Cel pulled a meat roll out of its self-heating carton and blew on it. “Means we won’t be getting any more workers, and that he’ll be looking for someone to fire and not replacing them.”
“He’s an ambitious little snot,” Meisener said. There were general nods. One or two people wondered out loud if now might not be a good time to look for a job somewhere else. “I looked around before I signed on here,” Meisener said. “Nothing. Tighter than a rabbit’s arse. But I’ve seen these young turks get revved up before. Sooner or later he’ll go too far, get too greedy too fast, and then things’ll be back to normal. All we have to do is wait him out.”
I wasn’t so sure.
Hepple, immaculate in cliptogether over skinnysuit without a mask, came onto the floor half an hour after the break. I was at the influent station when he appeared, accompanied by Magyar. She explained the various readouts, and that “Bird here is on analysis.”
He turned to me blankly, then snapped his fingers. “Ah, yes. Bird. New here. Three weeks, is it?”
“Almost four,” I said.
“And how are you getting on?”
Magyar tensed.
“Very well, sir,” I said. “I’ve found section supervisor Magyar attentive to the needs of both workers and process, which makes everything run very smoothly.” There, Magyar. What do you think of that?
Hepple frowned very slightly, making his soft mouth pooch out like a baby’s. “No doubt, no doubt. But we’ll have things running even more efficiently soon enough.”
If I had been Magyar I would have been insulted.
“Now, tell me. The viability of the bugs-” He pointed to the lines that fed the various species of bacteria and their required nutrients, if any, into the troughs. “-they’re checked every two hours?”
“Yes.” I looked at Magyar for some kind of clue. Her face was as stiff as a mask.
“Hmmm.” Hepple turned to Magyar. “I think we should increase that schedule, don’t you?”
“We will of course be happy to follow any of your suggestions.” What else could she say?
“Indeed. Indeed.” He sighed contentedly, like a cat contemplating a crippled mouse. “Yes. I think we’ll have those readings taken every hour.”
That was ridiculous.
“Sir,” Magyar said smoothly before I could frame a reply, “I’m sure Bird would be more than happy to comply.” She shot me a glance. I nodded earnestly. Slave and overseer ganging up on the plantation owner. “But she and I will need some input from you on our revised priorities.”
I thought I saw where Magyar was going. “Yes, sir. That would help. I mean, at the moment the most important part of my job is monitoring the nitrogen and TOC levels. If I split my focus, mistakes will be made. Besides, the extraction and testing is routine and automated. Any significant deviation from the norm would activate the alarms.”
“Significant isn’t good enough now, Bird. From now on, any deviation, no matter how small, must be corrected immediately.”
“Sir, might I ask why?”
“I want to run a lean, fit operation. Even small deviations lead to inefficiencies.”
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Magyar open her mouth and then close it. I knew how she felt. Microadjustments were a waste of everyone’s time. All of the strains used at Hedon Road were premium, genetically tailored van de Oest varieties, which bred true and, given the correct substrate and feeds, kept to a steady and reliable rate of growth. The automatic systems were finely tuned. Unless influent changes were sudden and massive, the system was capable of correcting itself.
In the overhead arc lights I caught the glint of sweat on Hepple’s lip. He was worried about something. Worried people are not always rational. Best to acquiesce. “Sir.”
“Good. Good.”
I wondered why he felt he had to repeat everything. I was uneasy now. Insecure people could be dangerous.
He must have misinterpreted my expression. “If you can’t keep up with the monitoring, then draft someone to help.” He looked around vaguely, alighting on Paolo, who had just climbed from the trough with an armful of cut bulrushes. “You there! Yes, you. What do you think you’re doing?”
Paolo, who was doing nothing wrong, stopped, uncertain.
I stepped between them. “He’s new here, sir. I’ve-”
“Don’t you have things to do, Bird?”
Magyar caught my eye, shook her head very slightly, then pointed to herself: Protecting Paolo is my job. She could probably do it better. I obediently turned back to the bank of readouts, but I listened hard, and kept them in my peripheral vision.
“As Bird says, sir, Paolo here is new, though he seems to be an excellent-”
“Yes, yes. Look, Cherry, I’m sure you have pressing duties elsewhere.”
Magyar could do nothing but bow to the inevitable. Hepple turned to Paolo, and smiled. Paolo waited.
“Now, Paolo, is it? Yes, well, as you’ve no doubt heard, Bird here will be conducting hourly test sequences on our bugs. The results of those tests, and the monitoring numbers, will come directly to me instead of Magyar. And I want you to bring them to me. Personally. Every hour. No matter where I am, or what you might be doing.”
That was ridiculous.
“Of course,” Hepple went on, “this does not give you any excuse to slack off in your other duties. Is that clear?”
Paolo nodded, expressionless.
“When I ask you a question, I expect an answer. Once again, is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.” His voice was thin and tight with anger. I moved around the instrument displays so I could see them both.
“Good, good.” Hepple slapped Paolo on the shoulder, pleased with himself now that he had found someone to bully. I don’t think he noticed the muscles bunch along Paolo’s jaw. “Now, I want you to take me through your little part in our operation. Don’t leave anything out.”
There was no sign of Magyar. I wondered if she was somewhere grinding her teeth.
Eventually, Hepple got bored and left Paolo alone to pick up the pile of rushes he had had to abandon. I walked up behind him. The support strap that stretched between his shoulder blades was vibrating slightly, and I could smell his stress sweat. I wanted to lay a hand on his thin back, but did not.
“Paolo?” I said gently. “Paolo?”
“I’m fine,” he said, stuffing rushes jerkily into a sack. He did not turn around.
“I’ll talk to Magyar. She might be able to do something.”
He whirled. “I said I’m fine.” Something about his pale, thin face reminded me of Tok. A muscle at the corner of his mouth jumped. His eyes were almost black with anger and humiliation.
“I could-”
“I don’t need a woman to fight my battles!” His voice was clotted and violent and I could not have been more surprised if he had hit me. We did not speak for the rest of the shift except when I monitored the viability of the microbes and gave him the figures to take to Hepple.
“He’ll be sorry,” he swore. “You’ll all be sorry.”
When I got home, it took me a long time to fall asleep. I dreamed of the loading yard at Hedon Road, of trucks screaming through puddles, trying to run me down.
Lore and Spanner came back from the Polar Bear and the windows of the shop under their flat were bright behind the shutters.
“What do they sell there?” Lore asked, remembering the people coming and going that first night she had spent in Spanner’s flat.
“Tired old porn. Want to see?”
They went inside. The lighting was bright and cheerful, as were shelf after shelf of plastic products: purple silicon dildos, bright pink things that looked like modern abstract art and took Lore a moment to recognize as artificial vaginas. Several screens were running two-minute demo loops. Lore watched one. Spanner was right. The porn was old and tired, almost laughable. The characters moved jerkily and in several frames the skin color of the man’s body did not match his head. “I can do better than that.”