A mining operation deep in space. A crew of five, a security team of four. It's drudge work; routine, repetitive. Until it isn't.
After Daneel and Kemah hear unexplained knocking sounds in the lab, Grosjean sees something he can't explain on the surface, and there comes a growing sensation that they're not alone on the asteroid. Something is out there, waiting to be found, in the darkness. But does the biggest threat come from outside? Or from within?
In the meantime, an ailing ship limps toward them, its own crew oblivious to the horror that awaits them. They come seeking help, but who are the rescuers and who, if anyone, will be the rescued?
A mining operation deep in space. A crew of five, a security team of four. It's drudge work; routine, repetitive. Until it isn't.
After Daneel and Kemah hear unexplained knocking sounds in the lab, Grosjean sees something he can't explain on the surface, and there comes a growing sensation that they're not alone on the asteroid. Something is out there, waiting to be found, in the darkness. But does the biggest threat come from outside? Or from within?
In the meantime, an ailing ship limps toward them, its own crew oblivious to the horror that awaits them. They come seeking help, but who are the rescuers and who, if anyone, will be the rescued?
It carried the official designation DCC-3578-m. Nobody had ever thought to give it any other name. A three-hundred-mile-long rock floating in space; no life, no atmosphere, just an amalgamated lump of assorted minerals and ore.
The mining ship Longwater, part of VelstandCorpsâ mining fleet. Over half a mile long, with a crew of five, plus a security team of four. Extraction, processing, refining, shipping. Almost entirely automated, the shipâs crew being the first port of call for maintenance and otherwise responsible for overseeing the mining process. The ship would latch on to its designated object, then slowly work its way through the main bulk of the asteroid or comet. Eating away at its body, consuming it. Taking what it needed, shipping it by unmanned shuttle barges to the nearest port, ejecting its waste as dust behind it. Leaving, weeks or even months later, a hollow husk, the unviable shell, floating in place of the once resource-rich asteroid, as the ship progressed to its next target. A man-made parasite, preying on the lifeless to swell the coffers of its corporate masters.
A low repetitive buzz sounded in the living quarters of Grosjean, the Longwaterâs captain. For a few moments, it generated no response. Then a hand appeared from under bedclothes, smacking at the console beside the bed. The buzzing stopped; the hand flopped down to hang just above the floor. Five minutes passed and then the buzzing started again. This time, a head appeared at the same time as the hand and groaned. Grosjean sat up and swung around until his feet hit the floor. He halted the buzzing again, this time entering the appropriate command to stop the noise for good. Running a hand through his thinning hair, he stared moodily at his feet for a few minutes before making the final push to verticality.
For a ship so large with such a small crew, the living quarters could not be described as generous. Little more than a cubicle, with just enough room for a bed; a desk and two chairs, one for the desk, one for comfort; a shower room adjacent; and minimal storage were all that Grosjean had to call his own. Sixteen such cubicles arranged around a central communal space made up the hab deck. That communal space consisted of a kitchen and dining area, a basic gym and a rec room with a couple of gaming tables and a screen for videocasts. The decor was basic. The crew had themselves added no personal touches to the communal areas, due to an ongoing argument over how to define âappropriateâ, which had led to Grosjean instigating a blanket ban. Above the hab deck was the control room and flight deck; below was the engineering deck. Beyond that, there was nothing but the vast processing plant that constituted the majority of the shipâs volume, and the shipâs own engines. In some ways, it could be seen as a vast automated factory with a tiny spaceship lashed onto it. At least, Grosjean often thought of it in those terms.
Less than five minutes in the shower, then he was pulling on his coveralls. He took a few moments to stare glumly at himself in the mirror. As well as the thinning hair, there was a sag to the jowls that was becoming more noticeable, an unattractive grey pallor to the skin. Stuck too long on this damned ship, he thought. Too many years of this repetitive grind on remote rocks. What he needed was a job somewhere where he could experience actual sunshine and see his kids more than two months out of every ten.
There were no signs of life in the corridor, but he could hear low chatter coming from the communal lounge as he passed the doorway. He didnât look in, however; just trudged along to the foot of the stairs, took hold of the rail and started to pull himself up. The stairs spiralled up to a modest landing area which gave a good view down into the communal lounge through the clear ceiling. Three doors led off the landing, the central one of which was the entrance to the control room. Grosjean glanced at the retinal scan, which acknowledged him as it opened the secure door, not quite as smoothly as it used to. Inside the surprisingly small control room were three main banks of terminals, each of which had a moulded seat in front of it. Only one of these seats was currently occupied, by a short-haired woman dressed in the same uniform coveralls as Grosjean. She didnât look up.
âMorning, skipper.â
Grosjean grunted in response. The young woman, Daneel, the shipâs chief engineer and Grosjeanâs number two, had the kind of sharp, no-nonsense features that went both with the practical haircut and her professional attitude. She was a serious-minded woman, ahead of her years in terms of her career and much appreciated by Grosjean, though he was loathe to verbalise that appreciation. Clearly used to this level of engagement during morning handover, she showed no reaction to his demeanour, instead passing him a datapad. âNew security detail came in overnight, Jung and his crew departed about ten minutes ago.â
Dammit, thought Grosjean. Jung still owed him money.
âOvernight activity on the floor was routine, mineral make-up of the yield still within a 0.03% variation on estimate. Oh, and we had a distress call come in a couple of hours ago...â
âWhat? Why didnât you wake me?â
âDistress call, sir, not an emergency call. Ship ejected out of hollow space unexpectedly, some kind of malfunction. Put a call out and we were the nearest vessel. Asked permission to rendezvous for repairs, which I gave...â Here, she paused and looked up at Grosjean, who nodded, â... but theyâre still five days away at sub-hollow speeds. Nothing to do on that one but wait until they show up.â
âI take it youâve checked them out?â
Daneel tapped the datapad in Grosjeanâs hand. âAll in the report, boss.â
âGreat.â His tone suggested he thought it anything but. âWhatâs next for you?â
âBed. Iâm up in six to run those checks on number 3 refinery unit.â
âWith Barat?â
Daneel pulled a face. âYeah.â
âHave fun. Whoâs the new security?â
âItâs Ostello.â Daneel frowned, âThough I donât recognise the other three at all.â
Grosjean looked up from the datapad. âOh?â
She shrugged. âSwitched details apparently, some last-minute contract came up that pulled a lot of the regular crew.â
âWell, so long as they know what theyâre about. Okay, get some rest.â
Daneel stood, stepping to one side to let Grosjean slump down in the chair sheâd vacated. Then, with a pat on his shoulder, she left him to it.
Â
Barat was going through the latest mineral reports when a refreshed Daneel found him, a few hours later. Ostensibly the crew were all engineers, even Grosjean, but with limited manpower came a great need for multi-skilled individuals. Barat was the geological expert, so took prime responsibility for monitoring the take and assessing when a target was losing profitability. There were basic algorithms that could assess this, of course, but VelstandCorps still respected human instinct and experience, especially that of lifers like Barat.
âSleep well?â he asked, without looking up.
âNo more than usual,â replied Daneel. They were in the dining area and Daneel poured herself a cup of coffee before coming to sit next to him. âWeâre still checking out Ref-3 this morning, yeah?â
Barat nodded. âYeah, just give me five minutes to go through these figures and Iâll be with you.â
Daneel sipped at her coffee and let Barat get on with it. He was two decades or so older than her, greying, slightly overweight, his hair constantly dishevelled. Over the top of his coveralls, he was wearing one of the flowery shirts that were his one small attempt to inject colour into the drab daily routine of life on the ship; he was otherwise a very quiet, introverted character. Unlike a lot of older miners Daneel had worked with, Barat had never shown any reluctance to acknowledge her expertise, or her position, and for that she was appreciative. In return she afforded him the respect due for his experience. As a result, they worked well together, had grown fond of each other, though not in the way that Grosjean liked to imply. Knowing Baratâs way of working was very single-tracked, she was happy not to distract him as he went through the reports. Instead, she sat quietly, waiting patiently.
Two men in black fatigues came into the dining area and headed over to the vending machines. Daneel nodded at Ostello, one of the private contractors that provided regular security for the Longwater. As she had said to Grosjean, the man with him was unfamiliar. Daneel did not like the look of him. Ostello wasnât a small man, but this new man was a big slab of muscle, topped off with a hard face and short cropped silver hair. There was something brutish, mean-looking about him. And she somehow got the impression that he was making Ostello feel deeply uncomfortable. She was about to get up and go over to the men to introduce herself, when Barat said, âThatâs it, ready.â He had switched his datapad off and was standing. âWe good?â
Daneel nodded. They left the dining area.
Â
They took an electric cart out to Ref-3, covering the quarter of a mile of service corridor in a few minutes. Outside of the living quarters, there were no comforts; life support was at a minimum, heat provided only by the proximity to the energy-emitting processes of the plants. Daneel and Barat were wrapped up in thick cold-environment gear, ready for the service tunnels, and carried breathing apparatus on the cart just in case. Rarely were the engineers required to step outside the artificial atmosphere of the ship, other than the routine external inspections, but precautions were always taken.
Once they arrived at Ref-3, Barat plugged in for a local diagnostics check. Daneel sat on the cart waiting, there was little use starting anything until the diagnostics were run. The corridor outside Ref-3 was stark, like every corridor on the Longwater, but well lit. Normally she thought nothing of the huge expanse of grey, lifeless corridors and access ports that constituted most of their environment outside of the hab. For some reason today, though, she felt an icy chill travel up her spine.
âHowâs it coming, Barat?â
âHmm? Oh, about as expected so far. If you want to make a start on the filters, thatâd probably be okay. Iâll start powering the unit down now.â
Thankful for something to do, Daneel reached into the cart and pulled out the kit she needed. Then she unfolded the thin mesh of her collar which she pulled up over her mouth and nose, before pulling on her goggles. Even with the refinery unit powered down (and just at that moment, the loud background growl of the unit began to slowly whine to a stop), the air inside could be dense with floating particles. While technically there was no need for breathing equipment, the air quality was such that some form of filtering was recommended. Barat, now similarly protected, gave her the nod and Daneel entered her access code into the doorâs security panel, then spun the wheel mechanism that opened the sealed hatch. There was an audible whoosh as the confined atmosphere of the refinery was opened up to the service corridor, and a fine mist of particles swirled out. Bracing herself, Daneel entered.
The large hall beyond was a maze of conveyor belts, bins and tubes. This was where the raw material from the drilling was processed; broken up, sorted into its elemental parts, then either sent for further processing or ejection into space. The temperature inside was uncomfortably hot, especially when wearing the cold-environment gear, thanks to the furnaces that melted down the metallic elements for casting into the ingots that would be shipped out to the nearest VelstandCorps station. This heat wasnât wasted, it was both piped back to the hab deck and raised the service corridors to an at least liveable temperature. Already sweating under her jacket, Daneel certainly didnât want to spend any time more than was necessary inside the hall.
She quickly made her way over to the stairway that led up to the gantry from where, once she ascended, she could access the air filters to begin the basic cleaning required to keep them working. It was unpleasant work, much cursed by the crew, as the specs dictated that the filter units should be self-maintaining, and this job shouldnât be necessary. Not for the first time, she found herself biting back resentment towards whatever idiot back at corporate had signed off on these cheap scrubbers.
She had only been working for about five minutes when she heard something clatter beneath her. Presumably Barat, dropping something as he set to work on his tasks. She glanced down to see what he was doing, but as she turned her head, she caught sight of him through the doorway, still unloading his kit from the cart. Leaning over the gantryâs railing in the direction she thought the noise had come from, she felt another chill go up her spine. Her heart started to race. Relax, she thought to herself, something falling off a conveyor belt, it happens. There was enough detritus on the floor to show that material was occasionally lost. Indeed, even now one of the Maids appeared; the large, automated units inspired by (and named for) a particular brand of domestic cleaning robot. The Maids constantly made their way around the shipâs processing areas, sucking up any material they came across to be re-entered into the system for sorting.
She turned back to the filters, berating herself for feeling jumpy. It was the unfamiliar security team, she told herself, and the stranded ship limping towards them. For once, things werenât quite as mundane and tedious as they usually were, so now she was jumping out of her skin at the slightest sound? She grinned to herself under her face covering, mocking her own tension. Life on the Longwater was so routine and predictable, for such long stretches of time, that it really wasnât surprising that she would find change unsettling.
It only took a couple of hours to work through the Ref-3 checklist and soon after that they were heading back to the hab. Daneel didnât give her moment of discomfort another thought.
Â
âEverything go okay?â Grosjean looked up as Daneel entered the control room.
âNTR,â she replied, logging in to her console.
âYou and Barat manage to sneak some alone time while you were out there?â
She didnât look up, merely extended her hand to give him the gesture his baiting deserved. He chuckled to himself.
âAnything new on the incoming vessel?â she asked, changing the subject.
Grosjean shrugged. âNot a whisper. I spoke to them an hour or so ago, just to introduce myself. It was a short call. I get the impression things are a little tense over there.â
Daneel nodded in acknowledgement, her mind already thinking about something else.
Â
âYou need to watch your mouth.â
âYeah? Why, what you gonna do, big man?â Kemah stepped up to the security operative, all five foot nothing of her, her high squeaky voice loud in his face. She punctuated the question by jabbing him in his torso, two pokes, on âbig manâ.
He snarled, âYou poke me like that again and youâll find out.â
Behind him, a Beta watched on, its face a mixture of emotion that, on a human, might pass for sad and confused. The primate was wearing an orange bodysuit and held its gun at an awkward angle, as if unsure of what it should be doing with it.
Kemah lifted her hand, finger extendedâŚ
âKemah!â
All three of them, Kemah, the security man and the Beta, turned around. Garbold stood in the doorway of the dining area, peering over the top of his glasses at the mouthy young engineer and the man towering over her. He sighed. âWhatâs going on? As if I couldnât guess.â
The guard took a step back, assuming a professionally detached expression. Kemah, still fuming, turned to face Garbold, affording him a view of her âBeta Rightsâ t-shirt, her coveralls rolled down to the waist and tied off with the sleeves.
âItâs bullshit, Garbold, I canât believe corporate is still approving the use of Betas for security detail.â
Garbold rolled his eyes theatrically, bracing himself for yet another performative recital of the old, familiar arguments.
âAnd this gentleman is from corporate?â
âWell, no,â Kemah replied, her shoulders dropping fractionally as her anger lost momentum. âI was just sayingâŚâ
âAnd you,â Garbold cut Kemah off to address the security man, âyou have a problem with staff on board, you register it with the captain.â He frowned as he realised that he didnât recognise the man with the thick black beard and bald head who Kemah was squaring up to. âYouâre new.â It wasnât a question.
âYes, sir.â
âAnd you are?â
âLatham, sir.â
Garbold waved his hand irritably. âYou can âsirâ the captain if it makes you happy, Iâm not bloody interested.â He walked over to the coffee station and started to fix himself one. âIf youâre done here, Latham, may I suggest you take yourâŚâ he gestured at the Beta, âout on patrol or something.â
Latham, his face a blank mask, nodded and left, the Beta trailing in his wake.
âReally, Kemah? Day one of a new security detail and youâre at it already?â
The young woman accepted the coffee Garbold held out to her and took a seat at the nearest table. Visibly flushed, her braids still quivering, she took a deep breath and rolled her neck, wincing at the crack generated by the movement. She was the junior crew member, a couple of years younger than Daneel. Slender as well as short, she was constantly underestimated by people, especially in the engineering world. She didnât let it get to her though, refusing to adopt the veneer of professionalism that Daneel used to combat the prejudices of older, more experienced miners and instead letting her mouth browbeat those around her into submission. After a number of troubled and disruptive postings, sheâd settled into life on the Longwater, and the others had quickly discovered that for all her attitude, she was a first-rate engineer.
âIt is bullshit, though, Garbold.â
âI knowâŚâ
âUsing Betas for menial work is degrading and inhumane. Theyâre treated like animals, itâs slave labour.â
Garbold gave Kemah another over-the-spectacles look, the authoritative air he was aiming for undermined by his mottled stubble and oil-stained coveralls. âThey are animals, Kemah. Primates like us, yes, but theyâre not people.â
Rarely standing taller than one and a half metres on their bandy legs, Betas were distantly related to humans, artificially evolved from apes. Even with their blue-grey fur and their squashed faces, it wasnât hard to see their shared ancestry. Bioengineered specifically for labour, they were the focus of contentious debate. Where many, especially those in the corporate world, saw them as a valuable addition to the workforce, particularly in fields that humans grew more and more reluctant to work in, there were plenty who regarded the creatures with more empathy.
âTheyâre more than animals, Garbold,â Kemah persisted. âThe genetic engineering used to make them pliable, the implants⌠Their intelligence has been raised beyond the point where we can think of them as just animalsâŚâ
âBut theyâre not people,â repeated Garbold. He pushed back the dirty old beanie he habitually wore and scratched his scalp, before pulling the hat back, taking a moment to ensure it was situated just how he wanted it. âLook, itâs a cushy number, what do they do? Walk around this vast and empty factory ship for a few weeksâ rotation. No drama, all the bananas they can eat. Jeez, I wish I had it that easy.â
âDonât be reductive, Garbold. Itâs the principle. We shouldnât be using them.â
âFine. But getting all up in the face of a security guard who, intellectually at least, is barely more developed than a Beta himself isnât going to solve anything.â
Kemah allowed herself a small grin. âIt got me noticed.â
Garbold groaned. âYou have to be kidding me.â
âWhat? Admit it, Garbold, he was a fit slab of meat.â
Garbold knocked back his coffee. âYou disappoint me, Kemah.â
âHey, you try being stuck out here for months at a time with three old geezers and Daneel. A girlâs gotta eat.â Her grin was wide now.
âIâve got work to do. And so do you.â
Kemah gave him a mock salute. âYes, sir!â
Garbold was already on his way out, but he treated Kemah to an exaggerated shudder.
Â
âMaking friends with the locals, then?â
âShut it, VerrĂźckt.â
âKnock it off, you two. We donât want any trouble with the natives, of any sort. We keep a low profile, do the job, keep our eyes open and when the time comes, we do it quick and we do it smart. I donât want any complications, understood?â
âYes, boss.â
âLatham?â
âOf course, boss. No arguments here.â
âGood. Now stop bickering and go be security guards.â
Â
âVelstand Six, Velstand Six, this is the Longwater, do you copy?â
âLongwater, this is Velstand Six, reading you loud and clear. Howâs tricks, Daneel?â
âHey Otto, good to hear you.â
âCopy that, Daneel. Whatâs with the audio-only?â
âWeâve got a glitch in the video link, again. Garboldâs seeing to it now.â
Grosjean pretended not to notice the pointed look Daneel gave him as she updated their liaison on yet another running repair that had had to be instigated. Instead, he busied himself with the departure protocols for the barge.
âItâs about time they brought that bucket in for an overhaul, isnât it?â
Daneel snickered. âOverhaul? Time for the breakerâs yard, more like.â
âHey, hey, Iâm right here,â said Grosjean, his voice adopting a hurt tone.
âHey, Grosjean! Sorry man, didnât mean to disparage your baby,â replied Otto.
âThis old girl has seen me good for almost my entire career. Sheâs shifted more tons than youâll ever see.â
âIgnore him, Otto, heâs being a grouch. Kemahâs been flirting with the help again.â
âNothing broken, I hope.â
âHa! Not yet.â
Grosjean finished running through his checklist, coughed once, and adopted what Daneel referred to as his âcaptainâs voiceâ. âVelstand Six, weâre ready to despatch Barge 36-c. Ready to receive?â
Otto, likewise, switched seamlessly back into his professional mode. âUnderstood, Longwater, stand by for confirmation.â
The comms went quiet for a moment, giving Grosjean the opportunity to shoot Daneel a dirty look. Behind them, the door to the control room opened and Garbold sloped in. âWe should be all good on the video link, if you want to rebootâŚâ
Grosjean waved a hand at him to hush, as Ottoâs voice came back online. âLongwater, this is Velstand Six, go ahead and launch. You have permission to despatch Barge 36-c. Will confirm arrival in six hours.â
Grosjean leaned over his console and entered the final order. Hundreds of metres away, a containment field in the side of the ship powered down. A long, blunt cargo barge slid out of its bay. Ugly and box-like, the barges were purely functional, designed only to ferry mineral product between the mining ships and VelstandCorpsâ logistic centres.
The three of them busied themselves with various readouts and reports for a few minutes as the barge made its way to a safe distance from the Longwater, then they watched the cargo vessel appear to twist impossibly in on itself, winking out of view as it made the jump to hollow space. Grosjean toggled the comms again.
âVelstand Six, this is the Longwater, Barge 36-c has been despatched and is in hollow space. Sheâs all yours, Otto.â
âLongwater, this is Velstand Six, message received. Cheers, Grosjean. Take it easy. And take care of that crap-bucket of a ship.â
The comms line went dead before Grosjean could shoot off a reply. Daneel smirked in her seat as Grosjean cursed a blue storm at the console.
âWhat? Whatâs going on?â asked Garbold, his face a picture of confusion. Nobody answered him.
Â
Barat woke up, checked the time and cursed. It was forty-five minutes before his alarm was due; annoyingly early but too late to go back to sleep. He lay in his cot for five minutes or so, then cursed again as he dragged himself up.
Throwing on his overalls, he hit the button to his door, which opened with the same vaguely annoying swoosh it did every day. For the umpteenth time, Barat promised himself that this was his last rotation. The mining ship life was a bust. He was going nowhere, and his life was racing by. It was all very well for Garbold and people like him, they wouldnât know what to do if they werenât elbow-deep in machinery, but Barat was sick of it. He had enough saved up that he could retire, as long as it was somewhere not too expensive. Hell, a small shack on a beach somewhere would do. Open air, sun, sand, sea⌠Instead of this monotonous grey everywhere, the stale air, the same faces, day in, day outâŚ
The corridor lights flickered on in response to his motion, illuminating his passage as he made his way to the dining area. If he wasnât going back to sleep, coffee was the essential next step.
Ahead of him, the lights at the far end of the corridor also flickered on. He looked up, wondering who else was about. Facing Barat down the corridor was a Beta. Barat frowned. There really shouldnât be any need for them to be patrolling the living quarters, they should be out in the miles of service corridors. Maybe it just woke up too, he thought. Betas needed sleep as well, something he tended to forget. Despite Kemahâs near-constant badgering, it was too easy to forget that they were living beings. Their vacant dull stares tended to lull you into treating them like automatons, moving furniture almost.
As he got closer, the Beta stopped and raised its pulse rifle. Barat frowned. âWhat the hellâŚ?â He held a hand up. âHey, itâs me, Barat.â
The Betaâs translator, part of the implanted array of electronics that cradled their skull like a headset, crackled into life. âHalt. Identify.â
âItâs me, Barat,â repeated Barat, emphasising the syllables. âJust getting coffee.â
âNo ID detected. Halt.â
Barat reached a hand up to his neck. Shit. His lanyard was still on the stand next to his bed. Dammit, for the love of⌠âMy lanyardâs in my room, Iâll go getâŚâ
âHalt. No ID detected.â The Betaâs close-fitting red bodysuit covered its torso, and its limbs to knee and elbow length, but on the exposed parts of the Betaâs stocky body, Barat could see the short hair that covered it starting to stand on end, an indication that it was entering a state of high alert. Barat held both hands up in what he hoped the Beta would understand as a placatory gesture.
âIâm Dr Barat, I work on the ship, Iâve just left my ID in my quarters. You can come with me; I can get it.â
âNo ID detected. Subject must remain still.â
âDammit, whereâs your handler? Arenât you supposed to be partnered up at all times?â
The Beta adjusted its stance, holding the pulse rifle as if readying to fire. âSubject desist. No ID detected. Suspected intruder.â
Shitshitshitshit. âWait! Iâm Dr Barat! Iâm on the crew!â
The low hum of the pulse rifle kicked in as the Beta primed it. âSuspected intruder. No ID detected.â
Barat froze, locked every muscle so as to not provoke the Beta further. âIâm not moving! Iâm complying! Iâm complying!â
From behind the Beta came the sound of heavy boots running. One of the new security guards, a stocky figure with vivid red hair tied back in a ponytail, appeared around the corner. âBeta 4, hold! Override. Bing, stand down!â
The pulse rifleâs hum dissipated as the Beta lowered the weapon slightly.
âOh man, Iâm sorry, I just stopped to take a leak.â The guard drew level with the Beta, flashing his ID, even though the Betaâs sensors would have registered the electronic tag as soon as the guard was within the required proximity. He looked the Beta in the eye, âOfficer on scene. Stand down.â
âSuspected intruder, no ID detected,â replied the Beta. âWas holding suspect.â
âYeah, yeah, big guy, I copy.â The guard turned back to Barat. âWhereâs your ID, man?â
Â
âLook, I forgot it. It was early, I just got up to get coffee, I wasnât expecting there to be a security checkpoint between my quarters and the mess.â
âSecurity protocol is clear; ID must be worn at all times. The Betas are primed to respond to the electronic ID, itâs how they operate.â
âI know, I know, but I just got upâŚâ
âYes, some of them can, over time, come to recognise crew, but this is a new bunch, thereâs no way you telling it you were Dr Barat would achieve anything.â
âBut in the habâŚâ
âThe Betas sleep too, you know. Yes, it wouldnât be patrolling the hab, but it has to get from the hab to its designated patrol area somehow. They donât sleep in the damned corridors.â
âSo where was its handler?â
âIts handler? Itâs not a dog. Its partner had just stopped in the latrineâŚâ
Grosjean, who to this point had remained silent, listening to Barat and the security rep go back and forth, held up his hands. âOkay, okay, enough. Barat, you know the drill. ID has to be worn at all times. I shouldnât have to tell you that.â
âThank you,â said Ostello.
Barat threw up his hands in despair. âBloody thing was going to shoot me. I wasnât moving, I was complying.â
âAnd Betas should be accompanied at all times,â said Grosjean, turning to Ostello. âEspecially in the hab.â
âThe guy was just taking a leakâŚâ
â⌠and the Beta wandered off. Your guy stops for a leak, the Beta waits for him.â
âFine.â It was Ostelloâs turn to throw his hands up.
âNow, do you really think it was about to shoot you?â
âIt wasnât about to shoot him,â cut in Ostello.
Barat scowled at him before responding to Grosjean. âIt primed its rifle. It was pointing the damned thing at me.â
âDid you halt when it told you to?â
âI⌠I may have taken a step at first, butâŚâ
Grosjean held up a hand firmly. âOkay. Thatâs it, Iâm calling time on this. You wear your ID, the Betas aren't to be left wandering around unsupervised, and you find yourself in that situation again, you do what the damned monkey tells you. Everyone happy?â
Neither Ostello nor Barat looked especially happy, but neither offered any further response. Grosjean, his hand still raised, flicked it in a gesture of dismissal. The two men left.
âKemahâs going to flip when she hears about this.â Daneel had been silent up until this point, merely an observer to the complaints process initiated by Barat.
Grosjean rubbed his face and pinched the bridge of his nose. âSo keep her out of my hair. I donât need this shit, Daneel.â
âIâŚâ
âIâm serious. Tell her itâs dealt with. The use of Betas is a corporate issue. She wants to go on a crusade, point her in that direction. I donât have the energy for another Beta rights seminar with her.â
Daneel nodded. âFair enough.â
âAnd make sure Ostello follows up with his team. I donât want Betas wandering around on their own in the hab. Damned things give me the creeps,â he added.
âRoger that.â
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Biscuits was patrolling her favourite section of the service tunnel. The two-legs would no doubt be furious that sheâd made it out of the hab again. Luckily, they had no idea of her escape route, the loose panel that opened onto the air vent behind the vending machine in the rec room. The one that her two-legs, the one with the hat that smelled so good and was so comfortable to sleep on, had forgotten to seal. Biscuits had found it quite by accident, but now regularly used it to escape the confines of the hab, to explore the network of corridors and vast halls of metal and noise beyond. In all her time on board the mining ship, sheâd yet to find any prey out here, though she lived in hope. Maybe this timeâŚ
She paused to lick a paw and run it over the top of her head, suddenly irritated by a sense of uncleanliness. While she attended to it, a figure appeared around the bend at the far end of the corridor, one of the strange hairy two-legs that came and went. Biscuits strode towards it.
As it spotted her, Biscuits could sense its confusion. It lifted up the strange stick it was holding, pointing it at her. Some kind of game? Biscuits hoped not, she wasnât one for playing with the two-legs, it made them soft and irritated her. Start that kind of business and they never leave you alone. Still, she had better see what it wanted.
Approaching closer, the two-legs made a noise. Or rather, the bizarre collar it was wearing did. She had no idea what the noise meant, so she carried on. Unbeknownst to her, the small unit on her own collar gave off a radio signal which the two-legsâ collar received. She did, however, see it lower its stick. Good. No games for you.
She reached the two-legs, a female she could now tell, and giving it a quick sniff, she could tell none of her kind had claimed it yet. Not surprising, given Biscuits couldnât remember the last time she saw one of her own kind. Still, better safe than sorry. She gave the two-legsâ ankles a quick rub with her scent glands, just to be sure. There, hers, sheâd marked it now.
The two-legs reached down and patted her, a little harder than Biscuits might have preferred, but within tolerable margins. She gave the thick, leathery hand a helping of her pheromones too. It seemed only polite.
A second two-legs appeared, not one of the strange hairy ones, but not one of the familiar ones either. She was about to give him the same treatment when he barked something at the hairy one. Something about his voice disturbed her. This one was trouble. She backed up, then turned and trotted back down the corridor. This one was not for her.
What would happen if you drilled into a solid rock and believed you had released something deliberately imprisoned there? On the huge mining ship Longwater, captain Grosjean and his crew of four, Daneel the engineer, Kemah her assistant, Barat the geologist and Garbold the mechanic, are in the process of extracting valuable ore from a three hundred mile long  asteroid. They are accompanied by a new, privately-contracted, security team of four, with several  Beta guards, artificially bio-engineered apes bred specifically for labour, who seem over-zealous in their duties and who obey the security men implicitly.
Otherwise they are alone in space as the work is  highly automated but two of the crew hear strange knocking sounds coming from the lab where no one could have been and register a radiation spike in the area. On a routine surface check they see what looks like writing on the rock face of the asteroid and an odd glow coming from a gulley but both disappear. Meanwhile it is plain that the new security detail is up to no good.
The sense of strangeness on the asteroid is beautifully maintained as is the sense of danger and we are willing the various characters, who are very strongly drawn, to survive. Grosjean, is a good captain but older and getting bored with his job, Daneel, the chief engineer, has âthe kind of sharp, no-nonsense features that went both with the practical haircut and the professional attitudeâ, and Kemah is spiky and enthusiastic. The various baddies are also well portrayed each with their own attitude to the heist, which may or may not save the crew. Hauser from the security detail, bad-tempered and savage and prepared to kill anyone in his path, is on the loose and the entity from the asteroid is also threatening them. Can they be saved?
I was a little disappointed that the strangeness on the asteroid  is linked to the paranormal as  there is much that is unusual in the natural world that could well have supplied the explanation. Having said that, the sense of peril is starkly portrayed  and I couldnât put the book down until the end. A strongly recommended read.      Â