Up Against It - M. J. Locke [48]
The stores had obviously been genetically engineered to resist decay, and tubers and gourds are resistant anyway, which was undoubtedly why Joey Spud had picked them. But nothing lasts forever, and they were slowly spoiling. it seemed a shame to waste perfectly good rotten tubers. So in recent weeks they made themselves spud guns, and took bags of bad veggies out onto the surface to see if they could launch them out into orbit.
“I’ll get the launchers, you get the spuds,” Ian told him. Geoff grabbed a bag and launched himself into a passage to collect some rotten potatoes. Then he suited back up and met Ian outside the lock.
Spud launchers weren’t very complicated. They had a long pipe fitted with a small chamber at the back end. The chamber had a striker, with a trigger to generate a spark in the chamber. This firing chamber also had a hole between it and the barrel. To load the launcher, you jammed a tuber—or something else roundish of the right size; something with a little give to it—down the barrel. You shoved it hard, to make a good seal against the hole at the back. You poked the needle-thin nozzles of an oxidant and a flammable solvent can into the firing chamber and gave them each a spritz. Aim the gun and strike a spark. The tuber went soaring one way, and unless you were secured to the ground or braced, you went soaring the other.
Geoff launched a spud or two, but his heart just wasn’t in it. Instead he leaned against an outcropping to watch as Ian prepped, loaded, and fired off several more rotten tubers. Two or three made it into orbit.
After a bit, they headed back inside. Geoff alighted next to his bike. It was a red and yellow Kawasaki. He had saved for years to buy it. It was his pride and joy. He had had it for just over a year now. He had bought it from a professional racer. It was barely used, top of the line. First the usual checks: he went through the cabinets and inventoried his supplies, and replaced his air canisters. They were all in working order, and the tanks strapped under the footboards had plenty of rocket fuel. Then he ran a cloth along the machine’s red flanks, cleaning off the smudges.
Near the machining bench, Ian messed with a not-quite-the-right-part for his bike that he was trying to make fit. Amaya played a strategy game in wavespace nearby, without a lot of enthusiasm. Kamal was fooling with some program he had written, trying to get it to work. True to his nickname, Kam liked video, photography, and image manipulation. He wanted to be a professional artist someday.
Geoff lofted himself over to where they had set up the assembler programming project. The test vat still had plenty of bug juice; they had mined some of the ice in the tunnels underfoot, and thrown in some tubers. The bugs seemed to like the raw bug-feed just fine. He would have to decide what he wanted to build next. He called up his assembler design tool.
Geoff had not been sure he was ever going to bother with another assembler art effort. It had been an awful lot of mess. And what if they had been caught? One son dead and the other in jail—his parents would probably disown him. But the truth was, Vivian’s warning yesterday evening left him feeling stubborn. He decided to start on another project. Why not? He could use a distraction.
Amaya finally swore, and threw a wrench into her kit with a loud bang! It ricocheted back out but she caught it, and put it in the kit more carefully. They all looked over at her. “Well?” she said.
He knew what she meant, but he still played dumb. “Well, what?”
“How long are we going to pretend nothing’s wrong?”
She meant the ice. Of course, she meant the ice. Geoff sighed. “You’re right. We’d better notify the authorities.”
“I don’t see why,” Ian said.
Amaya rolled her eyes. “Don’t be a jerk, Ian.”
“Amaya’s right,” Geoff said. “We can’t not report it. We could get in