Dave Duncan - Wildcatter

“Poison is what I’m wondering about. According to the beacon’s story, the Galactic prospectors died very suddenly. Could they have been poisoned by amino acids with the wrong handedness?”

There was silence while Reese cogitated. Control would refuse to speculate on such questions.

Eventually she said, “I don’t see why isomer poisoning would be speedier than any other. If you go downside here you’re going to be heading into the jaws of death anyway, with your life dependent on maintaining asepsis and avoiding all types of biohazards. Isomers aren’t likely to be any more deadly than microbes or virus particles or allergens or heavy metals or poison gases or of the other things you studied in training. I suspect that radioactive dust may be a problem, because of Cacafuego’s very high density, but you’ll check on that. Optical isomerism is an interesting point, and I shall certainly check the samples for it when you provide some.”

“Thanks,” Seth said. “I hope to try.”

Now he had the ball. Everyone was looking at him.

“Control tells me that you’ve put yourself on a course of anti-narcosis pills,” Jordan prompted, looking grim.

“Yes, sir. Just a precautionary measure. The high partial pressure of nitrogen shouldn’t be a problem in the short term.” The long term would undoubtedly be fatal for all kinds of reasons.

“You’ve been having very mixed success with your simulated landings.”

Of course the captain had been asking Control what Seth had been up to, and probably everyone else had too. But none of them had asked what parameters he had been changing. He knew that much because Control had told him so and, while Control might refuse to answer a question, it would never tell a lie.

“No eye-popping flash of genius,” Seth said. “Just caution.”

“Caution as in two-handed Russian roulette?” Reese said.

Seth ignored that. “The original mission plan called for two descents, with four or five touchdowns on each flight. We have to forget that, because the additional gravity we didn’t expect will gobble up fuel on the ascent and those winds will eat even more. Even for a single touchdown, shuttle fuel will be a concern. Secondly, Control is starting to get a feel for the weather. I need it to forecast calm periods a few hours in advance with reasonable confidence, and in a day or so it should be able to do that. Then I make a fast descent, using power to shed orbital velocity fast. That takes up even more fuel, but gets me down before the weather patterns change.

“So fuel is a major problem. Two flights, with one touchdown apiece, are all we can reasonably hope for. Control’s standard algorithm for a landing simulation presumes a minimum of one hour on the ground and takes weather into consideration when calculating the outcome. It turns out that landing is not the problem. The simulations I’ve run show that almost all landings are successful.” He noted JC’s smile. No one else seemed very convinced.

“The problem is the one-hour layover. Calms that long don’t happen very often on Cacafuego. Wind gusts are unpredictable, even on fine days. We have no way to tie our shuttle down. We know what happened to De Soto ’s, which is at least a three-seater. When I change Control’s parameters to limit downtime to fifteen minutes, then the odds of a successful landing and takeoff are better than nine in ten.”

“Fifteen minutes?” Jordan said. “You can’t even exit the shuttle for the first ten minutes because its skin is too hot from the descent. You think you can disembark, plant a flag for the cameras, load a sample into the hopper, and get back aboard in five minutes? In 1.62 gees? That’s ridiculous.”

“Yes, sir. Any longer than that and my chances of survival drop very quickly.” Seth answered the captain’s question, but he was looking at JC. “I guess you’re right. It just isn’t worth it.”

The look was the message, and the big man heard it like a fire-alarm; haggling over money was his business. He sprang to his feet, flushed and furious. “If you will allow us a five-minute adjournment, Captain, I need a private word with the prospector.”

Seth rose also, holding a poker face, and followed in silence as the commodore stormed through the mess and galley until they reached the elevator. A ship’s myth held that the elevator was the only place aboard not bugged by Control, so conversations there were private. Seth had never believed that, but if JC did, then it was probably true. JC, after all, had begun his career as an IT engineer. He would know Control inside and out.

The moment they were both inside and the door closed, Seth said, “Elevator to simulated Cacafuego gravity and make it snappy.”

The elevator dropped rimwards, halting with a jolt that made even him gasp, while JC looked as if he just sustained a double hernia. His knees buckled and he had to grab the walls to save himself from falling.

“What the flaming shit did you do that for, boy?”

“We’re at 1.62 gee, sir. A demonstration. Start by touching toes.” He bent over and laid his palms on the floor. That had always been easy for him, and an extra fifty kilos on his shoulders make it easier than ever. Straightening up was more of a challenge.

Give him his due, JC did bend until his fingers were below his knees. He even managed to straighten again from there. “So?”

“So this is what you’d be sending me into, sir.”

“It’s what you’re here for. I chose four people for brains and you for brawn. No fucking brains required.”

“Brawn won’t help me deal with hurricanes and Ebola fever.”

“The day I hired you, boy, I warned you about the odds of surviving a first landing on a virgin world. But Galactic’s team have paid that price, so you’re on a second visit. Now we’re forewarned, the odds should be better.”

“Those odds, sir, are based on visits that all looked a lot safer than that before the sucker pressed the START button. This one looks like suicide already.”

Veins showed in JC’s forehead. “Sonny, I’ve been around a long time and I know how to read people. I am certain that Galactic found something that got Commodore Duddridge all fired up like a cat in a carwash. He gave up the hunt for the missing prospectors awful easy, didn’t he?”

Seth agreed with a show of reluctance. “Yes sir. I did notice that.”

“Weren’t the landing team wearing monitors? He must have known exactly where they were, what their heart rate and blood pressure were. He didn’t tell us they were dead, did he? He gave up on his own missing people and went after bigger game.”

“Such as what?”

“I don’t know yet. Big, obviously. Very big, because ISLA will eat his ass out for it when he gets home. They’ll pull his license. He may face a civil suit for manslaughter. Galactic should fire him and cancel his bonus. So he’s obviously gambling that it won’t. He thinks he’s found the treasure map, but he doesn’t say what spot the X is marking. Now tell me how much more you want.”

“More?”

“Don’t play idiot. You just want more.” JC took a menacing step closer, which would have been amusing even if his extra weight hadn’t made him stagger.

Seth obligingly caught his arm to steady him. “Let’s think about the same share as the captain, three percent?”

“Flaming shit, boy! You’re dreaming in ten dimensions.”

“I have one life only.”

JC tried the long stare technique. He should have remembered that it didn’t work on Seth Broderick. He was trapped by the unexpected 1.6 gravity. On any other expedition, the biologist or planetologist could take over the prospector’s duties for at least the preliminary sampling mission. Here no one else but Seth, and possibly not even he, could function..