View from Ararat by Brian Caswell

wasn’t totally alone at the start of my new life.
    I suppose it wasn’t all that surprising that Mac and Cox ended up on the same C-ship as me. Mind you, it wasn’t planned to happen that way.
    When we delivered the ore from the lo Trader , we each went our own way. We didn’t exchange forwarding addresses or communicator codes. At least, I didn’t. It wasn’t that I didn’t like the guys or appreciate the help they’d given me on my first – and only – trip to the moons of Jupiter. I did. It was just . . . Well, I didn’t expect to ever see them again, and I’ve never been one for sentimental attachments.
    Even when they canned me from Research, I never once got in touch with the people I used to work with there. And I’d known some of them since I was eleven years old.
    What would have been the use? Suddenly we were on different sides of the fence, and no amount of ‘remember-whens’ was going to change the fact.
    And that’s how it was when we got back with the ore from the lo Trader and they paid us out.
    Personally, I was half expecting us to have overlooked something – either in the log or in the cargo itself – which would alert the company to the scam we’d run. For a week I slept in my clothes, ready for a quick getaway if they came for me. But they didn’t.
    I guess the quality of the ore blinded them to everything else. The metallurgist on the Lunar station where we delivered it said they hadn’t seen that kind of quality from Ganymede in over fifteen years, and tried pumping Mac for the exact location of the mine site. It was just lucky that the rules didn’t require us to divulge that kind of information.
    So as far as anyone in the company was concerned we’d just hit the mother lode. They were happy. We were happy.
    End of story.
    Almost.
    With the payout for the ore, split between the ten members of the crew, we each had as much credit as any miner could reasonably expect to see in a decade – maybe even a lifetime – and if there was ever a perfect chance to break free once and for all, this was it.
    There were rumours circulating among the Research community that on Deucalion a black-listing from the Grants Council wasn’t exactly the kiss of death that it was on Earth.
    Just the thought of working again with my mind, instead of my aching body, was worth more than all the credits in my account.
    There was nothing tying me to the planet of my birth. No family, no loyalty. No future . . .
    And I guess that was the way it was for Mac, too. Thirteen years as a ‘rock-biter’ was more than most people could survive. What was the point in tempting fate even once more when you had sixty thousand credits against your name, and there was a C-ship leaving within a couple of months?
    For Cox I suppose the decision was a bit tougher. He wasn’t deciding just for himself. He had four kids – the oldest my age and the youngest just twelve. But in the end that was just about the best possible argument in favour of making the break.
    When I met them at the medical the day before boarding, he was a totally different person from the tough ore-jockey I’d spent a good portion of the past year sparring with. He was . . . I don’t know . . . gentler somehow.
    And his kids really loved him. Even I could see it.
    I felt a stab of jealousy.
    There was an older woman sitting with them. His mother, I guessed – correctly. But she wasn’t making the trip.
    â€˜Too old,’ she said, when I asked the obvious question. ‘I have my friends and my house, and . . .’ She shrugged, as if I should understand the rest.
    I didn’t, but I said nothing.
    One of the problems with being Funded before you even reach puberty is that you never really get to mix with ordinary people. In Research you’re isolated. A kind of hothouse bloom that never has to deal with the uncontrolled natural