With the exception of Napoleon bouncing on his front fender, the robot escort peeled away as he rolled into the maintenance shed. The glare of lights inside threw off his visor-augment for a moment, and he squinted as he followed a shop mech, directing him to drive straight into the service airlock for the shirtsleeve repair section. He waited as air hissed into the airlock chamber. Once he was through, he shut down the power and pulled his helmet off with a sigh of relief. He felt as if he’d been locked inside it for days.
Climbing out, helmet cradled under his right arm, he called out to the burly repair crew chief, who was ambling over with a scowl. “Hi, Pacho. How’s business?”
Pacho Rawlins rarely smiled, and he didn’t now. “What the fuck’s going on, Bandicoot? Ops says for you to get your ass upstairs as soon as you get in. Sounds like they want to chew your butt up. What’d you do this time?” Rawlins swatted Napoleon off the fender and opened the main cowling with a jerk.
/// An electrical malfie. ///
“I had . . . an electrical malfie,” Bandicut said, flushing. Rawlins squinted at him and with a shake of his head bent to peer into the buggy’s power compartment. “It took out my nav and my comm and—”
“Christ, Bandicut!” Rawlins yelled. “What did you do to this thing?”
“What do you mean?” Nervously, Bandicut leaned to see what the chief had found.
“Malfie? Hell, you fried half the goddamn compartment! What’d you do, drive in front of a goddamn laser?”
Bandicut had trouble drawing a breath. The power compartment did, indeed, look fried. One cable was completely melted; many others were scorched. /You did this?/ he whispered to Charlie. He could not imagine what had kept the thing running at all. And he had been depending on it for life support!
/// The robot did it.
I made sure it didn’t touch the life support. ///
Bandicut shook his head. “Ah,” he mumbled to the chief, “I’m not really sure what happened, Pacho. I didn’t do anything except limp home after it happened—and I was damn lucky. Can you take care of it okay?”
Rawlins glared. “Can I take care of it?” He shook his head, walking away. “Jesus Aloysius Christ!” When he turned back and saw Bandicut still staring at him, he said, “What are you doing still here? Get your ass over to ops like they said, will you? I don’t want to get blamed for that, too.”
Bandicut shrugged and left the maintenance area. He was just as happy not to have to explain any more to Rawlins, and he didn’t speak to either of the other survey drivers that he passed. Returning to the ready room, he showered and dressed in his station casuals. He felt very strange . . . almost with an absence of emotion, as if a whole reservoir of bewilderment and anxiety were stoppered up inside him, waiting for the most awkward moment to erupt. He was sure it was at least partly because he was on his way to ops; but it was a coldly disturbing sensation nonetheless, and he wondered if he were building up to another silence-fugue. He didn’t know what he would do if that happened. He wasn’t planning to tell anyone about the earlier episode, unless absolutely forced to. A disturbance of that magnitude could put him off the active list altogether.
The quarx stirred from its silence.
/// Correct me if I misunderstand, please.
Wasn’t your fugue caused by an injury
resulting from company equipment malfunction? ///
He hesitated, his shirt half snugged up the front. /Yeah. But so what?/ He willed his fingers to continue working, but it was like making them move through molasses. Charlie had touched upon an extremely raw nerve.
/// Then . . . if I might ask . . .
shouldn’t the company be . . . responsible?
Legally? ///
He glared inwardly at the quarx. /What, you’re an expert in our law?/
/// Well . . .
I have picked up some information
over the years. ///
/And just how have you done that?/
/// TV and radio, mostly. ///
“TV!” Bandicut yelled, slamming his locker shut. He looked around, red faced—hoping no one had heard him. Fortunately, the locker room was empty. /What the hell do you know about TV?/ he asked in an inner whisper.
/// Well, you know—
your people broadcast it into space
for a good many of your years. ///
Bandicut squinted, and finally laughed bitterly. /I see. Well, Charlie—I got news for you. TV don’t exactly always get it right. We’re a long way from the law out here. A lonnnng way./ He clamped his jaw. He didn’t want to think about it any further . . . think about what the company owed him, about the loss of the neuro and the botched effort to fix it.
/// A long way from the law—? ///
the quarx mused.
/// You mean, like in the Old West? ///
/Huh? What are you talking about?/ Bandicut shook his head, feeling as though he had skipped a beat. /The Old West? You mean, the American Old West?/
/// Right.
Outlaws and sheriffs.
Like on TV. ///
Bandicut rolled his eyes up, and for the first time today, laughed out loud in genuine amusement. /Christ Charlie—give me a break! Now, let’s go!/ He straightened his collar and headed out into the corridor with brisk, floating strides, as the quarx muttered to itself in quiet puzzlement.