Майк Берри - Macao Station

Sudowski went to his desk and sat. He fired up the computer — they were all off by default to prolong the lifespan of their heat-generating components — and opened the parts files. He found the chip, and the related board, that was currently dying in the air scrubbers, and enlarged the schematic, turning it this way and that.

He was rubbing the side of his head again, where the interface chips had been removed. In his previous life, he’d driven plant equipment by neural link on Aitama, in the Platini system. The chips had been taken out when he’d left for Macao, but he still felt their legacy sometimes. More and more, lately, it seemed. It was really beginning to ache now, and the harsh light of the computer screen was making it worse. Maybe he was coming down with something, although transmissible illnesses were rare on board, brought in yearly batches by the supply shuttles.

He pulled up the attached specifications file and ran through it, biting his lip. He began to enter details into the search utility. Nothing. No match. Of course not. He got up, went to the coffee machine, and let it make him its own version of the classic drink, which was basically brown-coloured chemical sludge plus caffeine, then returned to the computer. He set the cup down and began to adjust the parameters of the search, shifting margins and tolerances to find a part — any part — that would do in a pinch. Gradually, the figures he entered grew further and further from the ideals. And then, just as he was about to give up, there it was. It wasn’t a perfect match, of course, but it would — should — do the job.

He pulled the part up and inspected it. He felt reasonably confident that it would do to replace the chip in the scrubbers, if it came to it — if, for example, the shuttle was late, as they sometimes were, and the scrubbers failed. Only problem was that it was a key component of the communications array, and they only had one — the one that was in use.

‘Okay,’ Sudowski said under his breath. ‘I guess that’s good to know.’ He felt like either laughing or crying, maybe both. Instead, he shut the computer off, poured the remaining coffee away, and headed back towards his own quarters and his bed, massaging his head as he went.

Halman began his tour of the station — his station — by checking into the machine rooms where the air scrubbers were situated. He found, surprisingly, nobody there, although the huge cabinet that housed the scrubbers was surrounded by patched-in terminals and pincushioned with probes. The whole contraption was humming softly, and the air felt tense and electrified. Fearing that even his presence there might somehow upset the delicate equilibrium of the machine, he stole from the room and away into the maze-like corridors of Macao. Strange that there was nobody there, he thought, but he supposed somebody was monitoring the data from the probes remotely.

He headed downwards — rimwards — from the machine rooms, walked past rows of living quarters, and took the next stairs, down again. He went through the warehouse, wondering where Charlie Stenning was, to the hangar. Alphe was there with his head under the open cowling of the dead-lifter, surrounded by members of the ground crew. Liu Xiao, head of the ground crew, looked up as Halman crossed the tyre-marked flight deck. He came towards Halman, smiling his usual polite smile.

‘Hey Liu,’ Halman greeted him. ‘What’s up?’

‘Hello Dan,’ Liu replied. He was smartly uniformed, unmarked by oil or other grime despite having recently had his head inside the dead-lifter. The ground crew hadn’t had new uniforms for five years now and Halman wondered exactly how he had maintained the condition of his clothing for so long. Halman himself wore sturdy but scruffy work trousers and a long-sleeved shirt with worn-out elbows, and all he did was sit behind a desk most of the time.

‘You managed to get hold of young Alphe, then.’ Halman indicated the tech, who was now on his tiptoes with the whole upper half of his body inside the machine. Alphe was almost always half-buried in some machine or other when Halman saw him. ‘I understand he’s much in demand right now.’ He laughed, adding, ‘As usual.’

‘Indeed,’ said Liu, still smiling. ‘I managed to lure him down to my lair.’ He looked around himself at the hangar: high ceiling, festooned with drapes of cable and oily hydraulics; ranks of roosting Kays; patchwork textures of rusty metal and stained surfaces — a veritable machine crypt. His smile widened a notch. ‘Technically, I think he’s due for a break.’

Halman thought again of the air scrubbers and the humour went out of him. ‘Aren’t we all, old man. Can he get it going?’

‘Alphe?’ asked Liu, as if Halman could possibly have been talking about anyone else. ‘Yes, I should think so.’

Halman put a hand on Liu’s shoulder, turning him away and leading him off towards the glasspex-fronted control room. Liu came along willingly, his small, trim form dwarfed by Halman’s massive bulk.

‘How’s production, Liu?’ Halman asked when they were out of earshot of the crowd round the dead-lifter. ‘And things generally?’

‘Come into control and I’ll give you exact figures, if you like,’ offered Liu. ‘We’ve managed to set-up the system to auto-collate the logs from the Kays.’

‘No, it’s okay — rough’ll do.’

‘Well, the miners have hit targets consistently across the last twenty-plus shifts. Despite their obvious obstacles. We’re okay, generally. The usual concerns — things breaking, Kays falling apart. General struggle for survival. K6-13 is still out of action, as you know. We’re hoping to get the parts on the shuttle. It’s just the injector control from the standard servicing kit that we need. I ordered it from Way Station One last year but they told us to wait until Platini sent it.’

‘Good. You’re doing well, Liu. I know it isn’t always easy, but I appreciate your efforts down here. I consider this the business end of our whole operation.’

Liu shrugged. ‘No problem.’

‘How’re fuel supplies?’

‘Gas, we’re okay. Some of the Kays need fission material, as always. Most of them, to be honest.’ He shrugged. ‘They keep flying.’

‘No two-three-five from refinery recently?’

Liu’s attention was briefly distracted by a loud bang from the direction of the dead-lifter and Alphe’s voice, cursing tiredly but vehemently. He craned to see, then shook his head, dismissing the incident. ‘Sorry?’ he asked.

‘No two-three-five from refinery?’ Halman repeated.

‘They haven’t sent any down for a while, no,’ admitted Liu. ‘I’ve been meaning to have someone run up and check.’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Halman. ‘I’m heading that way myself in a bit.’

Liu nodded amicably. ‘Good, thanks.’

‘Who’s out there at the moment?’

‘Ilse Reno’s shift. She’s going to radio in any minute, though, so we’ll have to clear the decks to let them land.’

‘Well, I’ll let you get on, then,’ said Halman. He turned to regard the little group around the dead-lifter. They were replacing the heavy cowling, three men struggling to fold it back into place. ‘Looks like progress,’ he suggested.

‘Let’s hope so,’ said Liu. And with that, he turned away and walked back towards the stricken machine.

Halman left the hangar and ambled back through the warehouse, feeling tiny beneath the high, vaulted ceiling and skyscraping shelves of spare parts and other equipment. Charlie Stenning, in charge of warehouse, was now on the mezzanine, conversing with one of his staff, waving a datasheet in one hand.