“Why should we believe that?” Leonard Chang demanded.
And Conrad answered him with a level gaze: “At this point, sir, I don't care if you believe it or not. But I hope your backups are current, which they would be already if you people had opened on a more conciliatory note. The matter is very close to being out of my hands, so if you like, you can just try whatever you want and see how it plays out. Or, if you're feeling useful, feeling civil and pleasant and remorseful for your crimes, you can start loading bar stock and I'll decline to report any of this. Not because I like you, but because I have a job to do, and your tragic death would interfere with it.”
Not surprisingly, that really did give the miners pause. They lowered their pipes and wrenches and galley knives, and Leonard Chang looked around at them, cooling them off with a warning glare.
“Pardon me if I'm not overwhelmed with . . . your generosity,” he said to Conrad. “We've got people getting injured, getting sick, getting old in the time it takes you Navy types to cycle back and forth to P2. There is no quality of life here, just slavery. That's the only word that describes our circumstances.”
“I'm sorry you feel that way,” Conrad told him sincerely. “Another way to look at it is that you all volunteered for this, and you're fuffing heroes. Or you were until a few minutes ago. Look, P2 needs those elements, and if you interfere with their flow, you might as well be dropping bombs on the planet's surface. You want to talk old age? You want to talk injury and death, Mr. Director? You need a print plate. Everybody needs a print plate. And to build a print plate—even one!—requires neodymium, and certain other materials that simply aren't found on P2. Not where we can get at them, not in meaningful quantities. But I don't have to tell you that, right?”
With that, the light went out of Chang's sails, and he slumped against the corridor wall, dropping his gaze to the floor. “We never wanted anyone to get hurt. Really. But you have to understand, Navy Man, we just can't keep this up. I wish you would replace us with children, fresh in body and spirit and mind. It would take them years to burn out. Decades.”
“But they'd lack experience. The mine's efficiency would plummet.”
“Aye. They'd lack experience. Lucky for them.”
At this, in spite of everything, Conrad felt a flicker of sympathy for these men and women. Everyone had it rough these days, but certainly it was true that some had it rougher than others, through no fault of their own. And the simple fact was, Conrad had heard almost precisely the same complaints from the deutrelium refiners, the particle smashers, the antimatter runners, and even, yes, the Navy crews themselves. Everyone in space, basically. Because yeah, it was one thing to declare a state of economic emergency, and quite another to maintain it indefinitely.
“Look,” he said. “You and I both know I can't get you a medical-grade fax machine. I couldn't if I wanted to, if I made it my life's work. King Bascal himself couldn't get you one, because there just aren't enough to go around. That's what ‘shortage' means. But there are some older industrial models kicking around, and if I call in some favors, I could probably get you one of those. That will give you everything but your health, and your health is still, as I say, available with periodic Naval visits, as always. That's no different than people have on the surface of the planet. Well, not terribly different.
“But try to understand, sir: you hold no cards at all in this negotiation. When you speak up, when you act out, all the government of P2 hears is that you care more about yourselves than about the plight of the colony. If they find out you're cracking skulls in addition, there is probably nothing I can do. You'll be killed, and your core memory slots will be reallocated to someone more in tune with the needs of the colony. That's not a threat, just a frank observation. For me to warn you at all is an act of charity.”
“Maybe you've got a good heart,” one of the miners suggested, in a tone that might've been snotty or sincere, or anything in-between. It'd been a long day, and Conrad just couldn't tell anymore.
“Don't start with me again,” he warned, pointing a finger at the man who'd spoken. “I'm offering two billion in cash, and first dibs on a thirdhand industrial fax. It's better than you deserve, and costly for the kingdom, but there you have it.”
Now the miners were all looking at their feet, saying nothing.
“Bloody hell, people, what do you want? A kiss on the forehead? That hundred tons of bar stock isn't going to move itself. Go print up some robots and let's get moving.”
The miners looked at each other and Conrad, as if uncertain what to say next. Finally, Chang piped up. “Hopefully you begin to understand our problem, Mr. Mursk. We haven't got any robots, nor the means to print them. The best fax machine we have at the moment has a print plate about the size of your chest, and it hasn't got the resolution to print a block of wellstone. Ergo, no computers, ergo no robots. Not real ones, anyway. We can automate—we have automated—but it's like working with grasshoppers. You can't turn your back on them, because they haven't got the slightest idea what you want them to do. Just what you tell them.”
Conrad favored Chang with a glare, and Chang swallowed and added, “We've got some grappling servos and powered carts down on level four that help with this kind of work. I'll, uh, send Jonesey and Schrader down to fetch them.”
Conrad nodded, and said to him, “Fine. And then let's take a walk, you and I. There are other serious matters to discuss.”
And here, if such a thing were possible, Chang's shoulders slumped even farther. “This is about the antimatter?”
Actually, it was about taking mental notes—forcibly, if necessary—from Chang's crew, so if they absolutely had to be replaced, their replacements would have a leg up on the learning process. It was a delicate subject, better broached to them by their own management, not some stranger in a uniform. But that was an interesting response, which gained Conrad's full and immediate attention. “Walk with me,” he said, with that particular quiet firmness people had a hard time ignoring.
The conversation was both brief and illuminating. “I studied metallurgy during the exile training,” Chang said to him while they walked, as though that explained or excused anything. “Not matter programming, you understand, but the old-fashioned mixing and melting of actual atoms. Had to study something, right? Part of the punishment. I wish to blazes I'd studied something else, but when they thawed me out here at Barnard, I compounded the error with a short-course degree in the geology of minor planets. It seemed like such an exciting idea at the time: hollowing these little worlds, sniffing for the precious metals inside them. A treasure hunt, you see? But lo, these hundred and thirty years later, here I still am. Poorer than when I started.”
“What do you want me to say?” Conrad asked impatiently. “We came here as children, but we've got to live as grown-ups. Things are what they are, and it's our responsibility—all of us—to sort it out. And we have forever to accomplish it.”
“So they say,” Chang grumbled, “but we've cause to doubt it here in the mines. Would you believe me if I said this place was haunted? Ghosts are invisible fossils, I've always thought—quantum impressions only an archaeologist could find. But I've got trustworthy people claiming to have seen them: dead friends, dead strangers, walking around. And it surprises me not at all. Have you ever buried a friend, Mr. Mursk? Packed her in a freezer and shipped her off to heaven knows where? Pray you never do, sir. You seem like a decent fellow, and I wouldn't wish that on you.”