Hello?"
"Yes, I need to impleme
nt that item I told you about."
" . . . " The man on the other end said nothing and then, "You're serious."
"Yes."
"That was hypothetical."
"Well, it's real now. Don't back out on me."
"Sir, that's . . . "
"It's a distraction, an accident."
"I really am having second thoughts."
Dammit, Joe could hear the little weasel cringing through the audio.
"I'll double the money." He would, too. That made him cringe, but if that was the market price.
"Okay . . . but I'm destroying this phone. There has to be distance."
"Of course. I'll tell you when."
Joe pulled the battery from the phone and stuffed both into a faraday bag. He'd make one more call with it, then destroy it.
Hopefully, Caron would be younger and more flexible in her thinking.
Alex thought Caron was adapting reasonably well. Keeping busy helped, though she was taking a break at the moment, and just enjoying cheese and crackers in her living room, with a sense-vid playing on the wall. She had afternoon appointments and numbers to crunch, which would be at her office.
While he pondered, a tremendous blast picked everything up and smashed it down. Alex thought he saw the floor actually wave as the shock passed.
As soon as the siren shrieked, everyone grabbed for masks. Alex had his next to him. Elke rolled over the back of the couch and sprinted for her kit. Caron darted to the coat rack and grabbed hers. Seconds later, the door slid open and Aramis came in, followed by Bart. Jason and Shaman came through from the rear.
Alex read off his comm and relayed the info. "Report says the outer dome is compromised. Breech is repairable, but there is substantial contamination. Masks required worn outside of buildings, at close proximity to the event inside. That includes this building. They're boosting for a slight positive pressure. They'll update as needed. They're starting air scrubbing now."
Jason asked, "What is the repair procedure?"
Caron said, "I think they use an epoxy for cracks. If a pane is actually loose, they replace it either inside or out—there are two tracks—and a future repair would be on the other side. Frame damage is with an injected polymer, or a welded metal joint, depending on which joint. They sonic weld in situ. Entire panes can be replaced with a jig that lets pressure push it into place, then it's sealed around the edge."