We shrugged, nodded, and hit the hall. It seemed as if secrets were damned hard to keep. The ship broke free of Staros-3 about an hour later, accelerated away, and started the long, slow journey to Mars.
8
“Although technically competent, Lester Hollings demonstrates certain behaviors consistent with a psychopathic personality. I recommend close supervision by qualified mental health professionals.”
A notation from Lester Hollinqs’s personnel file that had been scrubbed from memory but was later found on a backup matrix
I spent the first forty or fifty hours sleeping, exploring the ship’s cavernous interior, and becoming acquainted with the rest of the crew. And a jolly bunch they were too.
In addition to the porcine captain and the hormonal Lester, the Red Trader boasted an over-the-hill pilot, a cook nicknamed Killer, and a detail-obsessed load master named Kreshenko. There were fifteen or twenty androids too, some of whom had names, and some of whom relied on numbers for identification. The most notable of these was known as “the phantom,” after the character in “Phantom of the Opera,” and was said to be in desperate need of a full-scale electronic tune-up. I decided to keep an eye peeled for him.
All of which was interesting but didn’t help me learn my job. A job that was connected with the hydroponics section, or “farm.” It seemed that production had fallen off, and, given the captain’s preoccupation with food, I was in deep trouble. Especially since the captain kept the pressure on Killer and he kept the pressure on me.
Finally, after another close encounter with a cleaver-waving cook, I retired to my cabin and sat in front of my computer screen. The cursor winked at me like an electronic pervert, well aware of my weakness, and happy to exploit it. The problem stemmed from the fact that a penny-pinching corpie had equipped the Red Trader with manual PC’s, denying me the voice recognition systems that I had learned to rely on, and plunging me into despair.
I inserted the disk, hit the key that made things go, and watched characters flood the screen. I stared at them, forced the images into my mind, and waited for knowledge to flood my brain. It didn’t. The characters remained as meaningless as ever, cutting me off from the information that I needed, and filling me with rage.
My fist came down so hard that the keyboard jumped. It wasn’t fair, damn it! I must have been able to read, must have been able to understand those squiggles, or the Mishimuto Corporation would never have recruited me. Hell, I’d been an officer, for god’s sake, and surely they knew how to read.
But the chunk of metal that had taken my memories had taken my capacity to read as well, leaving me unable to do anything more complicated than killing people.
The rage died away and tears of self-pity trickled down my cheeks. I thought of the others, the ones Bey had mentioned, and wondered if they felt as I did. Was that why one of them had committed suicide? Why the other had been confined to a mental institution? And what about the skull plates? Were they a coincidence? Similar injuries treated in a similar way? Or something more?
The questions crowded around me and made my head hurt. I pushed them away and turned my attention to the problem at hand. I didn’t understand the characters, so I’d get some help from someone who did. There were a variety of techniques available, and one of them would work. True, this situation called for a more complicated scam than usual, but there was no reason to believe I couldn’t come up with one.
I withdrew the disk, glanced at the time, and stood up. The cabin was small compared with those assigned to the regular crew, but comfortable nonetheless. I had a bunk with overhead entertainment console, a locker ten times larger than my wardrobe, and a desk-computer combo. The only trace of the previous occupant was the half-empty bottle of hooch stashed under the mattress and a black sock in one of the drawers.
I stepped into the corridor and knocked on Sasha’s door. There was plenty of time, since her shift didn’t start for another hour so. Her voice was muffled by the steel hatch. “Yes?”
“It’s Max.”
“Are you alone?”
I looked around. Lester was nowhere in sight. The corridor was empty. “Yup.”
The hatch slid open. The bandage had been replaced with a black eyepatch that gave Sasha a piratical air. And that, plus the bra and panties, was reminiscent of the more exotic strip shows I’d seen. It was nice to be trusted yet somewhat disturbing at the same time. I felt like Uncle Max, eccentric, but essentially harmless. Sasha had no idea that she’d offended my delicate male ego and motioned me inside. I slipped into scam mode.
“Hi, how’s it going?”
“Lester’s a pain in the ass, but otherwise fine. How ‘bout you?”
“Oh, nothing much,” I said casually. “The captain’s on my case…but what else is new?”
Sasha nodded understandingly. “Yeah, I know what you mean. I’m so tired of working on Kreshenko’s inventories I could puke. I’ll bet the guy dreams about decimal points. What’s your job like, anyway?”
I shrugged. “That’s the problem. I haven’t started yet…and the captain’s pissed. Not to mention Killer.”
Sasha stepped into her pants and pulled them up around her waist. I tried to ignore the fact that she had nice legs and failed. She looked surprised. “You haven’t started? Why not?”
I produced the disk. Light glinted from its surface. “1001100101111000011110. This stuff is complicated. I wouldn’t want to screw up.”
Sasha nodded understandingly, as if my tendency to screw up was an ongoing problem, which it definitely was. “You want some drill? No problem. Let’s take a look.”
I felt the thrill of victory as she slipped the disk into her console and hit the appropriate key. “Where shall we start?”
“From the top,” I answered quickly. “And read it aloud. I learn better that way.”
Sasha nodded and started to read. “The Nutralife 4000 food maintenance and production system is intended for use on Class IV ships carrying no more than twenty crew and passengers. It is essential that this system be provided with sufficient oxygen, water, and nutrients. Failure to provide these materials in sufficient quantities will reduce the system’s capabilities to provide dependents with a balanced diet and nullify the Nutralife 4000’s warranty.”
Then she paused, frowned for a moment, and pointed at the screen. “What’s that word?”
I shook my head slowly. “Beats the heck out of me.”
Sasha raised an eyebrow. “Really? You don’t know the word ‘and’?”
Blood rushed to my face. I tried a bluff. “Of course I know it…”
She held up her hand and looked as concerned as a person with a black eyepatch can. “Admit it, Max…you don’t know how to read. It goes with the brain damage.”
The way she said it was sort of sad, as if accepting the truth of something she’d suspected all along, and managed to ignore. “People think you’re stupid when you can’t read.”
I felt her fingers on my hand and looked up into her face. It was the nice Sasha, the same one who had kissed my cheek, and was occasionally sympathetic. “You’re far from stupid, Max. Disadvantaged, yes, and strange at times, but far from stupid.”
The compliment was rather heavily qualified but I decided to accept it anyway. Doing so made me feel warm, loved, and damned near human.
Sasha looked at her watch. “I have about forty-five minutes. Let’s get to work.”
She read, and I listened, and the information began to accumulate. Other sessions followed, and two cycles later, on the eve of the very shift when Killer had promised to eject me from the main lock, I was ready to go. Or semi-ready, since there were vast tracts of highly technical information that had gone in one ear and out the other.