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Authors: Kage Baker
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one to throw out before bureaucrats. Too fanciful, too much like science fiction. Most of them had filed out of the room in silence afterward, though Mary had stayed to shake his hand and tell him she thought he was a genius. At the end only Sub-Director Thorpe and General Director Rotherhithe had remained, staring at him as he shut down his buke.
“Well, it’s an interesting proposal,” Sub-Director Thorpe had conceded. “We’ll have to take it up with the board of directors, of course. Really quite an innovative plan, however.”
General Director Rotherhithe had stepped close and peered at thetiny gold crucifix Manco wore around his neck. He poked at it. “What’s this, then? You’re not a Christian, are you?”
“I am, sir,” Manco had replied. General Director Rotherhithe had pursed his lips and walked from the conference room without another word.
A month later Manco had received a memo from Sub-Director Thorpe telling him that Manco’s proposal had interested the board of directors, but would of course involve far more outlay of capital than the British Arean Company was willing to spend at this time. They wished to see a scaled-down version. Could Manco prepare a new proposal in time for the next quarterly meeting, with a two-thirds reduction in projected costs?
A month after that, as Manco had been revising his canal network, the Big Red Balloon had burst. Two days later Manco had been fired. The termination notice cited Article 3-17D in his contract, the one stating that British Arean reserved the right to terminate without redundancy pay any employee determined to have joined any cult or engaged in any manner of cultist activity.
Manco had hurried to Sub-Director Thorpe’s office, begging to speak to him, but been refused. Thorpe was gone anyway, in another two weeks, as the British Arean Company reduced its staff on the planet. Only the bureaucrats received enough redundancy pay to get them home.
And Manco had gone a little mad, perhaps, for a while. He stashed his belongings at the transit station, bought whiskey from the clan and spent a lot of time drunk, wandering the Tubes, muttering to himself in Quechuan and glaring out at the red world that might have become green. He had slept in the Tubes by night, like a lot of other former British Arean Company employees, and if it had been cold enough for a couple of the jobless to get frostbite, there was at least air to breathe.
Chiring had sought them out, thrusting his handcam into the faces of ragged unshaven men and a few women, inviting them to speak out about their abandonment by the British Arean Company. Some had ranted and raved; Manco had simply stared into the lenses, too full ofbitter words that choked him to be able to get any of them out. Where would he even begin, if he could speak?
A few shamefaced Incan laborers, still on the payroll, hunted him up now and again to press handouts on him. He took to cutting himself. The sight of his welling blood was strangely consoling, though it tended to crust over black at once, never ran enough for cutting his wrists to kill him.
One night he woke abruptly, as he sometimes did in the Tubes, gasping in the thin scant air, his heart pounding. A storm was raging outside, in the black night, with sand hissing as it whirled against the vizio walls. It made opaque boiling patterns there, visible only faintly where a distant light from Settlement Base showed them up. The drone of the wind filled the Tube, hypnotic, ominous, like the voices of alien gods singing.
How long until dawn? Manco wrapped his coat around himself and wept for everything that might have been, for the pure malevolent strangeness of this depth to which he had fallen. He put his hands over his ears to shut out the sound of the wind, rocking himself to and fro.
He heard his mother calling his name. He lifted his head and stared, with his tears evaporating to salt tracks on his face. Her voice echoed down the gray ghostly tunnel.
“Well, it’s an interesting proposal,” Sub-Director Thorpe had conceded. “We’ll have to take it up with the board of directors, of course. Really quite an innovative plan, however.”
General Director Rotherhithe had stepped close and peered at thetiny gold crucifix Manco wore around his neck. He poked at it. “What’s this, then? You’re not a Christian, are you?”
“I am, sir,” Manco had replied. General Director Rotherhithe had pursed his lips and walked from the conference room without another word.
A month later Manco had received a memo from Sub-Director Thorpe telling him that Manco’s proposal had interested the board of directors, but would of course involve far more outlay of capital than the British Arean Company was willing to spend at this time. They wished to see a scaled-down version. Could Manco prepare a new proposal in time for the next quarterly meeting, with a two-thirds reduction in projected costs?
A month after that, as Manco had been revising his canal network, the Big Red Balloon had burst. Two days later Manco had been fired. The termination notice cited Article 3-17D in his contract, the one stating that British Arean reserved the right to terminate without redundancy pay any employee determined to have joined any cult or engaged in any manner of cultist activity.
Manco had hurried to Sub-Director Thorpe’s office, begging to speak to him, but been refused. Thorpe was gone anyway, in another two weeks, as the British Arean Company reduced its staff on the planet. Only the bureaucrats received enough redundancy pay to get them home.
And Manco had gone a little mad, perhaps, for a while. He stashed his belongings at the transit station, bought whiskey from the clan and spent a lot of time drunk, wandering the Tubes, muttering to himself in Quechuan and glaring out at the red world that might have become green. He had slept in the Tubes by night, like a lot of other former British Arean Company employees, and if it had been cold enough for a couple of the jobless to get frostbite, there was at least air to breathe.
Chiring had sought them out, thrusting his handcam into the faces of ragged unshaven men and a few women, inviting them to speak out about their abandonment by the British Arean Company. Some had ranted and raved; Manco had simply stared into the lenses, too full ofbitter words that choked him to be able to get any of them out. Where would he even begin, if he could speak?
A few shamefaced Incan laborers, still on the payroll, hunted him up now and again to press handouts on him. He took to cutting himself. The sight of his welling blood was strangely consoling, though it tended to crust over black at once, never ran enough for cutting his wrists to kill him.
One night he woke abruptly, as he sometimes did in the Tubes, gasping in the thin scant air, his heart pounding. A storm was raging outside, in the black night, with sand hissing as it whirled against the vizio walls. It made opaque boiling patterns there, visible only faintly where a distant light from Settlement Base showed them up. The drone of the wind filled the Tube, hypnotic, ominous, like the voices of alien gods singing.
How long until dawn? Manco wrapped his coat around himself and wept for everything that might have been, for the pure malevolent strangeness of this depth to which he had fallen. He put his hands over his ears to shut out the sound of the wind, rocking himself to and fro.
He heard his mother calling his name. He lifted his head and stared, with his tears evaporating to salt tracks on his face. Her voice echoed down the gray ghostly tunnel.
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