Until now, apparently.
"Let's get out of here." Ray dropped down onto the landing pad. Joel followed him out to the edge of the roof. Green tangled blankets of kudzu4 spread out around them, shrouding the roofs of surrounding buildings. It always made Joel think post-apocalypse — weeds and ivy crawling back in from the wilderness to strangle the residue of some fallen civilization. Except, of course, these particular weeds were supposed to save civilization.
Way out by the coast, barely visible, streamers of smoke dribbled into the sky from the refugee strip. So much for civilization.
"It's one of those smart gels," Ray said at last.
"Smart gels?"
"Head cheese. Cultured brain cells on a slab. The same things they've been plugging into the Net to firewall infections."
"I know what they are, Ray. I just can't fucking believe it."
"Well, believe it. They'll be coming for you too, give 'em enough time."
"Yeah. Probably." Joel let it sink in. "I wonder when."
Ray shrugged. "You've got some breathing space. All that unpredictable volcanic shit, things blowing up under you. Nastier than flying a hoover. Harder to replace you."
He looked back at the lifter, and the 'scaphe nestled into its underbelly.
"Won't take long, though."
Joel fished a derm out of his pocket; a tricyclic with a mild lithium chaser. He held it out without a word.
Ray just spat. "Thanks anyway. I want to feel pissed for a while, you know?"
* * *
And now, eight days later, Ray Stericker was gone.
He'd disappeared after his last shift, just the day before. Joel had tried to track him down, drag him out, piss him up, but he hadn't been able to find the man on site and Ray wasn't answering his watch. So here was Joel Kita, back on the job, alone except for his cargo; four very strange people in black suits, blank white lenses covering their eyes. They all had identical GA logos stamped onto their shoulders, tags with their surnames printed just below. At least the surnames were different, although the difference seemed trivial; male, female, large or small, they all seemed minor variants of the same make and model. Ah yes, the Mk-5 was always such a nice boy. Kind of quiet, kept to himself. Who would've thought...
Joel had seen rifters before. He'd ferried a couple out to Beebe about a month ago, just after construction had ended. One of them had seemed almost normal, had gone out of her way to chat and joke around as if trying to compensate for the fact that she looked like a zombie. Joel had forgotten her name.
The other one hadn't said a word.
One of the 'scaphe's tactical screens beeped a progress report. "Bottom's rising again," Joel called back. "Thirty five hundred. We're almost there."
"Thanks," one of them — Fischer, according to his shoulder tag — said. Everyone else just sat there.
A pressure hatch separated the 'scaphe's cockpit from the passenger compartment. If you sealed it you could use the aft chamber as an airlock, or even pressurize it for saturation dives if you didn't mind the hassle of decompression. You could also just swing the hatch shut if you wanted a bit of privacy, if you didn't like leaving your back exposed to certain passengers. That would be bad manners, of course. Joel tried idly to think of some socially acceptable excuse for slamming that big metal disk in their faces, but gave up after a few moments.