Hostile Takeover

Hostile Takeover

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Three months out from Earth on the asteroid run and heading toward Vesta Colony,Rimrunnerceased its latest engine burn, and CC Williams began running for her life again.

As the captain's "safe to release" signal broke into programs on every screen, lights flashed and the "all clear" blared from speakers in every corridor of the ship. Except, of course, Freeze. No one there was conscious, so no one had a need to know. But the high net worth and corporate passengers, the only ones able to fillRimrunner'sstaterooms, thanked God and top management for key-man insurance and personnel who knew their jobs, and drew deep breaths to mask their apprehension.

It wasn't as if her life were in any immediate danger. Except for one alleged pirate sighting that turned out to be a Solar Sailor way off course,Rimrunner hadn't had a single incident since it boosted away from EOS--Earth Orbital Station--three months ago. Nothing succeeded like success: the last safety drill, three months ago, had been conspicuous only for the excellence of the hot hors d'oeuvres served afterward in the First Class lounge.

Just because the ship was secure, however, didn't mean its passengerscould let their fitness lapse. At the beginning of the trip, Rimrunner's MedCenter had sent workout schedules to every stateroom. Meaning that CC--better known by the string of numbers on her Alpha Consultants LLC debit card than by the antiquated names Caroline and Cassandra, which she hadn't used since she'd fled her low-rent origins--knew this was part of her job, too: to report to ship's gym like a good littleshoshaman,or salaryman, sweat alongside all the other passengers, or pay the penalty fee for missing workouts. Miss too many workouts, and it would probably show up on her next evaluation. Alpha had invested a lot of money in her training, her passage, and her life insurance: it had a right to make certain that when she landed on Vesta, she'd be able to function in what amounted to little more than zero g.

So CC ran for her life, running harder than she'd ever run back when she was struggling to escape gangs and a chronic lack of future. She had an hour to go now on her workout, and she'd be damned if she was leaving before it ended. Never mind that she was expecting a transmission from her employer, a consulting firm so powerful that it terrified other consulting firms and justified its name: Alpha. She could supply password, retinal scan, and timestamp an hour from now, too. The message would wait. So would her curiosity. While confidential instructions might be best practices in an audit, that level of secrecy wasn't. In fact, she'd been ordered to conceal these transmissions.

CC might have escaped a life of make-work, public support, or enforced immigration in deep Freeze; but she balanced on a scalpel's edge. Just one mistake, and she knew she'd be tossed right back into the underclass. Nightmares about landing in the discard heap still woke her at 4:00 A.M. most sleepshifts. She feared they always would, but so far, she'd managed to hide them. Exercise wasn't just mandated by ship's regs, it helped.

So, now that the ship's engines had ended their burn, CC started hers. The pun made her smile. She thought of passing it on, then paused to second-guess herself. The person next to her might considerit strange, a sign of her past as the descendant of the overeducated, underemployed tutor demographic: better not.

She glanced up over the treadmills, mini-centrifuges, and weight systems to the bulkheads. Flashing across the ceiling of the lavish gym that occupied one whole ship's bay was a narrow black zipper. Stock symbols and quotes danced across one segment; below it ran the water futures index, prices tracked against the orbiting ice chunks throughout the solar system and against challenges like the current sunspot alert.

Below the zipper, screens glowed with business news transmitted from all Earth's major exchanges and relayed by the Bloomberg Boosting Units orbiting throughout the solar system to pick up. Picked up, decrypted, cleansed of static, readjusted for Doppler shifts, recollimated, encrypted again, and sent on their way, the data gleamed gold and green. The graphics for the financial news were, appropriately, the colors of old-fashioned money.

The only flickers of red that showed up on the map lit places that most of the Non-Governmental Organizations had written off anyhow.

Next story! Chile had merged with three others to form the Republic of New Patagonia. Now that that nation had, essentially, ceased to exist, the sunset provisions of the sovereign bonds it had issued for terraforming on Mars--short term at a century--were being called. Big as New Pat was, it was still an emerging market. Compared with some NGOs, whose revenues exceed those of Africa and the Eurasiazone and were closing fast on the North American gross continental product, this new nation was a nonstarter. Still, its bonds were deeply discounted. Remained to be seen if bondos would regard that as a plus or a sign of a credit preparing to take a dive.

Next! CC listened to the latest pronouncements on last year's loss of aZumwalt-classliner, a joint venture between Cunard and EarthServ, likeRimrunneritself, in an explosion just outside Jupiter's orbit. The talking head on-screen opined the cause had been an undiscovered satellite on a course so eccentric that ship sensors hadn't spotted it until too late. In any event, the explosion was driving down the defense electronics sector and had caused the resignation of at least three CEOsso far. A blue-ribbon team had been assembled back on Earth to investigate.

CC stepped up her pace: by the time that team made it out to the Asteroid Belt, the real investigation would be half over.

Someone hit the remote.

The screen blanked. Then, it brightened, this time with "lite" news. Probably, after that downer story EarthNet thought that people needed a pick-me-up--hence, this tongue-in-cheek discussion of the eleven-year Sunspot Index. Like the hemline and lipstick indices, sunspots were always good for a polite smirk, unless, of course, you were caught unshielded on the sunside of a ship. Or if you'd bet against the index and lost money.

They were in a period of maximum sunspot activity now, and the markets were reacting. So, fortunately, wereRimrunner'sexcellent shields. Meanwhile, everyone wore badges, and kept one eye on the newsfeeds for sunspot alerts.

"State-of-the-art health and business facilities" were amongRimrunner'smost popular amenities, the advertorials proclaimed in living holo on all the highest-demographic nets. From bar to fresh-water showers,Rimrunnerproved that the remainingZumwalt-classships weren't just civilian luxury liners, but safe. "Safe as houses." After all, the only people who could afford them lived in houses, or condos at the very least, even if they were subsidized by their employers.

Another reason to hang on to her job like grim death.

What's more, as the latest advertorials trumpeted every five minutes, travel on boardRimrunnerwasn't just luxurious, it was safe. The ads had succeeded in their claims. Now, no self-respecting corporation would send executives out on anything less, especially since EarthServ was still trying to flush the last few pirates preying on the O&M, or oil and mining consortia, that had replaced Earth's "oil and natural gas bidniz" as the latest profitable frontier.

On the one long bulkhead that wasn't occupied by mirrors or Bloomberg transmissions was another ofRimrunner'samenities: VR screens that displayed spectacular views of space to the passengerswho cycled or ran in place, or grunted as any one of a number of high-tech racks equipped with gleaming, queeping monitors and attentive, personable trainers (available for private sessions at an additional fee, facilities and tips not included) built up their strength.

Wiping her forehead before a trainer could intervene, CC glanced at one of the VR screens. She thought she could get addicted to starlight; she'd never forget that first half-ecstatic, half-panicked moment when she first saw the stars from space. Awe, due diligence, and sheer delight danced a jig in her belly. For a moment, she thought her hollowness inside was a reaction to zero g--and she had so not wanted to be spacesick. Then, she'd shivered in pure joy as she realized the stars were another part of that heritage she hoped to reclaim--assuming she played her cards shrewdly, she wasn't fired, and she completed her audit without getting killed. Ships might be safe, but space travel on business still put you in a bad place on the actuarial tables. Now, she fought not to betray just how much she loved watching the stars.

On each exercise machine's heads-up display gleamed shipwide announcements: solar activity levels--high, not yet critical, potassium iodide available from your steward; casino night; hourly ship's tours; EVA training.

Deck-to-ceiling mirror panels showed the panting, sweating passengers. Even the retirees took time from their own modified workouts, carefully supervised by MedCenter techs in white shipsuits, that they'd had to agree to--and sign releases for--before they were allowed on board. And they too were fined for missing workouts, fined for letting their weight rise or their good cholesterol and calcium drop: disincentives to shirking that both their corporations and their insurers insisted on.

CC got a glimpse of herself, treadmilling away in sleek exercise clothing. Certainly, she was no beauty, but beauty was a disadvantage for anyone trying to climb the corporate ladder unless you played it very carefully indeed. Of middle height, she was fit and slender; medical coverage was cheaper if she kept her weight down. She'd weigh even less once she got to Vesta, whose gravity was about seven and ahalf times less than that of the moon, meaning that CC would weigh only about three pounds.

Before the trip, CC had cut her fairish hair short so almost-zero g wouldn't make every day a bad hair day. Now it angled smartly so that its longest strands swung beside a jawline that was just a little too stubborn for prettiness, brushing the conservative high collar of her workout suit in Alpha's discreet heraldry, differenced by logo and corporate rank on a shield of metallic navy--much like the starfield "outside."

Her eyes were dark and alert in a face she'd trained to give away as little as a blank computer screen. And she was as good an athlete as anyone who'd chosen corporate endurance tests as her lifestyle of choice. You got points for being good at team sports.

She touched the screen at "signup." On board ship, passengers had no rank, crew had told them during orientation. Never mind their corporate titles: the most junior crewmember outranked the lot of them. Assuming the passengers wanted to live to make it to Vesta or Titan or wherever, they were to obey all crewmembers as if they were CEOs.

Absolutely. Never mind that sensible salarymen, like military spouses, knew precisely where they stood in relation to other employees of any corporation in descending order of prestige. And they all knew, too, just where each company ranked in the scheme of things as measured by stock price, market cap, performance, return on invested capital, merger rumors, and pending litigation.

Three of the uniformed crew "CEOs' patrolled behind the passengers racked on their machines. As they walked, they muttered important somethings about tests or reinforcements or modifications to the Bova protective grid in preparation for solar flares.

CC paused, the better to eavesdrop the way she did in elevators back home, though she pretended she was catching her breath. The people sweating to either side of her courteously ignored her, giving her the zone of privacy they'd learned in their transitions from pens to cubes to offices and private staterooms on board ships like Rimrunner.

No ordinary passenger would sign up for gym time or tours until all the vice presidents had been accommodated; the rabble of ordinaryvice presidents gave way to senior and executive VPs, who yielded to general partners; and partners deferred to CEOs, who knew they had to go first if anyone was ever to go anywhere at all. CC's most recent rank was comfortably high, even if "purpose of voyage" on the ship's records indicated she was just an external overseer of a compliance audit.

Even if she wasn't nearly as high status as the ranking passenger, the Honorable Everett Neave, first NGO ambassador to the United Nations, efficiently treadmilling away beside his decades-younger wife, CC knew her corporate status was what used to be called fair to middling. She ranked about level with an environmental engineer, but way above the marketing people who didn't know it yet but probably would never be able to get their trip home expensed--or at least not on a ship that was safe enough to be worth the risk of their precious butts.

One more day of due deference,she promised herself,and then you can take the tour of engineering.

The tour had proved popular among top management, some of whom had gone back for a second time. So she'd had to wait. Group activities were an acceptable way to network, and if she were to hit the ground running on Vesta--assuming youcouldrun there without achieving involuntary orbital velocity--she'd need to make friends among the engineers on board; and engineering consultants couldn't get enough of the infrastructure that gaveRimrunnerhot showers and haute or nouvelle cuisine heavy on sauces that stuck to plates more than to ribs for retirees who had to be vigilant about their plastic arteries.

She should also tour the ship's Freeze sections for passengers whose hearts were too weak to survive boost off-planet. And then, of course, there was steerage, a cargo bay turned into a low-maintenance freeze area where the shipsicles--people too deep in debt or too antisocial to remain on-planet--were stacked. Assuming the 'sicles survived the trip, the colonies were always looking for disposable workers. If not, well, MedCenters across the Asteroid Belt always needed more spare parts than they could culture. After all, if the indentures had truly been productiveon Earth, they wouldn't have to be shipped out, now would they?

There but for the grace of God--and the work ethic from hell--go I,CC thought, before her mind skittered away from the fears that woke her in the wolf's hour and made her sweat worse than this treadmill.

Run for your life.

As CC picked up the pace, her heart rate rose. She drew deep, careful breaths, trying not to think of the nightmare where she dashed into headquarters, pursued by the spare-parts brokers and petty thieves who lurked in her oldinsula,into her manager's office, where she found even more of the same. She didn't have to be a scholar--and she wasn't, she wasn't!--to know what that meant.

Every time she had that dream, it meant she had a new lesson to learn. Several lessons on this most recent learning curve, and she was damned if she wouldn't try to pick the one she liked best. Her first outsystem assignment! It put her on the brink now, either of success or--what time was it? She had an hour left.

Finish your workout, CC, before the trainers see you're slacking off. Don't let anyone see you're on edge.

Outperform, and the rest of her life would all fall into prosperous place: job, marriage, housing, and a future for at least one licensed, carefully planned-for, and wanted child that she vowed would be far more secure than anything she'd ever had.

She could feel her body warming now from the exercise. It felt good. Warm. Like the safety she longed to give the child (or children) she would have one day.

That is, provided she didn't stumble here at the starting gate. Fall, fail, and it wasn't likely she could scramble back into the academic track from business. She'd be lucky to get make-work for the rest of her life, assuming she even got that. Screw up now, even before her assignment started, and Alpha would hear of it. It wouldn't be hard for them to discipline her in midflight and order her bumped offRimrunnerto a freighter before she even got to Vesta.

And if she made serious mistakes on Vesta, they might not justterminate her. They could confiscate her ticket back to Earth or call her debts. Then, she'd have no choice but to be frozen and shipped off to less-sophisticated Triton or Ganymede, like the shipsicles inRimrunner'ssteerage.

She'd never been in the Belt: how'd she even know if she could adapt? If she couldn't, she'd wind up as spare parts or reaction mass.

CC pumped harder, trying to build up a sweat, to get warm again. Work harder. That was the key. Harder and smarter, with an eye over her shoulder to make sure she was still safe.

She checked to see how long she'd been working out. Two minutes longer than last time she'd looked. She drained the remaining Vitabrew (TM) from the squeeze bottle embossed with the ship's logo--a holographic field of stars trampled by a gold-crowned lion--rampant guardant, she remembered automatically.

Don't think that way!

Ruthlessly, she suppressed the pedantry only a university brat would know, and handed the empty bottle over to the migrating young hard-body who multitasked as steward, personal trainer, and God probably knew what after hours. That wasn't a risk she was prepared to take. And besides, she thought with a little thrill of warmth, there was David IV, her fiance.

"Just wait till Saturn gets big enough so we can see the different rings." Even if everyone knew that Jupiter, with its constellation of moons, came first, the man's voice sounded as assured as if its owner had made the Outer Planets run countless times, even back when it was still the province of beat-up miners, not luxury liners.

But the voice was the product not of experience, but of the most agonizing, expensive speech therapy.

It belonged not just to the liaison from Alpha's client on this venture, but to her rival--and potential scapegoat if all else failed--in the god-awful game of musical chairs that survival had become for anyone wanting to escape theinsulaeand provincial academies for the "real world" where deals were done and money made.

No. Back up. She reminded herself to even think of the man by thename he'd damn near focus-grouped for how well it played in corporate culture: not plain John Sanders, but Jonathan Vinocur Sanderson, who insisted on being called "Sandy" by his intimate friends, if he still had any. Sandy wasn't just the client liaison assigned to her project, he'd been her evil twin lifelong. They'd both escaped the insulae, project housing for the working poor who were too high-pay (the term was relative) for the warehouses for the underemployed and the roach motels of public housing, but not nearly rich enough to qualify for the developments in the carefully manicured and guarded exurbs far away from the blue glows that were DC, Beijing, Riyadh, and Zurich, the lagoons of Old LA and New Orleans, or the DMZs of Jakarta, Tel Aviv, and Istanbul.

Sandy's luck had started even worse than hers. She'd at least had parents who had sacrificed to boost her onto a viable career track. She had helped support them until they died three years ago. They had taken pride in her strength, even if they had not understood her choices.

Sandy had been born off-license to two grad students who'd failed their thesis defenses and only managed, by the grace of whatever, not to have their brains repossessed when they'd defaulted on student loans. Though she and Sandy both spent their lives in the same struggle to pull themselves up by their bootstraps, then buy better boots, they were rivals, not allies: Sandy had never forgiven her for that early competitive edge, and he'd damn near paid her back for it several times.

It wasn't true that misery loved company. If that company represented competition, misery not only hated it, misery did its level best to sabotage it.

Sandy and CC had both been skilled at surviving the selection committees that had always reminded CC of a game of musical chairs at a children's party. In the game, there were never enough chairs. But, the day people realized that the game was for real, they started playing it forrealtoys--jobs, homes, mates, and a future.

Now that Sandy had sounded off, CC suspected it would be goodtactics to keep a low profile. So she really had been smart not to pass on that bad-attitude quip about going for the burn. After all, no telling who might be listening, take offense, and flash feedback to Alpha. She truly couldn't afford complaints that Alpha's newest and lowliest consultant had spoken or behaved inappropriately, despite the company's expensive charm school on the appropriate way to use flatware, groom herself, and behave in top-level situations on her way to the hotly contested Vesta assignment.

Not that Alpha would have sent her on an older, slower ship. If Alpha wanted results, and wanted them now, its client wanted them even more. It had offered a performance bonus for goodandfast work, and had sent Sandy out to keep an eye on operations. In other words, CC was traveling with her own personal spy. This complicated matters: if she failed, he succeeded. If she succeeded, he probably did, too--unless she was very clever indeed.

She didn't think she wanted to bethatclever, even if it meant she never rose to managing director.

She pushed her pace. If he saw her slacking off on her exercise, he'd probably hint in his report back Home that her work ethic was slipping too. Maybe, even, her ethics, though what Sandy knew about ethics ...

Forty minutes till she could get out of here. The trick was not letting Sandy notice how impatient she'd become.

CC glanced out. No other ships. No stations. No Bloomberg Boosting Unit that she could see. Still, there had to be a BBU out there someplace fairly close, or the stock signals from the Non-Governmental Organizations Exchange that had swallowed up the Dow, the Nasdaq, the Nikkei, the Dax, and a host of other regional and global exchanges wouldn't transmit so clearly.

For the moment, CC ignored the case studies that she would not, repeat not, think of as reserve reading, a phrase left over from her old life. She'd have time--three more months, in fact--to study up.

Sandy had been right about one thing. CC had never been out of cislunar space before. In fact, except for the trips Alpha's gruelinginterview process put her through to make sure she had the physical stamina for space travel, she'd never been Out. So, she might as well enjoy the ride and at least try not to look as if it were her first trip.

Letting her eyes unfocus as she pumped her legs still faster, CC indulged herself silently in a line or two ofSamson Agonistes:"0 dark, dark, dark, amid the blaze of noon." Beyond that thin barrier of life-support and metal, it was eternally noon for the faraway stars and the infinitesimally larger lights that were the outer planets, satellites, and asteroids toward whichRimrunnerhurtled.

Beautiful. And far better than staring at the inspirational bulkhead holos from Our Sponsors, from the General Partners themselves to Singapore Transworld, Vesta Halliburton McMoRan, Bechtel Interplanetary, her own Alpha Consultants LLC, featured in a discreetly glowing pair of lines, and a host of other NGOs.

And even those holos were better than peering at the structural supports, tastefully camouflaged as columns, that could seal off sections of the bay in seconds if a meteor breached the hull. She could imagine those barriers slamming shut, then the air going and no one to help ... .

Run for your life.