I paused, trying to rack my memories and ill-sorted knowledge. Nothing. There was nothing about shiny cylinders with flexible brown hoses.
'That's a SARM - separator and recovery module. It's just a nanite sorter with an intake suction feed powered by a blower.'
That didn't leave me any wiser.
Gerbriik smiled condescendingly. 'In short, former Dzin master, it scoops up elemental dust and gas molecules and sorts them into bins in the cylinders. Understand?'
Even with my aborted recent reeducation, I knew enough to know that was possible, since essentially it was a modification of the food formulator principle. But what was I supposed to do, and why was it necessary?
'No.'
'No, ser!' snapped Gerbriik. 'If you don't show respect, I can recommend your exile, your physical exile to one of the borderline colonies, like Nabata. There's no place for disrespect on an orbit cargo station.'
Yes, ser,' I answered, recognizing, belatedly, the authority in his voice, that and the desire for power that the maintenance officer barely kept in check. I doubted he had that kind of authority, but my doubts had been wrong before about the demons, and now wasn't the time to test my judgment.
That's better.' He offered another condescending smile. 'We have nanite housekeepers here. Two kinds - the microscopic disassemblers and the collector-scrubbers installed in the ventilation system. The disassemblers are programmed to break down certain molecular chains into constituent atomic structures, and most of those chains are waste materials. The disassemblers are ten-micron-sized, and they go anywhere in the station. The scrubbers collect and store everything that the air returns pick up. Now, do you understand?'
'I think so. Ser,' I added hastily. 'Materials too heavy to get carried, or those trapped in coiners and too big for the disassemblers—'
'Exactly. Your job is to put on a breather mask and poke that hose into every square millimeter between deck one and deck two. Tomorrow, you'll do the same thing on the next interdeck.'
I waited, then asked. 'Is there a manual or instructions? I have some questions.'
'Ser.'
'Yes, ser. Does it signal if it's full or not working?'
'When any of the bins are full, it buzzes, and you bring it to maintenance. Sanselle will empty and clean it. No brains or instructions necessary, Tyndel. Eventually, you might learn enough to do that.' He handed me a purplish mesh with a clear faceplate and a heavy squarish lump on the bottom. 'That's your breather hood. We could use a more sophisticated nanite system, but they have to be tailored individually, and they're costly. This works almost as well, and it's just fine for you. All you do is pull it on and make sure it fits flush against your maintenance suit.'
'Yes, ser.'
'Here are your work gauntlets.' He extended a thin gray pair of gloves.
I looked dubious.
They're nanite-reinforced. You'll need a maintenance belt and tool kit. This one's checked out to you.' He extended a dark gray belt with several flat pouches fastened to it.
I slipped it around my waist and then took the gloves, heavier than they appeared at first, and pulled them on. They went halfway up my forearms.
Gerbriik pointed to a flat screen on the wall. 'I've called up the interdeck schematic. That shows where you'll be. Study it, and then haul yourself to entry port two and start cleaning from there.'
I stepped forward and looked at the interdeck schematic, trying to memorize it or something, but the effort called up a similar map in my mind, and I tried to integrate the two, looking for entry port two.
'You got it?'
'Yes, ser.'
'Then take the SARM and your hood and get to work.' Gerbriik twisted back to the consoles as if to indicate he'd said all that was necessary.
I wondered, but I clipped the hood to the belt that had come with the dark gray coverall and towed the SARM along the corridor outside the maintenance space to the access shaft that would bring me closest to entry port two.
Entry port two was another type of hatch. I recognized it belatedly from the information that had been dumped on me through the latest nanosprays. Not only was it double-sealed, but it contained a third sliding metal panel between the outer and inner hatches. The middle panel required a maintenance wrench. I thought, and then fumbled out the wrench from the small tool packet fastened to my belt. It was the wrong one. After three tries with various wrenches, one worked; I had the middle door open.
Then I tried to ease the SARM module through. The SARM power staid banged on the side of the hatch, and a whining started up immediately. When I scrambled to turn it off, I ricocheted off the side of the hatch with my ribs, then put up a gloved hand to stop myself.
The nanites in the glove protected my fingers by stiffening, but that threw me sideways in the other direction and slammed my thigh against the door. I had to duck to keep my head from getting mashed on a girder that flanked the other side of the portal.
For a long moment, after finally stabilizing myself by clutching the plasteel beam, I hung in the gloom, sucking in deep breaths, realizing that I was seeing mostly by nanite-enhanced vision. Moving gingerly, I closed the portal. The built-up odors told me why Gerbriik had sent the breather hood.
After locking one leg around a support beam, I pulled the hood over my head and sealed it. While I could breathe without gagging, I began to sweat almost immediately.
Slowly, I levered myself down to where I could recover the SARM. Then I began to thread my way toward the far corner between the two air return ducts that dwarfed me. The cleaning pattern suggested by the briefing nanites started there, and I felt less than terribly creative with sweat coating my face and hair while pushing a three-meter cylinder that massed half what I did.
With the restricted view through the faceplate, I didn't see the conduit for some type of cable that protruded from the lower deck, and the toe of one boot caught. I spun, and trying to avoid crashing the SARM into the diagonal girder to my right, found my hooded head banging into another brace. The hood reduced the impact to a jar, but I bounced sideways. The SARM hose twisted around one leg, and my other hip scraped something.
I finally managed to stop colliding with sections of the station, but I'd barely started, and I had bruises along both legs, a twisted calf muscle, sore ribs, and other bruised muscles in places I'd probably rediscover over the next few hours and days. I'd never thought about how difficult not having gravity would be, and wondered if I'd dream longingly of full gravity in the days and years to come.
In time, I managed to figure out how to move the equipment and myself with a minimum of effort, and thus a minimum of reaction. But I kept sweating.
After about a standard hour I found myself squinting through the faceplate as I pointed the nozzle of the SARM in the direction of an enclosed metal rectangle with nodules on it. A jolt ran through my system. Restricted equipment! Restricted equipment! I shivered and wanted to shake my head, beginning to understand, once more, just how effective nanotech conditioning could be. No wonder I hadn't gotten that much of a briefing. The briefing sprays had just applied the warnings to my nervous system somehow.
While I was recovering from that jolt, the SARM canister rebounded against my left calf, giving me what would be another bruise.
I had swept out most of the crevices and hidden areas on the inboard section of the interdeck when my internal demons announced twelve hundred hours.
Almost simultaneously, another figure in a breather mask tapped on my shoulder, then reached down and flicked the power stud on the SARM. The other person also wore dark gray and gestured back toward entry port two.