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The harsh crunch of gravel on sand underfoot reverberates through my jumpsuit…

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Inside my helmet my breath comes in fast and ragged. I am sweating profusely under the brilliant shine of the triad of suns high overhead. We all struggle to keep our heart rates down, and our blood oxygen levels nominal. This scorching hot planet hangs with a red tinged sky. This horrid environment has little cloud cover, and is rocky, sand covered and almost entirely barren. The few scattered pieces of scrub brush are either a deep bruised purple or a sickly mustard infused brown. Through our helmets we can’t tell you what they smell like, but according to instrumentation we know they give of carbon monoxide and a mixture of cyanide and ammonia also. The team of scouts are being buffeted by a gale force wind. The rust coloured dust flies up hot as embers burning us through our environmental protection suits, clattering off our helmets and masks like white hot metal shavings. If we stand still for more than a couple of heart beats the soles of our boots begin to melt. The three suns range from a deep angry red to a near purple of absolute cosmic violence. In the distance of the horizon a herd of wild wandels can be seen racing hither and yonder. The tell tale sign of their presence are the mansteroud dust clouds that they kick up as they run. The uv blasted fines hang in the air, listing miles up into the stratosphere. The native beasts have to run everywhere in order to find food and to survive the intense heat once they venture out of their deep cave warrens. After our landing party had encountered them initially we determined them to not be a threat to us. The four legged over sized dog-bears had long thick tubular ‘hairs’ that they use to dissipate heat and keep cool. Tastiest beasts I’ve ever had the pleasure of finding on a back water planet. Not that we needed it, but the deep underwater aquifer that their warrens attach too allows the wandels to retain gallons of fresh water in a bladder under their bellies. Located in the only spot they can shade them from the over bearing sun light and oppressive heat. But we aren’t here to eat wandels, we’re here to find a rogue AI that has attempted to go off grid with her new found best friend. A crippled Pengar with only five limbs instead of six. Tiny miscreant of a thing. But a more brilliant ship wright and mechanic you will never encounter. Seems the Pengar named Errabor has developed a close relationship with our rogue AI Katayna, and we’ve been employed to locate them for the Company black ops sub contractor, one Mr. Boreck Kartcher. We’ve been paid handsomely, and I do not believe it was out of charity, but because he expects a good many of my fire team to die in the process. With great risk comes great financial reward.

Our first major clue to their whereabouts came from one of the tight beam communications repeaters that get sent off across the galaxy to try to maintain contact between every known quadrant of intelligent space. A random black box transponder ping from a supposedly decommissioned Falcon Heavy-Class star hopper went straight to the top of my in box marked most urgent. The second clue was the destroyed anti poaching gun platform that orbits this world being nearly obliterated by a head on collision with something super colossal. Put those together and we have a pretty good lead on our rogue elements. Scanning for life forms doesn’t really help us out, due to the protected wandels, sorry conservationists we ate two of them. Didn’t read the sign on the way down. Our bad. Plus the spec’s we got on Katayna says she isn’t classically defined as ‘alive’ , so much as sentient, and homicidal towards humanity. Hence the exorbitant pay we recieved for tracking her down and possibly bringing her back to Mr Kartcher.

PART THREE The Company: Sisters in Arms

“What is it exactly, that you do here Mr. Kartcher?”…

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Asks the Company lawyer, a Mrs. Kinsey, from across the cramped drab meeting room, buried deep inside a bunker on a remote outpost. The level of security and secrecy undertaken to get her there for this particular interview was no small feat. She had had to withstand many months of rigorous and down right invasive scrutiny to take the role of lead investigator on this case for the Company. The momentous amount of strain and shear magnitude of pressure she was under to set things right for the Company was weighing down on her tremendously. “Do you want the long form, or a short and more concise answer to that question Mrs. Kinsey?” “What’s the difference?” “Well I’d have to say a certain degree of nuance, and an awful lot of legalese and technical jargon. How does that sound to you Mrs. Kinsey.” “Ok. Why don’t we start this deposition with the short answer and I will query you after the fact for longer, or more precise interpretations of what you are telling me here now. I must remind you that lying or omitting facts and then “filling” in those gaps later in your written answers could leave you open to significant legal liabilities. Am I understood Mr. Boreck Kartcher?” “Yes ma’am, abundantly so.” Reaching across the white formica table, the Company lawyer switches on her recorder, and sets the ticker tape to output. She has to keep her mind on the information she is about to interpret and not on writing facts down. Since the details of the case are so volatile there can be no visual recording kept of this interaction. It was requested from above that this procedure be done in a total media black out, gag orders abound. These cases are so far beyond classified that absolutely no hint of what goes on at this far flung outpost can ever see the light of day. Tension has taken up residence in Kinsey’s shoulders, neck and head. The trek out here was eighteen months long, and the majority of that was in utter desolate radio silence. Leaning back in her chair, the only two on the outpost, Kinsey points for Boreck to begin. Adjusting the tight form fitting collar on his maroon jumpsuit, exhaling slightly he begins. “Ok, so to be totally honest with you, my job is to provide the Company with a very delicate service. Yes, yes I know… very vague. You see, they have spent the last several centuries attempting to create, and integrate a viable form of AI in their newest range of Falcon Heavy-Class star hoppers. Some, if not all, of those seven vessels have gone rogue. The first one went dark unexpectedly, and then started to turn up in rather strange places. Others turned on their crew complement and eradicated all forms of human oversight stationed aboard them. Others still, managed to decimate the entire rest of the ships in the fleets they accompanied. So that’s where I step in. Or more formally, that’s where I am contracted to perform my services, such as they are.” Leaning back into his chair, he reaches across the stark white table top to grab a dull brown and gold bulb of black coffee. After a brief sip off of the attached straw he fixes the lawyer with his gaze. “Now, where was I? Yes. So, these ultra powerful, and highly temperamental vessels go schizophrenic and can no longer be held under the Company rule. Some how each and every one of these seven colossal star ships has managed to jump over or eradicate any boundaries embedded in their programming, and go off on their merry way. That’s where I come in.” With rising agitation, Kinsey starts to feel as though she is getting the run around. She does not intend to sit there tidily, as her quarry finds new and interesting ways to say the same thing for hours on end. Getting angry, as the over head lights start to swim and blur in her peripheral vision she begins to shout. “Listen here Boreck, I’ve come an awfully long way, and I wield the word of God here, so quit with the recaps and tell me what the fuck is going on! I will remind you that I have it well within my authority to glass this installation and have you jettisoned into hard vacuum. So… again Mr. Kartcher, what the fuck is it that you do here?” Her drab orange jumpsuit is pulled tight across her chest, as she gesticulates wildly from her chair, slamming both hands down on the white formica table to accentuate her demands. Across the table the small older man smiles with the most subtle of an upturned lip. Mrs Kinsey has started to develop a bead of sweat on her upper lip. Her eyes are starting to look just a little wild. As she settles down Boreck can see she is gently fussing with her jumpsuits collar. “I decommission star ships. Well, that is to say, I track down errant vessels and kill the AI within. I’ve got back doors, trap doors, key codes, fobs, and all sorts of nasty tricks to help me do it. In one instance I merely had to reach my hands deep down inside a box of grey artificial brain matter and scoop a bunch out to render Margot’s Fever inoperable. That was a distinct delight, if I do say so myself. Oh what? Why the look on your face? You thought the ‘official’ story about an insane captain was true? Ha. How do you think he was able to make vanish seventeen hundred members of his crew in less than a tenth of a second, huh? The For E’s engine prototype was well ahead of it’s time, I’ll tell you that much. Can’t run an interdimensional engine without an AI. That’s for fucking certain. No, the Company said the captain and crew had simply miscalculated, killing the vast majority of his crew with the jump, then dumped the ship off here for me to decommission and to render the AI’S services complete. You learn a lot when you are left alone to kill these rogue beasties my darling. So no need to raise your voice with me. I am well aware of my position within the Company.” Fires back the modestly dressed demolition man seated across from her, in a now slightly more claustrophobic feeling sealed room buried in a nameless bunker in some unknown quadrant of the universe. The dull glare of the lights have begun to dance in Mrs Kinsey’s eyes. “Riddle me this Mrs. Kinsey, how many life forms, or life readings did you encounter when you came within scanning distance of this outpost? Huh. How many? One? Ten? Fifty thousand? Did you even bother to check? Because I know your flight crew certainly did. Seems like something you should know if you’re going to fly out to the ass hole end of now where and start slinging threats of violence and death. So I’ll tell you how many they saw. None. Not a one.” Seated on his chair with arms crossed Mr Boreck Kartcher sits motionless while the corporate ladder climber before him searches breathlessly for something to say in response. “I’ve told your bosses before that I decommission the ships and transfer the materials back to them with the AI removed/destroyed. And that much is true. But… I have a secret Mrs Kinsey.” At the back of the room, a door opens up and six women step through into the now cramped meeting space. Their skin a deep rich melanin that has deeply blue high lights under the soft phosphorescent glow of the overhead lights. “I do kill the ships, that much is true, yes – and then I transfer the AI into their own corporeal bodies. But Margot has gone and got herself mixed up with some silly Pengar half breed named Errebor and I have to go and get her back!” As the echoes of his shouting reverberates off the walls the lawyer slumps over dead in her seat. The oxygen having been pumped out of the base slowly from the moment she stepped foot inside the outpost. Over the intercom Kartcher can hear her ships crew login and request a departure vector. Kartcher nods ascent and a rumble fills the room as the massive black ops ship takes off from the cold planets low gravity. Turning to the six women in his presence Kaetcher says “Let’s to pick up my twin sister. If I know Katayna she’ll have stolen a star hopper and headed for the fucking hills.”

PART Two The Company: Sisters in Arms.

Slow down on the work front

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Seems as though the Pandemic has finally interrupted my work flow. I just completed the last project that I had on the books earlier today, and now I have to wait on several invoices to be paid, and hold up for a while. Not great that this happened at tax time, as that’ll cut off a nice piece of savings from last year (though it isn’t mine to begin with, that’s why it’s called taxes). I just preferred to hold on to it in my accounts for a bit longer.

So now that the day job has ground to a halt, I will turn my attention towards completing some things around the house. I just built my youngest a step stool, with guard rails (because she’s a very petite nearly three year old). I have a mother’s day gift 95% completed, all that is left is final assembly and a protective finish. Then I will tackle a set of Corn Hole boards, and a wooden box to guard our trash bins and recycling from those gods be damned raccoons. Then we’ll strip, sand and finish the back deck. paint our downstairs hallway, and then I’ll attempt to build some scroll saw rustic wooden signs my wife asked me for last year. I will be completing most of these items with stock I had laying around all ready. As I don’t wish to spend money on materials, as clearing out old off cuts could really help me clean up my shop space. Plus I do need to tidy up in the shop, vacuum and sweep up the saw dust, and throw away old rags with varnish and other finishes soaked into them.

Plus we have some items I can hang up indoors for both girls that I need to do, but haven’t had the motivation to do. Wish I had some polymer clay laying around, but I do have other raw materials for self curing sculptures that I can try out for the first time.

On a side note, we spent a good portion of the last seven quarantine weeks building Lego® sets for the girls, and I ordered one off of Wish that I have yet to put together for myself. It’s a Technic® Mack Truck with container and trailer. Looks cool. Hard to do Lego® without the girls wanting to help, and this has tonnes of small, easy to loose, very important, structural pieces. Might have to be done at night in the evenings after the girls have gone off to bed. We’ll see. Anyway, hope this finds you well. If you have children, small children at that, I wish you the best of luck in the coming weeks, and for those that have all ready passed us by.

“Do you suppose that you could describe a lone space probe as wistful”…

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Mused the middle aged communication’s technician to himself quietly while seated infront of his old and grimy beige-grey terminal. The man and the large analog terminal were situated well away from the hum of the science decks closer to the moons surface, stashed way down in a long forgotten corner of an unused deck aboard the lunar base. The walls in this buried portion of the base were a deep grey, nearly black silica rock that absorbed all of the heat in the room, leaving the technician and all of his instruments a clammy and tepid temperature. Not exactly cold but not in the least bit welcoming. The dimness of the light down here was not a function of neglect, but rather due to the technician’s desire to view a live stream of what data the probe was sending back to him from deep in the void. He had various readouts of the data code playing alongside his monitor which for the most part was essentially just black with slow moving pin pricks of light scattered across it. Looking at the blackness was hard enough to do let alone having a bright glare present from an all too bright overhead lighting system that permeatesthe lunar base. So dimness was the order of the day for Bertrick. He was stationed in a U shaped room with his massive three hundred channel analog control terminal to one side and slightly in front, like an L shaped sectional, with a massive central video monitor hung on the wall directly above the console and six smaller monitors showing the data from the major sensor arrays from the probe hanging on the exposed portion of the wall to his right. Each item broken down into their own designated stream. Radar, lidar, spectrometer, GPS / Navigation, engineering and a cluster of other more niche sensors. The technician did not design the probe, or have any input on what went on it for the expedition. He just happened to have a love for oversized and deeply complicated analog twentieth century technology. The terminal itself, all grungy shades of grey and beige and possibly off white, was a jumble of toggles, switches, buttons, sliders and dials. In amongst that were pops of orange and yellow labels that had their most pertinent data faded into oblivion. This particular item, once at the forefront of audio wizardry was now so completely foreign to most humans it could have been alien technology. Bertrick’s great great grandfather’s grandad has once been a pastor and musician who had hours and hours of home video showcasing his mixing and overdubbing skills. Skills which Bertrick was fascinated with, and had thus purloined his knowledge over four decades of pursuing his hobby in wrangling one such audio board. That endeavour brought him to his dream job of watching the latest probe data for two shifts per day for the next ten to fifteen years. He had no idea why it was sent or what they expected to find. Turns out they withheld the reasoning so as to not colour the analysis. They wanted the data reporting to be as unbiased as humanly possible. But job security was nothing to pass up, and Bertrick wasn’t afraid to work unsupervised and virtually alone in his mostly comfy work station. To keep himself from falling asleep he ran the feed through his audio terminal and narrated everything he saw that warranted an explanation. But mostly to make certain he scrutinized every single second of audio and visual data he received. For Bertrick knew, surreptitiously that this particular probe had been launched not on a whim of the science academy but with a specific set of coordinates in mind. It was mostly hearsay and rumor, but to launch such an extraordinarily overpowered probe out to the middle of nowhere was not exactly the type of science that Torus Station science graduates are known for. The Company has a reason for everything, no exceptions and no exemptions!

Bertrick sat watching the screen twisting knobs and turning dials as he attempted to hone in on a certain pitch of whine that was being transmitted back to him from the probe. It, the probe had an official designation but they were long and dull and full of strings of letters and numbers. Although since Bertrick only had to monitor and report on one such probe, he had shortened it down to an easily identifiable acronym. One which the higher ranking science officers didn’t reject out of hand. So the probe a.k.a. St3v3 or now “Steve” was the main focus of Bertrick’s every waking moment. Though Bertrick was mainly an audio and visual technician it was his responsibility to plug in any navigational changes sent to him by the other divisions attached to this expedition. Which didn’t bother Bert in the least. If he logged enough of them over the next few years he could earn another new designation and an ample raise. Praise be! To The Company. They really did pride themselves in continuing education and certifications. Given the time lag between himself and Steve, Bert’s slow typing speed was not going to be an issue. As he could follow along with each message to see it ping off of and get pushed through all of the repeaters on its way out to the far flung edges of who the fuck knows where.

“So Steve, what are you going to show me today? Come on gimme something extravagant to monologue to!” Whispered Bert to his terminal in a sing song fashion. News had come down from above that some of the ranking officers were gathering from different divisions just to watch and listen to the high light reels Bert provided as part of his analysis. He’d fought the urge to sneak into the briefing room to see for himself, but after sixteen hours of every twenty four devoted to Steve, he couldn’t muster the energy or the enthusiasm. Bertrick knew he could sing, his deep bellowing voice came from the pipes he inherited from his great, great, great, on and on, grand father who lived his whole life in one town on earth. He was a pastor with an outsized congregation due to his musical ability and skills as an orator. He might have had a flair for the dramatic, but he never strayed from the path, though to hear the elements of ole Maw-maw he had plenty of offers and propositions. The deep south might have gotten him all hot and bothered, but the press of young available ladies didn’t turn his focus away from his love for Maw-maw. To hear it told she was a wild and sordid sort in the sheets, so he was perhaps too tired and worn out to pursue other such feminine wiles. Much to Bertrick’s surprise he had become rather deeply in tune with the ‘sounds’ of the cosmos. He had managed to fine tune his sound board to a degree where even the casual listeners to his analytical reports could tell the differences between items that Steve had flown by. The ability to isolate and achieve the cleanest output of unadulterated signal was truly mental. It was a factor of the many lonely months Bertrick spent pouring over the terminal tweaking, and twisting and dialing in each little snippet of audio that piqued his ears. Bertrick was becoming renowned for his audio specificity. He was a rock star in the sciences, something he didn’t realize he was able to achieve. The fidelity of his craftsmanship was being broadcast throughout the system and requests for him to take up a teaching position with Torus Station were becoming hard for the science division to ignore. The supposedly confidential mission was starting to turn a profit for the lunar base with the streaming of Bertrick’s audio visual logs of Steve’s expedition. His ‘Steve-Cast’ was number two on The Company’s educational broadcasts provided to the whole Sol system. Advertisers had requested on air plugs, and the Torus station entertainment sector wanted pre-roll and end-roll video commercials for their numerous science fiction books, movies and television shows. None of this was ever disclosed to Bertrick, but he was given a substantial raise for his part in the covert business venture. The popularity of the ‘Steve-Cast’ stemmed from Bertrick’s use of colourful, yet poignant prose. His ability to humanize the Steve probe, and its lonely trek out to no where. By musing on the state of humanity, while simultaneously explaining the audio & spectacular visuals of the long and worrisome trek, billions of paying consumers were hooked. The deep baritone register he played in vocally could really set a sub woofer to purring. His velvety smoothness intermingled with a breathy occasional rasp set most people’s speakers on fire. Figuratively speaking. Through the broadcast, Bertrick had laid bare his lonesome soul, and honed his craft to a especially fine point.

AU after AU traveled, Steve just kept on keeping on. He performed admirably doing fly bys of nebulae, quasars, black holes, dust clouds, radiation clouds, and all sorts of colorful and interesting things. But whatever he was supposed to find, those weren’t it. Every so often Bertrick would key in some minor course corrections, or make a note on the navigational logs and sit back and hum to himself in the dim isolation of his work station. The years of watching and waiting had little affect on Bertrick’s mood or attention span. He was as faithful an analyst as one could pray for. Never missing a beat. He logged every single item, anomaly, hiccup or obstacle that presented itself. Regardless of whether or not Steve sent back the desired final outcome Bertrick was on track for several commendations and a sweet posting of his choice anywhere within Sol system once the ten to fifteen years were up. Unless they offered an extension on the expedition Bertrick was to start to think about where he wanted to go next. And if that was to teach at Torus Station, it meant only a move of some seventy miles up from the surface of the moon to the massive floating bulk of the Torus itself.

PART THREE of : The Company A Call To The Void

“Congratulations Kelvin, you’ve failed in absolutely…

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Spectacular fashion”, chimes the uppity education bot sitting behind me in the science departments largest lab. The robust orange cube like unit was typically used to tutor grad students during their first rotations aboard a science vessel, but I had it dumb things down for me so that I could try to figure out what had happened to my ships crew. About a year ago while I was crawling between the inner and outer hull plates of this ship, all seven hundred members of the crew just up and died simultaneously. At some point during the fifty two hours I was under radio silence, something catastrophic happened. Something that was not readily apparent upon my return. I admit, I took to denial and burying my head in the sand for a while afterwards, but one evening while floating in the commissary with my eyes shut and a gale force wind was blowing in my face I had an epiphany. Now, I’m just a mid level technician. I do a bunch of general tasks associated with small engines, electrical and mill work. But my forte is that I don’t mind isolation, small confined spaces or hard laborious tasks. The ‘epiphany’, as such was that I needed to gain access to as many of the ships systems as I could using the integrated biological over rides. In a moment of clarity while gathering up the deceased, I decided that storing the dead crew in our largest airlock cargo hold might be useful. And after using the ai enhanced scrubbers and cleaners to drag the bodies to one such location, disrobe them and store the associated ID tags and key cards on the right wrists of each of the dead. I made a point of having officers, or as high up the chain of command for each department set aside at the head of each enormous pile of bodies. I had a plan. An unpleasant plan at that, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

It took quite some doing to gain entry to all of the other departments but a little bit of ingenuity and a whole lot of free time meant I could figure out how to do it. So with the help of a reciprocating saw and the right hands of every department head and their personal ID cards, I had a chance to figure out how everything turned to shit on me.

“Kelvin, I do not understand how you failed to account for so many variables when preparing the simulations and models. Your ineptitude should have disqualified you from serving on a science vessel.” Quips the EDU bot again, disrupting my deep thought. “Fuck you Ed. I’ve told you repeatedly, I’m not a part of the science team, I’m a mechanical technician, I maintain the ships closed systems between the double hulls. I’m more of a spelunker than anything else. And, by the way – fuck you.” I curse at the beaten up orange bot. It has been seated in front of me in the lab for the last three hours as I attempt to run simulations on what could kill several hundred people without leaving a mark on them. “Apologies Kelvin, I was built to tutor grad student level science majors, and their speech patterns and repeated turns of phrase are logged and reused according to my learning algorithms. I assure you, my ‘personality’ is purely unintentional.” The units lights blink and glow softly as if showing some kind of contrition. I think it’s more a case of me going slowly insane, rather than the EDU bot gaining sentience. “Well, thank you, I suppose. Do you know anything about what happened? Have any additional insights I can add to these simulations we’re running?” I ask it again, hoping for a better answer. “We both know that I am unable to do your homework and/or assignments for you Kelvin. That is cheating and outside my operational parameters.” With a hum and the whirl of internal fans, the EDU bot continues to sit still doing very little to help me figure things out. “Tell you what Ed, I’m going aft to grab a helping hand from one of the science officers, I’ll be back shortly and I’d just love it if you could put any new information we uncover into layman’s terms for me. Could you do that for me, huh?” Sitting across from one another at the lab table, ED visibly grows taller in response. “Oh, yes. That is something I can do. Shame you don’t know any of my hot button commands, we could do so much more if you knew them.” Chirps the bot, as it’s head and neck extends out of the cube base where the tank tracks are mounted. “Why are you telling me this now! We’ve been at this for months, with little to no new knowledge uncovered. Jesus. Maybe lead with that info next time!” Rising out of my chair, visibly angry, face going red, veins in my forehead and neck throbbing. “Apologies Kelvin, I assumed you knew. All EDU bots have an extensive list of hot button commands for analysis and a laundry list of practical science related tasks we are capable of performing.” Answers the bot quietly. “Ok well, riddle me this Ed. After I return from the aft airlock with a severed hand and appropriate ID card to over ride the login commands on the research decks work terminal, could you direct me to where I would find those commands. Like a document, book, binder or app located somewhere on this ship? Do you think you could do that for he, huh?” Looking at the bot from behind the desk, I walk out the door and head aft of the ship. From behind me I can hear Ed nearly shout in the affirmative.

Walking down the spotlessly clean halls with their brilliant white lights, it can be easy to imagine that on a vessel this size that you are merely out of view of others and not entirely alone. Thinking about the mysterious deaths of the crew has brought a new vigor to my daily life. Though morbid, it has allowed me to channel my efforts into something constructive. While I still fulfill my assigned duties, it seems as though without any additional wear and tear from a crew that I can go longer and longer between maintenance checks. I wired the duty logs to ping my wrist biometrics when something pops up. So now that I have down time I figured I’d try to have some answers ready when the mission ends in another two and a half years. Turning the corner at the last T junction on the ship I come face to face with a massive set of atmosphere rated titanium double doors. Looking at a hand written sign posted on the door I can find the helping hand I’m after without having to dally among the dead. Smell isn’t really an issue, neither is decay. I keep the airlock in vacuum ninety nine percent of the time. After I dehydrated the bodies, I used the coldness of space to flash freeze them all in place. Locating the senior science deck officer, I pressurize the airlock. With a loud clunk I can hear the air tanks pumping oxygen back into the cargo hold within. As the doors glide open, the dimness of the space within takes over. Near the front of the room is a small table with a reciprocating saw, a charging station, cloth bags and box of masks and goggles. Picking up the PPE and saw I wander down the aisles to find the appropriate body. Kneeling down beside her, I set about gathering up the helpful hand. Having done something similar to myself only a year or so ago, I feel a strange sort of kinship with the lifeless body. Picking up the hand I place it gently in the beige cloth bag and head back to my work station. Keeping everything orderly and in it’s place. With a soft goodbye I close the airlock doors and depressurize the cargo hold. With a soft hiss the air returns to the tanks and the rooms temperature drops to below freezing.

“Welcome back Kelvin. And who do we have here?” The bot crawls over to me at the lead science officers work station. I run her ID card through the input, and when the login prompt comes alive I place the severed right hand, with it’s manicured metallic flecked green nails on the biological scan pad. A brief pause, and then the screen jumps with streams of data, and unintelligible code. “Whoa, holy shit. Looks like we might be able to get some answers after all. So Ed, where do I go, and what do I need to do?” Standing beside the EDU bot at the terminal, a previously undisclosed view screen flips out of the bots belly, and a blue schematic and a list of directions appears. “You may take this tablet with you, go grab the command codes and the command key and we can go over the new directives step by step.” Looking down at the schematic i feel a sudden sense of dread and fear trickle down my spine. Oh fuck no, I do not want to go back there. Not now, not ever. Why did they have to keep the command keys down in the sanitation department. Stored right next door to the waste containment canisters and that mother fucking thresher unit. Yeah, the one that took my arm off at the fucking elbow. “God damn it.” I shout. Ed pulls back several paces. “Is there an issue Kelvin?” He nearly whispers the question to me, either that or my ears are ringing from shouting at the top of my lungs in the lab. I can’t even clearly recall just how it happened either. I know I was drinking, and thought I’d have an adventure down in the bowels of the ship. I came out of the service tunnels I had been exploring and entered into a cavernous room with these massive steel tanks, they extended upwards like sixty or seventy meters. The tops disappeared in the dimness of the rafters. I was looking up, and up and up at one of the largest canisters, and fell backwards into something sharp. And immediately knew I had fucked up. My jumpsuit got caught and these exposed gears pulled my arm into the mix and then jammed. I had to use a miniaturized saws all strapped to my harness to cut my arm free at the elbow. Screaming and shrieking along with the tool as it cut through bones, muscle and sinew. Then in a foul daze I crawled to the medical bay and holed up in one of the few pristine white medical pods with automated surgery technology. Carrying my own arm, or what was left of it with me in my teeth, after I somehow managed to pry it out of the gears. God, that was a waking nightmare. The thought of going back down there for this fucking key is really giving me cause to pause.

Sitting on my bunk staring blankly at the Jean-Luc Picard quote etched into the bulkhead over my doorway I breath in sharply, and exhale in a long slow whistle. Steeling myself for all of the feelings I fear might paralyze me as I venture down below decks to the sanitation department and the waste storage canisters. Dressed in my dirty red jumpsuit, I dress in my work gear. Adding my various harnesses, links, hooks and carabiners. No real need for them, but that crushing hug from the tight fitting gear makes me feel complete, and thus comfortable. Rising to stand, I kiss my finger tips and press the pads of my fingers to the roughly etched proverb. Hoping against hope that I will come back unscathed and still in one piece.

Walking the three kilometer stretch between my crew quarters and the sanitation decks below. I follow the winding path, that winds and rises and leads me along gangways, gantries, stair cases and finally a large service power lift. The tablet has been invaluable in getting me down below with the most straight forward route. After about thirty minutes I’m looking at the brown signage that denotes the sanitation sector. Looking around I am amazed at how spotlessly clean the waste reclamation processors are. You could eat off of every surface down here. Following the schematic I realize I am only ten meters from where I found calamity as a drunken fool. Still quite taken by the sheer size of everything down here. Across the hexagonal room, flanked by several waste containment canisters is the storage lock up. A beaten brown steel safe with no discernible locking mechanism. As I get within a meter of the unit the tablet chimes, a green light flashes suddenly, and the doors unlatch and pop open silently. I am met by a strong citrus scent, the stringent cleaning agents sting the inside of my nostrils. Inside hanging among some goggles, a couple of canvas aprons, rubber boots and several buckets of industrial cleaners is a sizable black and yellow hand held unit. It has the words BOTKEY stenciled in white spray painted on it. A matching icon on the tablet is rotating 360 degrees in an isometric view. Looking around, as though something or someone might burst out of a corner and toss me bodily into the thresher unit, I hesitantly grab a hold of the BOTKEY and gingerly close the doors. With an anticlimactic shrug, i turn back to the hallway to walk up to the science lab. Looking over my shoulder at the thresher unit as i pass, i can see a tiny streak of red down the front of a bent guard plate. With a laconic smirk i say aloud “Not today mother fucker.” And promptly slip on a tile transition and fall flat on my ass, bumping my tailbone in the process. “Ok, you got me! I’ll just get the fuck out of here now!” Punching the communicator at my wrist i call up Ed to let it know to meet me at the science officers terminal post haste.

“Thank you Kelvin, I am now able to interpret, analyze and utilize the data from the ships sensor arrays to answer your queries. What would you like to do first?” The timbre of Ed’s voice has dropped with the operational parameters being edited. The unit is standing taller than before, and several extra data screen and ports have materialized on the bots cubic chest cavity. Rubbing my sore tailbone I say “Ok, Ed. Well… if you could take a look over the sensor data and see if the cause for all of the crew deaths was either internal or external. That makes for a great start. Can you give me a sense of how much data you have to sift through?” Standing shoulder to shoulder with the EDU bot at the dimly lit terminal on the work station underneath massive video monitors. Ed is currently plugged in using a hard line direct into the ships data banks. With a deep boom Ed says “There is approximately six thousand teraflops of data from the external sensor arrays. It could take anywhere between seventy two weeks and three hundred weeks to find the pertinent data sub sets…” blurts the EDU bot unit. “Well… shit. What if you look at the data just before I logged the second crew death aboard this vessel?” I offer in rebuttal. “That would narrow things down quite considerably. Might I ask why only at the time of the second death logged?” “The first death aboard was my best friend Keith. The second death logged would be the first of the seven hundred crew that died all together. Thanks.” I say gruffly. Turning away to sniff back the worrisome threat of a tear. Not sure why I care so much about getting emotional around Ed the tutor bot. A brief pause, then “Kelvin, this ship experienced a catastrophic dose of GCR from a localized supernova. Traveling at a speed of C.99 the speed of light there was no warning possible and they all received many times the allowable Sieverts/Rems of cosmic radiation. How you managed to survive is beyond my ability to compute.” Ed disengages from the terminal and rolls back across the room to the well lit work tables. Standing there dumbfounded I follow behind him. Out of the dimness by the huge wall monitors showing massive streams of code and data, towards the low hanging spot lights, and the lighted table top surface. “Jesus. GCR huh? Damn. Microwaved their brains in a nanosecond. God damn.” A lone tear wells up and threatens to pull more out of my eye. Hanging on the surface of my eye like a ten tonne weight. With a snap of my fingers. “The bladder!, it was the water bladder. I had to contort myself to get around it, underneath it. Practically in it to fix a wiring issue under the bridge. I was hidden behind eighty thousand gallons of plain water. It protected me, by fluke. God damn.” With a beep and a blinking series of lights Ed does a few calculations and concurs with my hypothesis. Millions of miles from anywhere, the answer provides little comfort to me. “Hey Ed, I think I saw some psychiatric protocols in that menu that would allow us to chat without me having to ask any task related questions. You feel like a conversational upgrade or what?” With a series of blinks and beeps I have my answer.

PART TWO of The Company: The Chronicles of Kelvin

Spending some down time sculpting

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Like I said in a previous post, I have pulled back from my writing so that I can continue to dabble in clay. I just like the visceral feel of tacky clay under my finger nails. Watching something grow from a wire armature into a fully realized piece with some detailing on top for good measure. I put nearly 44,000 words to paper in the first six weeks of 2020, and only one full sculpt. So now I’ll do that for a bit instead. Below you can see the bulk of my hard work over the last several years. Enjoy.

Book case of clay sculpts.
Last years super sculpey polymer busts.

Plans for March.

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Writing stuff took me to just over 43,000 words for 2020, which is kind of insane. I have some stuff being edited, so that’s cool. But I think I will turn away from writing for a bit and work on some sculpting projects again. I have had an armature sitting waiting for me since New Year’s day. I think another giant or ogre is on the books. Still slow going with the piano stuff, but I enjoy it so I don’t care that it is taking me a while to learn my first song all the way through. Ten to fifteen minutes a day keeps it fresh but doesn’t really build up much memory. Hope you are all keeping up with your challenges or resolutions or what have you. A huge thanks to anyone who read my short stories, or the micro stories that didn’t take place in space.

Although, now that I’ve said all that I am having some thoughts about a couple of new shorts to write. I am worried that I am starting to write stuff just for the sake of views, likes and such. That’s not really a good way to complete a hobby. Plus, I find they have started to get long. I think I will focus more on the under a thousand word mark, to tell an evocative, compelling short story. Not try to pad it out for the sake of an interconnected series. Say what needs to be said and then move on.

This all came at me while I was sorting and folding laundry. Plus I enjoy the short fast spurts of creative writing. It’s not as visceral as sculpting, but it scratches that creative itch, and fits around working my day jobs. Part time graphic designer, and full time stay at home dad.

“Some jobs are hard no matter where you work…

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Like for instance take my job. I shovel stuff; rocks, dirt, faeces you name it. It’s hot and sweaty and not least of all it gets really dirty. Now I used to work landscaping back on earth, and I was a real model employee. Ten hours a day, inclement weather not withstanding, I’d be on a job site shoveling whatever my boss asked me too. Big heavy steel shovels, to tackle river rock, or top soil or straight up horse shit. I didn’t care. I’d turn up at seven am sharp, grab my trusty tool and fuck off down some massive hole and shovel. All gods be damned day long. I don’t love it, but it means I don’t have to talk to anyone, and I can listen to whatever I want while I work. I can move close to twenty five yards of regolith on an average day. Yeah, my hands and back don’t like me much. But it pays good. The boss man sends me cold drinks and a decent sandwich every couple of hours for my trouble. He doesn’t do that for everybody, just little old me.

So, as it turns out the union guys up on Torus station are taking on apprentices in the new year and my supervisor signed me up, unbeknownst to me. Well he captured some candid video of the big boss man singing my praises and attached it to my application. Turns out, boss man has a very powerful aunt in HR up on the Torus station. She snagged me out of a pile of fifteen thousand applicants. Now I’m headed to the moon, or some such to shovel shit for the sanitation union guys. I looked over the job offer, and holy shit does The Company pay out the nose for this sort of thing. Like a mother fucker. I’ll be swimming in cash or credits, slugs, dollars or ingots or whatever currency the station uses. I get private accommodations onboard the station too. Plus these brown coveralls, or a jumpsuit, or a body sock or some shit. I don’t know, I skimmed everything after the job description and the salary expectations. The packet that came in the mail also had a small leaflet regarding the orientation at the launch site, and that I’d have to undergo some psych evaluations, and run some safety simulations at an accredited testing location somewhere nearby here, in Arizona. I guess the big boss man likes me because I bitch while I work, and only to myself. With everything else it’s all yes sir, no sir, three bags full sir. Smiles, a can do attitude and firm hand shakes all around. Get them while they’re hot! But I digress. Not much can be found regarding the orientation, just the location and a notice not to eat six hours prior. That’s kind of weird. I have an induction day scheduled several months from now, so in between shifts I have to go meet my company organized psychiatrist for screening tests and interviews. That’s going to suck the sweat off a hot horse’s balls. Also will have to log some hours in a zero g simulator. That could be interesting. Oh, the info packet says that the entertainment hub has grown from three decks to ten or more. I wonder what it’ll be like to cut a rug in space, but I’m day dreaming. “Hey, Stevo! – what’s with the shit eating grin? Here’s a sandwich, egg and cheese with mock bacon. You think you’ll have this pool floor flattened out by end of day today?” Says the big boss man. He’s over six foot six, and gotta be near to two hundred seventy pounds. He’s a looker, if you’re of that persuasion. I’m not, but you do you. I like tits, I’d do a lot of stupid shit for access to titties. Mm mm delicious. But the big boss man is named Roger Taylor, and his aunt is the illustrious Catherine Taylor, senior HR director aboard Torus station. She’s got quite the reputation, even down here on earth. “Yeah, yeah – no problem sir. I can have this all squared away for you by about six pm today.” He smiles down at me from up on the mound of dirt next to the newly excavated pool I’m standing ten feet down in. I’m of modest height, and weight. I’m not ugly, but I ain’t no looker neither, you know what I mean. I like to make music, and can shovel dirt like I was built by god to do so. The ladies aren’t so hot on the state of my hands, you know? calluses and manual labour and shit. I keep those finger nails clean and trimmed though, eh! Wink wink, nudge nudge. Coming from a lower class family as I do, I love to moonlight as a DJ, makes me feel loved, adored even. A real rush compared to digging ditches and working in enormous holes. I hope my less than stellar academic prowess won’t keep me from all that cool hard cash The Company has on offer. I’ve got five months to impress Ms. Taylor, and keep the big boss man happy so I don’t wind up homeless before that life boat ships out to space on Christmas Eve. Jesus, I hope they don’t want to go over my school transcripts, I passed by the skin of my teeth.

Those psych evals are super fucking strange, with word games and shit. Nosey bastards too, poking around in my personal life. Awful interested in my thirteen siblings, and my geriatric parents. No I don’t see them anymore. No I don’t care to “divulge” the reasons surrounding my departure from my family home. No I don’t care to refute any rumors of any sort. Fuck them and fuck you too. Hell, I told some of my best jokes and the lady never even chuckled. That doesn’t exactly bode well. Bitch.

Zero g simulations are the fucking shit! Man that stuff is fucking fun as hell. Bounce and float, use your arms to crawl. Being weightless is a real trip. Not a big fan of all the other folks puking their guts out though. Could do without that. Ha. Losers!

So the psychiatrist keeps asking me about how I feel about isolation, and “the void” or some shit. Who cares! Space mother fuckers! Like do I care about asphyxiation, or hard vacuum, or wearing a catheter, being alone for days on end. Can I handle being far below decks working with human waste. Why do I like shoveling so much. I do realize that I’ll have a much larger shovel and equal weight to move when in the sanitation department? Why manual labour jobs with no responsibility? Why no advancement in the eight years I worked for the big boss man? What are my coping mechanisms? Do I have any friends, a girlfriend, family connections of any sort. How will I cope with a vastly increased salary. So many god damned questions, my head hurts. I gotta go lay down.

So it looks as though I’ve been delayed, again. Not going to ship out for Christmas. The psychiatrist thinks I need more therapy or some shit. Turns out my humor tripped some red flags or they want more info on my background. God, don’t let this take my money! Oh, all that glorious money. I could afford to send most of my younger brothers and sisters to vocational school with all that dough. Get them out of that shit hole. There’s a reason I like to dig and shovel all alone in one hundred twenty degree heat. Pure heaven compared to my childhood. Ain’t nobody ever stubbed out a cigar on my balls when I’m running a fucking shovel in a pit.

I finally have a provisional offer to go up to work on the Torus. I just have to go through with induction and get my ass to the Torus station. That’s a cinch.

Well – fuck me. That was a process. They underplayed that spectacularly. I demanded they unstrap me from the gurney and I walked my ass that three kilometers to my coffin sized berth. You want to know why? Because fuck them, that’s why. Should have seen the medical technicians faces. That’s a look I’ll not soon forget. Lock that look into the ole spank bank for future reference.

“Welcome aboard the Torus station ladies and gentlemen.” Announces some HR flunky dressed head to toe in a bright yellow jumpsuit. A real Curious George looking goofball. The banana man and his troupe of minions is redirecting a sea of cyan blue jump suits, this way and that. Separating the students, from the security trainees, and apprentices from support staff. Finally after two hours in the massive receiving chamber, I’m the last one left floating against a bare wall. With a last glance the man in yellow looks through the room and pauses when he sees me. “Hello, can I help you? Mr…?” His soft lilting voice rising with the question. “Steve… erm… Stephen James Ortiz, sir. A new sanitation apprentice.” I say it quietly. No need to yell, he’s only inches from me at this point. “Oh. Well they know better than to bring you people in through the main gates. The service entrance is back down the hall, six flights down the stairwell, and where ever the fuck it is you guys conduct your business. Tell Terry that I don’t appreciate any browns up here on my flight deck. Fucking asshole. Shit shovellers in my reception hall. What the fuck. Wait until I tell everybody about this bullshit. Why you still here dickhead, go down into the bowels of the station with all the other half brained dipshits. Go on, fuck off then!” He makes as if you punch me. I stare at him, unmoved. Turning on my heel, I head for the stairwell located back down the hall. After a few minutes of float walking, gliding i come to a deep pit in the floor. A long deep dark corridor covered in netting that looks to go deep into the depths of the station. Taped one floor down is a simple note that says. “Normies stay away. Only the floaters are welcome here!” Nice – a shit joke, just what i was hoping for. What the hell have i done. As i head deeper down the shaft, a soft green light can be seen. As i pull myself, hand over hand towards the sixth floor of the sub basement i pull into a small anteroom with a round pressure door, equipped with a red circular wheel to open the seal. As it glides open soundlessly a flash of light temporarily blinds me. A loud whistle sounds, and I’m hit with the smell of astringent cleaners and sanitizer spray. The inner room is crowded with hundreds of brown uniformed workers and Curious George himself. “Surprise!” They shriek in well organized unison. Floating towards me banana man says. “Welcome aboard Stevo! Sorry for the harsh hazing, we play a trick on all newbies, we use you as a prop to maintain a certain level of distance between the upper deckers and us. Welcome to the best years of your life!” Turning to float beside me, facing the crowd, he takes my hand raising my arm like the champ in a boxing match. The group erupts into chants of Stevo! Stevo! Stevo! A grin begins to creep across my face. “Oh, you mother fuckers.” I half choke it out. Terry, the banana man, strips off his yellow costume to reveal his solid brown jumpsuit, and a union rep insignia on his chest. “Don’t worry, we’ll get you squared away and sorted out sharpish. You’ve got three days to acclimate, we’ll put you through our training programme, then you’ll be all set to do your designated service task. You’re going to be scraping down and shoveling shit in the huge containment tanks that are positioned under each sector. It’s lonely work, but it pays well. You’ll be trained on the respirator units we use, and will get your own magnetic levitating cart for tools and moving bagged waste materials between the enormous tanks and the recycler or incinerators. We have a party scheduled for tonight, as an ice breaker. I understand you moonlight as a DJ, if you’d care to share your music with us, we’d love to hear it!” Terry leads me to a gigantic lobby, with hallways leading off in every direction. “This is the dormitory, you can find your room by using your wrist communicator. It’ll key you into your rooms, and can dispense food from our commissary. You’ve got your own private bathroom, and you will get your actual uniform after the safety programme is completed. No exceptions, no exemptions!” With a quick hand shake, he leaves me to my own thoughts. The lobby is silent, well lit, with pristine gel couches arranged in a circle with a display in the center. There is so much room, I can’t believe my eyes. Tears well up on my face, and cluster on the bridge of my nose. I could get used to this.

Three bleary eyed days later my alarm buzzed at eleven pm. I had an hour to dress, eat and get over to sector two’s waste containment tank to meet my supervisor and start to learn the ropes. I was so anxious I ate on the trip, and good thing too, as sector two was a fair distance from the main dormitory I was lodged in. The huge Warren of tunnels, pipes, chambers, dials and vents was spotless, and repeated in a pattern every three hundred meters or so. Rounding a band I found Terry and a smaller woman, both dressed in brown standing beside a floating cart full of equipment. “Hey Stevo, glad to see you are as punctual as your references suggested. This is sector two’s smallest waste containment tank, and Jordie here will lead you through your hoops to get in and out alive, and accomplish your required tasks.” Terry was beaming, and cheerful. Hard not to be when everything is spotless and shining, and smells of lemons or berries. “I thought I had to undertake a safety programme or something?” I sputter. “Yeah, you do. But it’s on the job training here bud. You’re in the shit now, as it were. Ha! So listen close, don’t die, and Jordie will make a fully functional member of the team out of you in no time flat!” With that he left us alone, at the mouth of a huge airlock type chamber. The small red haired woman looked me over before she spoke. “They vet us types pretty good eh? Want people who don’t need to be babysat, and can do shit work with a grin on our face. Terry likes to find us underprivileged types and lift us out of poverty, if we’ve shown we got the goods. Out of the frying pan and into the potty. Ha!” The sudden burst of laughter seems to be a common affectation among Terry’s crew leaders. “So couple of tips. Always use your PE. It gets hot in there, but you worked in Arizona so the ninety five degrees won’t bother you much. Use the respirator at all times when in the airlock or inside the container. Never, ever remove it, the methane will gravely injure you. Not to mention the bacterial load inside these things. Yeesh. Wash your hands as often as you can. Your cart comes equipped with a fresh water recycler so you won’t run dry. We don’t shake hands much until out of our gear and showered. Elbow bumps if you must, but don’t touch anyone in uniform if you can help it. I’ll show you how to suit up, and in what order. I’ll test you on it as we go. I’ll leave a checklist you’ll want to memorize over time, but no harm if you use it forever more. I do. Any questions?” I nod that I’m ready to rock and roll.

After three hours, I’m left to scrape and shovel massive loads of shit. It’s hot, and this stuff gets heavy. But I’d much rather be here in a chemical toilet storage tank than back on earth that’s for damn sure. With sweat stinging my eyes, I use my magnetic boots to walk up the walls of the fifty meter tall tank, the fifteen meter diameter makes it seem like the most wide open space on the ship. I am amazed that this is a small tertiary tank. The big ones must be mental.

 

PART XXI

Editing the collection of short stories.

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Although I do a few drafts of each short story, I have finally been able to collect them all together in a word processor for a full on, hard, deep dive editing session. All 30,000 words of short stories. Fourteen that are interconnected,  and seven that are random one offs. At least for the moment. I never know if a story warrants a second view or not until it’s written. Also, work is heating up, and the day job pays the bills, so if I want to have paid invoices coming in, I have to have work going out.

To those that are reading my short stories, and leaving comments and likes. Thank you, very much appreciated. I never knew that writing on my phone could be so much fun!

Best of luck to you all.

I can’t believe I’m sitting here, cowering in my room like a god damn child…

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I swear to god everytime I leave though, I can feel an extra set of eyes on me, watching, observing, lying in wait for me. I constantly get chills, and the tiny hairs on my neck stand on end. But I have never, once ever seen anyone out of place near me. Sitting on my tiny bed, staring at the darkly coloured door, it’s raised panels have scuffed paint, breaking the facade of what would be a wood panel, instead it’s a faux paint job, on an atmosphere rated door. The crew quarters for entertainment staff, or “talent”, as my manager Jimmy likes to refer to us as, is massive in comparison to the guys who work the dock yards out on the widest ring of the torus. Those guys sleep in glorified coffins, meant for one, with communal bathrooms, and leisure areas lit like an out of use subway platform. Hell they spend one hundred percent of their time not five hundred meters from where they work all day. You can see the individual berths and all the ships attendant staff from inside their sleeping chamber. Now my room, is about four meters wide, and a full two meters deep, with what looks like an inset bunkbed. But actually the bed is up top, there is a closet to one side from ceiling to floor, and a toilet, shower, sink combo unit on the other side. Below my bed is my crowded desk slash lounge. Littered with scripts, a media screen, a teleprompter and props I’m meant to learn to grow comfortable with. I can spin a six shooter like a son of a bitch. Years worth of side arms training, and all those tech guys on staff to vouch for me, but still not allowed to purchase a hand gun. The potential for calamity it much too high. Even the black uniformed guards all over the station only have access to stun weapons, like bean bags or rubber pellets. At least that is the official word down from the board of directors and all The Company literature available on the subject. But, I’m wasting time, again. Stalling, instead of walking across the sector to go meet with my producer regarding the next season of my show. We’ve finally gotten picked up for primetime. That means bigger budgets, and greater expectations for ratings. I kind of like the idea of staying a big fish in a little pond, but… can’t stop progress I suppose. “Buck up princess! Get that ass in gear.” My father’s old mantra. He was not one to mince words. A real rock you could count on to provide stability in an ever changing world. Standing up from the bed, I walk to the full length closet and pull on my green coveralls. “Ugh, this does nothing for me. Safety first!” Out here, in space, precautions and safety protocols take precedence over fashion. No exceptions, no exemptions. You learn that little quip the hard way. Well, unless you were born up here. But you’d have to overcome a whole slew of other issues if that was the case. I’m an actor, so I’ve allotted some of my prescription allowance to the use of an IUD, so pregnancy isn’t really a concern for me right now. A pregnant gun slinger doesn’t test well with the exec’s. After getting dressed and pulling my thick brown curls into a tight bun, I look back at the door, then to the clock on my desk. I really have to get moving if I don’t want to be late. Checking my map for the tenth time, I approach the door and set off.

There is a soft woosh as my biometrics unlatches the atmosphere rated door to my quarters. I’m really very fortunate, I live in a quiet block within the all green entertainment sector. Being a semi famous actor, I get newer accommodations in a well lit portion of the upper torus. We have more gravity here, with an increased spin. It isn’t exactly earth like, but we don’t float like the people lower down, or further out on the mechanical rings. We have planters full of real greenery, in wall lighting that adjusts to the time of day. With the shift change about to happen within the next hour, all common areas, like the main concourse i’m strolling towards will brighten up, as crew and staff rush to or from their shifts. Every eight hours, like clockwork, the station bustles to life. I’ve heard, whispers, rumors, stories even, unverified mind you, but stories still the same of people having their biometrics spoofed, or copied outright by shady characters during these peak rush periods. Hard not to take them seriously when you are caught up in the swell of moving bodies, as everyone is hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder, in the hallways and power lifts. I try to move about the ship prior to these events, so as not to invite undue attention. Last thing I need is some crazy star stuck fan waiting naked for me in my bed, covered in mock rose petals. The thought sends a shiver down my spine. I glance over both of my shoulders. First the right, pause, walk several more steps, then glance over the left. Coast is clear. Not too many other people walking about at this time of shift. This sector is a living, breathing maze. If you haven’t planned where you are going in advance, or memorized the directions, you’ll end up at some random dead end, on god knows what level of the entertainment hub. Not many windows up here. At least, not until you go up to the observation decks. Two whole floors of the torus, wide open space where tourists and the media go during a new vessel launch. The freedom of movement up there is exhilarating. The inner portion even has this majestic hanging garden, full of vibrant coloured rhododendrons and lush ferns, and ground covering ivy. The smell is divine! Lost in thought I nearly miss my turn off the main concourse. Located several meters down the narrow corridor is this tiny little hole in the wall bistro. Seated at one of the only two tables available is Gary my producer, and Jimmy my manager. They’ve taken the liberty of ordering garlic bread-sticks, cheese curds in gravy and some garden green salads for the table. Carbs! , they must want to butter me up for something. Gary stands up, pulling out the third and final seat at our quaint little faux wood table. From the cool touch of the underside my guess is it’s a formica shell over a plate steel skeleton. Soon after sitting down our waiter drops off three glasses of pre poured red wine, in tall stem crystal glasses. This stuff must be expensive, as the gentleman swirl their glasses and sniff at the bouquet, a thin film coats the crystal goblet. Both men sip their drinks, and smile to me. Jimmy sits, arms wide and says “come on Ger’, we’ve been here twenty minutes all ready, catch up. This is so delicious, almost like a porter. Watch yourself though, it’s got some testical tickling kick to it. Feels like seventy proof, if its ten!” Jimmy, not a big fan with HR, tends to speak from his gut and not his head. Taking a bite of a fantastically greasy garlic bread-stick, I lift my glass to my lips. “Salute!” We all say it. Smiles all across the table.

I come to realize, later that I’m being held up by two sets of arms. Half dragged, half carried through the corridors towards the lift. Oh god, no. Not like this. I’m trying desperately to get my feet beneath me, find my bearings, but my vision is swimming and I think I’m going to vomit. I can feel upwards movement. We must be in one of the power lifts. Surely I could catch the eye of a passersby. With the urge to lie down and just drift off to sleep growing by the second, I try again to raise my head. It feels like I have a lead crown holding me down. Not a crown, someone’s hand is stopping me from looking at my surroundings. Panic is setting in. My heart rate is pumping through the roof. I don’t recall stepping off the lift, or even noticing the upward motion stopping. We are crossing what feels like a massive, empty room. I feel myself slowly being lowered down onto a full length bench. Smells and feels like real wood. The grain runs against the palm of my hands. My fingers are dancing in my field of view. I can feel the soft brush of fern leaves against my cheek. I can smell something like flower blossoms. The room is immense, yet dark. The only source of light is minimal, and it’s coming from inside the shrubbery. “Jesus Ger’, look at the state you’re in. Jimmy, help me prop her up. Yes, under her arm, no not there, that’s her tit!  Dickhead! Don’t laugh, I’m going to have to report that to HR. Do you realize how much paperwork is involved in that. Jesus man, she’s the star of our first ever primetime serial. Fuck me. Just, you know what. Keep your hands to yourself, and just stand over there, by the windows.” Gary is fuming, pointing towards the massive windows that cover the entire observation deck, from floor to ceiling. Only a handful of bulkheads are in place that could obscure the view of the void beyond. From the vantage point up here, you can see the lunar surface, earth, an endless field of stars and all of the traffic outside the station. A bustling scene of transports, crew moving vessels, supply boats and the guard shuttles. “Hey, Gerri, hon… how you feeling? You knocked that porter back a touch quickly. Had you eaten yet today?” Gary…, it’s Gary, he’s talking to me. “Heeey Gar-ry, I didn’t know you were a twin… what’s… what’s going up, down… on. What’s going on here! Huh, buddy!” I’m finally sitting up, I point a finger deep into his squishy chest. The whole station is spinning around at an alarming rate. Gary takes a step back, and leans down towards me. “Well Ger’, your pal Jimmy said you love to come up to the observation deck when The Company is going to launch a new boat. He was going to take you himself, but I took the liberty of tagging along. Well… tonights the night girl! For the first time ever, the interstellar vessel Margot’s Fever, is going to emerge from the ship yards and head out to the far reaches of known space. This is momentous! I apologize again, for Jimmy’s choice of drink. I shouldn’t have let Jimmy jostle you into chugging a sipping porter. But you’d downed the lot of it before I could chime in.” Gary appears sincerely distraught. “Look, this might be a hard sell, but media will be here shortly for the launch, and what better time to announce your show to the whole of humanity than at the Margot’s Fever launch event. I talked to legal, The Company is excited we’ll help hype up the launch and our show. Synergy Gerri, suitable partnerships.” Gary looks almost hot pink with the joy of his darling show going mainstream, onto the network. The profits for his investment will be handsome. His jolly pink visage is jiggling with unbridled joy.

Within fifteen minutes the observation deck is littered with news anchors, late night hosts, spokes people and cameramen of every shape and size. After a brief word from Gary, I take the stage to present a little speech passed down by legal. Jimmy offers a sheepish thumbs up from his place by the windows. The station rumbles, a deep ominous sound. Jaws drop, as the most enormous starship ever built slowly comes to life. The three massive engine nose cones shake and with an eye watering flash, light up to a neon blue that bathes everyone in cold, yet intense light. Dust and parts of the hulls environmental shielding falls away in a shower of particles, like snow. As slow as a mountain being formed the entire ship crawls across the station, the view of the passing hull is incredible. Visible are the data gathering arrays, sensors, antenna, and port holes. There are still hundreds of people completing the final touches on the exterior hull. A million tiny fireflies, welding rigs shooting sparks into the air. The vessel is trailing sparks like a comet. As the ship comes about, a puff of smoke, so delicate, like the breath from a child can be seen.

Klaxons blare, then immediately go silent. A rush of wind, like a full on tornado rips at the flesh of our faces as we are sucked out through the shattered glass of the observation deck. As we are torn bodily from the station, the last thing we see are sparks, muzzle flashes from black uniformed guards. But they are firing beyond us, out into the dark reaches of space.  In mere moments the gathered mass of two hundred people are exposed to the void. Hard vacuum approaches, so fast our helmets and respirators can’t deploy in time. Two hundred dead, all caught on camera, live cast for all humanity to see. A bad omen for Margot’s Fever.

 

PART X