Sixteen
SIXTEEN
Once Isako’s eyes adjust to the low light, she sees the interior of the Old Warehouse has been divided into sections by plastic construction fences, creating a maze of open rooms separated by narrow aisles.
One side of the building appears to be piled with pallets of supplies, guarded by half a dozen more tough guys like the ones at the entrance.
The rest of it is an indoor shantytown. There are people living here; she sees cots and sleeping bags, folding chairs and portable heaters inside some of the nearest stalls.
The air stinks of machine grease and unwashed bodies, and drones with the constant hum of generators.
But it’s warmer and safer here than it is outside.
It would be hard for an eviction team to clear out the disorganized warren quickly.
The braver inhabitants would have cover from which to fight back; others would have time to grab their possessions and escape through the maze.
The people in here are better off than most freelancers.
Even among the badgeless, there are haves and have-nots.
Two freels—a pale man with thinning hair and patched overalls, and a stocky brown woman wearing a bandana—escort Isako through the maze.
They seem to be well known to the others; people nod or raise hands in greeting, but friendly expressions instantly turn guarded and hostile when their eyes land on Isako and her triggersheath.
Good thing Kob isn’t in here.
As they make their way deeper into the building, she’s surprised by what appears to be a main avenue, of sorts, with extra-wide stalls containing working, living, and gathering areas.
One man’s space is crammed to the brim with electronics; he’s explaining something to a customer as he repairs a broken screen.
Half a dozen people sit in a circle out in the open, taking turns reading aloud.
Isako can’t hear them well enough to tell if they’re a book club, theater cast, or religious-scripture study group.
Three children —two girls and a boy, who all look to be around eight to ten years old—hurtle past, shouting with laughter.
“Hey, you three ruffians, watch where you’re going!” the man in the patched overalls yells after them as they nearly knock over a wire rack laden with drying laundry.
The woman in the bandana snorts at Isako’s stunned expression. “You thought everyone here would be washed-up detritus sitting around and waiting to die?”
“Children don’t belong here,” Isako says. “They belong in kiths and schools.”
“They belong with their parents.” The woman’s harsh reply makes Isako wonder if one of the kids, the girl with the braids, is hers.
It’s appalling that any mother could be so selfish; Isako would resign a dozen times over before depriving Maya of kith and Company, condemning her to scrounge for offscrip, not even knowing if she’ll have heat and water.
She clenches her jaw. Just find what you came for. Get in and get out.
The freels lead her to a back corner of the warehouse.
There are a dozen people hanging around, milling about, or sitting on folding chairs or the floor.
They move aside, eyeing Isako suspiciously as she and her escorts approach.
Isako can hear one man above the others, his slightly nasal lecturing voice raised, like that of an excitable class teacher.
Waterboy is sitting forward in a beat-up old office chair, swiveling it back and forth, gesticulating as he talks.
He’s bundled in the standard green parka of a gas field worker, layered over a warmsuit, fingerless gloves, and beanie.
The man’s eyes are the blue of a winter sunset and alight with the fervor of a Purgatorist priest at the pulpit.
“The Founders’ Vision has been perverted for centuries. It’s been used as justification for the Company elite to concentrate power and sell the masses on the self-serving fantasy that terraforming will deliver unlimited resources and prosperity. But they lie !”
A muttering of agreement, some exclamations of derision.
“The terraforming movement has been a disaster for the human race. It’s conditioned entire generations to put their faith in an idealized future that depends on endlessly drilling and burning the planet while people like us suffer and freeze.
Gasblowing tyrants play God and keep us under heel, but what about the reunionist spaceheads?
They control us by peddling delusions, keeping us distracted from the truth . ”
It’s hard to tell how old the man is. Gas field workers age prematurely.
Arid conditions and hard labor wear them down.
Environmental toxins and radiation increase their odds of chronic respiratory conditions such as Gas Lung, neurological diseases like Gray’s Waste, cancer.
Waterboy might only be thirtysomething but his hair is already receding and his papery, gaunt face is speckled with liver spots.
“Why aren’t more people asking the obvious questions?
” Waterboy gains vehemence. “If old Earth was such a paradise, why did tens of thousands of colonists leave it behind for an airless rock that would take them a century to reach? Don’t fall for the Company’s bullshit propaganda that the Founders were intrepid explorers.
Most of them were escaping Earth because it was more like hell than paradise.
Sure, the homeworld had resources aplenty—but it was controlled by the powerful elite. ”
“Like jarbrains?” someone asks.
Waterboy points at the questioner eagerly.
“Yes, exactly. For five hundred years, we’ve dreamed of creating a new Earth or rediscovering the old one, but look at what fucking happened over there!
No matter what the so-called experts say, there’s no evidence the Great Silence was due to an asteroid impact or an extraterrestrial attack or any other sudden catastrophe on the homeworld.
Whether the Great Silence was accidental or deliberate, it was caused by people .
Powerful people made the decisions that condemned millions.
And that’s the dream the Company’s trying to re-create? ”
The woman in the bandana clears her throat to get Waterboy’s attention, then says loudly, “That’s enough hanging around, everyone. Get the fuck back to work if you want to keep your place here. Just ’cause we’re badgeless doesn’t mean we sit on our asses.”
With reluctant muttering chagrin, the small crowd peels away, leaving Waterboy looking disappointed at the loss of his audience.
The man in overalls bends over and whispers in his ear, and Waterboy’s eyes turn to Isako with wary interest. “You here to kill me? Another trac that’s been sent to tie up loose ends?
” He sounds entirely blasé about the possibility.
“On the contrary, I work for one of Sandbar Uchi’s opponents.”
“Exactly what someone would say if they wanted to get close enough to term me.” Waterboy points to the triggersheath on her thigh and grins. “Bet you’re good with that thing.”
“If I meant to draw it, you’d already be dead.”
The woman with the bandana puts a hand into her coat. Isako’s willing to bet she’s got a stolen shock baton in there, or maybe an illegally printed firearm. “If you don’t want to talk to this trac, we’ll get rid of her,” she offers Waterboy hopefully.
“No, no, no, I like talking to people.” He swivels back and forth in his chair eagerly. “Especially when they’ve made such an effort.”
The two other freels draw aside to give them space to talk, but remain close enough to keep an eye on their unwelcome guest. Isako sits down zanshin on an overturned plastic crate. “I want to hear what you have to say about Field 93.”
She’s not sure she does, to be honest. Just one minute of listening to the man’s ranting has convinced her that he’s well on his way to being one of those rabid conspiracy theorists who believe second stagers are actually aliens or machine intelligences in human disguise, or that the Board of Directors engineered the Prosperity Revolt to cull the population and outlaw guns.
Human Resources offers plenty of resources to support mental health—including an obnoxiously helpful therapy program that she disabled years ago—but some people are still going to go batshit crazy.
Waterboy barks a laugh that sounds more like a chronic Gas Lung cough. “Ah, Field 93. What’s there to say about poor Field 93 that hasn’t already been said and ignored?”
“Were you one of the strikers?”
“I didn’t want to be, not at first. After the blockade went up, I was stuck.
We started running out of water, so I got assigned to ration it.
They kept saying, ‘It’s just a matter of time before we get more, just a few more days, it’ll be over soon.
We’re wearing them down.’” Waterboy shakes his head in disgust. “Never trust strike leaders, is what I learned. Motherfucking morons.”
“What made them think they’d win against SoCon GasPro?”
Waterboy shrugs. “Field 93 was one of the highest-performing fields. They thought the field bosses would come over to their side. They thought Uchi wouldn’t sacrifice his crown jewel.
Like I said, morons.” The man leans forward, the bright light of mania in his eyes.
“The Company called it an accident. What utter bullshit. I used to be an airshield technician. Well, I studied it for a year, even if I didn’t end up getting certified.
Do you know how rare airshield failures are these days?
After the Prosperity Revolt, there were a lot more safety mechanisms built in, redundant systems so that no malfunction goes unnoticed. ”
“What about the evidence that the strikers committed sabotage?”
“What for? To kill themselves?”