of assault and assigned to a variety of functions.”
I nodded. “Such as hauling cyborgs across the surface of Mars.”
Sasha raised an eyebrow but I chose to ignore it. Norton cleared his throat. “Yes, Marscorp would like to apologize for the unfortunate mix-up. Someone had the crazy idea that you were connected with the greenies. By the time my office learned of your whereabouts and sought to intervene, you had arrived at the crash site and were headed back. Safely, thank god.”
I started to say something, started to object, but stopped when I saw Sasha frown. The signal was clear. Go along with the program and shut the hell up. I forced a smile. “Mistakes do happen.”
“Exactly,” Norton said smoothly. “Thanks for your understanding. Although Marscorp does not wish to take sides, we will do everything we can to smooth the way, and remove barriers that might otherwise prove troublesome.”
We must have looked relieved. Norton smiled. “You might be interested to know that no less than three different parties inquired about your health immediately after the ambush.”
Sasha beat me to the punch. “Who were they?”
Norton’s eyes were icy blue. They twinkled merrily. “A representative from Trans-Solar, a woman since identified as a greenie sympathizer, and Colonel Charles Wamba, Mishimuto Marines retired. He claimed to be a friend of Mr. Maxon’s.”
The name had a familiar ring, but I couldn’t place it. The idea that I might have a friend seemed strange indeed. Sasha looked at me and I looked at her. We needed help, and the choice seemed obvious. Colonel Charles Wamba.
11
“If you take care of the city, it will take care of you.”
One of countless morale holos set free to roam Roller Three’s corridors
Your average corpie may be a money-sucking, power-crazed jerk, but they aren’t necessarily stupid, and Roller Three proved it. After all, why build cities near natural resources, only to have the resources play out? Forcing the very ground travel you sought to avoid? Especially on a planet where travel consumed time, money, and lives? No, a mobile city made a lot of sense.
But, sensible though it may have been, Roller Three took some getting used to. It was on the lowest level referred to as “Deck One” where fusion-derived power fed gigantic drive wheels and steel blades funneled ore onto high-capacity conveyor belts.
Deck two was home to the massive crushers, sorters, mixers, and furnaces, where humans and androids worked to convert ore to finished metal.
Deck Three housed the multiplicity of machine shops, electronics labs, hydroponics equipment, and computer gear required to keep the whole complex running.
Deck Four was split between living quarters, office space, recreational facilities, cafeterias, a communications center, hospital, and the ever-so-pleasant jail.
And Deck Five, the topmost level, was given over to the landing strip, cranes, and other gear I had seen in the documentary. Or so our guide said, and I believed him.
He was tall by normal standards and came all the way up to my shoulder. His name was Burns. He had carefully combed hair, expensive clothes, and the sort of eager-beaver attitude that bosses love. He was a glorified gofer but hoped to be a lifer some day and never stopped trying. That’s why Burns put all doubts aside and led two rather dubious VIP’s down into the bowels of the beast, where the eccentric Colonel Wamba had taken up residence.
Conditions deteriorated as we journeyed downwards. Deck Three was first. I noticed the overhead was lower, the wood-grained plastic had given way to painted steel, and the temperature had risen. Tool heads conferred, androids hurried, and an atmosphere of frantic activity held sway. The feeling was reinforced by the chatter of power wrenches, the whine of lathes, the screech of saws, and the incessant smell of ozone. Burns mouthed words, but they were inaudible over the din.
Steel shook as we descended a flight of circular stairs. We were halfway down when someone yelled “Gangway!” and a man in a pressure suit pushed past. “Move, god damn it…we’ve got a stretcher coming through!”
I looked downwards and saw three men and a droid hoist a stretcher over their heads and start up the stairs. It wasn’t easy. The stretcher cradled what looked like a load of raw meat with a hole where its mouth should have been. Pieces of bone stuck out of the meat, along with rock fragments and chunks of pressure suit. Tubes ran every which way and kept the thing alive. Words popped out of my mouth. “What happened?”
“The silly bastard dropped a wrench into the rock crusher and went in after it,” the man said grimly. “He won’t make that mistake again.”
“But why?” I asked stupidly. “Wouldn’t it have been better to let it go?”
The man shrugged. “Sure, except for the five grand the corpies would deduct from his pay.”
“Five grand for a wrench?”
The smile was bitter. “Wrenches are expensive on Mars.”
I looked at the stretcher. It was closer now. “But why come this way? An elevator would be faster.”
“It sure would,” the man agreed, “if they worked. The mining gear is repaired first. Lift tubes are towards the bottom of the list.”
The stretcher party approached. The man motioned us to the rail. Bodies rubbed as the workers shuffled by.
The man turned, spit against the wall, and looked me in the eye. “Watch your step.” He took the stairs two at a time.
I turned to Burns. “He says the elevators are broken. Is that true?”
Burns shrugged. “Sure, but so what? The exercise will do them good. Come on. Time’s a-wasting.”
I started to reply but found myself addressing the back of his head. That was when Sasha caught my eye and frowned. The message was clear. “Don’t make waves.” I swallowed my anger and followed Burns downwards.
If Deck Three was bad, Two was horrible. It was a short trip from the bottom of the stairs to the unisex locker room, where a heavily dented droid gave me a bright yellow pressure suit size XXXL.
Like most locker rooms, this one contained row after row of lockers and smelled like a jockstrap. A steady stream of workers entered. Their suits dripped water from the high-pressure spray room and left trails across the deck. Most stripped to their skivvies, checked their suits for wear, and headed for the showers. Others, more modest perhaps, got into their clothes and left. No one looked at us or said anything to us. The yellow suits marked us for what we were: tourists who, if not corpies themselves, were the next worst thing.
I struggled with the final seal on my suit, traded safety checks with Sasha, and lumbered after Burns. The inside of my suit smelled better than I did. I had caught a little bit of sleep after our interview with Norton but hadn’t managed a shower.
Steam drifted away from the spray room. We followed Burns through the vapor and into a parallel corridor. It was lined with safety slogans and multilayered graffiti. The passageway ended in front of a tractor-sized lock. Five humans, two androids, and a utility bot waited to enter. They looked, then turned away. Burns spoke in my ear. “Ms. Casad, Mr. Maxon, how’s it going?”
The words were out before I could stop them. “If we assume normal dreeble, and gardunk aterbers, the resulting krepper would be 2678.33.”
Burns was as mystified as I was. “What was that?”
Sasha hurried to cover up. “We’re fine, thank you. What comes next?”
As if to answer Sasha’s question, a beacon flashed and a buzzer sounded in my helmet. It took a full minute for the lock to iris open. Six filth-covered androids and two equally dirty humans stumbled out. Even the droids looked tired. They headed for a washdown while we entered the lock and watched the hatch close behind us. When it opened, it was into a hellish world of never-ending conveyor belts, huge sorters, massive crushers, gas-injected furnaces, and molten metal. All operating in what seemed like silence at the speeds made possible by computers
