Amateur Megalomania

Section 2

Keamanan examined the gun while his team bundled the assassins into canvas sacks.  He pried the flint out of the cradle and rubbed it between his fingers.  The outer layer flaked away, leaving a fine smudge on his fingertips.  He shook his head and smiled.  They still weren’t getting it right down below.  The flints took a blast furnace to alloy consistently, and as far as he knew, the Compact didn’t have access to one.  A flint like this would spark occasionally, but for all the times it failed, the owner usually didn’t get a second chance.  He flipped the gun over and checked the barrel, noting the heavy corrosion.  Even if the flint had sparked, the shooter could have ended up with a burst barrel.

Trogen appeared beside him.  “Idiots,” he muttered as he took the gun from Keamanan.  Lieutenant Commander Trogen Loja had been serving under Keamanan for nearly ten years now, and Keamanan couldn’t ask for a finer officer as a Second.  Trogen wiped a layer of grime off of the barrel and squinted, looking for any marks that might reveal its origin.  “Resnig has better weapons than this.  Why would he send them up here with this thing?”   Trogen looked at the gun again and scowled.  He handed it to one of his men as if it were a dead animal.  “He would have had better luck clubbing you with it.”

Keamanan shrugged, aborting the gesture when his shoulder reminded him of his injury.  “Either he wasn’t serious about the effort, or these three were operating on their own.  Maybe one of them found it somewhere and brought it along.”  Keamanan dismissed the thought with a wave of his hand.  “It doesn’t matter, really.  I’m more worried about how they got up here.”

“Yes, sir.  I’ve sent runners to pull the workers out of here and we’re bringing in more men to sweep the deck.  It’ll take some time, but we’ll find out how they did it.”  Trogen practically glowered at the dead men, now in their sacks.  “It won’t happen again.”

“I’m sure it won’t.  Carry on here.”  Keamanan turned and walked a few paces away, retracing the path of the assassins.  He passed through the open doors, back into the factory that he and Morium had walked through earlier.  The failing light left deep shadows among the machinery, and it didn’t take much imagination to see plenty of places for three men to hide.  Several of Keamanan’s soldiers were sweeping through, checking the cramped spaces between the machines.  Keamanan acknowledged them as they passed, appreciating the obvious concern on the faces of his men.

After they had passed, he was alone with the dead machines.  The slow decay of the Ship was just as evident here as it was on the upper decks, where the Crew lived.  They were losing the battle, and shutting down this deck was just another delaying action.  Most of the machines here were duplicates of similar machines on other decks, but at least two manufactured unique chemicals.  Keamanan couldn’t even pronounce their names, but Anki had explained the magnitude of the loss for the hydroponics section.  Substitutes were available, but yield would go down.

And that meant some of the Culpable would die.

Morium’s anger was understandable, but misdirected.  The shutdown had nothing to do with the growing tensions between the Culpable and the Crew.  Simple entropy was catching up with them, and after several hundred years, they had been lucky to last this long.  Keamanan scooped up a handful of silicon pellets, feeling the smooth surfaces contrasting with the sharp edges.  He worked the pellets through his fingers, thinking about the starvation he had witnessed first hand.

“What does this one do?”  Trogen spoke from behind him.

Keamanan dropped the pellets and wiped his hands together.  He turned to see Trogen peering into the chute of one of the fabricators.  “It makes glass.  Various types, depending on what impurities are added.”  He waved a hand towards an assortment of piled pellets.  “Extrudes it in rods that are then worked by the blowers.”

Trogen eyed him with a curious stare.  “And how do you know that?”

“Anki.  I just happen to remember this one from the tour.”  Keamanan shrugged and looked around.  There were so many machines, and no one really knew how they did what they did.  The glassmaker was the simplest of devices.  Other machines turned out completed components or circuit replacements.  Their ignorance was killing them, but they lacked the manpower to make a serious effort to learn about what they were losing.  They barely had the people to man what they had, let alone support extra people in research that wouldn’t pay off for decades.

“The last workers have been pulled back, and we have squads on all the lift tubes, checking the seals.  We should finish the sweeps within an hour.”  Trogen stopped, but the look on his face suggested he had more to say, like he was struggling to control his lips.

“No.”  Keamanan said.

Trogen glanced around, obviously checking to see if any of the men were close enough to overhear.  “It makes sense, sir.  We can seal this off, but they’ll just move in when we’re gone.  It’s too much space, too inviting.”

“I can’t justify opening the whole deck to vacuum.”

Trogen smiled.  “Can’t or won’t?”  He continued, losing the smile.  “I’m sorry, sir.  I know how you feel, and I don’t like it either, but I would be remiss if I didn’t give you my counsel.”

Keamanan sighed.  This argument had already played out in the Executive Committee, and Keamanan had done himself no favors by siding with the Libertines.  The few remaining fabricators on this deck were redundant, and their loss would have little affect on the Crew, but the Culpable who depended on the work for their food ration had no where else to go.  Shutting down those machines would condemn more to the slow starvation of sustenance rations, and Keamanan wasn’t willing to do that unless there was no other choice.

The consequence of that decision could be significant to the men he commanded.  Someone would have to patrol the deck, waiting on the inevitable Compact infiltration.  Either way, men would die, but Keamanan would rather the burden fell upon men who had a fighting chance to save themselves.

And despite the personal consequences of that preference, he had no intention of changing his mind.

“We do what we have to do,” he whispered.

Trogen nodded.  “Yes sir.  That’s what I like about you.  You aren’t afraid of doing things the hard way when you’re right.”

Keamanan’s eyebrow climbed.  “I’m right?”

“Morally, yes.  The Doctrine charges us with protecting the Culpable, despite their guilt.  Sometimes that requires sacrifice, and I think a lot of the Crew have lost sight of what that means.”

“I never would have pegged you for a Libertine, Trogen.”  Keamanan shook his head with a small smile.

Trogen shrugged.  “I wouldn’t go that far.  I’m generally Orthodox, but that doesn’t mean I’m stupid.  If you left it up to me, I’d still vent the deck, but I would at least feel bad about it.”

Keamanan laughed.  “Well, that puts you well ahead of a lot of people I know.”  His laughter died in a protracted sigh.  It was going to be a long night.  “I’m heading up to report to Procer.  Let me know what you find here.”  He slapped Trogen on the back as he walked by.

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