Rogan was still swearing as he cut across the lawn to the duracrete apron and entered the support building. It was cool inside and smelled of lubricants. A number of transportation options were available to him, including a pair of twelve foot tall exoskeletons, three-wheeled ATVs, and a couple of grav trucks. Including the beat up unit he used almost every day.
Three robots had been assigned to maintain the equipment and the lead unit came out to greet him. In a fruitless attempt to make the spider-like machine seem more human Rogan had named it “Bob” and spray painted the name across the top of its otherwise pristine housing. He nodded in the droid’s general direction. “Morning, Bob. How’s it hanging?”
Like most of the planet’s more complex robots Bob had the capacity to learn what was important and what wasn’t. Meaningless greetings had no relevance to his duties and were ignored. “All vehicles are functional. Would you like a detailed report?”
Rogan walked by and servos whined as Bob turned to follow him. “Thanks, but no thanks. No offense old buddy… But your reports are boring as hell.”
If Bob was offended he gave no sign of it and watched impassively as Rogan circled the truck looking for telltale leaks or other problems. There were none.
So Rogan checked to make sure that his emergency supplies and tools were aboard and properly stowed. Nothing made him more angry than to wind up a thousand miles from nowhere minus a critical tool. The truck was about twenty-five feet long, twelve feet wide, and shaped like a wedge. It could reach an altitude of three hundred feet, cruise at four hundred miles an hour, and carry a five ton pay load. And with an entire planet to supervise that made the truck the most useful vehicle at his disposal. Sometimes, in order to cope with problems on the far side of the world, he was gone for weeks at a time.
Rogan palmed the hatch. There was a whining sound as it opened. The interior had a Spartan feel. A tool belt, a box of spare parts, and two bottles of water occupied the seldom used passenger seat. There were two bunks aft of that, a cramped lavatory, and a tiny galley.
Rogan felt around under an old leather jacket and found that the half empty bottle of Duncan’s Prime was right where he’d left it. Good. He wouldn’t have a drink. Not this early. But it was nice to know it was there.
Rogan ran his eyes over the control panel, started the ignition sequence, and listened as the anti-grav units wound up. They sounded nice and tight. It took thirty seconds for the power board to turn green and another thirty to complete a systems check.
The hum turned to a steady whine as Rogan taxied out of the support building and into the glare. The canopy darkened to compensate. There weren’t any other aircraft on the planet but Rogan went through the motions of checking with the air traffic computer before lifting off. He eyed the screens arrayed in front of him and waited until all of the buildings had dwindled to the size of toys before advancing the throttle. Having approved the coordinates downloaded from Wally he switched to autopilot.
It was tempting to place the seat in the reclining position and take a nap but his quarterly reports were due in three days. Rogan hit the terminal release, pulled the unit over his lap, and entered his access code. The resulting “Good morning Dan Rogan” appeared in front of Wally as well. The cyborg looked, gave the mental equivalent of a yawn, and turned his attention elsewhere.
Rogan leaned back in his chair. “Verbal mode please.”
The computer had a soft androgynous voice. “Verbal mode confirmed.”
“Quarterly reports, page three, harvest totals.”
A page of closely worded boilerplate flooded the screen with blanks where the totals and supporting graphics would go. “Find and enter current totals by category.”
The reply came quickly. “Before or after spoilage, wastage, and loss?”
Rogan gave the question some thought. His totals should reflect spoilage, wastage, and loss since that was what the company would actually receive and be able to use. But he was running behind his quotas. A fact made worse by the storm and the higher figure would look better to the suits. Their computers would detect the deception and produce enough exception reports to kill a forest of trees but the strategy would buy some time. Time he needed to boost production.
Half an hour later the grav truck slowed and descended towards the ground below. Rogan was part way through a carefully worded response to an interdepartmental interrogatory regarding his “profligate use of fertilizer” when Wally interrupted. “Time to run your recorders if you want aerials of the flooding.”
There were times when Rogan resented the fact that the cyborg spent a lot of time both literally and figuratively looking over his shoulder but this wasn’t one of them. He could use the aerials to illustrate the extent of the damage and support his request for lower quotas. Not to mention the fact that the suits loved flashy reports. That’s why the PMs vied with each other to submit sexy multimedia productions. A competition Rogan detested but was forced to participate in. So he started the truck’s recorders and watched his screens. As usual the multi-angle computer enhanced video looked better than what he could see through the window.
The river known as “tributary NH/Q17-3514” had overflowed its banks. The water covered a field and threatened to drown the seeds planted there. That was bad, but not as bad as it could have been, since he had taken out some insurance by investing in high grade AA-1 squash seed. Unlike the cheaper stuff double A could sense the low oxy levels associated with flooding and change its own metabolism to compensate. So what had been a risky decision was going to pay off. Would the squash counters give him credit for that? Hell no.
The grav truck settled onto a mound with a distinct thump. Rogan checked to make sure all systems were on “standby” and exited the vehicle. The hillock was twenty-five feet higher than the surrounding field and naked of plant growth. There were fifty-seven mounds in all. A fact that Rogan was well aware of. He had even gone to the trouble of referencing the planet’s voluminous Terraforming report only to find the hillocks had been written off as “…an unusual manifestation of glacial scrubbing.”
The theory sounded reasonable since Calag 4782/X had been an ice world prior to Earth normal Terraforming. But the uniformity of the mounds continued to bother him. In fact he was determined to slice one in half and see what was inside when he found the time.
At least slightly cheered by the fact that the flooding could have been worse Rogan reentered the grav truck and took off. The stranded aniforms were the next item on his itinerary and not too far away. By maintaining a low altitude and following a swiftly flowing river Rogan had little difficulty locating them. The flooding had created a temporary island and a herd of aniforms had taken refuge there.
These particular creatures were bovine derived. They were white with black spots, and although heavily modified, still bore a resemblance to the ancient cattle from which they had evolved. But while their heads had a cow-like appearance, generations of bioengineers had transformed their bodies into huge hippo-like protein factories, each having tremendous muscle mass and short stubby legs. Legs that had to little more than carry them to their food or away from a flood.
After wandering in among them Rogan spotted a large female that had suffered a laceration on her right flank during the storm. She was quite docile and made no attempt to escape as he closed the wound and sprayed sealer over it. Then he ordered Wally to send a grav barge loaded with specially formulated feed to the island. Once the water receded the aniforms would be free to roam.