Oceans of Space (v1.0), page 17
It was confirmation from a local that what they had been told was accurate. How nice. I made a mental note to mention it to the Committee. There was no further conversation with any of the passengers, which was just as well. Something in the tone of my response must have revealed my disapproval. The remainder of the trip was short, which was just as well, because nobody seemed in any mood to talk.
By now, we were making our final approach, passing underneath Sargasso—or beside it, or over it, I guess, depending on your point of view. From our point of view aboard the shuttle, it was above us, visible through the canopy as the pilot skimmed below and threaded through the various projections that made up the perimeter. Everyone was watching with rapt fascination, and so was I. No matter how many times I experienced it, the close flyby and docking approach to Sargasso always got to me. It was a bit like looking into one of those kaleidoscopes kids used to play with back in the old days before they had computers. They had mirrors and little pieces of cut crystal in them and each time you turned one and looked through it, an intricate new pattern appeared.
Up close, the uniqueness of Sargasso became apparent in a way that could not be fully appreciated from a distance. Much of Sargasso was a gravity-free environment, but parts of it achieved the effect of gravity through Coriolis force. From a distance, Sargasso’s mass was primarily what registered, looking like a huge agglomeration of space junk. It was not until you got closer that it became evident that large parts of it were moving, independently of other parts, which often moved in opposite directions, like a gigantic mobile floating out in space. It was like watching a huge construction project over a period of time; you kept seeing it change. Only with Sargasso, the construction—and the gyroscopic movement—never stopped.
When I had left, the old starship that the Hugo brothers had started to refit had looked like little more than an old space derelict, with most of its outer hull removed, cannibalized over the years by scavengers until little more than the ship’s skeleton remained. It made one think of some kind of mutant beached whale. Nobody even remembered what the ship was called now. But the Hugo brothers had decided to perform a total restoration, maybe not exactly concourse quality, because they were making all sorts of changes to the original design, but it was an impressive undertaking nonetheless. Now, it looked almost complete, at least from the exterior. Doubtless, there was still a ton of work left to do on the inside. Nobody was really sure why the Hugos had taken on anything quite so ambitious, except to demonstrate that they could. I had no idea what they were going to do with it once it was finished. I assumed they did, but they weren’t talking.
As the massive project loomed over us, we could see dozens of pressure suited workers with lifelines, jet packs, and welders scurrying around and over the ship and the massive girders of the drydock superstructure like ants floating in a still, black pool. The Hugos had a large labor force working on this one, but then they could afford it. As we flew past the drydock, their last really big construction project majestically came into view. This one was finished. At least, for now. I’d seen it before, of course, because it had been completed long before I left, but it still looked impressive as all hell. As for the tourists, it just took their breath away.
Most people had seen at least one space station, and many had been aboard one, but few people outside of Sargasso had ever seen anything like this. It looked as if some crazy, suicidal pilot had gotten behind the controls and flown the damn thing right into Sargasso. The closest analogy I could think of was taking an old twentieth century aircraft carrier and ramming it full speed into a marina. At least thirty percent or more of the space station looked as if it were embedded into Sargasso, permanently welded into it.
It was, of course, the way most of Sargasso had been built, piecemeal, one salvaged hulk welded to another over a period of time, with new constructions springing up out of those amalgamations of salvaged material as the need arose, like some kind of cross between a coral reef and an erector set. But no one had ever attempted anything on so grand a scale before.
You don’t just salvage an entire space station. It’s not like some outdated ship that’s too expensive to return to Earth, where you’d have to pay exorbitant geosynchronous mooring taxes in an already crowded orbit, meaning you could easily bankrupt yourself just putting the thing in mothballs. It was a lot cheaper to strip and abandon it. But a space station, no matter how old or outdated, was still viable real estate. There weren’t that many of them left out in the Belt anymore. They had largely been supplanted by the habitats, but every once in a great while, the corporations decided to divest themselves of one to raise some venture capital or pay off some corporate debt. Usually, most of them were stripped first, but not this one.
The Hugos had bought it—lock, stock, and docking facilities—for what had to be a fortune. The specifications of the deal had never been disclosed, but it had to be of Byzantine complexity, because I was quite sure the Hugos hadn’t paid it all in cash. Not even they were that well fixed. It always made me wonder just what kind of deal with the devil had been signed, because the corporations never gave anybody any deals. In any case, once Hugo Station was completed, it became Sargasso’s spaceport terminal. There were a lot of other docking facilities around the perimeter—most any dry dock construction mooring would do—but nothing could compare to the facilities of Hugo Station, which was also where the Hugos had their headquarters. They never called it their corporate headquarters or their company headquarters, just their headquarters—or, more frequently, their “offices.” They did not want any confusion between them and the corporations. They defined themselves strictly as a limited partnership, a family business. It was just that some families were more interesting than others.
The docking was performed routinely and within moments, we were exiting the shuttle and passing through what the Hugos rather charmingly referred to as “Customs.” For anyone accustomed to visiting the habitats, this was nothing out of the ordinary. It made perfect sense in closed and ecologically controlled environments to keep careful track of what could be brought in. Sargasso, on the other hand, did not have any ecology to speak of, much less a controlled one. Each independent docking facility had its own rules, and some had no rules at all. But the Hugos liked to have firm control of what went on within their private sector, in part because they were protective of it and because putting everyone through “Customs” as they arrived gave them an excuse to have everybody stopped and searched, so that they knew not only who was coming aboard, but everything that they were bringing with them…especially in terms of cash and available credit.
As everyone lined up to check in before passing through the scanning station, I started to go around. Immediately, I felt someone grab my arm.
“Excuse me, sir, but you’ll have to get in line and check in with the others.”
I turned and saw a young, well-built, and very serious looking gentleman in the black uniform of Hugo Security standing right behind me, holding onto my upper arm. Someone I’d never seen before, not that I knew everybody in Sargasso, not by a long shot. However, before either of us could say another word, a senior officer approached, glanced at me quickly, and whispered in the young man’s ear. My arm was released at once.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Logan,” the young man said. “I didn’t realize who you were.”
“That’s quite all right…” I glanced down at his name tag, “…Mr. Knight. No problem.” I nodded at the other officer.
He nodded back. “Welcome back, Mr. Logan.”
“Thank you, Cy.”
The interchange was not lost on the other passengers, who by now must have been convinced that I was somebody important. Nothing could have been farther from the truth. I was so unimportant that the Hugos didn’t need to concern themselves about me, though they found me useful on occasion, which meant, of course, that it did not work the same the other way around. The Hugos were probably the most important people in Sargasso. They didn’t need their security at Customs to tell them I was back. They knew from the moment I stepped aboard the shuttle. And if they had wanted me to check in with them before I made my report to the Committee, then Cy would certainly have told me. But then, Vox Hugo was on the Committee, and for political reasons, he probably didn’t want to look as if he wanted to get a jump on any of the others. Not that it mattered very much, but Vox liked to be polite. Ric Hugo was another story, but then Ric was not on the Committee, which was just as well. His talents could be best employed in other areas.
Before I did anything else, I wanted to go home and freshen up, then get a bite to eat. What passed for food on Earth these days was downright unpalatable, not to mention unhealthy, and I was dying for a decent meal. I took the circulator around the Ring, then made my way out of the station and into the floating warren that was the main part of Sargasso. I could have lived in the Ring if I had chosen, though it would have cost me. The accommodations there were the best Sargasso had to offer, and because Hugo Station spun through its massive moorings, firmly anchored to Sargasso at its poles, the Ring afforded the luxury of “gravity.” However, I found that working for the Hugos on occasion was enough of a threat to my sense of independence without also having them for landlords.
I decided to take a gyp back to my spartan quarters.
It wasn’t much of an expense, and it was the fastest way to get around Sargasso, unless you were a tourist, in which case the pilot would make sure you’d see every foot of the exterior before you arrived at your destination. Most of the passengers who used the small, independently operated taxis were locals, because Sargasso still didn’t get too many tourists. However, that was changing. And a lot of people did not think it was a change for the better.
My taxi, like all the rest of them, was a reflection of Sargasso itself in microcosm, a battered little four-seater cobbled together out of salvaged parts. It looked like a bunch of tin cans welded to an eggbeater, but it worked and, in Sargasso, that was all that mattered. The pilot was a Gypsy Rat, one of the many locals who didn’t have a fixed abode, but anchored for the night wherever they could find a space. They had a style all their own. They had few possessions, and usually wore most of them, often clipped to various piercings in their bodies without the disadvantage of being weighted down by gravity. Like their taxis, the Gypsy Rats were themselves often an agglomeration of salvaged parts, festooned with tattoos and mechanicals. They preferred to hang around the weightless sections of Sargasso and stayed away from the more modem areas like Hugo Station, which they regarded as insufferably “Neo.”
I chipped my fare to him in barter points, which told him I was local and made him happy. I wasn’t paying in tourist creds, which could only be redeemed at a handful of locations in Sargasso, most of them directly controlled or indirectly affiliated with the Hugos. And since the exchanges all took a percentage for every tourist cred they redeemed, the tourists usually got soaked to make up for the difference.
“Been out?” the pilot asked, as we skimmed over the rugged exterior of Sargasso, winding our way around and through as if navigating an underwater canyon.
“How’d you guess?”
“Got that Heavy look about you.”
“I didn’t think it showed.” I must have looked as tired as I felt.
“Not as much as on the Heavies,” he replied, meaning the tourists. He had elaborate, swirling black and blue tribals tattooed on his face. The design was bold and striking. “I’ve seen enough of them lately that I notice. Been away long?”
“To Earth and back.”
“Long trip.” He glanced at me again. “You’d be that Committee rep?”
“I’d be.”
“Just got back, uh? Lotta people be waitin’ to hear how it went.”
“I suppose.”
He grinned. “Not gonna tell me, uh?”
“Why not? It’ll be news soon enough. We got a deal.”
“Hey. Good terms?”
“Good enough.”
“Well, in that case, the ride’s free.”
“But I already paid.”
“So you don’t havta tip me.”
I smiled. “Fair enough.”
He gave a snort. “I hope you negotiated a better deal than that on earth.”
“I don’t know. Maybe you should’ve gone instead of me.”
“Not on your life. And they can keep their Heavies, too. Or else just send ’em to the habitats.”
“But that would cut into your fares, wouldn’t it?”
He snorted again. “Redemption cuts into my fares. And if we increase the fares on passengers who pay with creds, the Hugos just increase the redemption charges.”
“Well, they pretty much have to do that to keep the credit accounts in balance and maintain the tourist economy,” I said.
“If you think they don’t make a profit off redemptions, then you’re kidding yourself. It’s just not worth it. Only ones who make out on Heavy creds are the damn Hugos.”
“They do good business,” I agreed.
“They do Neo business.”
“They create new jobs and markets,” I said, playing devil’s advocate as much to pass the time as anything else. I didn’t feel any pressing need to champion the Hugos. 1 was the Committee’s representative, not theirs, even if Vox Hugo did swing a lot of weight on the Committee.
“Not all the growth is good growth,” the gypsy replied, repeating what had practically become a mantra among the Rats who could trace their lineage back several generations. “They also create rules and restrictions. Leave it to them and they’d make all of Sargasso just like the damn habitats. Then we might as well all get jobs working for the corporations.”
I listened to him grouse about the Hugos and the state that things were coming to for the remainder of the trip, which didn’t take very long, fortunately. Part of my mind was taking a side trip, anyway. I was thinking about cycles.
When I got home to my small cabin in the Crow’s Nest, a large, multilevel structure that jutted out from the main body of Sargasso rather like an abstract sculpted mast rising from a ship, I thought some more about how the place had changed just in the years since I’d arrived. The gypsy had a point. The Hugos and other enterprising types were doing a lot of good things for Sargasso, but in the process, they were also changing the character of the place. Most of them were Neos who would not wind up staying very long, if they remained true to the pattern. They’d make their money and move on to more comfortable surroundings in the habitats, so it. really made no difference to them how Sargasso changed. I wasn’t sure if it made much difference to me either. I had moved around a lot in my life, but I seemed to be running out of new places to go. However, the trip had taught me one thing for sure—I had no desire whatsoever to return to Earth.
There was a message from the Committee in the form of the personable and avuncular Vox Hugo. I keyed in, and his personable and avuncular face appeared on the monitor.
“Welcome back, Logan,” he said, smiling and sounding warm, friendly, and sincere. “Everything went well, I trust. The Committee is anxious to hear your report. We’re meeting at 0900 in the boardroom and we’ve got you scheduled first on the agenda. If that proves inconvenient, please give my office a call as soon as you get in and we’ll reschedule. Good to have you back. Be seeing you soon.”
I wondered briefly what he’d do if I called back and told his office to reschedule. It would’ve been a bit like getting an audience with God, then calling up and saying you couldn’t make it because it was “inconvenient.” One did not keep Vox Hugo waiting, much less the whole Committee. I stuck a meal into the nuker, warmed it up, sucked it down, and tossed the pack into the recycler. Delicious, no muss, no fuss, and vastly preferable to Earth food. I recalled a time when I never would have thought that I’d prefer bioengineered and predigested food paste to “real” food that you could chew. I had made many concessions, it had seemed back then, in order to live in Sargasso. Now, I didn’t see it that way at all, especially after a trip to Earth.
As I tethered myself for sleep, I thought about the strangeness of it all. There was an old saying about how you couldn’t go home again. Well, I had, but it no longer seemed like home, which was the whole point. The gravity had made me feel tired and heavy, in spite of all the exercise I’d done to keep in shape. The food had made me feel heavy and bloated, and it tasted funny, and despite choosing what I ate as carefully as possible, I knew I was taking poisons into my system that could cause me serious problems down the line. Even the air had an oppressive, heavy taste and feel. I’d been born and lived most of my life there, but for the life of me, I had no idea how on Earth—pun sarcastically intended—I had ever been able to stand it. As I literally drifted off to sleep, I though about how things had changed for me in just a few short years. I was arguably still a Neo, though I’d been around long enough to see a new generation of Neos arrive at Sargasso, bringing a new generation of changes with them. In a way, I was now part of that. And I didn’t like the way it felt.
“Now wait a minute, let me get this straight,” said Chairman Kruse. “We’ve just concluded a ten-year deal with a renewable option to take not only their trash, but their recycled trash, as well?”
I nodded. “In essence, that’s right.”
“What the hell kind of negotiating was that?”
“Well, they didn’t really give me any choice. Leaving out their recycled raw material would have been a deal breaker.”
“But we’re sending them recycled raw material,” said Kruse, staring at me with bewilderment. He was a fifth-generation Rat and chairman of the Trade Committee, the closest thing Sargasso had to a central government.
“Yes, that’s right,” I said again.
“That’s totally absurd!” said Gregg Harris, the representative from Sargasso’s Sector Twenty-five. “We’re selling them recycled product and they’re turning around and selling it right back to us? Where’s the sense in that?”
