Anton's Odyssey (23 page)

After the video, Ms
. Gross grinned and said that she lied about making us take a quiz. The class groaned. Ms. Gross asked if we had any questions, and this prosperous looking kid in khakis asked, “Why do piety-freaks always dress funny or have funky hairdos?”

Ms. Gross prefaced her answer by stating that the term “piety-freak” was derogatory and we ought not to use it. We should use the term “person of faith,” or in extreme cases “cult member.” “As for the beards, clothes, and hairstyles,” she said, “they are simply an outwardly visible demonstration of conformity to a rigid set of rules that transcends mainstream norms.”

Ms. Gross asked if anyone else had a question, but was greeted only with unenthusiastic looks of extreme disinterest. I put my hand up, and Ellen gave me a disapproving look.

“Yes, Anthony.”

“Why do piety — er I mean cult members — always seem to have phased plasma rifles in the forty watt range?”

“Well, I’m not sure as to the exact weaponry, but I suspect that cult members often feel the need to arm themselves
because of a sense of persecution from the general public, which does not share their ideals.”

I was satisfied with her answer. She asked again if there were any additional questions, but again, no one had any. Again I raised my hand. Ellen rolled her eyes.

“Why does the government always fry everyone with neutrinos when negotiations break down?”

“That seems to have happened fairly frequently in recent history, and I’m not sure of the exact answer. I think it is a result of poor leadership which has adopted, as a flawed philosophy, that a strong show of force will deter future groups from engaging in similar antisocial behavior.”

“Yeah,” I replied, “but if they do it over and over again, they’re obviously not deterring anything.”

“Like I said, it’s a flawed philosophy.”

Ms. Gross tried to focus her attention elsewhere but I couldn’t help but interject, “The government always tells you to sit tight if you are taken hostage, and not to try to fight or escape. But if the government is just going to fry you with neutrinos instead of negotiate your release, wouldn’t you be better off taking matters into your own hands?”

“Well, I don’t know about that Anthony,” Ms
. Gross said, obviously trying not to endorse vigilantism. “Chances are you will never be taken hostage, so try not to worry about it.”

I raised my hand again, but Ms
. Gross dismissed us five minutes early. At her desk, I tried to get her attention but she expressed a sudden interest in a gaudy jeweled broach some prosperous girl was wearing.

I caught up to Ellen in the hallway. She looked kind of annoyed. “Ms
. Gross,” she said trying to imitate my voice, “if I ask you questions over and over and over again, will you go out with me?” I had intended to tell Ellen that I was going to talk to Hammond to stop him from following her around, but after she mocked me I decided I was going to let her fend for herself. Unfortunately, in the days that followed, Hammond eventually gave up his pursuit of Ellen completely on his own, so the more vindictive side of me never achieved satisfaction.

A loud rumble woke us up in the middle of the night. The ship shook so violently Cotton was tossed out of the upper bunk onto the floor.

“You okay?” I asked.

“I think so,” he said, looking more confused than injured. “Was that supposed to happen?”

“I doubt it.” I said.

In the living room, there were no announcements yet on the vid screen. Mother slept through the noise, heavily sedated from her quadrazapam. I could hear her loud snores through the thin walls of our living unit.

In the passageways, occupants from other living units wandered around in their bedclothes. Periodically someone would ask us, “Did you hear that noise?” or “What’s going on?” We had no answers of course.

A tall man wearing an officer’s uniform and a grim look on his face greeted us in the passageway and announced that there had been an accident but that everything was now under control.

“Was anybody hurt?” asked a frumpy woman in a dressing gown, her hair up in curlers.

“Ma’am, please return to your living unit. We will post details in the morning announcements.”

Most people returned to their living units as instructed. Cotton and I lingered and didn’t go home until the officer barked at us to leave the passageway. We climbed into our bunks and fell back asleep.

When I woke up, I felt nauseated. If I moved my head too quickly the room started spinning. Cotton leaned over the rail of the top bunk and vomited all over the floor.

“It’s like IASIS all over again,” he cried clutching his head.

I dragged Cotton to the medical center.

“He doesn’t smell nearly as bad as he did last time.” Mary commented as the med-bot probed Cotton’s forehead.

“Yes,” I agreed, “he’s been showering from time to time.”

“It’s a much needed improvement.” Mary croaked.

We only had to wait a few minutes for Dr. Zanders. He didn’t look tired, and I interpreted this as a good sign, that he wasn’t up all night taking care of casualties.

“What’s wrong with your brother today?” Dr. Zanders asked.

“He’s puking, again. It’s like his IASAS came back all of a sudden.”

“It’s probably motion sickness. Haven’t you heard? We had to divert the ship. We are accelerating again.”

“We diverted? Was it because of the accident?”

“It’s all in this morning’s announcement. Didn’t you read it?”

I hadn’t. On the way out, I walked right by our vid screen without giving it a second look.

Dr. Zanders gave Cotton an antiemetic shot in his right butt cheek. I had washed the laundry recently, so the brown streaks at the back of his pajamas weren’t too conspicuous.

Cotton’s appetite returned
a moment later, and he insisted we go straight to the mess hall to get breakfast. There were only a few other people there. I guessed that many other people were experiencing nausea as well and chose to skip the meal. I had no appetite myself. Those that were present in the mess hall looked glum, somehow lost in thought. Most completely avoided eye contact. It wasn’t until Cotton finished his third omelet that I finally put my finger on what really felt amiss; that our brave sergeant at arms Jim Boldergat was nowhere to be found. We went back home to get Cotton dressed for school, and I finally read the announcement:

“IMPORTANT! PLEASE READ: Last night, officers, able starmen, ordinary starmen, and their family members may have noticed a fait rumbling noise and slight vibration aboard the Magic Sky Daddy (this ship). The purpose of this message is to assure our officers, able starmen, ordinary starmen, and their family members that engineering personnel have concluded that all systems aboard the Magic Sky Daddy (this ship) are nominal and that there is no cause for concern. The faint rumble and slight vibration were caused by a small breach in our starboard hull. Although NSSA requires us to divert to the nearest space station to assess and repair the damage, this task is merely a formality. Heavy Industries
General LLC will compensate able starmen and ordinary starmen engaged in repairs and support work while docked at Libra Station at the customary rate but will not pay overtime. Officers are salaried workers and will therefore not be paid overtime. Those crewmembers not engaged in repairs or support work while at dock will be granted unpaid leave. In accordance with employment contract, Heavy Industries General LLC accepts no liability for personal property lost during the explosion aboard the Magic Sky Daddy (this ship) last night. Dr. Zanders has informed me that no persons have reported injury. Engineering personnel have informed me that there is a moderate risk that some officers, able starmen, ordinary starmen, and/or their family members may have been vented out into space. All officers, able starmen, and ordinary starmen should report to work as usual. Foremen will perform a head count, and persons unaccounted for will be listed on the Captain’s log as lost in space. The dependents of lost individuals will be eligible for workers compensation death benefits at the customary rate. In accordance with employment contract, dependents of lost individuals who have not selected a beneficiary for workers compensation death benefits will not be eligible for said benefits. School will be cancelled, and all students should send a message to Mr. Yongscolder, school counselor, a blank message with the subject heading ‘I am still alive.’ Mr. Yongscolder has informed me that students faking death to avoid future class attendance will be punished with in-house suspension.

“Sincerely, Charles Pecelschmidt Sr., first mate on behalf of the captain.”

“Hey, classes are cancelled!” I shouted. As written, I figured the part about people being vented out into space was more of a hypothetical possibility than a definite reality and chose not to let it ruin my sense of jubilation at a day free from the tedium of schoolwork.

“That’s awesome!” Cotton replied.

“It says mom still has to work though.” We checked her room. She had, indeed, left for her shift.

“It’s kind of weird, mom going to work every day,” Cotton said.

“I know,” I agreed. “It’s been months now. That’s gotta be a record.”

“Hey, you got a personal message,” Cotton said pointing to the flashing icon in the upper right corner of the vid screen. The icon was in the shape of an envelope with my name written across the front.

The message was from Allen: “Don’t believe everything you read in this morning’s announcement. I’ve hacked into some surveillance footage and am recreating the events that lead to the disaster last night. Come to my living unit around 13:00. You can invite Hammond. Although he can be a jackass sometimes, his father works the engine room, so he has a right to know what really happened.” The message deleted itself as I read the last line.

I messaged Hammond, and the three of us arrived punctually at Allen’s living unit. Ellen was already there. I was pleased that she hadn’t been vented out into space.

Allen had the big vid set up for the rest of us to see. “I spent the last ten hours pulling security surveillance footage off Command Central,” he explained.

“There are
security cameras on the ship?” I asked.

“Yes, all over the place. They are not allowed in washaterias or living units for obvious privacy concerns. Mostly they are limited to main passageways, safety sensitive areas like the bridge and engine rooms, and places that house ship property. Don’t worry though, our worthy sergeant at arms never altered the default settings, so he was never messaged when the computer flagged images it deemed suspicious. Not only
that, but to save storage space the security systems overwrites footage memory weekly.”

“Are there cameras in the cargo bay auxiliary?” I asked, recalling Cotton’s escapade there weeks ago.

“There are, but they were covered with insulated panels by mistake during the hasty retrofit. Of course, no one bothered to put cameras in the ductworks because people don’t normally use them as a means of travel.”

Ellen raised her eyebrows, confused. “Don’t ask,” Hammond whispered to her. “It’s about the trouble they caused last month. The less we know the better.” Ellen nodded. As a consequence of Hammond dropping his pursuit of her, the two got along splendidly.

Allen punched a few keys and a still image of a short man in an orange jump suit walking down a passageway away from the camera appeared on screen. “So when the shipped shook last night, I hacked into Command Central and started viewing footage the security system flagged as suspicious. I had to start from the time of the explosion and work backwards. As far back as I could go, this is what I think ultimately led to the disaster last night.”

“But it’s just an ordinary starman walking down a passageway.” Ellen said.

“Yes,” agreed Allen, “but watch.” He pressed a key and the image sprung to life. At the far end of the camera’s point of view, another man appeared. His cap was pulled down forward, so we couldn’t see his face above his chin and lower lip.

“You see here, as the two men approach each other, there is no mutual gesture of acknowledgement like a nod or wave. The two men are trying to pretend that they are ignoring one another, but watch.” When the men were side by side, their hands met briefly. The man with his back toward the camera took another step but dropped whatever he acquired during the transaction. The camera zoomed in as the man picked up a small baggy containing a dozen or so bluish-green crystals. “The computer system flagged this as a probable fene deal, but of course our incomp
etent, lazy sergeant at arms never actually saw the footage.” A few frames later we could see the buyer’s face as he turned toward the camera. He had narrow eyes, a wide nose, and a dark soul patch under his chin.

“I ran facial recognition on this guy, and his name is Harvey Joinksmokker. Global Comprehensive Background Search Engine determined he was a moderate security risk. He has been married and divorced three times and has six children planet side. He has massive debts including over two years of unpaid child support. I reviewed his work logs. He works as a hydraulic technician in the engine room. Anytime he can, he’ll cover another ordinary starman who needs unpaid time off.”

“If the ship’s not mandating the extra hours, he won’t make any overtime. Just his usual wage,” Hammond said insightfully.

“Yes, exactly!
That just goes to show you how desperate he was for extra cash.”

“How long ago was this drug deal?” Ellen asked.

“Almost exactly a week ago to the hour.” Allen said. “I’ve reviewed the NSSA injury log. Two weeks ago, another hydraulic technician named Edward Lumbars pulled a muscle in his back and was restricted to light duty by Dr. Zanders. The supervising foreman noted that they could accommodate work restrictions, but Joinksmokker has been covering Lumbars’s shifts since the date of injury. My guess is that Lumbars had saved up plenty of money, so he was more than willing to take unpaid time off to avoid working though any discomfort.”

“So Joinksmokker’s been working double shifts?” Ellen asked.

“Yes, the engine room works ten hour shifts with two hours of overlap between subsequent shifts. At the time of this footage he would have worked eighteen hours each day the previous week with less than six hours of sleep a night. He was, no doubt, feeling pretty fatigued, and fatigue probably drove him to buy some fenes.”

Allen pecked at a few keys, and an image of the mess hall popped up on the big vid. In the background, we could see a short pudgy figure sneaking out some pudding.

“Hey that’s me!” shouted Cotton.

“
Yes, and there’s Jim Boldergat,” Allen said pointing to the fat man. “As you can see, he’s glaring at Mike and Jeff who are snorting lime jello through a straw.”

“Oh that’s so gross!” Ellen cried.

“Yes,” Cotton agreed, “but it was an excellent diversion. That must have been Wednesday.”

“Indeed,” said Allen. “Now look what the security system does.” Without Allen pressing any keys, the image zoomed in on Harvey Joinksmokker, his orange jumpsuit dirty with oil stains and his soul patch unkempt, melding in with adjacent stubble.

“The computer automatically zooms in on anything it flags as suspicious. Here we can see Harvey Joinksmokker picking at his food. He really doesn’t have much of an appetite and it looks like he lost a few kilos in the previous few days. See how loose his jumpsuit hangs around his neck. And look at this; see how he’s clenching his jaw! He’s grinding his teeth. The system flagged this as a probable fene binge that could place the user at risk for a psychotic break.”

Back home, I had seen fene users in a similar state. They were unpredictable and could lash out at you for no reason at all. Cotton and I learned they were best avoided.

Allen typed in another sequence of keys. “Here’s footage from last night. Joinksmokker is covering Lumbars’s shift in the engine room.” Harvey sat at a workbench. He looked very disheveled. His orange baseball cap was missing, and his hair was tangled and greasy. “Here comes the foreman, in the white jumpsuit. Now Jim Boldergat never switched on the audio, so I had to patch in a lip reading program onto the visuals.”

For such a burly man, the foreman had a high voice, as if he was trying to sing soprano or something. “Harvey, I need you to tweak these
transformers. They’re running a bit hot. Take the voltage down a notch or two.”