Troy Rising 2 - Citadel (7 page)

Point was, when something like that happened and it wasn't too big, it was generally easier to get a “sophont” with a laser rig to come over and cut the bit off. Chop here, chop there, stuff fit together.

When it was too big for a human to cut, they brought in the SAPL and everybody ran for cover.

“Just done, Mr. Purcell,” Butch said. He could ignore his handle at this point. Despite the fact that that bastard Monahan had been right and the crews had zeroed in on his sisters the first week. Then Gursy found the perfect handle to piss him off.

And they pushed. He'd had little mutilated Barbie dolls left in his locker, his personal stuff messed with. They'd found pictures of his sisters on the internet, Susie and Jodie had both ended up in the home town newspaper a couple of times, and done really ugly things with them. Just about everything but his suit messed with. The rules on that one were absolute. It was an automatic, do not pass go, firing offense to “molest, disturb, change, modify, add to or in any other way bother the personal safety system of another employee.”

Gursy was the worst. The rest of the guys seemed to do it for the reasons Mr. Monahan had talked about. But Gursy was just a bully. Butch was pretty sure it was Gursy who had put the girls' pictures in his locker with . . . stuff on 'em.

Well, Gursy had his “issues” too. And the rules said you couldn't futz with a guy's suit. They never said nothing about a sled. Butch had checked real carefully.

Most of the welding wasn't done in suits. Butch had been on the Troy for a month and he'd spent maybe four hours, other than “familiarization” in his suit. Most of the time he worked in a laser sled. The lasers they used were powered by an annie plant and an emitter, not the SAPL. So they had to have something to tow the laser around with. The laser sled was like a little mini space ship with arms, called waldoes for some reason, that you controlled from the inside. Some of the control you did with your plants. Most of it was using your hands to manipulate the waldoes.

Two of the waldoes were laser heads, one a low-power and the other high. There were four more “grip arms” that could go in just about any direction and amplify the strength of the user. Overall, the sleds looked sort of like an octopus. With, and this was important, a crystal porthole on the front.

“Move down to lever Two,” Price said. “They're putting in a power plant and figure it's going to have something needs done the fracking bots can't figure out.”

“Right away, Mr. Purcell,” Butch said, turning his sled around and heading towards the big “lever” horns that punched up into the main bay of the Troy.

“Who the frack?” a voice screamed over the open channel. “God damn joking bastards! This is a safety violation! Get it off! Get it OFF!”

Butch tried not to giggle as he headed down to Lever Two and somebody else had to pull off the plastic spider taped to Gursy's porthole.

“Somebody has been a bad boy,” Dracula said, rolling into his bunk and turning on the TV.

“Really?” Butch said, trying not to sound too interested. “What happened?”

Dracula, AKA Drac, AKA Vladimir Anthony De Rosa was also a probie but he'd made it past the “hard” probation period. He only had a couple more months and he'd make full tech. He was also Butch's roommate and a ready source of the sort of gossip that wasn't shared with an absolute FNG.

“Somebody, and Gursy is steaming mad to try to find out who, taped a spider to his porthole,” Drac said. “He's also filed an official safety complaint.”

“I'm so sorry to hear that,” Butch said.

“What I can't figure out is how they did it,” Drac said. “Somebody would have to go out in a suit, or a sled, and tape it there.”

“Unless, and this is just a guess,” Butch said. “Somebody noticed that Gursy always uses the sled parked at slot Three. Then, if somebody was an evil bastard, all they had to do was put the spider on their sled and park it at Three.”

“In which case, when Gursy finds out the last guy to use the sled, he's going to be making a formal complaint,” Drac said.

“That assumes that the last guy to use the sled knew the spider was there,” Butch said.

“How could you miss a spider on your porthole?” Drac asked.

“Well if, and this is just thinking you understand,” Butch said. “If you knew that the guy using the sled was going to go back to Three because Gursy was out and three is the closest to the entrance that didn't have a sled and you knew that he was only going to be gone for less time than Gursy, somebody, and I've got no idea who, could tape the spider in place above the porthole on a bit of monofilament and space tape and hold it in place with regular scotch tape. The scotch tape was going to last long enough for somebody like, oh, BFM, to go out and back and never notice the spider cause it was way up over where he could see without doing a full exterior. And it might be particularly hard to spot sin . . . if it was up under the Number Four Arm. Just a guess.”

“Damn,” Drac said. “That's . . . complicated. Whoever thought that one up was a genius. But . . . BFM?” He chuckled at that and then guffawed.

The team lead was a regular and serious practical joker. But whereas Gursy's jokes were never very funny, BFM's were hilarious. It had just the right touch to be a Price. Complicated, hard to prove . . .

“Gursy is going to try to pin this on Price,” Drac said. “Which means making an official safety complaint.”

“Read the regs,” Butch said. “Strangely enough, futzing with a suit is covered but not a sled. The spider could have been in the sled, and it wouldn't have been a safety violation. Not officially.”

“I see a new reg being written,” Drac said. “And since you're a temp probie . . .”

“I had nothing to do with it,” Butch said. “What temp probie could possibly have come up with something that crazy?”

“First, I didn't do it,” John “BFM” Price said, holding up his hands. “Second, it's not a safety violation.”

The team lead was simply huge, six eight with a big bear gut, a beard that hung to his chest and a mass of shaggy hair. He looked like a black-haired Bigfoot.

“It was messing with my suit,” Carter Gursy said. Gursy was much shorter but with the same general shape and just about as hairy. Except on top where he was pretty much bald. “That's a firing offense. And you were the last person to use it, Price!”

“Calm down,” Doug Purcell said. The welding crew manager had been working for Apollo since the days when all they had was the Monkey Business and a couple of BDAs. Before that he'd worked in the drilling industry so he'd seen his fair share, and more, of dust-ups like this one. “I do have to admit this seems like a violation of Six-Three-Eight-Four-Nine-Delta.”

He also had an elephant's memory for regulations.

“Nope,” Price said. “Checked just before I come up here. Niner-Delta refers only to personal suits. Nothing about sleds. Doesn't mean I did it. But it does mean it's not a violation.”

“I see a new reg being written,” Mr. Purcell said, sighing. “And you insist that you did not do this?”

“I'd admit it if I did,” Price said. “It was a sweet set-up and since it's not covered by regs I'd be in the clear. Who was the last guy before me to use the sled?”

“Uh . . .” Mr. Purcell said, accessing his plant. “Allen.”

“The FNG?” Price said, chuckling. “No way an FNG did this. And Allen's Mister Pure. His big problem is he isn't tough enough. But he's been putting up with Gursy's crap so I guess he might slide.”

“I want somebody's hide for this,” Gursy said. “I don't care if it's covered by regs or not, it's a safety violation!”

“You're one to talk with all the crap you pull,” Price said. “Gursy, here's the low-down. I don't know how you made it through probe. Because nobody on the crew likes you one damned bit, nobody trusts you and if you were probe we'd have voted you off the island. I joke. Everybody jokes. Some of them get rough. You're just a buddy-screwer. I don't like that on my crew. Joking's one thing. Being a buddy-screwer's another. So you want to bitch about this hard enough, we can put in an official request for transfer as incompatible. I noticed you come to us in the middle of a placement zone. Which told me you'd already got one transfer. But I decided to let it slide. Some crews you got to be one kind of guy to work with them. Quick enough, I figured out why you were kicked off a crew.”

“I think we need to break up this little pow-wow,” Mr. Purcell said, raising his hands. “Mr. Gursy, you're off shift. I'm not going to have anyone as agitated as you in the Dark with a laser in your hand. Mr. Price, if you could stay a moment.”

“You try to kick me off the crew, I'll appeal,” Gursy said, standing up.

“You just do that,” Price said, not looking up. Of course, he didn't really need to since he was Gursy's height sitting down.

Mr. Purcell leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms, looking at the team lead.

“I didn't do it,” Price said, holding up his hand with three fingers extended. “Honest.”

“Then who did?” Purcell asked.

“Allen,” Price said, instantly.

“Really?” the manager said, looking amused. He'd been around this game long enough to enjoy a really good joke. You either developed a sense of humor about such things or you got out.

“Yeah,” Price said. “He stuck it up with a piece of scotch tape. He didn't know who was going to use the sled but he figured it was going to go back to Three, which Gursy always uses cause he's a buddy-screwer.”

One and Two were reserved for Mr. Purcell and other construction managers. Three was the next closest to the door.

“You're sure of this?” Mr. Purcell said.

“Why do you think I made sure I parked it at Three?” Price said. “I said I didn't do it. I didn't say I didn't help.”

“Mr. Allen seems to be doing well . . .” Mr. Purcell said.

“If you're asking if I think he needs to be transferred, the answer is no,” Price said. “I'd take three of Allen over Gursy. In fact, if it's a choice of Gursy or Allen, I'd take Allen, even though he's a probie. Usually when a guy's been on a crew and he knows what he's doing, even if he's an asshole guys'd rather work with him than a probie. But Gursy's an asshole and a buddyscrewer and everybody knows it. He does what he has to get by. Allen works his tail off.”

Mr. Purcell leaned back and closed his eyes, his lips working from side to side. After a few moments he opened them and regarded the team lead.

“You ever want to sit in this seat?” Purcell asked.

“Sure,” BFM said. “Some day.”

“What's your primary motivation going to be?” Purcell asked.

“The good of the guys,” Price said.

“Wrong,” Purcell said. “Dead wrong. Depends on which seat you're sitting in what, exactly, your motivation is. But in this seat, working for Apollo, the answer is: The best long-term interest of the company. Allen is a probationary tech, still not very good at his job and not yet a net asset to the company. Gursy is a trained tech and while I could wish he was more motivated in his position, he is a net asset.”

“So you're saying get rid of Allen, who's a damned good kid, for a jackass like Gursy?”

“Not saying that,” the manager said. “If I was at BAE, and God save me from another such assignment, the answer would be yes. If I was still at Shell the answer would be yes. But there's a reason I work for Apollo. Here's the thing. When you sit at this desk, there are two things you have to think about: What's going to make the company money and what's going to do it in the future. That's all.”

“Then I don't want to sit at that desk,” Price said.

“Don't be so quick to judge,” Purcell said, smiling. “The work is physically much easier than spending all your time in the Black and the pay is generally better and always steadier. And it's not quite the selling your soul you're thinking. You ever met Tyler Vernon?”

“No,” Price said, furrowing his brow. “And hell no. I don't got nothing against him, seems like a straight up guy and I think he runs a good company. Seems to care about his people. But I never come near meeting him. I mean, see his ship in the bay from time to time, but . . .”

“He, rarely, teaches a class on business ethics for Apollo managers,” Purcell said. “Fascinating guy. I mean, you know the history. But I mean personally he's a fascinating guy. The course is titled ‘Capitalism Clothed' and it's a mandatory class for management at Apollo. The title's a take on Naked Capitalism. You get it?”

“Got it,” Price said, smiling a bit.

“You think you get it,” Purcell said, crossing his arms. “The first point of the class is to point out that every economy is at some level naked capitalism. We just put various clothes on it. Unions are naked capitalism clothed in the rhetoric of organized labor.”

“You said the U word,” Price said.

“I know,” Purcell said, grinning. Apollo was death on organized labor. “I'm pretty sure only Paris is listening and he doesn't talk. But one of the things he talks about, once he's gotten everyone understanding the lingo, is Apollo clothing.”

“Heard that,” Price said, frowning. “I thought it was those shirts you all wear.”

“He's . . . inspirational when he talks,” the manager said, rubbing the Apollo symbol on his golf shirt. “ ‘Apollo was the Greek god of the sun, of philosophy and art and as his burning chariot was the light that brought philosophy and art to the barbarian West, Apollo's first mission is to carry the light of civilization into the Dark. The light of the sun is the clothing of Apollo and it is the clothing of this corporation.' I can't do it. He's got the knack, I don't.”

“That's our boss?” the team lead said, chuckling. “Huh.”

“The thing is, he's got a different vision from most other corporate heads,” Purcell said. “He even admits it's a vision that probably won't last. But the vision extends beyond the next quarter, beyond the next year. ‘Think not of the profit of the moment save to cover the necessary expenses of the corporation. Apollo will be leading the way to the stars long after we are dust. Think, rather, of the next generation. And make me a megacredit in the meantime.' Enlightened self-interest, the importance of safety to the bottom-line . . . He does go on.”