Lois Bujold - Falling Free

Van Atta smiled at Leo, smarmily triumphant. Vindicated, vindictive, calculating… “To return to the matter at hand,” Van Atta said, “I’ve already requested that Captain Bannerji be summarily terminated for his poor judgment and,” he glanced at Gavin, “and vandalism. I might also suggest that the cost of TY-776-424-X-G’s hospitalization be charged to his department.” Bannerji wilted, Administrator Chalopin stiffened.

“But it’s increasingly apparent to me,” Van Atta went on, fixing his most unpleasant smile on Leo, “that there’s another matter to be pursued here…

Ah shit, thought Leo, he’s going to get me on an assault charge—an eighteen-year career up in smoke—and I did it to myself—and I didn’t even get to finish the job…

“Subversion.”

“Huh?” said Leo.

“The quaddies have been growing increasingly restive in the past few months. Coincidentally with your arrival, Leo.” Van Atta’s gaze narrowed. “After today’s events I wonder if it was a coincidence. I rather think not. Isn’t it so that,” he wheeled and pointed dramatically at Leo, “you put Tony and Claire up to this escapade?”

“Me!” Leo sputtered in outrage, paused. “True, Tony did come to me once with some very odd questions, but I thought he was just curious about his upcoming work assignment. I wish now I’d…”

“You admit it!” Van Atta crowed. “You have encouraged defiant attitudes toward company authority among the hydroponics workers, and among your own students entrusted to you—ignored the psych department’s carefully developed guidelines for speech and behavior while aboard the Habitat—infected the workers with your own bad attitudes—”

Leo realized suddenly that Van Atta was not going to let him get a word of defense in edgewise if he could possibly help it. Van Atta was onto something infinitely more valuable than mere vengeance for a punch in the jaw—a scapegoat. A perfect scapegoat, upon whom he could pin every glitch in the Project for the past two months—or longer, depending on his ingenuity—and sacrifice qualmlessly to the company gods, himself emerging squeaky-clean and sinless.

“No, by God!” Leo roared. “If I were running a revolution, I’d do a damn sight better job of it than that—” he waved in the general direction of the warehouse. His muscles bunched to launch himself at Van Atta again. If he was to be fired anyway, he’d at least get some satisfaction out of it—

“Gentlemen.” Apmad’s voice sluiced down like a bucket of ice water. “Mr. Van Atta, may I remind you that terminations from outlying facilities like Rodeo are discouraged. Not only is GalacTech contractually obligated to provide transportation home to the terminees, but there is also the expense and large time delay of importing their replacements. No, we shall finish it this way. Captain Bannerji shall be suspended for two weeks without pay, and an official reprimand added to his permanent record for carrying an unauthorized weapon on official company duty. The weapon shall be confiscated. Mr. Graf shall be officially reprimanded also, but return immediately to his duties, as there is no one to replace him in them.”

“But I was screwed,” complained Bannerji.

“But I’m totally innocent!” cried Leo. “It’s a fabrication—a paranoid fantasy-—”

“You can’t send Graf back to the Habitat now,” yelped Van Atta. “Next thing you know he’ll be trying to unionize ‘em—”

“Considering the consequences of the Cay Project’s failure,” said the Ops VP coldly, “I think not. Eh, Mr. Graf?”

Leo shivered. “Eh.”

She sighed without satisfaction. “Thank you. This investigation is now complete. Further complaints or appeals by any party may be addressed to GalacTech headquarters on Earth.” If you dare, her quirked eyebrow added. Even Van Atta had the sense to keep his mouth shut.

The mood in the shuttle for the return trip to the Habitat was, to say the least, constrained. Claire, accompanied by one of the Habitat’s infirmary nurses pulled off her downside leave three days early for the duty, huddled in the back clutching Andy. Leo and Van Atta sat as far from each other as the limited space allowed.

Van Atta spoke once to Leo. “I told you so.” “You were right,” Leo replied woodenly. Van Atta nearly purred at the stroke, smug. Leo would rather have stroked him with a pipe wrench.

Could Van Atta be all right, as well? Was his disruptive pressure for instant results a sign of concern for the quaddies’ welfare, even survival? No, Leo decided with a sigh. The only welfare that truly concerned Bruce was his own.

Leo let his head rest on the padded support and stared out his window as the acceleration of takeoff thrust him back in his seat. A shuttle ride was still a bit of a thrill to something deep in him, even after the countless trips he’d made. There were people—billions, the vast majority—who never set foot off their home planets in their lives. He was one of the lucky few.

Lucky to have his job. Lucky in the results he’d achieved, over the years. The vast Morita Deep Space Transfer Station had probably been the crown of his career, the largest project he was ever likely to work on. He’d first viewed the site when it was empty, icy vacuum, as nothing as nothing could possibly be. He’d passed through it again just last year, making a changeover from a ship from Ylla to a ship for Earth. Morita had looked good, really good; alive, even undergoing expansion of its facilities, several years sooner than anyone had expected. Smooth expansion; plans for it had been incorporated into the original designs. Over-ambitious they’d called it then. Far-sighted, they called it now.

And there had been other projects too. Every day, from one end of the wormhole nexus to the other, countless accidents of structural failure did not occur because he, and people he’d trained, had done their jobs well. The work of a harried week, the early detection of the propagating micro-cracks in the reactor coolant lines at the great Beni Ra orbital factory alone had saved, perhaps, three thousand lives. How many surgeons could claim to save three thousand lives in ten years of their careers? On that memorable inspection tour, he’d done it once a month for a year. Invisibly, unsung; disasters that never happen don’t normally make headlines. But he knew, and the men and women who worked alongside him knew, and that was enough.

He regretted slugging Bruce. The moment’s red joy had certainly not been worth risking his job for. The eighteen years of accumulating pension benefits, the stock options, the seniority, yes, maybe; with no family to support, they were all Leo’s, to piss into the wind if he chose. But who would take care of the next Beni Ra?

When they returned to the Habitat, he would cooperate. Apologize handsomely to Bruce. Redouble his training efforts, increase his care. Bite his tongue, speak only when spoken to. Be polite to Dr. Yei. Hell, even do what she told him.

Anything else was impossibly risky. There were a thousand kids up there. So many, so varied—so young. A hundred five-year-olds, a hundred and twenty six-year-olds alone, cramming the creche modules, playing games in their free-fall gym. No one individual could possibly take responsibility for risking all those lives on something chancy. It would be endless, all-consuming. Impossible. Criminal. Insane. Revolt—where could it lead? No one could possibly forsee all the consequences. Leo couldn’t even see around the next corner. No one could. No one.

They docked at the Habitat. Van Atta shooed Claire and Andy and the nurse ahead of him through the hatchway, as Leo slowly unfastened his seat harness.