A Forest of Stars - Kevin J. Anderson [218]
Zhett had been worried about the Hansa military returning. It was only a matter of time. But clan Kellum would be ruined if they lost the Osquivel shipyards. “Just keep your eyes open,” he grumbled, then sent them back to work.
Now, from his control center inside a large hollow moonlet, Del Kellum watched over all the teams like a tyrant. “I want at least one new ship completed by the end of the week. If you do it before then, there’s a bonus for everyone on the crew.”
“No problem, Del,” said a teasingly surly voice over the comm link. “I’ll just cut down on all my coffee breaks.”
“Shizz, we’re already dropping from exhaustion here,” said another worker. “May as well learn to work in my sleep.”
“You want my preference?” Del replied. “I’d like to have one of our own ships deliver the next cargo of cometary ekti to the distribution center at Rendezvous.”
Zhett clicked on the transmitter, startling them. “Yo, better hurry up—I’ve got the ekti right here.” As she zeroed in on the control complex and docked her cargo vessel, she heard continued complaints, orders being snapped, progress reports given. Business as usual.
She walked briskly into the control room, where her father studied systems-analysis maps of their facilities, smelters, and resource stockpiles. Dotted lines and parabolas marked the flow of processed material. Sub-screens showed status reports and schedules for future projects.
“You’re going to give all of your crew ulcers, Dad,” Zhett said, coming up to kiss the older man on his whiskery cheek. “How’s the work coming on the compies we salvaged from the Eddie wreckage?”
Kellum turned to look at the open loading bay, where noises and bright lights filled the chamber. “We’re almost done reprogramming them. We’ll put them to work soon enough.” He gave her a wry smile. “At least they won’t complain about long hours.”
Zhett scanned the rows of small mechanical servants, competent computerized companions that had survived the explosions and decompression that had killed so many EDF soldiers. “Looks like five different models.” Some were still bent and damaged; others had been repaired and polished. “I’ve never seen those military-looking ones.”
“Soldier compies—well suited for heavy labor, if you ask me. We’ll manage the mechanical fixes easy enough. Might have to swap out a few parts, cannibalize components to get a fully functional machine. The Big Goose seems to be better at this sort of manufacturing than we are.”
“We can learn, Dad.” Zhett had worked with compies in the shipyards, but had never owned one herself.
“We’ll have to brain-wipe them all, of course, especially the Soldier models,” Kellum said. “No telling what sort of odd programming the Eddies installed. Even the Friendly and Listener ones might have special emergency systems. Can’t trust that.”
“Can’t trust much of anything, Dad. We’ll make the compies into loyal allies, with a little bit of tinkering and a little bit of love.”
Del Kellum scowled. “That’s easier than what we face with our other captives. How do we reprogram the thirty-two Eddie soldiers in the infirmary?”
Zhett smiled back at him. “Maybe we use the same tactics.” She walked off with a spring in her step.
Inside his cramped room, Patrick Fitzpatrick III had recuperated enough to climb out of bed. Fitzpatrick looked with bemused curiosity at the aquarium on the inner wall, where angelfish flitted back and forth in an endless exploration of their small world. Hearing footsteps, he turned with an automatic wary scowl, but relaxed when he recognized Zhett.
“I see you’re up and moving around.” She smiled at him, but Fitzpatrick showed no friendliness toward her.
“Within my little cell,” he said.
“It’s larger than your lifetube was. I could’ve just left you floating in space with your life support failing.”
“Yes, you could have. You are Roachers, after