Chapter 28
"Stinks, don’t it." The tri-sub’s
indy pilot coughs back as he pushes open the still dripping hatch.
"I’ve smelled worse." Blade looks
at the man squarely. Her "Sewer Girl" story had been on the prime local
interest sites long before she had actually set foot on Atlantis Tower.
The pilot's knowing nod tells Blade she’s correctly read the man. People
think differently here on Mars. You need to consciously be reading the
locals all the time. Fred’s little insights from the bar have helped.
"Bet you have." The man squints a
nod out at the cavernous sub-pen. A deafening roar of atmosphere and machinery
rushes in with the sub-lock’s stench. The pilot points out into the noisy
artificial brightness as he steps aside. "Command-shack is up one level
and straight ahead."
"Actually, the command-shack is up
two levels and to the right. Up one and straight puts me dead in the middle
of waste reclamation." Blade flashes back an almost flirty smile at the
sub-pilot’s flat stare.
"What? You didn’t think I could find
time on that slow-boat out to walk the archive holos? I did my first walk-throughs
just after they first sealed this lock. Stood right over there," Blade
points up at an archive input just above an observation platform near the
first level railing. "And watched you and two other guys unload the reclamators
myself. About six months ago, as I remember." If Fred’s bar stories have
taught Blade anything it’s that indie subbers are the most solitary of
humans on this most solitary of planets. They’re all xenophobic. Something
that comes out most often when they feel that corporate Earthborn immigrants
are trying to make them seem like the outsiders on their own planet.
"They said you was sharp." For a moment
the man’s grin almost breaks a friendly tilt. "But then, they also said
you was a bitch." As his grin grows wide.
"No doubt." She returns the grin in
kind. "But I try to save my bitchiness for my fellow corporates types.
You indies do good work out here. Atlantis couldn’t build this tower without
you." Hoping her quick recital of the company line doesn’t sour their budding
understanding. Somewhere close there’s a public archive, and just now she
could stand scoring a few extra brownie-points with those "fellow corporate
types".
"Well," The man’s squint sobers. "Seems
maybe Earth finally threw something out our way that might actually be
worth a shit."
"Does that mean you’re going to stop
trying to feed me a line of raw-sewage?" Blade tries to catch the pilot's
eye, but he’s already turned to climb back up into the tri-sub’s cockpit.
"We’ll see." The man says without
emotion. As the sub’s pilot reaches to pull himself up into the sub’s cockpit
he turns to find the beautiful but stubborn woman standing with one fist
cocked up on her hip and the sub-lock's heavy stench still rolling in through
his sub’s open hatch.
"Christ’s sake, woman! Shut the hatch!
You’ll foul my filters!"
"Gladly!" Blade slams the hatch closed
behind her.
"Not exactly what I meant." The pilot
squints a resigned smile.
"Listen," Blade sighs. She knows she
mustn’t appear weak to the indies, but according to Fred to much aggressiveness
is just as bad, if not worse. "I’ve had a bit of bad luck here lately;
you know? All the way out I kept turning up on shift just as things were
all going to hell. I did my job as best I could, and that’s all I did.
Now, I know that lately here they’ve had my ass plastered up all over the
local sites. Corporate took advantage of a little positive-spin PR at my
expense. But I was just doing my job. Just trying to feed my kid. You know?"
Blade cocks her head at him. This is something else Fred had told her.
Indy men understand and respect pioneer women. Women who can both kick
your ass, and then mend your shredded hide, all without any apparent moral
or emotional contradictions. Blade isn’t quite sure she truly qualifies
as a "pioneer woman", but at least she’s been told how to play the part.
"Yah, I know." The indy’s nod sobers.
"Just out here trying to feed mine myself."
"Well, I can’t do my job and feed
my kid if I can’t get the straight shit from the men doing the real work."
Blade holds the man’s stare for only a moment, just long enough to get
his attention without crowding his comfort-zone, and then asks. "So, you
guys going to let me do my job and feed my kid, or what?"
"Damn, woman," The pilot's mask of
composure breaks into a grin. "Damned if you ain’t a sharp bitch."
"Can I take that as a complement?"
Blade asks evenly. Reaching up to again take hold of the cockpit hatch.
The tri-ship pilot merely nods.
"Thanks." Blade smiles.
"Okay, Sewer Girl." The pilot groans,
ready once again to pull himself up onto the command couch. "I can’t speak
for the rest of them, but I’ll give it to you straight."
"Thanks."
"Right." The man nods. "Now, get your
ass to work, woman. Didn’t haul you out here to yak the day off. You’re
supposed to out feeding that kid of yours."
"Right." Blade nods back as her hand
hits the hatch handle.
"And, don’t leave that hatch open
all d…" The rest is cut off by the hatch’s closing clank. She’s been told
that the indies tend to appreciate an efficient egress. Proficiency in
proper hatch protocols is not only a space flight survival skill, they
apply to subs and habitats as well. And Blade had been practicing. She
has a match-atmosphere trisub egress down to under two seconds.
Standing out on the sub’s hatch landing
Blade wishes she were still inside. With two fingers down into a breast
pocket she pulls out a pair of nostril filters. Blade hates wearing them,
they make it hard to breath. Especially if you’re exerting yourself. But
the stench is giving her stomach a huge Pavlovian roll just now, and the
last thing she wants is barf. That would seem a larger sign of weakness
that the nostril filters.
Chapter 29
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