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Tag: Science-Fiction

“What is it you said you guys do again?”…

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The sector HR director asks cheerfully. Ms. Catherine Taylor is known as a straight shooter, not much for small talk either. She is extraordinarily busy, so her questions tend to be thoughtful, penetrating and to the point. Gathered around her, in the media screening suite are a group of beautiful men and women, all of them look to be in their mid twenties. An immaculately kept blonde woman dressed in a tailored emerald green jumpsuit speaks up for the group. “We are the local chapter of sex workers. Yes, that’s right prostitutes.” Her matter of fact admission shows just how resilient and well looked after the group is. “I see… so I understand we’re here to vet a news piece about your work, lives and the conditions you work in?” The question is open ended, and not a hint of judgment to be found. Director Taylor is a well educated woman, she knows the value of morale among her work force. From the people at sanitation, food service, medical and the largest group under her purview, the mechanics. “Well, yes and no. We opted for an informative, but light hearted approach. We all chose this lifestyle. We feel we are making a difference. All of us gathered here work with… how to say this… um… challenging individuals that your average man or woman wouldn’t be equipped to service safely.” Stated matter of factly, with both dignity and pride. Cathy leans forward in her couch. “Challenging? How so? Are these violent people, are you telling me your safety, health and well being are being impinged upon!?” You can see a blood vessel starting to bulge out on her forehead. There is nothing HR director Taylor hates more than subordinates being taken advantage of by those with power or physical advantage. The young woman flushes a bright pink at the cheeks and chest. “Oh, no no no. Nothing of the sort. We have expert level care, both physically and our mental well being. We have access to psychological therapy, and are able to option our extensive vacation leave any time. No, we deal with physiological deformities.” She is obviously uncomfortable discussing her patients/clientele. A brute of a man across the table dressed in a forest green jump suit jumps in when he sees the young woman balk at the question. “Um… well, Sadie and I…” the gorgeous blonde girl gives a small wave. “We share our client load… excuse the pun.” A broad, yet sheepish grin from both. They lock eyes and share a charming chuckle. “Our clients share a similar physical attribute.” Out from the back of the room, an ebony god chiseled out of obsidian chimes in. “Horse cocks. Those dudes all have monster cocks. Like twenty inches, down passed the knees, behemoths. Circumference like that coffee mug your clutching!” The room erupts in a fit of laughter. With a shocked chirp HR director Taylor chokes on her drink, dribbling a mouthful down the front of her burgundy suit. Gareth, the handsome man continues his story, unfazed by the outburst. “Yeah… that’s true. I know most people think they work hard, but we wanted to show the whole station that though we only work three hours a day, it really is work.” With shock Cathy blurts out. “My god. You have penetrative sex three hours a day with gentleman with a horse cock! Dear god.” Leaping from her chair the fear on her face is visible, tension is palpable within the small room. “Oh no. Sorry if we gave you that impression. No, we include ninety minutes of stretching. Whether that is vaginal or anal. You don’t go in cold, not with our clientele. We make sure no one is under the effects of antidepressants, so the actual sex portion, lasts about forty minutes. We chat, cuddle and hang out. Then we have clean up, massage orifices back to health and physical therapy to avoid tears, fissures or chafing. All in all, about three hours. Lovely gentleman, very aware of their… affliction.” With a grimace that she can’t quite hide, HR director Taylor settles back into her chair, as they dim the lights and roll the tape. The Company jingle plays, as their mining and exploration symbols flash on screen. Fade in from black, with the same group gathered in a small studio on screen seated in two rows, like a reality tv series reunion show.

After the credits have rolled, and all the workers have cleared the room HR director Taylor turns to her junior director and says. “That bit about the twin sisters, one whose a sex worker who gets all the clients that are looking to fuck her brilliant scientist sister who is asexual. I want to know more about that. Something there seems off. I need to know about the asexual sister, what she’s working on now that she’s transferred over to the Venus station. Why she left, under what circumstances, that sort of thing.” The junior director has his face buried in his notes. “Yes, Ms. Taylor. I’ll talk to the boys down in Sanitation and the Janitorial union guys, see what I can learn. I’ll report back to you in twenty four hours. Do you need a escort to tonights launch of Margot’s Fever?” His biometrics are pinging with oncoming calls and alerts for his other duties aboard the Torus station. “No, that won’t be necessary Todd. I’m taking some time to myself this evening. I’ll catch the live cast from the comfort of my suite.” Turning to leave the room, I can see a small face appear on Todd’s wrist communicator. The Sanitation union rep is telling him how to go about getting to the sub basements where they are located.

“Enjoy the trip down below. Be safe. Keep your eyes and ears open while you’re down there. And for fuck’s sake, don’t touch anything.” The heavy doors close behind the director, leaving Todd the junior director alone in the dark media screening room.

 

PART XII

“Do you have any idea how much these treatments are going to run The Company!”…

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Screams a ruffled angry man in a shabby orange jumpsuit. “Yes, I have some idea of the cost Gerald.” My tone is neutral, even if my voice comes across as laconic. “Well, why the fuck do you need it then. Do you know what this does to the bottom line?” He’s just out of frame of the view screen, probably pouring himself a stiff drink. Why do they all do that. Any sign of an obstacle and they turn into booze hounds. Pathetic. Can’t say that aloud, not yet. For now I have to keep Gerald placated. “Have you reviewed my sector’s safety numbers, our billable hours, success rate with the tradeschool and university. We have so many award winning roboticists we’ve jumped ahead in ships ai service bots by about two hundred years. Our service records are impeccable. But to maintain all of this i have to work twenty hours a day, every single day.” Walking around the mechanics boardroom with the massive windows that overlook the dock yards to emphasize my point. My conference table camera tracks my movements throughout the room. It’ll even zoom in for punctuation when i trigger the action on my palm control.”Ms. Taylor, we are all well aware of your exemplary achievements with your posting. The rich burgundy suit you favour makes a striking impression on all board members.” How humbling to hear Herald… grovel. “Ok, ok, the board of directors will approve the request for the continuation of the rejuvenation treatments. Provided the shop floor continues to out perform all other Company ship building facilities. Oh, one other minor thing. I know you have a lot on your plate right now…” oh shit, I can hear the trepidation in his voice, I need to cut the feed… cut the feed, cut the feed damn it. I can’t find the correct button on my palm control. Shutter speeds are fluttering, there’s an extreme zoom. “…but, we’re having a real tough time mediating the battle between the Janitorial union and the sanitation guys again. This is the sixth time they’ve butted heads over their overlap, and the infighting and politics is getting out of hand. We only just got them to settle on purple uniforms for the Janitors, and the Sani’ guys were are too happy to have – brown. Of course. Fucking children, the lot of them. I’ll have my under secretary depose you of what road block we are currently dealing with.” And in the blink of an eye, two more full departments have been dumped in my gods be damned lap. Going to have to add two new colour bands to my jumpsuit sleeves. And I thought the mechanics were a prickly bunch to deal with. Keeping the generalists, welders, hardware techs, programmers, fabricators and cnc guys all aligned was no small task. Add to that the training, and educational staff, and an onslaught of apprentices. Jesus, even the HR teams that run under my banner can be pedantic as fuck. Not the group to play scrabble with. Nerds. A loud ping sounds off, the paperwork for my next treatment has come through. Good old Gerald, kicked that order up the chain as fast as he could. Must mean this Janitor v. Sanitation hubbub is a real shit show. With a soft woosh the boardroom door opens onto a wide, well light corridor, replete with charming wall sconces, aromatic flowers in planters and various autonomous cleaning bots scrubbing each surface imaginable. Heading to the large corporate power lift, the attendant calls it down from storage, and operates the lift to the corresponding floor. Our lifts are pretty great they can travel laterally through the station too, so I can jump over the required sectors to the elite med bay.

“Ok Cathy, how do you feel now?” The med tech dressed in blue coveralls with a stethoscope hung loosely from her neck is standing at the foot of the medical pod. I feel like I was dunked in a clear gel soup for an hour, but in actuality it was about forty five minutes. Time is money. No reason to pussy foot around. Get us up and at ’em. “Typically I’m referred to as Senior Director Taylor, ma’am, or Ms. Taylor… Jennifer, you know that.” Chuckling to herself the medical technician turns away and says. “Yes, very well Cathy, you’re cleared to go back to your duties. We’ll see you again soon, no doubt.” With a flurry of papers rustling on the medical chart the doctor exits the room housing the med pod. Stepping out of it requires a slight hop. The room is cool, bordering on cold. Pulling on my soft body sock, and all of its appropriate catheters and safety seals is a tedious and slow going job. Then sealing myself inside the more rigid and rigorous outer shell. The rich burgundy really pops in the light down here. These earth like sun bulbs are amazing. Tying my wet hair into a tight ponytail it’s time to head back to my office block and get a hold of that under secretary. What was his name again? Don’t recall Gerald mentioning anyone specifically by name. Typical. No respect for their staff. It’s all transactional with these people. Probably why they all die rich and alone, of a heart attack, surrounded by things and stuff. Leaving no loved ones behind, or as is the case with Gerald, just a few wealthy disaffected kids and an alienated trophy spouse.

“For the last time guys, keep your voices down. Screaming isn’t going to help resolve this matter.” The union bosses for both the Janitorial guys and the Sanitation crews are red faced, sweaty and running dry at the mouth from their heated arguments. “Listen here fellas. I’ve had to spend the last three days combing forty thousand pages of documentation with my junior staff and I can’t find any record of you guys having divided up your tasks or sop’s. Now that you’ve come under the umbrella of The Company, you no longer retain the rights to dictate what, where, when or how, or even who gets to perform what tasks. You signed away those rights for those awesome colour coded uniforms and our involvement in your organization. No. No, you keep your mouths shut. I get that you’ve always had your own say, and had control. But those shifts are gone. Do I have your undivided attention now.” The room is silent, all bodies in the room, or seated at the conference table are stock still. “Now, as a matter of union dues, those all come to us to disburse. Schedules, vacation, benefits, workload, day to day activities will now be dictated to you. We OWN you now. So, first order of business. You will provide us with, in exacting detail, every single job description contained in your organization, their task requirements, educational needs, training parameters, pay structure, organizational structure, and any issues you encounter, no matter how small, that disrupts your ability to perform your duties. Should we find overlap, we’ll convene a task force, from both branches and we’ll sort it out as we come to it. That is all.” The shocked faces are quiet, dumbfounded by the enormity of what they had entered into. Stand up as one, and burst out into fits of laughter. Two men, twin brothers step around the far side of the board room table, putting themselves between me and the door. “Ms. Taylor, we have all that completed all ready. You see, we’re a tad sneaky. We listen to every conversation aboard this station. We came to suspect that you were the one to lead us. Our fights are imaginary. We simply made them up, to tire out the other directors, so they’d dump us on you. They don’t care. Those silly fucks always want to bury their noses in their own business and could care less about us janitors, and sanitation guys. But you!” They say it in unison, like they share one joint brain. It’s quite alarming to hear this speech in stereo. “You know your people. You have a reputation for getting shit done. Finding the needed resources, then getting. The. Fuck. Out. The. Way!” Punctuated by finger guns, claps and stomping feet from the rest of the room. Oh these guys are good. They played all the senior staff like fiddles with vacuous time sucking squabbles. “Well, gents I’m glad to be of service. But that trick only works once. Now if you’ll excuse me, we are about to launch the largest ever starship, Margot’s Fever, and I have a live cast to catch from my quarters. You have my direct line.” I can hear music playing, as the gathered team starts to pop bottles and dance in celebration. I leave feeling both relieved and shocked. How did they fool so many members of the board of directors. What did they mean about listening to every conversation. That tid bit might come in handy.

Down in the bowels of the station, the sanitation crews are hard at work, fixing, replacing, updating the hardware to all of the waste recyclers.  Although the brown uniforms were a joke, the brave men and women who work with medical and human waste are a tight knit bunch. The joke is that once you go brown, you swirl down and never get seen again. People who don’t work with feces just don’t get their particular brand of humor. The accommodations down here are vastly superior to anywhere else on board the station. Even the upper echelon don’t have rooms like these. No one bothers to check the specs when you deal with what’s flushed down the shitter.

 

PART XI

“Good evening everyone, welcome to orientation!”

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The lead instructor emphasizes her remarks with an all encompassing wave of her hands. Gathered around her are the newest three hundred people who are to travel from planetside up to the Torus station orbiting the moon. Many of the young adults gathered nearby have pensive, or outright terrified looks upon their faces. For most, this is their first experience with space travel, and the prospect of living in or near zero g for the next decade has worn some of their nerves to a frayed mess. The instructor, a Ms. Kim is about five feet tall, slim but fit. She is wearing a safety coverall that is orange in colour, which signifies her as being a director or board of directors member. Turning a full three hundred and sixty degrees she surveils the large welcoming room and all of its eager occupants. She is standing in the middle of the nervous crowd wearing a head set and a sub vocal mic strapped to her throat, so as to not shout when she speaks. “For many of you, the next forty hours as we travel to near moon orbit will be the first experience you have with actual space flight, being under thrust, eating and defecating in near zero g. So, in short… a major shock to the system. We had all of you undergo strict medical testing, so no one is going to die of natural causes! Yay!…” a pause for nervous laughter, of which there is precious little. Her voice reverberates off the painted undecorated cinder block walls. The hall is spartan in design, no pillars or knee walls to hide behind. “You’ve all passed your survival training and undergone some simulations, but fear not! The next seven to ten years will be some of the best you’ll ever have.” On the outer edges of the crowd more orange suited instructors are piling into the room, followed by red suited technicians wheeling in rack upon rack of cyan coloured safety suits. The meeting hall at the space port is starting to feel cramped with all the extra bodies, and suits and equipment. The air temperature is rising as the gathered crowd grows restless and afraid. “Our expected time of departure is four hours from now, so according to my watch, around oh six hundred. By then, you’ll all have showered, trimmed your nails, shaved your heads & bodies, voided your bowels and bladders, removed any extraneous jewelry, stripped down naked and put on the provided safety suits. We have a delicate balance of weight to account for when moving three hundred souls from earth side to outer space. No exceptions, zero religious exemptions permitted. I will now turn you over to our trusty lead technician Darnel, who will take you step by step on how your safety coveralls work, and the prep needed to get you into them safely. With that, my team will bid you adou.” In a sweep of theatrics, the orange colour coded team leaves the hall, departing down a long winding ramp located near the front of the hall, and heads to the ship located three kilometers away, down the supply corridor that’s one hundred meters below ground, and very heavily heat shielded. An extremely heavy set man dressed in a rich red set of coveralls steps out from behind a cluster of suits on a steel rack on large industrial rubber wheels. He is sweating under the anxious glare of three hundred, cold, tired and weary new recruits. Gathering himself, he straightens up and raises his arms to signal the crowd. “Thank you instructor Kim, hello all… I’m lead suit tech Darnel Smythe, and I will give you all a run down on some of the suit specifications, and why you need to prep your bodies accordingly for them to work properly in case of a sudden loss of atmosphere while in transit, or while on the station, in class, at work, on a mission, or just in general through ultimately unlucky circumstance. Ha. That was a mouthful.” An audible gasp is heard throughout the crowd. Wide eyes, and a couple of horrified wails can be heard among the gathered recruits. This is information they have been given numerous times over, via document, speech, and in the simulations themselves, but never so bluntly, or all at once like that. The reality of their choice to pursue life in space is hitting home like a lead weight to the belly. In space, death lies in wait behind every choice you make. “Right, so from what I understand the majority of you are all from earth. My manifest shows a few here from Mars and a couple from the station off Venus. Now you lot have traveled previously, and can pull off from the main group as you’ve been fitted for suits, and are still wearing them.” Shocked noises from the group, again. “Oh yes people, these suits are all that you’ll be wearing from here on out. They have an internal rigging we’ll go over later, but you will eat, sleep, work, study, bathe, exercise in these suits. Until, you earn a colour coded new one that corresponds to your vocation and training. Since you are all new, young and dumb. You will spend the entirety of your time in a suit. Can’t be having green horns and noob students dying on us just because a micrometror poked a hole in a hallway, or training facility.” The look on the gathered group is one of stunned incredulity. A very stout young man with blue hair and various facial piercings pipes up.”That can’t be right, I have all these expensive clothes that I bought especially for going to university on the torus. I can’t possibly be expected to dress exactly the same as everyone else. I just can’t!” Looking at the tech, the young man has his arms crossed over his chest, and his chin thrust outward. “Eh, sorry chico, you all wear it. The bags you dropped off at the front gates, all gone into lock up. All you get are what I’m about to give you. Now in order to get you to focus on the task at hand, I need everyone. Every. One. To strip naked, yes here, right now. Yup, peel down to what your mother’s gave ya! You are all going to walk single file through the showers, then you’ll be diverted to the void rooms, where a warm milky liquid will, well… void your innards. Then you’ll have laser hair removal, yup, you guessed it, all of it. Bam! Gone. Your nails will get trimmed down to the quick and then we’ll go over the suits, pack you in, then march you to your seats. I do apologize for how cold the water is. This will be the last full flow shower you’ll have for a very long time. I wish I could say the water is above fifty two degrees farenheit, but… it isn’t. Life in space is hard folks. You signed the waivers. Took the psych tests, completed simulations and a multitude of training sessions. The movies are great, but this is the real world. Oh, here we go, the doors will open and the clock is ticking people. Move, move, move!” The sea of red tech’s move down the line of naked recruits, helping them to form a single file. A huge set of steel double doors pull open to reveal a dark and cavernous hallway starkly lined with water spigots and jets of multi coloured fluids. Not mentioned in the documentation are the delousing treatments and the mild acid wash that’ll take two full layers of skin off, and aid in the laser hair removal. Cutting weight is difficult at the best of times, so strict measures to save every possible ounce have been enacted. On the floor, a conveyor belt stirs to life, mild gasps and hearty screams of shock as the ice cold streams of water are doused over the glut of nude bodies. A flashing yellow strobe kicks up in the hallway, as men and women and the young and old are diverted one direction or another. The muffled sound of gagging and vomiting can be heard through the echos of screaming and crying. The void process is harsh, and not limited to just bowels and bladder. Breakfast must be purged too. For the biological males, prostates get emptied, in a perfunctory manner. The milky medical cocktail liquid ingested is also used to dry up gastric juices and bile, so no one suffocates in their helmets during take off or during the forty hour trek to the moon. For some, prolonged exposure to near zero g will set off violent bouts of vertigo and nausea. In order to limit the transmission of any airborne illness among so many new recruits into what is essentially a closed ecosystem, drastic medical measures are undertaken. Drugs, needles, radiation baths, invasive biometric scans, the likes of which no one would willingly sign on for are done in secret while the recruits are voided. They’re helpless and weak. Totally disoriented. Sheep for the slaughter, as it were. Each one, though surrounded by hundreds of other people, are suffering in a desperate isolation of their own choosing. The truth is, the entire indoctrination process takes about twenty four hours total, not four, and the faces of the crowd will be hollow, teary eyed, and desperately weak when they are seated before the technician, medical staff, and his army of tailors. The processing has begun, it will be hours before Darnel need address the group again.

“Welcome recruits. Glad to see so many faces after your… ordeal. It isn’t pleasant, but it is necessary. Now, on to the fun stuff. You will be given your safety suits, or coveralls, shortly. They are a very pretty shade of cyan. That denotes to everyone else aboard any base, capsule, rig or what have you that you don’t know jack shit about living in space! That fact, quickly denoted, will save your life and theirs. Yes, there is a method to the madness. If and when you are somewhere that loses atmosphere, it happens real fucking quick, so you. Can’t. Talk. Colour coding is now your friend. It’s been drilled into you by many others, but you have to live it, to appreciate it’s simple yet awesome effectiveness.” Walking through the crowd of what looks like hung over freshman college students after a week long alcohol fueled binge session. Darnel looks over the neat formation of the gathered half conscious recruits. Each laid out on a mechanical surgical gurney,in equal lines, with equal spacing between them. The lead suit tech talks animatedly. Wild gesticulations, modulating his voice with precise changes to capture and maintain their waning attention. They’ve all been run through the ringer. A type of joint trauma most will likely never fully remember, as their bodies and brains will shut these memories out, for the sake of their sanity. Dark halls, screams, purging both fluids and matter, drugs and the bitter cold knowledge of true isolation. A harsh reality, one that is a secret hidden in plain sight. “Ok kids, the suits go onto bare skin. That way you get the highest quality seal. It seals in numerous places, in case of a tear, or blow out, we can save the maximum quantity of your body in case of catastrophic failure. These bad boys seal at the ankle, calf, knee, thigh, waist, chest, neck, wrist, elbow, armpit.” Darnel is ticking off the locations on his fingers as he speaks. “There is an internal catheter system to expel and expunge bodily waste. Means you can work long hours in eva, and not have to try and hold it in. There is also a function for hooking up to the steam showers on the station, to bathe, and flush out dead skin cells and such. Your biometrics work through the suit too. The ability to get food, drugs, sleeping quarters, into and out of your class rooms, job placements, entertainment facilities all are tied to your own biometrics.” The mention of drugs, food and entertainment brings some life into their worn and weary eyes. Some faces have a haunted thousand yard stare, that begins to melt away with the following message. “This wasn’t on any program or documentation, but it’s a gift from The Company to all those stationed on the torus, and any rig, vessel that they have commissioned. You are all allotted a prescribed amount of recreational drugs, access to sex workers, education, job training, food and entertainment. Do. Not. Under any circumstance go to a private, non sanctioned vendor for either drugs or sex. Our system is heavily regulated, taxed and monitored for your safety. You can not OD, on our supply, and when you have shift hours, or class hours or some regulated function to perform, your biometrics will cancel out and nullify the effects of whatever it is you chose to use. But only If it is from The Company, or one of our chartered pharmaceutical vendors. If you’re brilliant, but socially awkward, the brothels in the green sector will take care of you. The healthcare, wages, hours of operation and peace of mind of our regulated sex workers are guarded heavily, so use them as needed, don’t go private. Your tax dollars are there to provide you with what you need and keep us all healthy. Enjoy yourselves…. so on that note, my team will come around shortly, and fit you into your suits, boots, gloves and test your auto deploy helmets and respirators. Just lay back and let us work our magic.” In the silence of three hundred exhausted newbies the experienced technicians set to work plying freshly scrubbed nude bodies into their spongy body socks with waste management system inserted and inflated, and coveralls on top. As each unit is inserted and inflated in bladders and bowels alike, for both the men and women, an occasional yelp, moan or cry can be heard among the group. Thousands of pairs of rubber gloves go into the recyclers, to be incinerated down to their constituent parts, and reassembled later as other synthetic latex products.

The three hundred bodies are wheeled down the subterranean hall way, on a long train of gurneys. Each body has been infused with a sturdy mixture of vitamins and minerals, so they will survive the next forty hour flight without food or water. The vast majority of cyan suited recruits are fast asleep, or are so over tired that they can only watch, wide eyed as they pass two and a half kilometers of cold yellow lighting, damp concrete, and the musty smell of a tightly contained, low ceilinged windowless, windless cavern that seems to stretch on into utter blackness in the distance. As the long stretch of lights comes to an end, and the gurneys travel the last five hundred meters in utter darkness, the smell of the launch vehicle hits the nose like a punch. The mix of fuel, and astringent cleaners, oil and detergents wafts over the space like a damp towel over the head. It clings to the nostrils, and burns the lungs and stings the eyes. At the base of the launch vessel, a massive elevator sits, large enough to load up thirty gurneys and the eight techs required to haul the recruits to their coffin sized berths. Slowly, the elevators move up and down, as the gurneys return collapsed, and empty, more recruits are loaded. Not long after an automated buggy interlinks with the collapsed gurneys and returns them to their resting spot, just outside of view of the welcoming grand hall. Hidden behind huge metal doors, stored just off a large empty hallway full of spigots and a conveyor belt floor.

“Goood morning freshmen, this is your captain speaking. I’m captain Hardy, flying with us today is my number two Ms. Casey Phillips. We are approximately twenty hours away from Torus station, which is both the station name, and the design. She’s ugly as fuck, but awesome in scale. Also your new home for the next seven to ten years. In case no one mentioned this, the station runs on continental shifts. That’s right folks, she’s a twenty four seven type of gal. Whether you are a worker, student or prostitute, you’ll all live in rotating eight hour shifts. Congratulations on making it this far, you are now allowed to move freely about the common areas of the ship. There is a viewing deck at both the forward and aft sections of this ship. If you are currently experiencing vertigo, or nausea please refrain from vomiting anywhere but in your immediate crew quarters, as they are designed for just such an occurence. The Company, always thinking.” With a loud click the pa system kicks back to the soothing soft jazz that had been slowly growing louder as more and more freshmen recruits regained consciousness after their ordeal during induction.

The personal crew quarters are more like pre fabricated, pale blue cloth paneled coffins, with a singular soft yellow light embedded in the ceiling, so as not to provide a surface you could cause any head trauma on. Inside the recruits are velcroed into a quilted padded blanket, to keep from bouncing off the padded coffin walls during transit. At the foot of the tiny room is a media screen set to stand by, with stock images of the launch vessel, the torus and flight crew fading in and out as a screen saver. The passengers are equal parts students, vocational apprentices, and support staff for the immense Torus station. What was once just a ship yard for The Company, has now expanded to be a system wide university of choice, tradesmen learning center, and hub of activity. The entertainment sector has ballooned from three levels to a bustling thirty. It now boasts television stations, several movie studios, theme parks and casinos. The work force in the mechanical sector alone is upwards of eight thousand souls. Capsules don’t just come here for repairs any more, they are designed, fabricated and manufactured by the score. Rivaling the designs and capabilities of anything produced by the old school earth bound teams from The Company HQ in Houston Texas. After the mark thirties were completed, the Daryl Bradley Design Shop decided that they’d show off some of their new tricks, and in secret, built, tested, and flew a newly fashioned Minotaur class starship for the first time ever. With an entirely new design for propulsion their starship was able to make a successful jaunt out passed Pluto and back in three weeks time. What had previously taken one hundred and eighteen weeks one way, was now only twenty one days. The cosmos were finally opening up. After catching wind of this momentous achievement The Company swiftly stepped in to purchase, then patent all aspects of the design. They pride themselves on being beyond competition.

The first mission would be to go as far out as they could get, ping any sensor, or antenna arrays they could find, and report back. In truth, someone very high up with The Company wants to find The Non Sequitur, and figure out what had gone wrong all those centuries ago. The greatest thing about the vaccum of space was how well it could preserve anything it came into contact with.

 

PART VIII

“Yo, Daryl, you’ve been summoned.”

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Says the giant of a Martian born man who works on smaller single pilot vessels in our dry dock section of the torus. “Don’t gimme that look man, they sent word down from above, the HR director herself wants a meet and greet with the illustrious Daryl “the minotaur” Bradley. She asked for you, by name, so go upstairs, and see what the fuck is going on.” The Martian is a seven foot tall Hulk of a man, by the name of Barry Ludens, curt but a great shop foreman with a dry wit. A joke like this wouldn’t even occur to him. People in the lounge wince when they hear Daryl’s nickname said aloud, and to his face. People learn early on not to mention the moded red mechanics coveralls he wears with the ultra wide neck. Daryl is nestled into a crash couch winding down after a couple of shifts off, coping with the tragic death of his and his brother’s last great apprentice Andy. His brother Doug is seated beside him, dinner plate in his lap, mouth full of diced steak. “Dougie, we been here, what… like twenty seven years now right? You ever, even once heard about a meet and greet with one of the fucking board of directors?” He is slowly climbing out of the industrial crash couch, groaning under the strain of his considerable bulk, and the pressure on his not so young knees. Even in low gravity, age, and stress catch up with the best of us. “No D, I ain’t never heard of that before. You think we missed something on The Last Great Venture and some one else, or a whole crew died due to negligence? Maybe I should come too, you know, moral support or show our work order documentation. We certified that shit three times over, I know it!” Doug looks agitated, word from upstairs never comes down here to our cramped crew quarters without passing through ten miles of interconnected HR flunkies asses and mouths. A human centipede of middle management tweaks to sop directives. Daryl standing half in, half out of the door to the crew lounge, staring intently at the martian foreman Barry. “How the fuck do I even get up there to see the big wig any how?” A look of sincere consternation upon his cracked and worn face. The last forty hours of mourning Andy’s passing has hit the whole sector hard, and our crew quarters the hardest. The room is littered with empty beer bulbs and smells like salty tears and sweat. “Not a problem D, if you head over to HR cubicle seven beside the bay doors, there will be a flunkie there to take you up. Let us know what it looks like from up there in their ivory tower eh?”. And with that last rejoinder, both men head out the door, down the gang plank and off to their separate duties.

Pling, pling chimes the door to the board room. With a soft woosh the double doors open, and I step passed the threshold and into an immaculately clean office space, full of crystal, real leather and an actual wooden table. Standing in front of the gigantic bay windows is the HR director, last name Taylor. That’s as much as they were willing to tell me on my trip up here. Over her shoulders the large expanse of our particular dry dock operation can be seen. From this vantage point, we look like ants in a tilt shifted photograph, the scale of the dock yards, the full enclosure, and all of those people busy at work is dizzying. Even our massive moving gantries where we park our mobile tool benches and chests look like children’s toys from up here. HR director Taylor is fitted out in a tasteful burgundy pant suit. It isn’t baggy, but nor is it too tightly fitted. Turning away from the view, she finally registers my presence. “Daryl Bradley, so glad you could make it. I’m so glad you could find the time to come and see me. I know you’ve recently been struct by tragedy.” Motioning towards the board room table and a couple of waiting seats, equipped with a view screen set to stand by and some bulbs of either pristine un recycled water or the purest vodka I’ve ever seen. “I didn’t realize I had the option to decline, Ms. Taylor.” Taking my seat opposite her, I marvel at how form fitting yet comfortable the chair is. Damn, this shit makes you want to fall asleep in it. However do these people stay awake during meetings. “Ah, yes… sorry. I do realize this is rather…undocumented. To say the least. Certainly. Listen, you are an intelligent man, so I’ll cut the shit. We here at The Company are terribly sad that your latest apprentice was murdered. You know, I oversee all three hundred of the dry docks on this station, and by far. By. Far. You have the best record on safety, and on people making their certs, and on satisfaction with your teams repairs. That mark eight was never supposed to be anywhere near here. But the crew asked for you by name. Specifically. Do you know how rare it is that a flight crew out of Neptune knew who you were, or even bothered to bypass the appropriate channels to get that experimental craft in to your work shop, under your watchful eye. The logistics and insider knowledge is astounding! no, no. Don’t worry I’m not accusing you of subterfuge. I’m paying you a compliment, that in the eighteen years I’ve been here, I have never once encountered. Now I know you’re a god damn fantastic mechanic, and you stay on deadlines, and keep your budget within reasonable margins. The best people working anywhere on this vessel came out from under your tutelage.” Ms. Taylor is now up on her feet, gesticulating wildly, as she walks the length of the room. All I can do is sit quietly, astounded by what I’m hearing. Though I sense a terrible and foreboding but, coming. “Daryl, do you mind if I call you that? Daryl, I have zero technical skills here. I understand very little of what you lot do here. I’m a people person. I get you the people and resources you need, then I get the fuck out of the way. You know, one of my fondest memories here was during the boom period of sixty three. I spend forty hours helping your crews find some compound w, and a much needed tube of preparation h. Now, I never did find those items, but you guys made me feel like I was a part of the team. Hell, the reason I got promoted so quickly onto the board of directors was because the two other junior directors I worked with got maimed or killed during their rotations on crews in other sections of the torus.” She has a wistful look upon her face at the fleeting memories. “We’ve got a serious problem here Daryl. That jag off that killed your brother’s apprentice, was moon lighting as a moon separatist. If word gets out, this whole station will erupt and blow out at the seams. For morales sake no one can know. The fewer the number of people who can recall that greasy fucks face, the better. That’s why, for your exemplary ability to teach, I’m promoting you off the shop floor and into a tenured teaching position within the machine shop. New personalized quarters, full meal plan, and no more death defying shifts crawling over ships. No need to thank me, the paperwork has gone through. It cleared the moment you came up the lift. Biometric scans for the win!” She looks genuinely pleased with herself. And with a flourish, I find myself back out in the hall, being lead down to the elevator banks. Wondering, what the fuck just happened here any how?

“Hey, there’s the big man. Back from the land of the lost I see. What’s up D, you look stunned? Oh shit, you getting a stint in rehab or something?” The question is left hanging in the air. Silence floats up to meet it. With a dull thud, Daryl flops onto an open couch. Running his hands over the well worn cracks and creases. Admiring the brilliant green light shining on the instrument panel. He turns around as though to talk to the whole room at once. “Doug has been promoted to lead all training in this sector of the docks. All dockets and work orders, change orders etc, now run through him. He’ll set the schedule from here on out. All foremen report directly to Doug. Notices have gone out all ready. I made a few notes, and some other long overdue promotions are going through, and a couple of raises. Those are my last acts before I leave for my new, university, full tenure position.” An audible gasp, as though each pair of lungs has drawn in all available oxygen in the cramped room. A heart beat passes, then two, then four.

Out on the gangway a loud commotion can be heard, emanating from the central crew quarters where the dock section leader bunks down. The sound of raucous cheers and corks popping can be heard. Music begins to blare over the loud speakers. All thoughts of misery evaporates in the tidal wave of cheers and shouts of good will. Notifications of raises and promotions begin to chime in on personal communicators.

 

 

PART VI

It’s strange, the things you come to miss while out here…

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The slow methodic drip of a faucet, or being bathed in the orange glow of the late afternoon sun, the singing of birds, or the sound of the wind rustling leaves across an old growth park. Echoes of children’s laughter bouncing off of brick and concrete. There is none of that here. At first, that made me very happy, I could finally knuckle down and focus on the laundry list of experiments I was tasked with performing by the very savvy tech guys at The Company. But now, up here, alone and isolated in the cool blue glow of phosphorescent lighting, beige cloth walls with all that sound proofing and accident protection, it’s driving me crazy. What I wouldn’t give to turn back towards earth, and hear my little girls squabble endlessly over dolls, crayons or whose turn it is to pick the next television show. The observation deck, a small bubble of a room, comprised mostly of a glass like dome where all of my technical equipment is housed. Can be quite chill, although sometimes tiny rivulets of condensation from my breath will gather on its concave surface, and gather in small pools along the outermost edges where it meets the soft padding of the bulkhead. I keep tiny polaroids of my girls taped up in there. Reminding me, constantly why I do what I do. All alone, adrift in space.

I’m currently the lowest ranking member of The Company to captain his own ship. It wasn’t always this way. When I started out this mission I had three other senior members of this crew. Three very brilliant, but problematic men. Part of an old school fraternity, a brotherhood of sociopaths and sexual deviants. I can almost imagine a large crowded meeting room down on earth at The Company HQ, where the last long amber rays of the afternoon sun would filter through some rustling leaves, and cast long deep shadows across some corporate types face. Slat shaped shadows from the tall Venetian blinds, creating a regular pattern of amber and darkness hiding portions of their faces. Phones ringing haphazardly, reams of papers all over the room, binders full of details and full ash trays and lit cigarettes with whirling eddies of smoke littering the rooms, and through it all, partial globs of conversations. “They came very highly recommended…best in their fields… brilliant minds… oh no, not too many people choose to work with them a second time… troubling attitudes, but gifted. Yes the three men achieve great results… no, no, no one would step forward… yes, suicide, found by the wife. Yeah, twins on the way… do not envy the fourth man on that next mission. Hope he knows how to comport himself during periods of high stress… can he take a joke?” There would be chuckles, and giggles or guffaw, but in the end those three bastards would get cleared to fly with me. Nine hundred million miles between us and earth. There would be no second chances to make a first impression.

Now yes, it’s true. I killed all three of my crew. I did not set out to do so. But I did it none the less. No, I will not go into it, suffice it to say that few things will test your resolve like suturing a tear to your own anus via a mirror and a needle and thread. I am not a weak man. I did not cow to them. But I exacted my revenge over the course of twenty four hours after they made their final play on my person. I’ve known military life. I can take an awful, awful lot of shit from my superiors, but not someone’s misplaced sense of desire to dominate a subordinate. No, to the man who held me down, he lost an arm at the elbow to the pneumatic press I was operating. Turns out I’m not as fast on a tourniquet as I tested on earth during med protocols. Whoops. To the gentleman who tricked me into the tightest spot on the ship, a technical corridor that houses all of the larger caliber electrical cabling, he got a sprinkle of fines from the Oort cloud in the rim of his helmet and gloves. Brilliant scientists, all of them. But bro’s don’t clean and inspect their gear to the same degree a lowly generalist grunt like me does. Failure to secure a one hundred percent connection during a space walk left him dead instantaneously at the opening of the air lock. The same airlock I fired the acting commander out of by purposefully failing to reach equilibrium with the vacuum outside our vessel when he had to go out for some last minute repairs. Launched him off the craft at nearly two hundred kilometers per second per second, from a cold stand still. Didn’t even damage the doors as his body was sucked through before it had opened more than a few millimeters. Like I said, I didn’t start this, but I fucking well ended it on my terms.

Truth is, we were way too far out for The Company to do anything about it. You don’t send out the cops for triple homicide when the guy who did it confesses, but can still produce the same money making results, and will likely never return to earth, or come into contact with another living soul. I guess space madness runs in the family. My uncle was the engineer that built the now famous capsule the Non Sequitur. This vessel is a variation of that design.

“Computer put a dozen new washers on the to build list, for when I’m in the machine shop next ok…” I’m currently shirtless in the dry, cool air of the Give More capsule. Also known more affectionately by the design staff as a mark five, or Mk.V . “Bzzrt… sorry inquiry invalid… please write down on the control pad, items to add to the official parts build list… verbal dictation function not supported… dictation function not supported… dictation function not supported…” a red blinking light is flashing rapidly in case I missed the memo. “Useless, you know that Roger, you’re absolutely useless… ableist too. What if I lose a hand or both arms huh, how you expect me to write this shit out then?” Crawling over some cabling, I find a wrist pad and write out the reminder. “Bzzrt… inquiry invalid. Roger is not my identifier. Also, crew shortage klaxon will sound off in twelve hours. We are understaffed for this mission. Crew levels are mission critical.” The beaten up yellow box is present on every surface of the ship. Wired up nodes that criss-cross all systems and manned spaces, initially designed as part of the medical monitoring system, but evolved to speak and communicate with the ships hardware and software for ease of experimental program integration. Like the ships brain, but less exciting. I’m a pretty great science generalist, and a damn great machinist, but a programmer I am not. Fuck. Why’d Danny have to go and do me like that, before he could upgrade Roger to be able to take verbal commands, or at least hold a conversation that didn’t pertain to ships diagnostics. Been a real dull thirty seven hundred days of this mission so far. Fuck him, fuck those goofs. Bastards, the lot of them. “How many times do I have to turn off that crew levels alarm… must you remind me twice a day, every god damn day, what I’ve done. You, sir. Are a terrible, terrible friend. Fuck face.”

Returning from the observation deck to the crew quarters I think, better go attune the sensor and radio antenna array some time soon. Gotta tight beam all this data back to earth. God I miss my wife and kids. What I’d give to hear a faucet drip. Nothing here, but the cool empty chill of space, adrift in the void. Would be very easy to go insane up here. Gotta find Roger a suitable communications package, or patch, or something. Maybe medical systems has a psychiatrist plug in I could tap into to get some rousing conversation going. “Hey Roger, make a note that I should check and see if you’ve got a psychiatrist plug in for conversation!”. The yellow box in the crew pod chimes in. “Bzzrt… dictation function not supported for official programming inquiries. Incorrect inquiry format, message not recognized. Roger is not my identifier…” rolling to my side, as I zip myself into my bed chamber. “Thanks Roger. Fuck you too.” A heartbeat later a chime in reply can be heard. The lights grow dim as my resting heart rate shows me drifting off to sleep. It is currently two am ship time aboard the Give More capsule. Outside the vessel it is black and empty. Breakfast will be at oh nine hundred, same as the thirty seven hundred other days gone by.

 

PART IV

“I don’t know what to tell you Michael, it’s going to be a lonely existence…

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Out there for you, and there is very little in the way of what I might offer you to assuage that.” It says in its usual cold, crisp,voice. I adjust the control panel to bring the voice down to some velvety, dulcet tones. Always so very soft and measured in my ear. Seemingly coming from the center of my own head. Standing still in the dark room, my nose pressed up to the cold rain patterned glass, I can see pin lights and movement below stretching out for miles. A vast wasteland of a city whose name I have long forgotten, splays out below. Partially hidden behind fog, haze or low cloud cover of an orange tint. I’ve been told that I am approximately two hundred floors up and that I live in a pristine, hermetically sealed glass coffin. It has all the very best someone of my peculiar talents might ever need or require. I have been told I’m a once in a lifetime creation. A synthesis of pure artistic expression made human-ish. I produce all of the best music available to the incredibly wealthy, and for that they lavish more than just praise upon me. Far more than that. I am gifted with the knowledge that they will never let me die. As long as I am able to produce, my well being and every creative whim will be indulged. Outside the glass floor to ceiling windows is a lifetime of stark contrast for everyone else.

Pacing about my rooms, I’ve a well worn path that I take, passed rows and banks of instrumentation, blinking lights, nodes, dials, and keys. The mixed and pulsing syncopation of modulators, saw tooth effects, phlanges and signal boosters and interrupters is a familiar beat in my life all their own. I’ve used my own heart beating in more arrangements than I care to think about. The light is dim, I love the ambient glow of my technology more than any incandescent, phosphorescent or led bulb that I’ve ever found available. The walls are glass, with finger prints and streaks from disinfectant cleaners. The air in here is clean, but stringent. I’m an ardent tapper, on each and every surface, keeping time with the melodies and transitions that occupy my life. The poor, miserable bots can’t keep up, and their ticking, and clicking has been known to interrupt my flow. I only allow them in with me while my files are compiling or I am asleep. They creep and crawl over the glass like blind mechanical spiders, spritz and wipe, spritz and wipe, incessantly.

I don’t get many visitors up here. For the most part I enjoy it that way. But my patrons found a few unexpected scars on my wrists several years ago, and opted to provide me with Kenneth. He stood for something, but I have long forgotten what that was. He’s a node in my brain and he’s tied to a medical system buried elsewhere in the building, constantly monitoring me and my well being. Roi and all that, you know. A lack of mortality when so much of it is available comes at a cost, whether you care to pay it or not.

“What seems to be the trouble tonight Michael? You seem stressed out, do you require medical attention. Shall I have a med bay suite set up for you to retire to this evening…” Kenneth is right there. If I close my eyes I can imagine him standing only a few inches away, the softness of those words, like a baby’s breath on the back of my left ear. But Kenneth is not here, he’s an implant. Come to think of it, beyond our conversations together, I haven’t seen, nor heard from anyone else in ages. Wouldn’t matter if I had. I have extra bones and organs and all manner of wonderous things available in the med bay suites. All automated. All given freely, though, with no chance to refuse. “No need Kenneth, I am simply trying to brainstorm the next big thing to broadcast to my/our hungry fans… looking at them all down there, like colorful ants, many miles removed gives me a renewed sense of wonder. Rain on the windows, winds on the glass. The offbeat twinkle of lights in the late night darkness. It feeds me. It…” I trail off, as I am want to do. I can feel something. Inspiration.

“I don’t know how you do it Michael, but I fear it must be a cold and lonely existence for you here.”

“You know what I love the most about being out here?…

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The unobstructed view of the galaxy around us. Don’t you just love it!” She says, looking back at me, over her right shoulder. Her orange coveralls tied firmly around her waist. Her socks, and her shirt are a brilliant white, not a speck of dirt on them.

“Hmmm… no, all I keep thinking about is how isolated it is out here, and how far we are from anything, or anyone.” I say, staring down at the now ice cold bulb of mock coffee. It’s inky, black-brown packaging has golden markings all over it. I can’t read it. It was a gift from the Chinese agency, from last Christmas. It smells faintly of roasted cinnamon.

“Well, I really can’t get enough of this view, I mean what a breathtaking vista that is spread out before us.” She says it with that ear to ear grin she always has. It makes her dimples pop, her ice blue eyes twinkle in the brilliant starlight. Every day now, she comes to stand at the same view port, always looking forwards – to the stars. I’m hunched over a tiny table that converts to tuck back into the bulkhead. I stand up, and toss my bulb of frozen black coffee into an incinerator bin. This capsule, the Non Sequitur, was meant for ten, still feels cramped, even with just the four of us. A long cylinder of off white padded curved walls, illuminated in phosphorescent white light that has started to show some wear and tear. I will give them this, The Company does love to recycle. This is my seventh uneventful mission out here with one of the jury rigged crafts. “You know… we… I… hmmm, that first twenty nine week stretch out to Mars was tedious. I didn’t get any worth while readings, and there is no sign of the anomaly.” I am not happy. This line of work was supposed to be cutting edge. For fuck’s sake, it is space travel, and you promised us adventure, aliens, or at the very least a chance to bring about the singularity before the fall of mankind. We ventured out here in search of something, anything, anything at all that could be the key to unlocking our full potential as a species. And all I got was this lousy t-shirt. “I am not looking forward to eighty more weeks of this before we make it out to Pluto.” I have been glum for quite some time. I never could muster the same enthusiasm for these missions. Even with the pressure of the world on my shoulders. I just don’t care anymore.

“Same time tomorrow then darling.” She giggles as she says it. Every time with this same schtick. I’m annoyed, but I chuckle anyway. “Of course babe, say hello to our girls for me.” Jennifer vanishes in the dim light, leaving me all of the sparse, utilitarian room. The bright padding fades away to reveal the gathered filth and blood splatter of neglect. The fabric throughout the cabin is stained jet black in places, it reeks of smoke, and decay. The lights inside the observation pod have not come on in quite some time.

Outside the capsule, sparks continue to fall away from the craft’s hull like a giant rooster tail of cascading embers. A large black burn stretches across the jagged edge of what’s left of the crew quarters. There in the distance are vague forms of a woman and two children, suspended in their bed pods, both flash frozen, and boiled in the vacuum of space. The capsule is half a million miles off course, even though the engines and navigation survived the attack in one piece. Denial, much like the void of space, does not discriminate.

 

PART I

 

*****

And NOW for shits and giggles you can listen to me narrate Chapter One .