The Symbionts of Murkor Page 5

  Looking at her belongings she spied one source of comfort: The “sticky mat” on which she performed yoga poses, pranayama breathing exercises, and deep meditation. Unrolling the mat, assuming the full lotus position, she stared about the room—a room that would be hers for the next year. She had to laugh. She found someone to talk to.

  “Wall and ceiling color. Change. Blue.”

  Not quite right, she thought, watching the transition. Too dark.

  “Change. Two shades lighter.”

  Not bad, Ellis thought. A soft, relaxing hue.

  “Change. Orange with bright green polka dots.”

  No reaction. Nor did she expect any.

  Some changes are harder to effect than others. Some are impossible.

  A maxim applicable to most people. Herself included.

  ***

  The smaller of Zenith’s two domes, accessible from the main structure via tubular passageway, housed IMC’s anecrecium processing operation and three vehicles, one of them a massive excavator/extractor, also known as a harvester. With the cessation of mining operations, all three were idle in their bays.

  Lying on his back in one of those bays was IMC Mechanic Ed Anderson, intent on entertaining himself by modifying one of the two smaller vehicles. Lieutenant Brian Davis was equally intent on amusing himself by watching.

  “This one I heard back on Europa,” Anderson said, his head and half his body hidden below the vehicle. “What did the munitions expert scream after eating a bowl full of habanero peppers?”

  Davis, sliding beneath the vehicle to join his friend, shook his head and waited.

  “Fire in the hole! Fire in the hole!”

  Davis groaned. “Do you have any jokes that don’t reference some part of the human digestive track?”

  “I most certainly do not,” Anderson said, as if offended. “Is there such a thing?”

  Both men were in their late twenties, attractive (Davis especially so), and physically fit. Both had expectations of life that weren’t exactly being met at the moment.

  Anderson’s was the sadder tale of the two. Several months prior he had viewed the voyage to Murkor as a great adventure, jumping at the opportunity to fill a vacant slot on the IMC team. If he had needed additional incentive, each new recruit, at some future date, was entitled to a substantial bonus. In his youthful exuberance he had downplayed the hardships of working on a hostile planet. And, if he had bothered to look, he would have discovered another sinister threat buried deep within the complicated language of his employment contract, namely bonuses were predicated upon the fulfillment of specific production quotas. When mining operations prematurely ground to a halt, so had his shiny illusions of wealth. He was an unhappy man.

  Davis, not having been rudely wakened from dreams of riches, had somewhat less to complain about. His wound was self-inflicted—traceable back to the point when he had voluntarily enlisted in the military. Although easily rising to the rank of lieutenant, he had been given no say as to the location of his assignments. Murkor was nowhere to be found on his short or long list of desirable destinations. At first, he managed to romanticize the challenges of a tortured-looking planet where few humans had dared to tread. His notion of a grand adventure was quickly dispelled.

  Murkor, for a welcoming mat, had put out unrelenting heat, a ghastly landscape, and a choking atmosphere. Bad enough, but with the cessation of mining activity came the lack of productive work. Without a challenge, both men were compelled to confront an unseen enemy.

  Boredom.

  Zenith did have multiple forms of diversion: A gymnasium with the latest in immersive exercise equipment; a rec room with multiple simulators; a researchable library complete with artistic and intellectual pursuits. Overuse had dulled their luster. Even retro games of poker were starting to lose their appeal. It is said a gilded cage is still a cage.

  So it came as no surprise that Anderson and other like-minded IMC techs saw a solution to their misfortunes, and perhaps some entertainment value, in antagonizing a foe that was a mere one-hundred kilometers away. Although Nadir, given its diminutive size and lack of defenses, was a particularly unworthy and perhaps unwilling adversary, it would have to do. Those looking for some type of ethical justification pointed out the Tinos were greedily hoarding far more water than they could ever use. Water put to better use processing anecrecium.

  And so, although almost everyone on base hated to see a CO they had grown accustomed to depart, his replacement, preceded by a rumor, held forth the prospect of some excitement being at hand.

  It was on that assumption that Ellis was going to be accepted.

  “Did you get a look at our new fearless leader yet?” Davis asked.

  “I did,” Anderson replied.

  “And?”

  “A bit scrawny for my taste.”

  “I respectfully disagree,” Davis said. “I see the potential for side meat.”

  “Side meat?” queried Anderson. “I am unacquainted with the term.”

  “The tantalizing glimpse of a woman’s breast, viewed from the side,” Davis explained in an authoritative voice. “That is the standard definition.”

  “I must look it up,” Anderson said. “I assume this ‘side meat’ occurs when a reasonably endowed female isn’t wearing a bra, but is wearing a loose-fitting, open-sided dress?”

  “Correct,” Davis answered. “A full frontal view wouldn’t be tantalizing, now would it?”

  “That depends on one variable factor,” Anderson replied. “Time. I would consider a frontal view for a maximum of five hundred milliseconds to be tantalizing. One millisecond more would leave nothing to the imagination.”

  “An insightful observation.”

  “From me, expect nothing less,” Anderson replied, satisfied. “Pass me that micrometer there by your head.”

  “So what do you think Ellis will do first?” Davis asked. “She’ll be forced to do something soon.”

  “I expect she’ll give the Tinos a well-deserved ball-busting. Supposedly, she has a great capacity for it, would you agree?”

  “Actually, I do not,” said Davis, who had a different opinion of women.

  “Neither do I, gentlemen.” The remark came from Ellis. She had been touring the base with Trenchon when he had been briefly called away.

  “Oh, shit,” Davis mouthed, primarily for the other man’s benefit. “There are six women on base, with six distinctly recognizable voices. That’s definitely not one of them.”

  “Your math is no better than the rest of your perverted logic,” Ellis replied. “There are seven women on base. Now why don’t you two clowns roll your asses out from under there so you can tell me whom I’m addressing.”

  “You first,” Anderson suggested, speaking to his friend.

  “Thanks,” Davis said, extricating himself from under the vehicle that had shielded him from Ellis’s approach. Anderson followed.

  “Lieutenant Brian Davis, Ma’am.”

  Ellis sized up the man. Very fit. In uniform. Good, at least she wouldn’t have to “bust his balls” about that. Another reason presented itself.

  “Until I give you leave otherwise, Lieutenant, you shall salute when first in my presence.”

  “Yes, Ma’am,” Davis acknowledged.

  “Commander Trenchon informs me you’re a competent hydrogeologist,” Ellis continued, “and a handy man to have around.”

  “I am good with my hands,” Davis replied, not intending the sexual double entendre. Anderson didn’t care; standing by his side, he snickered. Ellis turned her attention to him.

  “What mannerless person are you?”

  “Ed Anderson, expert mechanic at your service, miss.”

  “You shall address me either as ‘Ma’am’ or ‘Commander.’”

  “I am, with due respect, not in the military,” Anderson replied.

  “True enough, but the principal I act upon is respect due. Clear?”

  “Clear enough.”

  “I assume
you’re able to describe this vehicle I’m looking at?”

  “The Camel?” Anderson replied, gesturing toward the side of the vehicle where the letters CAM-L were boldly stenciled. “I am the best person to describe it.”

  “CAM-L?” Ellis questioned.

  “Collect and move-liquid. Credit the acronym to the manufacturer. Some a-hole in marketing must have worked overtime to come up with that one. The hump—the containment tank you’re looking at—can hold three thousand liters. The cab holds six passengers. More if you want to get friendly. There are four of these vehicles in existence, the two you see here, the others operated by the Tinos.”

  “Operational range?”

  “Has nothing to do with propulsion. Has a fuel cell that can nonstop power the vehicle for a week. Inadequate oxygen supply to the pressurized cabin was the real problem. Taking into account the difficult terrain and the time it takes to locate and siphon water—this vehicle was built to reach the outer edge of the EZ and back. The manufacturer didn’t see the need to go beyond.” Anderson locked his eyes onto Ellis. “But I circumvented that.”

  “Show me,” Ellis ordered, ignoring the implication that the vehicle had been modified to operate on Nadir’s doorstep.

  Anderson flipped open a large hatch on the vehicle’s side. “I removed the tanks from the other CAM-L and reinstalled them here. I also lowered the partial pressure of the cabin.”

  “Why was that necessary?”

  “Pure oxygen is toxic at standard pressure. Now the tanks can be filled with pure oxy rather than air. This baby can go all day now.”

  Anderson seemed pleased by what he had done. It was an elegant solution, Ellis admitted to herself. “Explain why you chose to remove the tanks from a CAM-L rather than an unused harvester?”

  “And put it completely out of service? Not a chance.”

  Just as she suspected. At any cost, IMC wanted to keep their mining operation viable. “I have a few questions for you, Lieutenant,” Ellis said, redirecting her attention to Davis. “I’ve been informed that there is insufficient water supply to sustain anecrecium processing. Is that true?”

  Davis took too long to consider. “Come on, Lieutenant,” Ellis said, annoyed. “As principle hydrogeologist, you do have the most recent survey reports?”

  “There is insufficient water,” Davis answered. “Within our zone.”

  “Can the same be said of the water necessary to sustain a base of thirty adults?”

  “That is more difficult to assess, Commander.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Missions looking for water are returning nearly empty. It’s just a matter of time before the resource is depleted.”

  “Can you tell me how much time?”

  “I cannot,” Davis replied. “Not with exactitude.”

  Cannot or will not, Ellis thought, wondering if the water emergency was being intentionally overblown to justify incursion into Nadir’s EZ. How she would address the issue was better postponed to tomorrow, after Trenchon had departed and she was firmly in place as Zenith’s new CO. Reflecting further, she decided to give some advance billing as to what would be the new order.

  “I recognize initiative when I see it, Mr. Anderson,” Ellis said. “But in the future I want you to clear vehicle modifications with your IMC foreman and with Lieutenant Davis, who, starting tomorrow, will report such intent to me.”

  “Your reasoning?” Anderson asked, obviously annoyed. “Trenchon never interfered with us IMC techs.”

  “Commander Trenchon,” Ellis corrected. “As for my reasons, they will be plain soon enough.” Then, turning to Davis: “I want you, Lieutenant, to set up a meeting of base personnel in the conference room. Tomorrow. Eight hundred hours.”

  As Ellis finished speaking, Trenchon approached. A brief and rigidly polite four-way conversation ensued, followed by the two commanders resuming their tour of the base.

  Walking beside her fellow officer, Ellis was absolutely sure of two things:

  The substance of her encounter with Davis and Anderson would reach everyone on base well before her tour with Trenchon was completed.

  A dromedary does not store water in its hump.

  ***

  Early the next morning Trenchon departed on Pilot’s shuttle, taking with him a pile of personal possessions and leaving behind a mountain of worries. Ellis knew quite well that when the word “commander” was placed in front of her name she wouldn’t be winning any popularity contests. Her primary concern wasn’t to acquire friends. Rather it was to not make enemies.

  Strike that. Replace with too many enemies. It is inevitable, when embarking on an unpopular course of action, that adversaries are made. The trick is limiting their number, power, and duration. She had failed spectacularly accomplishing the last two on Varian.

  Zenith would present a greater challenge. Her grip on authority was tenuous for three identifiable reasons: There was no command structure to back her up (doubtful they would anyway); her orders would be extremely unpopular with the IMC techs on base; there were four times as many malcontent civilians as military personnel.

  Taking a deep, relaxing breath, she stepped into the conference room. A podium had been set up for her benefit. Twenty-nine people had gathered, eager to hear what she had to say.

  “Morning,” Ellis said, deliberately scanning faces to make eye contact. “In the next few days, I hope to meet every one of you. If you find my door open, then there’s an excellent chance I’d be willing to discuss whatever’s on your mind. I’ve been told that I’m a good listener. If that needs any qualification, it’s that I hate repetition.

  “It appears that my arrival has been preceded by at least one unfounded expectation which I am now forced to debunk. In the process, some feathers may become ruffled.” Ellis’s next remark earned a few tentative titters. “Since you’re all adults, I expect you’ll be capable of doing your own preening.

  “I shall address what has been described to me as a critical water shortage. The widely touted solution to this potential emergency entails the violation of Nadir’s EZ.” Ellis paused, giving emphasis to her next words.

  “I will do everything in my power to prevent such an incursion.”

  Ellis expected an acrimonious reaction, and she got it: A spontaneous eruption of grumbling, shouts of protest, punctuated by one singularly loud “good luck with that” that evoked peals of laughter from the raucous group she confronted. The pushback was more vocal than anticipated. So be it. Retreat was not an option.

  Walking from behind the podium, she took two purposeful strides closer to an angry audience. Although her physical form was slight in comparison to the men that opposed her, it was also an unexpectedly determined presence. Together with her self-confident demeanor, it created a temporary fascination with whatever she might say next.

  “You appear intent on provoking those ill-prepared to offer a response,” Ellis resumed, taking advantage of the lull. “Contemptible as that is, you will then stand back as the real battle is deferred, allowing it to be fought by others.”

  The accusation, hitting the intended nerve, caused the shouting to double.

  “Let her speak, let her speak,” someone yelled—the IMC foreman, Chuck Kreechum, seated in front. “Let her dig her own hole.”

  Ellis took a last step forward, raising and projecting her voice to rise above the dissent. “Do you think for one moment that Unión, once alerted, will forgive the intrusion? Are you willing to risk a conflict between Unión and Coalition?”

  “That isn’t the reality of the situation, and you know it,” Kreechum replied, standing. He was a sizable man, tall and broad, very heavy in the shoulders and neck. He looked the type who was accustomed to getting his way. “Nadir isn’t worth the trouble. You saw it. The base isn’t being maintained. And from what I hear there ain’t more than a handful of Tinos there. Not the six needed to maintain claim to an EZ.” The IMC foreman turned to face the group, most of them loyal IMC techs. “Wi
th no valid claim on their part, there’s no violation on our part, is there?” Spurred on by murmurs of assent, Kreechum taunted: “When we go in and take what they don’t need anyway.”

  “Where’s the proof in what you’re saying?” Ellis responded. “There is none. Only an allegation fabricated by Coalition, a flimsy pretext to justify what otherwise would be viewed as reckless intrusion into foreign territory.”

  “And when we run out of water?” Kreechum countered. “What then? Beg the Tino bastards?”

  “In the near term two things can, and will be, done. Now take a seat and I’ll explain.”

  Ellis waited while the IMC foreman, reading her set expression, reluctantly complied. One small hurdle overcome, she thought. The physical ways she could employ to make the man sit would have been inconvenient.

  “I’ve examined Zenith’s daily water usage records,” she went on to say. “Everyone in this room knows that the amount essential for drinking and food preparation is a small fraction of the total.” Ellis scanned the group. “Is Base Manager Daniel Schulman here?”

  “Oh, shit,” came a tentative response, which garnered a few tension-relieving chuckles, the unwanted attention having surprised the portly man. “Sorry, I’m at your service, Ma’am—uh, Commander.”

  “The water conservation program you designed and implemented appears well thought out. Can you do more?” Ellis asked. Although she knew the answer, it would be better accepted if originated from someone other than herself.

  “I can look through the numbers again,” Schulman responded, looking relieved. “Maybe squeeze out another ten or fifteen percent reduction. I won’t be making any friends doing it.”

  “Do you see me acquiring any new friends lately?” Ellis said.

  Schulman hesitated, then, frowning, answered: “Perhaps the pilot of the shuttle that brought you to Murkor—but he’s long gone.”

  Not really gone, Ellis thought to herself as she laughed along with the group. Much of what Pilot said was still with her. “You probably lost a few friends awhile back,” she said. “When you traded alcohol for H-Two-O.”