the beakers nervous. You nervous?"
How to respond to that? "You like Doctor Bob?" Lewis deflected.
"I like where he's coming from. I like that he stays in shape. I talked to him already and I think he sees through the bullshit like I do. We're into the same shit: self-reliance. The importance of Numero Uno and thinking for yourself. He's got all these ideas from NASA about whether this place suggests what you need to make starship troopers. It's cool, what he's trying to do. Not the touchy-feely crap of the other shrinks that come down to The Ice." He turned to Geller. "You know what they did to a shrink at Vanda, over in the Dry Valleys?"
"No, what?"
"Ran over his gear with a tractor." Tyson laughed.
There was a silence, the others digesting this.
"I guess Buck is your nickname," Lewis finally said. "What's your real name?"
"James," Geller quickly interjected.
"Jimmy, you dumb fuck. You know I hate James. English faggot name."
"James Bond ain't a faggot."
"James Bond is the biggest goddamned English pansy there is! He carries a girl's gun and dresses like a fucking bridegroom! I like big guns, and big guys. I like guys who go it alone and kick butt. Like Clint Eastwood. And John Wayne. And Bruce Willis. And Rambo. And Ahhhnold. Except he married the fucking Kennedys."
"Everyone calls Tyson Buck because he's into knives," Geller explained. "And guns. And commando crap. And every other bit of militia weirdness."
"No, I'm not. I'm into sufficiency, which is more than a little important way down here." Tyson pointed his fork at Lewis. "Don't take this 'all for one and one for all' crap too seriously because when it's dark and blowing and people are freaking out, you gotta know how to take care of yourself. Right? The government likes to jabber on about our happy little commune, but in fact it's just a bunch of fucked-up overachievers. They may have a doctorate, but they manage to bring down every goddamn neurosis there is."
"Buck doesn't like people," Geller summarized.
"That's not true. I'm eating with you assholes. I even like some of the beakers like crazy Alexi, our Russian cocktail. He tells it like it is, 'cause he's out of the gulag, man. Hiro's kind of funny, like a Jap cartoon. But some of them are humorless know-it-alls, like Harrison Adams. Harrison. Not just Harry. Pompous twit. Or weirdos like Jerry Follett. I watch my backside around that faggot. Or Mickey Mouse out there in the Dark Side. Our head rodent needs his ears pinned."
"You're talking about Saint Michael," Geller said with humor.
"Pope Moss can kiss my you-know-what." Tyson turned to the other man at their table, who'd been eating silently, and clapped him on the shoulder. "The one you want to stay friends with is this guy, who runs the power plant. We try to keep him sober and sane."
The small man looked up like a blinking mole. He was balding, with pinched features and a brushy mustache. "Pika," he mumbled as introduction.
"What?" Lewis hadn't understood.
"Pika," Geller said. "Like the animal."
"What's a pika?"
"Sort of a rock rabbit," Tyson explained. "No one can stand to hang around with Pika 'cause he whistles while he works, like those dwarves. Remember them? Drives us all nuts, like Muzak. His real name is Doug Taylor but we call him Pika, which is sort of like a marmot. Critter that whistles?"
Lewis slowly nodded. "Got it."
"Pikas sort of squeak," Geller said. "But we liked the sound of the word."
"Makes sense to me."
"See, Mickey Moss can collect all the medals he wants to but what it comes down to is the guys like Pika," Tyson said. "We're at the outer edge of the envelope down here. They don't like to tell us that, but it's true. The generators stop, and we're dead. The well gets fucked up, and we're dead. A good fire gets started, and we're dead. This place is the easiest place in the world to sabotage. Any of us could kill all of us in about three nanoseconds. And then they send down a shrink? How does that make you
How to respond to that? "You like Doctor Bob?" Lewis deflected.
"I like where he's coming from. I like that he stays in shape. I talked to him already and I think he sees through the bullshit like I do. We're into the same shit: self-reliance. The importance of Numero Uno and thinking for yourself. He's got all these ideas from NASA about whether this place suggests what you need to make starship troopers. It's cool, what he's trying to do. Not the touchy-feely crap of the other shrinks that come down to The Ice." He turned to Geller. "You know what they did to a shrink at Vanda, over in the Dry Valleys?"
"No, what?"
"Ran over his gear with a tractor." Tyson laughed.
There was a silence, the others digesting this.
"I guess Buck is your nickname," Lewis finally said. "What's your real name?"
"James," Geller quickly interjected.
"Jimmy, you dumb fuck. You know I hate James. English faggot name."
"James Bond ain't a faggot."
"James Bond is the biggest goddamned English pansy there is! He carries a girl's gun and dresses like a fucking bridegroom! I like big guns, and big guys. I like guys who go it alone and kick butt. Like Clint Eastwood. And John Wayne. And Bruce Willis. And Rambo. And Ahhhnold. Except he married the fucking Kennedys."
"Everyone calls Tyson Buck because he's into knives," Geller explained. "And guns. And commando crap. And every other bit of militia weirdness."
"No, I'm not. I'm into sufficiency, which is more than a little important way down here." Tyson pointed his fork at Lewis. "Don't take this 'all for one and one for all' crap too seriously because when it's dark and blowing and people are freaking out, you gotta know how to take care of yourself. Right? The government likes to jabber on about our happy little commune, but in fact it's just a bunch of fucked-up overachievers. They may have a doctorate, but they manage to bring down every goddamn neurosis there is."
"Buck doesn't like people," Geller summarized.
"That's not true. I'm eating with you assholes. I even like some of the beakers like crazy Alexi, our Russian cocktail. He tells it like it is, 'cause he's out of the gulag, man. Hiro's kind of funny, like a Jap cartoon. But some of them are humorless know-it-alls, like Harrison Adams. Harrison. Not just Harry. Pompous twit. Or weirdos like Jerry Follett. I watch my backside around that faggot. Or Mickey Mouse out there in the Dark Side. Our head rodent needs his ears pinned."
"You're talking about Saint Michael," Geller said with humor.
"Pope Moss can kiss my you-know-what." Tyson turned to the other man at their table, who'd been eating silently, and clapped him on the shoulder. "The one you want to stay friends with is this guy, who runs the power plant. We try to keep him sober and sane."
The small man looked up like a blinking mole. He was balding, with pinched features and a brushy mustache. "Pika," he mumbled as introduction.
"What?" Lewis hadn't understood.
"Pika," Geller said. "Like the animal."
"What's a pika?"
"Sort of a rock rabbit," Tyson explained. "No one can stand to hang around with Pika 'cause he whistles while he works, like those dwarves. Remember them? Drives us all nuts, like Muzak. His real name is Doug Taylor but we call him Pika, which is sort of like a marmot. Critter that whistles?"
Lewis slowly nodded. "Got it."
"Pikas sort of squeak," Geller said. "But we liked the sound of the word."
"Makes sense to me."
"See, Mickey Moss can collect all the medals he wants to but what it comes down to is the guys like Pika," Tyson said. "We're at the outer edge of the envelope down here. They don't like to tell us that, but it's true. The generators stop, and we're dead. The well gets fucked up, and we're dead. A good fire gets started, and we're dead. This place is the easiest place in the world to sabotage. Any of us could kill all of us in about three nanoseconds. And then they send down a shrink? How does that make you
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