Rogan's World

About Rogan’s World

Rogan’s World is a novella length story being published for the first time as an e-book.

In Rogan’s World New York Times bestselling science fiction author William C. Dietz takes a satiric look at the future. It’s a time when the Calag Corporation saves money by putting one man in charge of an entire agricultural planet. Because other than an orbiting cyborg named Wally, and thousands of robots, Dan Rogan lives on Calag Planet 4782/X all by himself. It should be a simple but enjoyable life.

But with a worldwide harvest to manage, an overbearing boss, and some unexpected labor problems to cope with Rogan has his hands full. And that’s not all... Can a nice guy cope with a femme fatal, the criminals who want to find her, and thousands of dying aliens? There’s only one way to find out.

Copyright © 2013 by William C. Dietz

Smashwords Edition

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author or publisher.

ROGAN’S WORLD

By

William C. Dietz

Contents

About Rogan’s World

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Other Books by William C. Dietz

About the Author

This one is for Mike Davison. He’s a good friend, a fellow adventurer, and a person you can count on when the stuff hits the fan.

 Chapter One

CONFIDENTIAL

Calag Inc. Board Eyes Only

So by keeping sentient staff to an absolute minimum, and by making maximum use of robotic support systems, the company will minimize expense, maximize profits, and achieve an ROI of at least ten percent. With that in mind I think the board will agree that the negative psychodynamics described by PERSPSYCH STAFF will be more than offset by Calag’s ability to build market share.

(Excerpted from PRESPERS EYES ONLY MEMO CS/CC-876921.)

Calag Planet 4782/X

Rogan awoke to the sound of rain pounding on the plastiform roof. Not the gentle rain that was scheduled to fall each night, but a downpour that could expose vulnerable roots and fill rivers to overflowing. Damn.

He threw the covers aside, rolled out of bed, and stood. He had short kinky black hair, a slim body, and a determined chin. He paused to listen for a moment, then strode toward the door. It hurried to get out of the way. The dimly lit hallway, living area, and entryway led out onto the porch. Lightning strobed the distant hills and thunder rolled as Rogan padded down the steps to the duracrete pad. The rain pelted his naked skin. He touched the com link located under the right corner of his jaw. Wally? You there?

• • •

Wally, better known to his mother as Walter Prescott Dugan Jr., was in orbit two hundred and fifty miles above the planet’s surface. And, while he wasn’t asleep, he wasn’t exactly awake either. He released .05 cc worth of stimulant into what remained of his bloodstream and waited for it to kick in. Yeah, I’m here. Where the hell else would I be?

Though normally sympathetic, Rogan was in no mood to indulge the cyborg’s taste for self-pity. It’s raining, Wally. It’s raining hard. What happened?

Rogan had been known to drink once in a while, especially when lonely, and Wally wondered if he was sloshed. But a quick check of the instrument package built into Rogan’s house confirmed that it was not only raining, but raining hard. Too hard. Something was wrong. Wally ran a systems check.

Like most agricultural planets, Calag 4782/X was equipped with a computer-controlled weather system. And, like the systems on most ag planets, it worked about half the time. But that didn’t stop the suits from modeling Rogan’s quotas on the optimistic specs provided by the system’s manufacturer—or bombarding him with nasty memos when production levels dropped—all of which added up to a planetary manager (PM) who stood in the rain and drank too much.

Wally had been linked to the computer so long he didn’t know which part of his mental capacity was his own and which part belonged to the company’s Systems Group. And it really didn’t matter, since an accident had destroyed his body and reduced him to little more than a brain—which, when combined with the latest in bioelectronics, made good money by living in orbit and supervising the planet’s electromechanical systems.

Once retrieved and analyzed, the data said it all. The cyborg kept it short. A hurricane veered off its projected track and brushed the coast two hundred miles east of Chateau Rogan. The good news is that the rain should taper off in an hour or so.

• • •

Rogan held out his hand. Had the rain slackened? He wasn’t sure. Well, nothing could be done till first light. He looked upward and blinked when raindrops hit his eyes. Thanks, Wally. Sorry if I was a jerk.

Wally smiled, or would have had he been equipped with lips. "Forget it. Besides. . .who ever heard of a PM that wasn’t a jerk?"

Rogan laughed, shivered as a light breeze slid across his skin, and headed for the house. His feet were big, too big, some people said, and water splashed away from them. The house ate him in a single gulp. It was huge and empty. Most of his peers had families, including a mate, two or three kids, and a menagerie of pets. That’s why management built identical six-bedroom mini-mansions on all of their ag planets. It was the kind of one-size-fits-all solution that strategic planners loved. The problem was that the empty rooms served to amplify Rogan’s loneliness. He considered a drink but rejected the idea in favor of lights and music.

The central computer heard his command, turned the lights up, and triggered a Johnny Cash album. It was hundreds of years old, but the sound was crystal clear. The house comp automatically passed the sound to Wally, who didn’t enjoy retro music but liked to spy on Rogan. And so it was that the cyborg watched the sun rise over the western hemisphere to the strains of I Walk the Line.

Rogan entered the shower, ordered the water on, and savored the immediate warmth. Then he inched the water temperature up until it was just short of scalding. It was there, under the rush of hot water, that Rogan had some of his best ideas. And, what with an already weak wheat harvest and a rogue rainstorm, he could use some. None were forthcoming, however. So Rogan left the shower cleaner but no wiser. A robot scooted in behind Rogan to scrub the shower down.

Clothes weren’t a necessity since Rogan was the only human being on the planet and the climate was generally temperate. But he wore some anyway. His usual uniform consisted of a faded University of Nulon T-shirt, blue shorts, and hiking boots.

In keeping with the rest of the house, the kitchen was enormous. The auto-chef served him a cup of tea and a bagel with cream cheese, the same breakfast he ate every day. Rogan carried the food to the workstation he had established on the kitchen table. The house had a fully equipped office, but it was lonely in there. The kitchen was warmer and smelled like food.

A quick check of his e-mail showed that commodity prices were holding steady, animal protein was up a point, and metals were off a bit. It seemed that the company had named yet another vice president to join the army of executives on the corporate golf course, the competition had announced the release of a new vegetable, and the Nulon Alumni Association wanted a donation. Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit.

Rogan took a bite of bagel, sipped his tea, and queried his private mailbox. Maybe, just maybe, there had been a reply to his ad. Nothing. Just a cursor blinking on and off. Rogan sighed, ran a check on the weather system, and carried his dishes to the sink.

• • •

Up in space and half a world away, Wally shook his nonexistent head. He had read Rogan’s e-mail at the same time Rogan did. The ad was a bad idea and the cyborg was glad that no one had responded to it. He couldn’t say that, of course, not to Rogan’s face, but that’s the way he felt. The last thing he needed was a stranger wandering around, consuming Rogan’s time, and getting in the way.

Wally ordered one of his minisats to focus a telephoto lens on the front door of the house and waited for Rogan to emerge. The optics were so good that if his friend had a zit, the cyborg would know.

• • •

Rogan blinked as he stepped out into bright sunlight. Carefully mowed green grass slid down to meet an artificial lake. Bio-engineered insects skittered across the surface of the water-- and occasionally there was a splash as one of the pond’s trout had a snack. None of the fish had reason to fear a hook, since Rogan lacked both the time and temperament to go fishing.

The air smelled fresh and clean. Rogan took a deep breath and felt his spirits rise. This was the part of the job that he liked the best: roaming the planet and solving the fantastic array of problems that came his way. He touched the link. So, Wally. . . what’s hot?

The cyborg was ready with an itinerary. I figured you’d want to survey the flood damage off the top. After that you can check on some stranded aniforms, hit the restart button on Harvey 451, and eyeball the apple harvest.

Rogan frowned. Hit the restart on Harvey 451? What the hell for? Send a droid.

Sorry, Wally replied, "no can do. The idiots in purchasing bought Harveys 450, 451, and 452 at an auction when Nugumi Manufacturing went under. They got ‘em cheap—real cheap—but without any mods. So even though the droids were able to fix Harvey 451, it takes a living, breathing bio bod to fire one up. Think of it as job security."