Ice's End, page 24
Chapter 24
Roscoe really hated being right.
The next Monday, he had just sat down for another day’s cataloging when a single StarCross Security agent opened the door. This one had no gun—just a manila envelope.
“Delivery for Roscoe Slake.”
This seemed like a bad time to speed his desk toward the door on its rails; the Archives hall felt longer than ever as Roscoe walked forward. The agent handed him the package and projected a wrist screen that faced him, requesting his signature. He scrawled it out, and the agent left.
Roscoe felt a sheaf of papers inside the envelope; if someone was sending him a message on paper, it had to be important. He opened the envelope, and Karla joined him in looking at the first sheet, topped with the StarCross logo:
SUMMONS FOR ADMINISTRATIVE DISCIPLINARY HEARING
Defendant: Roscoe Slake; First-year archival intern
Alleged offense(s): Libel; Fabrication of obscenity; Distribution of obscenity over StarCross IT network; seditious conspiracy
StarCross Security’s requested penalty if found guilty: Prohibition from StarCross employment and contracts (aka “Blacklisting”); expulsion from all facilities owned by StarCross and/or its subsidiaries
Date: Friday, July 16, 2123
Time: 0900 hours
Location: Hearing Chamber, Spigot Administrative Office
Dear Mr. Slake,
You are hereby ordered to appear at the time and place designated above for an administrative hearing conducted pursuant to StarCross Disciplinary Code 4.7. StarCross Security and Spigot officials will present evidence for your guilt of the offenses listed above. If you wish, you may present any evidence and/or witness testimony that you believe demonstrates your innocence, and/or warrants a downward departure from StarCross Security’s requested penalty. Once all evidence is presented, a panel of three StarCross Examiners will determine your guilt or innocence by majority vote. If found guilty, you will be permitted to appeal that decision to the StarCross Disciplinary Review Board.
StarCross’s case against you is included with this summons. If you wish to present evidence or witnesses to testify on your behalf at the hearing, contact the Office of StarCross Examiners at defendantinfo@examiners.lg no later than July 9, 2123.
Sincerely,
Office of StarCross Examiners
Karla barely had time to react before Roscoe turned over the summons, revealing a ten-page packet, titled “Summary of Defendant’s Infraction.” He flipped through it, bile rising as he read StarCross’s case against him—how, sensitive about his compound dependency and dissatisfied with his internship posting, he had sought to undermine Spigot’s mission by sending StarCross employees on “a wild goose chase” for a nonexistent freshwater source on the ocean floor. How a reprimand from Chief Assistant Trent Hale had only enraged him further. And how he had decided to retaliate by hiring one of Newloon’s digital animators to produce a video showing Spigot’s CEO using the compound he so reviled. The full transcript of the doctored conversation from the interrogation room was also included.
Mr. Slake’s actions tarnished the reputation of Spigot CEO Grei Jahnford and threatened to undermine Spigot’s technical and economic viability. Interviews with Mr. Slake’s associates indicate that he is unrepentant and poses an ongoing threat to Spigot. For this reason, StarCross Security recommends expulsion from Spigot and prohibition from all further dealings with StarCross.
Behind the summary, Roscoe found another section labeled “Report of StarCross IT Security Investigation”—too technical for him to understand but likely meant to show that he had fabricated and distributed the video. Behind that was a third document marked “Affidavit of Jen Doil, Senior Intern and Supervisor of Mr. Slake’s Intern Cohort.” Roscoe dreaded what he’d see, but read on:
First, as it unfortunately seems to be a recurring feeling, I want to express my disappointment in Roscoe’s performance. Although this should hardly come as a surprise. Time and again, he buys into lies and propaganda from disgruntled indentured workers at places like Newloon, casting doubt on Mr. Jahnford’s leadership and the importance of Spigot’s mission. In my discussions with him and in our intern cohort meetings, not once has he spoken positively of his position or of Spigot’s work. I was also shocked to learn that, in his senior capstone thesis, he interpreted the tragic deaths of StarCross employees in the Orbital Strike terrorist attack as a positive development for humanity.
If Roscoe chooses to hold and share these unhelpful thoughts, so be it. However, Spigot and StarCross must punish his actions of the past few weeks—the effort to distract Spigot from its search for water and his role in sharing of a fake video depicting Mr. Jahnford, Trent, and myself using compound.
Just to give a sense of the damage that Roscoe’s actions did to my personal life, last week I ran into a fellow member of the Revelator Church, whose teachings I and Mr. Jahnford both hold dear. “Even if it was fake, that video might have hurt you a lot,” he said. In my shock and grief, all I could think to say was, “It sure didn’t help me.”
Roscoe is a dangerous, infantile young punk. StarCross cannot condone his behavior.
Respectfully submitted, Jen Doil.
Roscoe sank into his chair, exhaling. Karla also sat back and gave him a sad look.
“Ay, weón,” she said softly. “I’m sorry. I don’t believe what they say, but you’ve ticked them off. This is what they do. When they want to get rid of someone, they build a case against them.” Karla turned back to her work as Roscoe stood, stepping over to Karla’s desk. He kept his voice low, more mindful than ever of hidden microphones.
“It’s a lie. They made that video, and now they’re trying to pin it on me.” He dropped his voice even further. “I know why they want to get rid of me. There really is a source of fresh water on the bottom of Yule Bay. I heard that Drone Operations found it. I told Jahnford and three StarCross people about it when I went to pick up the map from him. The StarCross people were here to discuss storing nuclear weapons in the tunnels.”
Karla’s hands froze mid-scribble. “You mean … like the Revelator goal?”
“Right. Now, instead, they’re going to use the nuclear bomb to blow up the freshwater source I showed the StarCross people. I cost Jahnford his nuke.”
Karla leaned forward, pressing a fist to her mouth. “Wow. Getting rid of you is a lucky break for Jahnford.”
“How is that lucky?”
“Keeps the Revelators united,” she explained. “If an atomic bomb ever does get stored down here, a schism will open up.”
“A schism?”
She nodded. “Some Revelators will want to take that bomb. Some will want to build it from scratch. And some will start to think that maybe blowing up the world isn’t the best idea, that maybe the whole thing is symbolic.”
“And losing one nuke is better for Jahnford?”
“It gives him a story that’ll make all the Revelators happy: they almost had a nuke, but some ‘evildoer’ cheated them out of it at the last minute, and Jahnford took swift and decisive action to remove that individual from the community. He’s still their best man for the job, and he needs their support. And StarCross doesn’t have to worry about religious fanatics stealing their nuclear bomb.”
“So, it’s good for him—but a drug video?”
Karla shrugged. “It keeps people distracted and makes you look as bad as possible. Also, remember StarCross Security has a lot of former Spigot people. Once Jahnford told them to get rid of you, it was their chance to toy with their old boss while getting away with it.”
Roscoe rubbed the back of his neck, staring at the floor. “Do you think I have any chance of beating the charges?”
Karla shook her head. “If they bring a case, they will win. I can take the stand if you want, tell them what a fine Archivist you are. But to beat a disciplinary hearing, you need rock-solid proof they lied.”
Roscoe stared at the wall, then grinned. “I think I know where to get it.” Karla stared at him, incredulous. “You mind if I skip work for a few days? I’ve got to work on my defense.”
“Of course.”
Roscoe bolted for the door; there wasn’t a moment to lose. Just before it shut behind him, he heard Karla say, “Mucha suerte.”
Chapter 25
Roscoe ran down the tunnel, avoiding eye contact until he reached the door marked “Drone Control Room.” It was locked, and his wristband couldn’t open it. Time for Plan B. He tapped the Knock button on his wristband screen and waited. An older intern, stick-thin with short black hair, answered.
“Package for Hamza Tetuanui,” Roscoe told her, lifting up the manila envelope with his summons and hoping his friend was on duty now. When the intern reached for it, Roscoe pulled it back. “I need him to come out here and verify receipt.”
She nodded and held up a “just a minute” finger, letting the door close behind her. A minute later, Hamza stepped out.
“What’s up man? I thought—”
Roscoe stopped him by putting his hand on Hamza’s shoulder. “I’ll make this quick. I need the wristband that Chip gave you.”
“Um, sure, why?” Hamza asked, reaching into an inner pocket.
“Long story short, I might be blacklisted unless I can get ahold of him.”
Hamza had just pulled out the worn, government-issued wristband and started to hand it over. “What the—” he began, but it was too late. Roscoe snatched the wristband and took off, barely remembering to shout “Thanks!” behind him.
Adrenaline carried Roscoe down Tunnel 1, up the spindly metal staircase near its end, and to the service entrance where Chip had dropped him off after that first night at Newloon. He figured this would be the safest spot in Spigot—the place where he’d be least likely to be watched or overheard.
For all he knew, Chip might be in on this whole thing and planning to testify against him at the hearing. But maybe he wasn’t. Roscoe had nothing to lose by reaching out.
He leaned against the metal door; its chill seeped through his jacket as he tapped through the screen’s icons, finally finding Chip’s number. Raising his wristband to his ear, he waited. It rang. And rang some more. Roscoe’s heart sank a bit with each tone, but he didn’t dare hang up. Finally, on the tenth ring, the line clicked to life.
“Hamza?”
“It’s Roscoe.”
“Oh.” Chip sounded disappointed but quickly covered it up. “What’s up?”
“Why do you want me blacklisted?”
“What the—I don’t—what the hell are you talking about? I don’t want you blacklisted!”
It wasn’t solid proof, but Roscoe would take it. The fact that Chip had even answered was a good sign StarCross Security hadn’t gotten to him.
“All right, then I need you to prove it. I might get blacklisted unless you help me.”
“What?” Chip sounded confused, and Roscoe’s spirits lifted. McMurdo’s last scientist didn’t seem in on this.
“Listen, I can’t talk here, it’s not safe. I need you to pick me up at that service entrance you dropped me off at the night we met.”
“Roscoe, I’m sorry, I can’t just drop everything. I just started running some numbers—”
“Chip, help me on this”—Roscoe cupped his hand around his mouth—“and I’ll find a way to do the dye test for you.”
After a few agonizing seconds, Chip replied, “I’ll be there in an hour.” The line went dead.
Roscoe spent fifty-eight minutes on tenterhooks, when someone pounded on the door. He turned the handle and opened it, only then remembering he wasn’t wearing a suit. Chip didn’t hesitate. Wrapping an arm around him, he walked Roscoe ten numbing paces to the track and shoved him into the passenger seat. Then, he started driving.
“All right, talk,” Chip said once Roscoe’s teeth had stopped chattering. Roscoe brought him up to speed. When he finished, Chip pulled over to think.
“So you ticked off Jahnford by keeping his prophecy about a nuclear bomb from coming true. He had StarCross Security build a case against you. They recorded our talk at Shiduri’s the other night, and the hot intern there goaded you into saying some other, incriminating stuff. Then they edited all of that to make it sound like you’d do the dye test?”
“Right. They also said I helped produce and distribute that fake video of Jahnford using drugs.”
“And … now they’re using all this to blacklist you, and you want me to testify that they’re lying.”
“Yeah,” Roscoe said as Chip gave him a sideways look. “Just about the talk at Shiduri’s. Don’t know how I could disprove the thing about the video.”
“And you told me on our call that you would do that dye test. I’m guessing that was just to get my attention?”
“Yeah, pretty much.”
Chip tapped the wheel with his thumb, then eased the track back into drive. “Look, you’re a good kid, and the position you’re in sucks. But even if I were to testify—and I’m not saying I will—the decision’s already made.”
“Is it?”
“Yep. StarCross’s hands are tied. They want nukes to make reservoirs, and nukes are one thing governments still care about holding onto. StarCross probably had to promise the govellers five years’ worth of water, minimum, to get the firecracker they’re sending down now. They’d have to promise decades’ worth of water to get H-bombs. StarCross also needs to show they’re reliable. As long as Jahnford keeps the water coming, they’ve got to keep him happy—which means blacklisting whoever he wants gone.”
By now, Roscoe knew enough to connect the dots. “Meanwhile, StarCross can falsify the readings of the freshwater plume so governments don’t catch on, then nuke it anyway to say it’s for their reservoirs.”
Chip nodded. “You catch on pretty fast, dude.”
The last of Roscoe’s fucks had gone. “Pretty convenient for you, huh? If my hearing’s already decided, you don’t have to testify and risk pissing off anyone who might support your research.”
Chip leaned back in his seat and exhaled slowly, eyes fixed on the road. “Yeah, maybe I’m a coward. Doesn’t mean I’m wrong.” He drummed his fingers on the dashboard, then let his hand fall to his lap. “All right, you guilt-tripped me. I won’t testify, but I can take you on as an RA at McMurdo—or see if the Griquas will take you in. It’s warmer up there, and you’d get to see more of the sun.”
Roscoe thought of his parents back up north. He hadn’t seen or talked to them in years, but he’d always known they were counting on him to get off-world—not to Antarctica or some other place he’d only just heard of. He was still it for them, and he wasn’t ready to give up.
“You know anyone who’s appealed a blacklisting and won?”
Chip shook his head. “It takes years. The StarCross Appeals Board is based on the Moon, and you’d be at the end of a long list of cases already queued up. If you go that route, you’ll need a place to live in the meantime. And I hate to break it to you, but holing up with me or the Griquas won’t look good to them.”
Roscoe rested his head against the window. “If it doesn’t mean water, energy, or hardware, they don’t care, do they?”
“Welcome to reality, kid.”
As Chip drove, Roscoe realized they were heading south of Spigot, not north toward Newloon as he’d expected. The road stayed level, but the land around them fell away. About two meters beneath them, he saw ice floes like the ones around the pier. He realized they were on a causeway of some kind. No longer having to account for the vagaries of gravel, Chip hit the accelerator. Soon, they were outpacing any other track Roscoe had ridden down here.
“What is this bridge?”
“McMurdo Causeway. Sound’ll be frozen solid pretty soon. Brits thought it was a bay when they first charted it.” He pointed ahead. “And that is Ross Island, home of McMurdo.”
The road ahead curved onto an island of peaks. Most were low and rounded, but one cone trailed wisps of smoke, its summit glowing a faint red. He recognized it from the Ross Expedition records: Mount Erebus, still active after all these years, its smoke just escaping the crater before getting scattered by the gales.
“Do any other countries have bases here?”
“Nope. Kiwis used to have Scott Base, but they pulled out when the U.S. helped StarCross come down here.”
“Why?”
“Said they wouldn’t work with us as long as we were exploiting this place in violation of the Antarctic Treaty. Some countries still give a shit about that stuff—or did. Pretty sure New Zealand’s signed onto the Updated Terms of Service by now.”
After a few more coast-hugging curves, the remnants of the U.S. government’s Antarctic research station came into view. Even at high speed, it took several more minutes to reach the causeway’s far end and to turn onto the island’s road. McMurdo looked smaller than Newloon, but no more appealing. Roscoe saw a cluster of prefab housing and Quonset huts huddled against a hill. A flag-marked road ran downhill to more above-the-ice platforms—docks, probably, for ships to unload in the summer. Roscoe thought he saw a cross atop a nearby hill.
“You’re the only one here?”
“In the winter, yeah. There was a small support team when I started, but now they just give me a few WECs and tell me to buy what I need at Newloon. Crew’s not much bigger in the summer, and it gets smaller every year. Gallagher’s Pub moved to Newloon maybe fifteen years ago. Since then, everyone’s known this place’s days are numbered.”
“Not a great sales pitch.”
“Hey, it’s your call whether you want to stay. Just givin’ you the unvarnished truth.”
