working for a little bit more than I was getting for free. Not sure I’m on board with that plan but whatever.
Dad’s having problems with the Welders’ Guild. Around here, you can either be freelance or part of the guild. And the guild doesn’t like freelancers. Dad doesn’t have a problem with guilds as a rule, but he says the Welders’ Guild is “mobbed up.” I guess they’re pretty much owned by Saudi organized crime. Why Saudi? I don’t know. Almost all the welders here are Saudis. We’re just the people who ended up controlling the welding industry.
Anyway, the guild forces people to join with bullshit tactics. Not like in movies where they threaten you or anything. Just rumormongering. Floating stories that you’re dishonest and you do shitty work. Stuff like that. But Dad spent his whole life building a reputation. The fake rumors just bounce off. None of his customers believe them.
Go Dad!
Jazz,
That’s too bad about the Welders’ Guild. There are no unions or guilds at KSC. It’s a special administrative zone and the normal laws that help unions don’t apply. KSC has a lot of power in the Kenyan government. There are many special laws for them. But KSC is a boon to all of us and they deserve special treatment. Without them we would be poor like other African countries.
Have you ever considered moving to Earth? I’m sure you could become a scientist or an engineer and make a lot of money. You’re a citizen of Saudi Arabia, right? They have lots of big corporations there. Lots of jobs for smart people.
Kelvin,
Nah. I don’t want to live on Earth. I’m a moon gal. Besides, it would be a huge medical hassle. I’ve been here more than half my life, so my body is used to ⅙th of your gravity. Before I could go to Earth I’d have to do a bunch of exercise and take special pills to stimulate muscle and bone growth. Then I’d have to spend hours every day in a centrifuge…bleh. No thanks.
Talk to Charisse you chickenshit.
I slinked along a huge corridor on Aldrin Down 7. I didn’t really have to sneak around—at this ungodly hour, no one was in sight.
Five a.m. was a largely theoretical concept to me. I knew it existed, but I rarely observed it. Nor did I want to. But this morning was different. Trond insisted on secrecy, so we had to meet before normal working hours.
Barn doors towered every twenty meters. The lots here were few and large, a testament to how much money these businesses had handy. Trond’s company workshop was labeled only with a sign reading LD 7-4030 —LANDVIK INDUSTRIES.
I knocked on the door. A second later, it slid partially open. Trond poked his head out and looked both ways down the hall.
“Were you followed?”
“Of course,” I said. “And I led them straight to you. Turns out I’m not very bright.”
“Smartass.”
“Dumbass.”
“Come in.” He gestured me forward.
I slipped in and he immediately closed the door. I didn’t know if he thought this was stealthy or what. But hey, he was paying me a million slugs. We could play 007 if he wanted.
The workshop was effectively a garage. A
huge
garage. Seriously, I’d kill to have that space. I’d make a little house in one corner and then, I don’t know, install fake grass in the rest of it? Four identical harvesters, each in its own bay, filled the room.
I walked over to the nearest harvester and looked up at it. “Wow.”
“Yeah,” Trond said. “You don’t realize how big they are until you see one up close.”
“How did you get them into town without anyone knowing?”
“It wasn’t easy,” Trond said. “I had them shipped here in pieces. Only my most trusted people even know about it. I pieced together a staff of seven mechanics who know how to keep their mouths shut.”
I scanned the cavernous workshop. “Anyone else here?”
“Of course not. I don’t want anyone knowing I hired you.”
“I’m hurt.”
The harvester stood four meters tall, five meters wide, and ten
Dad’s having problems with the Welders’ Guild. Around here, you can either be freelance or part of the guild. And the guild doesn’t like freelancers. Dad doesn’t have a problem with guilds as a rule, but he says the Welders’ Guild is “mobbed up.” I guess they’re pretty much owned by Saudi organized crime. Why Saudi? I don’t know. Almost all the welders here are Saudis. We’re just the people who ended up controlling the welding industry.
Anyway, the guild forces people to join with bullshit tactics. Not like in movies where they threaten you or anything. Just rumormongering. Floating stories that you’re dishonest and you do shitty work. Stuff like that. But Dad spent his whole life building a reputation. The fake rumors just bounce off. None of his customers believe them.
Go Dad!
Jazz,
That’s too bad about the Welders’ Guild. There are no unions or guilds at KSC. It’s a special administrative zone and the normal laws that help unions don’t apply. KSC has a lot of power in the Kenyan government. There are many special laws for them. But KSC is a boon to all of us and they deserve special treatment. Without them we would be poor like other African countries.
Have you ever considered moving to Earth? I’m sure you could become a scientist or an engineer and make a lot of money. You’re a citizen of Saudi Arabia, right? They have lots of big corporations there. Lots of jobs for smart people.
Kelvin,
Nah. I don’t want to live on Earth. I’m a moon gal. Besides, it would be a huge medical hassle. I’ve been here more than half my life, so my body is used to ⅙th of your gravity. Before I could go to Earth I’d have to do a bunch of exercise and take special pills to stimulate muscle and bone growth. Then I’d have to spend hours every day in a centrifuge…bleh. No thanks.
Talk to Charisse you chickenshit.
I slinked along a huge corridor on Aldrin Down 7. I didn’t really have to sneak around—at this ungodly hour, no one was in sight.
Five a.m. was a largely theoretical concept to me. I knew it existed, but I rarely observed it. Nor did I want to. But this morning was different. Trond insisted on secrecy, so we had to meet before normal working hours.
Barn doors towered every twenty meters. The lots here were few and large, a testament to how much money these businesses had handy. Trond’s company workshop was labeled only with a sign reading LD 7-4030 —LANDVIK INDUSTRIES.
I knocked on the door. A second later, it slid partially open. Trond poked his head out and looked both ways down the hall.
“Were you followed?”
“Of course,” I said. “And I led them straight to you. Turns out I’m not very bright.”
“Smartass.”
“Dumbass.”
“Come in.” He gestured me forward.
I slipped in and he immediately closed the door. I didn’t know if he thought this was stealthy or what. But hey, he was paying me a million slugs. We could play 007 if he wanted.
The workshop was effectively a garage. A
huge
garage. Seriously, I’d kill to have that space. I’d make a little house in one corner and then, I don’t know, install fake grass in the rest of it? Four identical harvesters, each in its own bay, filled the room.
I walked over to the nearest harvester and looked up at it. “Wow.”
“Yeah,” Trond said. “You don’t realize how big they are until you see one up close.”
“How did you get them into town without anyone knowing?”
“It wasn’t easy,” Trond said. “I had them shipped here in pieces. Only my most trusted people even know about it. I pieced together a staff of seven mechanics who know how to keep their mouths shut.”
I scanned the cavernous workshop. “Anyone else here?”
“Of course not. I don’t want anyone knowing I hired you.”
“I’m hurt.”
The harvester stood four meters tall, five meters wide, and ten
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