Troy Rising 2 - Citadel (3 page)

“And her eyes lit with the passionless passion of shopping,” Bruce said, grinning. “Not as such, no. Not yet. It's planned for Phase Two. There are currently three thousand something military and about an equal number of civvies living on the Troy. That's not enough to support a real mall. When section one is at full capacity . . . it'll support a mall. They're talking about getting a Wal-Mart first but I'll believe it when I see it. For now, there's just the food court and a couple of independent stores that sell civvy clothes and stuff and a little-bitty Publix. But I, hereby, by the authority invested in me by BM2 Johnson, under orders to ‘go get the noob a suit and show her around and stuff' declare it to be lunch time at the food court. I'm going to get a gyro. Meet me over by the purple caterpillar.”

The “purple caterpillar” turned out to be an orientation poster on the Ogutorjatedocifazhidujon . . . The name was two lines long. After a bit it just seemed to be a stream of random letters. They were, according to the poster, “a peaceful race dedicated to hospitality in all its forms.”

According to one of the briefings they'd gotten in A School, the Ogut civilians did tend to fill positions like hospitality, gardening, personal care, and such in other polities. If for no other reason than to get the hell out of the Ogut Empire. The Ogut government was anything but hospitable. It was a hereditary empire run mostly by its aristocracy and during the Multilateral Talks that had ceded the E Eridani system to the Horvath, the Ogut had bitten off a good bit of the Ormatur worlds as “protectorates.” And the instructor had made clear that meant pretty much the same as the “protection” the Horvath had once afforded earth. “That's a right nice planet you've got there, shame if a rock fell on it.”

Dana had admitted she was hungry and had gotten a double meat teriaki special at the Sushi House. Which made her wonder where the gym was. She was pretty sure it wasn't going to be on Bruce's version of “showing her around.”

Then there was the question raised by the Ogut poster.

“So . . .” she said as Bruce sat down. “Say there's a pressure drop. I've got my suit. What are you going to do?”

“See the red exit signs?” Bruce said. “They go to emergency survival centers. They're the heads, mostly. Sealed against pressure breach and there are boxes that open in the event of a loss that have emergency survival packs. We just call 'em body-bags cause if you're down to those you're probably a carbonite sculpture waiting to happen. However, at the moment we're about four hundred meters in from the main bay and about a kilometer and a bit from the exterior. Somehow I'm not worried about pressure loss. Now when we're at the quarters, I'm pretty careful.”

“Troy isn't even officially commissioned, yet, is it?” Dana asked.

“Nope,” Bruce said. “They've only got one laser tube cut and one missile tube. They're still in test phase. Commissioning ceremony is in about three months and everybody is already freaking out. Expect a lot of brass. Military and civilian.”

“I guess that's going to be kind of an issue,” Dana said. “And I'd expect you're probably going to figure out a way to . . . ghost it?”

“Already working on it . . .” Bruce said, then a flash of annoyance crossed his face. “Roger, Bosun's Mate. Still getting her suit, BM. Roger. Will do. Aye, aye. Frack.”

“Problem?” Dana asked.

“Bosun Mate Johnson has just queried the time I am expending ‘showing you around and stuff,' ” Bruce said, picking up his tray. “Especially since, apparently, nobody has seen either of us in a while. I hope you can gobble.”

“I'm done,” Dana said. “Am I in trouble?”

“You were just following orders,” Bruce said, dumping the contents of his tray in the trash. “And if nobody mentions going to the food court that would be a good thing.”

“Forty-seven, door four!” the speaker announced. “Forty-seven, door four!”

James F. “Butch” Allen gulped and got out of the hard plastic chair. He suddenly wished he'd dressed better.

Butch had graduated from high school in June at which point his dad had, politely but firmly, reminded him that he was now a legal adult. Kids didn't stick around in the Allen household. Home was always where, if you had to go there, they had to take you in. But with Mama Allen having Johannsen's and Papa Allen having no great liking for condoms, there was always another bed being taken up. Eighteen and out was The Rule.

The same month that Butch and his dad had The Talk, he'd gotten his draft notice. But Butch was pretty sure he wasn't suited for military life. That meant college, which was still deferred for the moment, or finding a “qualified civilian occupation” that meant he was exempt from conscription. He wasn't the college type, either.

The Allens had a long and illustrious history of working with their hands. His dad had worked at the GE plant in Springfield since he graduated from high school and was a fixture of the maintenance department. Butch had taken the vocational track at school. He wasn't bad at math and he liked tinkering and was even in the Physics club. But he wasn't real big on the “language arts” stuff and his SATs had shown that. College was pretty much out.

So he'd hitched a ride down to the Labor Office to look at the list of jobs he was qualified for that were “qualified civilian occupations.” The list was depressingly short. He wasn't qualified for any of them. Most of them were defense tech related jobs that he couldn't even start to figure out. He could apply to be trained as a clean-room technician, for example. But when he checked, there were zero spots available.

That left space. Just about any space slot was exempt. There were two problems, though. The first was that Apollo, which was the big name in space industries, mostly wanted older more experienced people. Most of the slots called for things like “three or more years commercial diving experience.” And even if you got accepted, it was a five year contract. Working in space took advanced training and high-tech implants.

But Apollo was the only company that accepted “untrained, entry-level” space technicians. Again, Butch had looked at the list of positions and his brain had sort of shut down. He didn't know what an “Optical Welding Technician” was except for it had something to do with welding. He could weld. He'd learned from his dad way before taking it in shop.

So he took a deep breath and walked in door four of the Springfield Apollo Mining Employment Office.

The room was small. The ceiling was low and it wasn't much wider than the narrow desk of the pregnant lady manning it. How she got in and out was a question.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Allen,” the lady said, smiling. She was pretty old, probably thirty or so, but not bad looking. And the pregnancy had clearly done some development on her knockers.

“Hey,” Butch said, smiling and sitting down.

“I've reviewed your record,” the lady said, smiling thinly. “You're not very experienced.”

“I just got out of high school, ma'am,” Butch pointed out. “And there's stuff isn't on there. My dad's been teaching me to do stuff since I was a kid. I can rebuild a car, even one with computer ignition. And I can weld. Better than the...ot in shop makes it look like. I'm good with stuff with my hands, ma'am. I'm good at turning a wrench.”

“Things are a little different in space, Mr. Allen,” she said, tapping on her computer. “It's a very dangerous, very hostile, environment. And you can't do things quite like you can on earth. Turning a wrench is a very complicated job in space. Why do you want to work at Apollo?”

“It seems like a good job, ma'am,” Butch said. “Lots of opportunities.”

“And it's draft exempt,” the lady said, looking up.

“I don't think I'm really set out to be in the Navy, ma'am,” Butch said. “I do what I'm told but I'm not all up on that ‘Yes, sir, three bags full' thing. I work good. I'm just not all up on . . .” He paused and shrugged. “I don't think I'd do good in the Navy, ma'am.”

“Describe . . .” the lady said, clearly reading off her screen. “Describe the procedure for assembling a four barrel injection system.”

“On a car?” Butch asked. “Diesel?”

“Car,” the lady said, looking puzzled. “I think.”

Butch ran through the usual way that you'd assemble a four barrel injection system as she tapped on her keyboard.

“You are using an electric arc welder to join a plate of stainless steel to a plate of conventional steel . . .”

There were about nine questions related to various mechanical processes. They were mostly the sort of thing Butch could answer in his sleep. If his gay teacher hadn't been a bastard he'd have made an easy A in shop.

“When would you be available to start?” the lady asked at the end.

“Am I hired?” Butch asked, surprised.

“Hiring decisions are made at a later time,” she said. “You will be informed by a phone call or email if you are hired. But I need to know when you are available.”

“I can start today,” Butch said. “If I don't get an exempt job I gotta report to the draft board in three weeks.”

“Very well,” she said, tapping some more. “Thank you for your time. You will be informed of our decision by phone or email within two weeks.”

“Okay,” Butch said.

“Have a nice day.”

“How'd it go?” Mama Allen asked when Butch walked in.

The Allen house was part of a block of two story “mill” houses built in the 1920s. The mill had closed back in the '50s, but the houses remained. With brick walls and solid construction, they'd been up and down over the years. Currently, the neighborhood was back on the “up” cycle as more and more people moved into Springfield and crowded out the families like the Allens that had been there for decades.

“Don't know,” Butch said, picking up Clarissa. She was one of three sisters, all younger. She wriggled for a second in his grip then subsided, sticking her thumb in her mouth. “That's gonna make you get bucktooth, kid. The lady didn't seem to think there was much chance but she asked me a bunch of shop stuff. Said I'd find out in two weeks or less.”

“Well,” Mama Allen said, wiping her hands. She was preparing meatloaf, heavy on the bread. “You gotta go to the Board in three weeks. I told your father that it's only three weeks.” She stopped and wiped at her eyes. “Onions. I told him you should have that much time at least.”

“Yes, mama,” Butch said. “Thank you, mama.”

“Go make sure Charlie and Susie 're doing their homework,” Mama Allen said, sticking the meatloaf in the oven.

“Yes, mama.”

“Good Lord, thank you for this food that you put on the table . . .” Papa Allen prayed.

Butch sat between Clarissa and Susie, holding their hands, as his father said grace. Clarissa kept trying to pull away but that was just Clarissa.

At a certain level it all seemed sort of distant. He'd been raised in this house. He didn't know anything other than Springfield, his friends from school and the neighborhood. But in two or three weeks, he was going away. He might be going to the Board and then into the Navy or the Army. The way things were going, they were talking about a big war with the Horvath and some guys named the Rangora.

The people already in the Navy, including some kids from the last class, were in “for the duration of hostilities.” If he got drafted, he'd be in “for the duration of hostilities.” And nobody knew how long “hostilities” might last. If you went by the Horvath, until their planet was a smoking ball of craters. The Horvath just didn't seem to get what a “truce” meant.

In a few weeks he'd be leaving this house. And he might never be coming back. That was kind of . . . It wasn't scary so much as confusing.

“Amen,” his dad said and reached for the bowl of mash potatoes.

Butch's cell phone rang and he looked guiltily at his dad.

“No phones at the table,” his dad said. “You know the rules.”

“It might be something about a job,” Butch said.

“Check,” his dad said. “If it's one of your girlfriends . . .”

Butch checked the phone and didn't recognize the number. It was an 800 number, though.

“Hello?”

“Mr. . . . Allen . . .” a robotic voice said. “This is a recording. You have been accepted by the . . . Apollo Mining Corporation as a . . . probationary optical welding technician. The contractual commitment is . . . five years. Starting salary is . . . eighteen dollars per hour with off-planet bonuses if the work occurs outside terrestrial atmosphere. If you conditionally accept this position, press one.”

Butch carefully pressed one.

“You are required to present yourself at the . . . Springfield, Missouri . . . Apollo Mining Employment office where you applied for this position within thee days. Your confirmation code is six-one-seven-three-five-two. Thank you. Goodbye.”

“What was that?” Maricela asked.

“I've got a job with Apollo,” Butch said, blinking in surprise. “A probationary . . . optical welding technician? I don't even know what it is.”

“Laser welding,” Papa Allen said, nodding. “It's the new thing. Apollo's pretty much the only people teach it right now. That's a good job. See you don't mess it up.”

“Yes, sir,” Butch said.

“Now eat your food for it gets cold.”

“Good afternoon and welcome to the Probationary Optical Welding Technician course,” the instructor said. He was a big guy with fair hair and a beer gut. Butch figured he probably carried Johannsen's. He also had a really raspy voice. "My name is Mr. Joseph Monaghan. I am one of the instructors of the space based OWT course here at the Apollo Melbourne Facility and, as such, I was chosen to welcome this new class. You will refer to me as Mr. Monaghan, not Joe or Joseph, just as you will address all of your instructors as Mr. or Ms. and their last name.

“Some people wonder why Apollo based its training course in a place like Melbourne, Florida,” Mr. Monaghan continued. "Since the Mercury program in the 1950s, Melbourne has been the primary support city for the Cape Canaveral Kennedy Space Center. Other smaller local cities include Palm Bay, Cocoa, Cocoa Beach and Titusville. From experience some of you will become more enamored of Cocoa Beach than will be good for you.

"Brevard Community College is one of the few community colleges in the world to offer a vo-tech course in space technology. Apollo based its training here shortly after the first launch of its first a SAPL mirror. Over the last ten years we have graduated thousands of young men and women to fill the burgeoning space industry, where they work in thousands of fields from robotic management technician to food services. Yes, we train people on space based food services because everyone who goes into space has to know, at a minimum, how to survive if the worst happens and you find yourself trying to suck vacuum.