but old habits died hard. Huts downside had windows, and by Gwipper, so would the prefab buildings the Company shipped up to the sunway.
It was a moment’s work to slide a knife between window and frame and unhook the inside latch. Getting inside would take more work. Petrus shed his outerwear and boots and climbed in. Good thing he was gaunt, good thing the illness had robbed him off the muscle he once had. Petrus pitched inside, pencil light stabbing the gloom.
He kept the light beam low and away from windows, as he creep-crawled on the floor. Turnworth kept his office organized and Petrus had seen the book more times than he could count.
The Flex Schedule.
The Flex Schedule was the latest innovative bureaucratic nightmare that the Company had cooked up. Supposedly, they had math wizzes downside that came up with new formulae every month to figure which sections needed more oversight and which didn’t, so that the Company didn’t waste manpower. What that meant for inspectors was that their range and duties changed weekly. You could go from seven markers and welding to twenty markers and oiling the next week.
Petrus crouched on the floor under Turnworth’s desk, the Flex Schedule open on his lap. Spreadsheets covered every page, full of rows and columns, names and marker numbers and obscure abbreviations, all written in a cramped hand and packed densely. Petrus shifted so he leaned against a desk leg. His back already hurt, and so he did his eyes.
He plunged gamely into Turnworth’s tables, immersing himself in the records, hunting for any references to Marker 37, where the bonerot had been found.
He didn’t know how long he hunched over the book. His eyes smarted and blurred with tears, and when he straightened every muscle protested its subjection to such a cramped posture.
But that was nothing compared to his shock. For what was laid out in the Flex Schedule was that Marker 37 hadn’t been properly serviced in months, if not for a year or more. The inspection ranges changed weekly, but somehow seemed to miss Marker 37 more often than not. And when 37 was included, it was for a cursory track check. In fact, the only deep checks scheduled for Marker 37 had been assigned to only one person.
Petrus Gallavant.
Petrus knew that he hadn’t been ordered to service that part of the sunway in years. He—and Rainbird—were being falsely implicated.
Turnworth’s insistence on secrecy took on a sinister cast. And that conversation Rainbird had overheard between him and the eiree when she’d been down at the Up-High Market? Looked at in the light of recent data, it was just as likely that Turnworth was trying to bribe the eiree into not selling him the cheris gum.
That bastard. Petrus heaved the book back into its place on Turnworth’s desk, then froze.
Keys jingled in the lock. The door opened. A light snapped on. Petrus tried to make himself small. Turnworth’s boots stamped on the floor, followed by…
…someone else.
Some thing else.
Rainbird’s stomach felt like a big pit had just opened up in it.
The crack breathed out air, warm and old. At least they’d be less exposed inside.
Get the wiz in. Get him warm. See if the crack goes up to the nerves or into the train tunnels.
Rainbird hauled herself over the jagged edge, cutting her hands as she did so. She crawled on to bone and flopped the wiz down beside her. He rolled over to the edge and threw up.
Rainbird used the opportunity to check the crack. It went back further than she could see. Hope and despair warred. If it went back to some opening inside the sunway, they’d have a chance of surviving. But if it did, the damage to the sunway would be bad. Very bad.
Someone had noticed the explosion, surely. Someone would come to investigate. They’d stop the Day Sun, send it back to Headside, find Rainbird and the wiz, fix the damage.
The wiz lay limp and white at the edge. Rainbird pulled him back and sat him up against the bone. It was
It was a moment’s work to slide a knife between window and frame and unhook the inside latch. Getting inside would take more work. Petrus shed his outerwear and boots and climbed in. Good thing he was gaunt, good thing the illness had robbed him off the muscle he once had. Petrus pitched inside, pencil light stabbing the gloom.
He kept the light beam low and away from windows, as he creep-crawled on the floor. Turnworth kept his office organized and Petrus had seen the book more times than he could count.
The Flex Schedule.
The Flex Schedule was the latest innovative bureaucratic nightmare that the Company had cooked up. Supposedly, they had math wizzes downside that came up with new formulae every month to figure which sections needed more oversight and which didn’t, so that the Company didn’t waste manpower. What that meant for inspectors was that their range and duties changed weekly. You could go from seven markers and welding to twenty markers and oiling the next week.
Petrus crouched on the floor under Turnworth’s desk, the Flex Schedule open on his lap. Spreadsheets covered every page, full of rows and columns, names and marker numbers and obscure abbreviations, all written in a cramped hand and packed densely. Petrus shifted so he leaned against a desk leg. His back already hurt, and so he did his eyes.
He plunged gamely into Turnworth’s tables, immersing himself in the records, hunting for any references to Marker 37, where the bonerot had been found.
He didn’t know how long he hunched over the book. His eyes smarted and blurred with tears, and when he straightened every muscle protested its subjection to such a cramped posture.
But that was nothing compared to his shock. For what was laid out in the Flex Schedule was that Marker 37 hadn’t been properly serviced in months, if not for a year or more. The inspection ranges changed weekly, but somehow seemed to miss Marker 37 more often than not. And when 37 was included, it was for a cursory track check. In fact, the only deep checks scheduled for Marker 37 had been assigned to only one person.
Petrus Gallavant.
Petrus knew that he hadn’t been ordered to service that part of the sunway in years. He—and Rainbird—were being falsely implicated.
Turnworth’s insistence on secrecy took on a sinister cast. And that conversation Rainbird had overheard between him and the eiree when she’d been down at the Up-High Market? Looked at in the light of recent data, it was just as likely that Turnworth was trying to bribe the eiree into not selling him the cheris gum.
That bastard. Petrus heaved the book back into its place on Turnworth’s desk, then froze.
Keys jingled in the lock. The door opened. A light snapped on. Petrus tried to make himself small. Turnworth’s boots stamped on the floor, followed by…
…someone else.
Some thing else.
Rainbird’s stomach felt like a big pit had just opened up in it.
The crack breathed out air, warm and old. At least they’d be less exposed inside.
Get the wiz in. Get him warm. See if the crack goes up to the nerves or into the train tunnels.
Rainbird hauled herself over the jagged edge, cutting her hands as she did so. She crawled on to bone and flopped the wiz down beside her. He rolled over to the edge and threw up.
Rainbird used the opportunity to check the crack. It went back further than she could see. Hope and despair warred. If it went back to some opening inside the sunway, they’d have a chance of surviving. But if it did, the damage to the sunway would be bad. Very bad.
Someone had noticed the explosion, surely. Someone would come to investigate. They’d stop the Day Sun, send it back to Headside, find Rainbird and the wiz, fix the damage.
The wiz lay limp and white at the edge. Rainbird pulled him back and sat him up against the bone. It was
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