Do Unto Others-ARC

  Aramis strained, feeling his biceps and pecs cramp from the tension, and veins pop in his head. He got Elke's insteps over the edge, and she bent her feet to lock them in place. He paused a moment, got two deep breaths, then shrugged to his knees. That put his wrists on the angled edged of the railing, and as soon as he heaved, Elke's shins scraped along it, scratching and tearing the fabric of her parka pants. It had to hurt like hell, too.

  He leaned forward enough to avoid breaking her knees, then threw himself up and back. She bent into a perverse crouch, ass up, hips grinding into the railing, and he reached under her arms and heaved, her air bottle jamming into his chest and balls. With half her weight on the platform now, it wasn't too hard to yank, drag and pull until he could reach Caron's wrists and elbows, and drag her back onto solid mesh.

  They all three gasped, sweat pouring off and fogging their face shields. They just sat and let the strain and fear ease off to manageable levels.

  "Let's not do that again," he said.

  "Agreed," Elke nodded through a gasp.

  "How long can we sit before they notice?"

  "We can use that hut," he indicated one of the little igloos. "That's what it's for."

  The two women nodded, and he led the way in a crouching huddle. The height bothered all of them now. He urged Caron in first, Elke next, and he brought up the rear.

  The hut had no airlock, was just tall enough to stand in, and had chairs and a microwave, plus a stovelike solar powered heat element. It pressurized in under two minutes so that only traces of sulfur could be detected. The back third was a tiny toilet and shower with a sheet metal screen that offered basic privacy. He suddenly realized how badly he needed to go, but they took turns again. The pressure he felt was painful by the time it was his turn.

  Yes, that had been creepy.

  They hadn't thought to bring any lunch. There were some basic ration containers on a shelf, but none of them were hungry. Aramis did drink water, though. He got his brain back into a calm, professional state.

  "Hut Nineteen, is everyone okay?" a voice demanded through a speaker. He jerked.

  Of course, it made sense that everything was monitored.

  "Yes," he said. "Minor scare on the railing, we need to rest for a moment and drink some water."

  "Understood. Please remember to report in upon entering the Emergency Shelter, per Company safety regulations."

  "Thanks. We'll do that next time."

  So, this was not a place to discuss any tactics.

  Aramis waited until the thudding rush of twitching fear retreated a bit, then indicated for them to go back out. Caron's face screwed up and she blinked back tears, but she nodded and donned her mask quickly.

  Yeah, he didn't like it either. Tranks would be nice, but they'd also ruin coordination and reflex.

  Back outside, they moved over the mixer again, relying less on the railings, and kept on around the perimeter, chipping ice, as four one-hundred meter long mixing arms rotated around the bowel of the caisson. Yeah, falling into there would be pretty final and permanent. He'd keep note of that. Someone might want to arrange an accident, or they might need to. Bad news.

  At lunch time, Caron led them back to the hut. As soon as the airlock latched, Aramis said, "Hut Nineteen, lunch break."

  "From where?"

  "Slime Mixer Fifteen. Ice removal."

  "Got it. Thirty minutes."

  "Yes."

  Thirty minutes of Caron not talking, Elke muttering in Czech, and Aramis trying to bring his own body under control—they were all shivering from cold and stress—was not restful. They ate some of the heatable meals, which were bland but manageable, a bit better than field rations.

  The rest of the day passed in a chilled, shivering, cursing fugue, hacking and chopping and beating on ice.

  By the time the shift ended, and they departed around the catwalk the same way they'd come in, there was no indication they'd accomplished anything.

  Aramis assumed another shift would be along shortly to repeat the process.

  Dinner presented yet another problem.

  It was very unlikely anyone would recognize Caron in her current state. The smeared makeup was now smudged, with sweat and dust added to it, her hair was part spiky, part matted, and she looked dead tired. Apart from that slight pout that never left her lips, she was nothing to write home about.

  Except, of course, that they were surrounded by ten thousand miners with less than 600 women.

  She said nothing as she got jostled in line. There were no overt gropes, but lots of rubbing and bumping. Caron ignored it. Or hell, maybe it was some kind of human touch and she liked it. Probably not. Elke, though, did not like being touched, but tried not to shy away. She exuded anger in ripples he could see. Aramis knew he was seeing a human part of her. He decided to keep it in complete confidence. Besides, he didn't want her angry.

  The line was long and slow, but the smells were decent. That was chicken stew, fresh bread, and some salad. The servers didn't speak English, and just tossed lots of everything onto the trays, heedless of the plates. Aramis was fine with that. He wanted a lot of calories after today.

  Elke muttered, "I'm going to find a better hiding place. We're supposed to improve safety for our principal. This did not do that."

  "Yeah, well we needed to duck in a hurry," he whispered back. "This is the last place they'd look."

  "With good reason. But we can do better."

  They stopped talking as they approached a table that had three seats available.

  The men around it looked up at the two women. Aramis might have been invisible, and he was fine with that. The less anyone perceived them as a group, the better.

  One man said, moderately loudly, "At least we get some nice scenery now and then. Good evening, ladies."

  He smiled. It was friendly enough, but he was rather coarse looking, Indian or Bangladeshi or somewhere else that had aged him even before he came to this rock. He spoke accented but good English.

  Elke grunted. Caron rolled her eyes. Aramis made eye contact with the man and twitched his eyebrows. He had Caron next to him.

  "Jack. Doing time in labor." he introduced himself. "You?"

  "Emin. Crusher operator." the man said.

  Aramis didn't care. He was trying to distract him from the women and create enough rapport the man wouldn't consider fighting out of hand. While doing that, he sat down and plowed into his food.

  It really wasn't bad. The chicken was a bit greasy, overall it was a little bland, but healthy enough, and plentiful. He shrugged inwardly and devoured it. It was the only food he was going to get.

  He noticed from the corner of his eye that Caron started eating very neatly, pure class. Table manners would be a red flag in this place. He nudged Elke gently, she glanced a millimeter in his direction, he wiggled his fork and went back to scooping food with it. Elke turned and nudged Caron.

  "Good stuff tonight," she said, shoving a mouthful of chicken in and letting a little leak out. Caron grimaced just slightly, then forked up a large mouthful herself.

  "Eh," she said noncommittally, but she got much more casual with her tableware.

  Damn, it had been one hell of a day. They'd have to AAR, too, whenever possible. For now, Aramis finished his institution standard meal.

  Elke stood up, walked off, ignored a few brushes and came back with two ice cream bars.

  Aramis was slightly annoyed that she hadn't gotten one for him, then remembered the character she was in. They were just laborers, nothing more.

  One of Emin's neighbors said, "I think I'm going to have to eat at this table more often, if you ladies are going to be here."

  Elke leaned forward and said, "As long as you remember she's mine." She followed that with a hug and a very serious grope. He saw Caron flinch for just a moment, then relax, then act as if she enjoyed it. At least he hoped it was an act. Or not. Damn Elke.

  "Fucking dykes," one of the men said with a disgusted shake of his h
ead.

  The other said, "No problem. Do her right here if you like," in a very reasonable tone. "No one will complain."

  "Right after you and your friend," Elke replied very smoothly.

  Aramis thought that was actually a moderate risk, judging from his own repressed urges and the expressions on the miners' faces.

  Elke caught that at once and added, "With this guy here," and pointed at Aramis.

  "Hey, fuck you, bitch!" Aramis snapped back, finding it very easy to sound offended.

  "Well, I can't control your dreams," she replied.

  A few nervous chuckles ran around, then conversation shifted elsewhere.

  "Yes, always that way with the men," Elke said. "Come, Cory, let's go." She stood and herded Caron with her, taking their trays to the cleaning window and then out. Aramis gave them enough head start that he wasn't obviously following, though who here would blame him if he did?

  There were six theaters in the broad low dome the miners used as billeting, arranged in a circle near the middle. Atop them was a meeting area the size of a small parade field. The airlock doors on them suggested they were emergency shelters as well. That made sense.

  Elke and Caron browsed the screens for a few moments, and Aramis sauntered slowly past as if on his way to check something else, while eying the pussy. As he passed them, Elke mumbled, "We'll sit at the back of the theater and sneak out twenty minutes into it."

  He decided his best bet was to not go in, and be waiting for them surreptitiously. After that, they'd be on schedule to stop by Eggett's.

  Mine security ran past and he froze. They ran past, though. He heard someone mention "Fight." That seemed believable. He noted the bars closed early, counted drinks, and that some of the miners seemed to be using khat or hash or other recreational stuff, and probably some borrowed or stolen medical drugs, too.

  He considered that Bryan really should have been here more than once or twice for overviews. His trust had killed him.

  Jason felt fine after a day of tuning motors and sharpening tools. He stepped into their new hideyhole and decided to say nothing of it. His friends and Caron looked like hell.

  "Not a fun day, I take it?" he asked. He figured it was best to get them talking.

  Caron's face was empty as she said, "Frozen. Toxic atmo. Almost fell. Extreme heights. Obnoxious miners. Bruised. Pinched." She choked it off with a sob, but got it under control.

  "Mine wasn't that bad," he said. Indeed. He'd managed to lurk in the back of a workshop, fiddling with motors for far longer than needed, before bringing them to the foreman. His work had been unremarkable, by intent.

  Alex said, "You can rotate with me."

  "Why, what did you do?"

  He held up a comm slate.

  "Walked around in a hardhat and half a suit, making notes and mumbling, and occasionally talking into my phone. No one wants to mess with a suit doing inspections."

  Jason said, "Dammit, I should have thought of that first." Still, he'd found the repair work time consuming without being dreary, and certainly less strenuous than the kids had found theirs.

  "You can swap off with me. The other issue is we can't rely on any phone or radio at this point. We need to set up some kind of contact with our HQ, though. This was made clear to me last time."

  Aramis, predictably, snorted a laugh and then restrained it. It was not a laughing matter, which made it that much funnier.

  Jason said, "Through a lawyer is likely doable, with an encrypted message. You have a onetime pad, yes?"

  "Of course," Alex said. "I even have a message ready. You have a lawyer?"

  "I had not got around to that preparation when this happened. However, I do have one in mind. We'll need to get me back inside the dome, though. Any lawyer down here works for the company and will have to talk to the main office. We need one for the tourists."

  "So we need to hit the resort again."

  "It's secured. Miners can't get in. Safety. Or I gather, my uncle's mistrust. You're going to have trouble getting in."

  Aramis said, "Trouble, yes, but there is an access corridor. Take spare clothes in backpack. You're going to get filthy."

  Alex asked, "How much do you need?"

  "Ten thousand should get me started."

  Alex visibly cringed.

  "I realize the economy of scale here, but that's a lot of clandestine cash in one chunk."

  "I'll bring back what I don't need, but I can't appear cheap."

  "Yeah, there is that. You have a clean suit or such?"

  "Where?"

  "I do," Eggett said. "You're not too much smaller."

  "Other than chest and shoulders, but I can make it work. I'll just look like I'm puffing out my chest to show off."

  Aramis snorted again, but at least it was just humorous in that context.

  Elke said, "One day hauling is a fair risk. There are not many women here. Caron and I won't blend in well enough. Work out of sight is better."

  Horace said, "I agree in general, but Caron is distinctive, and you are obviously European. These women are Bantu, South American and Polynesian."

  "My Spanish is awful, but I will manage," Elke said. "I also speak passable Russian. There are Eastern Slavs here. Caron also looks a bit like one. I'll do the talking."

  Aramis shrugged. "We've pulled it off so far. Once I get Jason started, Bart and I can fake Russian enough."

  Eggett said, "Make sure you get the right crew. You don't want to be in with the wrong caste."

  "Ah . . . how distinctive is it?"

  "Think of it as social classes," Eggett said. Ruling class and certain guests, above all laws and rules. That's the company officers and possibly some department heads. Then paying guests and retainers of the ruling class, like yourselves yesterday." He nodded at the Ripple Creek team. "Some are degreed, some just inherited money with hirelings to do the thinking. Hard to touch at all because of connections.

  "Then, management for mines and habitats and resorts—contract professionals with big salaries, like . . . well, me. They can replace me, but not quickly. My assistants don't have my experience. What you're going to encounter, though, are mine supervisors down here. Up above it would include household and hotel managers, logistics, engineers, major craftsmen, hires, contracts and from family connections and clans. Suits, but just employees. Professionals glad to be here for the cred. European laborers are usually trustee type mine labor managers, construction managers, support contractors. Some non-Euros are housekeepers and such up above, and janitorial and such in the casinos, and skilled equipment operators. The lower groups are down here. Some of the Asian Slavs, the Africans and the Pacific Islanders are cargo handlers, delivery, machine operators on the basic stuff, just drivers and assembly. You want to go no lower than that. Below that is just grunt labor and menials. Few of them speak much English, they get what you've been doing at best, usually much grubbier, and you'll be very noticeable.

  "Basically," he said, "you want to find people who look like you and in work clothes, who speak some English or Spanish or Russian. Caron can pass as South American. Can you drive?"

  "Yes," Caron said. "I'm decent with a dump truck, though these are bigger than I'm used to."

  "Only if it takes a crew of two and I come along," Elke said. "Where?"

  "Let me pull up a 3D view," Eggett said.

  Aramis asked, "Can I get a copy?"

  Chapter 24

  Jason found the infiltration easy enough. With a suit rolled in a typical daypack and a hat on his head, no one gave him a second look. Aramis' directions were clear, and he found the bypass corridor without trouble. Eggett had a couple of different codes for access, and assured him one of them was standardized. He kept his head down as he coded for entrance and walked through the pressure-tight door.

  Aramis had been correct about getting dirty. Housekeeping didn't come into this access corridor. It was thick with rock dust and occasional dust bunnies. Stuff was stored here, which was against safety
regs, but all too common, in his experience. Some areas were the full two meters wide. Others were under a meter and required twisting. He did get quite dusty. It was also a good couple of hundred meters.

  At the far end, he pushed through the door, which was unlatched from this side as long as pressure was normal. That left him in an alcove. He changed quickly into the suit, and examined the door ahead cautiously. This is where he might get discovered. Civilians were not supposed to be on this side.

  He cracked the door and checked for traffic, then, with his trusty clipboard in hand, stepped out, carrying the pack like a doccase. A couple of people glanced his way, but none gave him a second look. There was no immediate response that indicated a threat, but he should accomplish this fast, just in case.

  In five minutes he was at the level he needed to be, in the mall that ran along the back of the dome nearest the passage to the mines. That wasn't coincidence. Some of the staff came in on weekends, when the passage was open. Joe wasn't likely to let it reopen until he'd nailed down what he needed to, though.

  Taking a breath to ground himself, Jason walked up to the office in question and through the glass door.

  "Good day, how may I help you?" asked the secretary behind the desk. Male secretary. Not necessarily indicative, but with an Arab lawyer could indicate a conservative.

  "My name is Rogan," he said. It wasn't his name, but it was less obviously a cover than Smith or Johnson. "I understand Mr. Rahman is busy. I also understand that my need is somewhat urgent." He placed his hands on the desk. He projected hurried and agitated.

  The secretary noticed the card under his hand. It was a M1000 cash card.

  That got his attention.

  "Wait here and I will inquire," he said, and carefully took the card.

  In very short order, the door was held open for Jason—an anachronism, it being a powered door. He smiled, walked in, took the offered seat, and waited for the door to seal and for the hum of a privacy field. Nice seat. A cross between French Colonial and modern, along with real wood paneling transported from Earth at considerable expense.