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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

Pulling up the lane way to the massive Company induction office…

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I am struck by the sheer size of the building. It’s an enormous rectangle of grey concrete, flat roofed, dotted with a plethora of long thin windows, set back in the wall likely used as gun embankments during times of war and civil unrest. The building is the only thing around for miles. As the launch pad is only three kilometers from here, the blow back from lift off has kept much of the vegetation at bay. Only the most sheltered portion directly in front of the building has any grass or vegetation. The air out here is dry, the remnants of the Texas afternoon heat is coming up off the sand, and rich black asphalt parking lot in dizzying waves, even at this late hour. The view of the front doors is obscured by waves of heat. From the taxi drop off and loading zone it is about a six hundred meter walk. The pavement is lined with hearty shrubs and low hanging pecan trees. There are yellowy pot lights shining up through the scrub in the planters, illuminating all manner of gnats, flies, moths and mosquitoes. The air is abuzz with the sound of wildlife. In the distance, through the heavy opaque steel doors, a muffled murmur can be heard. There are several hundred freshmen recruits gathering for our induction process to the university aboard the Torus. Earth’s largest geosynchronous space station. By all accounts, it’s absolutely enormous, but ugly as all get out. Very utilitarian in design. From all of our documentation provided to us by The Company during the application process, it was once a glorified shipyard, a dry dock for capsule repairs. What was just a huge working platform has since morphed into the best university, and entertainment hub in the solar system. The only comparables are the floating station above Venus, known only for science research into energy and propulsion systems. But it is tiny by comparison. I myself am slated to attend the robotics program at the university. I garnered a full ride scholarship for excellence in translating theory into fabricated proof of concept. I was told by my mother that I get my smarts from her side of the family. My uncle was once blown up by separatists in a plot to destroy the Torus. Ultimately it failed, but he got a glorious set of bionic arms out of the deal. My scholarship is named after his combo drill appendage that revolutionized The Company’s mining operations. I guess I’m what you’d call a legacy.

Walking up to the immense steel double doors, we are met by teams of heavily armed guards, dressed in black uniforms. The line to get through the door is about one hundred people deep. The late evening air is insufferably oppressive. Littered among the crowds inside the main reception hall are men and women with tight buns, and razor sharp hair cuts, decked out in orange jumpsuits. According to the many hours of simulations we had to run, over the last six months, those orange suited folks are among the board of directors. Very senior people. The thought of mingling with the upper echelon of The Company gives me tingles. We have been run through any number of physical and psychological testing to make sure we can handle not only the trip off the planet, but our extended stay in zero gravity. All the latest talk show vids off of Torus station mentioned just how excitingly thorough the induction process is. We had to read so many official company reports about why we have to undergo a purge to make weight for the launch. It all sounds so clinical, so removed. It’s very difficult to get a sense of what it will ultimately be like. I’m so excited. Standing in the center of the hub bub, I notice the line has moved. Finally, it’s my turn to scan my biometrics and pass through the last of the health screening. Walking through the doors, you can see how spartan the space is. The room is cavernous, with beige painted cinder block walls, a few posters and banners hung tastefully along the far wall. Oddly there are no windows inside the grand receiving hall. Before we can get too far in, there are illuminated signs hanging from the ceiling, and red clad technicians directing us to take our bags to the porters station. Our items will travel up to Torus station separately. Did not know that. That wasn’t covered in any of the provided documentation. The queue moves quickly here. In a few moments I’m at the kiosk. A tall, slender woman tells me to scan my matching baggage tags and my biometric markers and to head straight into the hall. I both see and hear my duffle bag run along the raised conveyor belt that popped up from the tile floor and disappear behind a wall with a dull thud. Inside the great hall nearly all three hundred members of our cohort are gathered tightly in a crowd. The heat in here isn’t much cooler than what is outside. Now I wish I hadn’t worn all these new clothes. I layered up in case the place had ac blasting. Taking off my dress shirt, I let my fabulous blue hair out of its tight weave. Fanning my ponytail to let some air reach my hot and sweaty neck. A commotion stirs up near the center of the crowd. A petite woman, of Asian heritage can be seen raising her arms to garner attention. Around her throat is a sub vocal mic, guess she runs this show, and doesn’t like to shout.

The crowd stops and stands at attention. The honourable Ms. Kim opens her hands wide and leads into her speech. “Good evening everyone, and welcome to orientation!” Madness ensues.

 

PART IX

“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

“What do you remember about the accident out there, anything you can give us…

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Could help us piece it all together more coherently.” Says the mousey looking woman from the internal affairs office. If she didn’t have such a short bob of a hair cut, and refrained from looking so sincere or earnest you’d think she was a real hard nosed bitch. But such as it was, she came across as mild and genuinely compassionate. Both traits, I would imagine, she’d need to work extra hard at hiding if she ever wanted to make a fully fledged investigator or a detective, or be more than some hard nosed bastards go’fer. “Not much really. I don’t even remember going in to work that day. I’m still foggy on how long ago this all went down.” Sitting in the white plastic chair, chained to a soft cream coloured formica table with a reinforced plate steel under structure, I’m over come by the itching of my wounds. “Can I get a… you know a hand, my face itches and I don’t have arms anymore. Is it really neccessary to restrain me, bodily. I can’t even walk unassisted yet.” The blast at the dock yards had done a real number to The Company. Not to mention, stolen my arms, killed a very promising career in robotics, and left me with ruptured tendons in both my legs. Those would heal, but my fine motor skills in welding robotic arms in zero g had all but evaporated in one loud, concussive boom. “Am I a suspect. I mean jesus, that blast took both of my fucking arms man. That’s my livelihood. Seven years at the university, four more years as an apprentice, and then having to get my level three certs before doing anything even remotely close to the cusp of cutting edge. No, man. No, fuck. That. Bullshit. I ain’t no suspect, I was fucking robbed. Someone took my life from me, took everything in one fell swoop. So you cut the shit. Cut these restraints off me, and tell me how long I’ve been in this hospital. I know I’m still aboard the station, as everything here is fucking blue!” God damn am I agitated. This line of questioning has been going on for what feels like twelve hours now. Maybe more than that. I don’t know. My blue room, with blue lights and blue sheets, and blue curtains has no windows or media displays. The blue hallway I get frog marched down, on ruptured tendons no less, has no visible details telling me the date, nor time of day, or even what shift we’re in. “Ok, mr. Gendry, you’re right. We don’t need to put you in leg chains, that’s me being a bit over zealous. This is my first real case as a lead investigator.” There she goes, showing contrition, helping me out. I could learn to like this woman, if she weren’t the first face I saw after losing my limbs and any future I had in robotics fabrication. “According to our records the blast happened eleven days ago, around oh three hundred hours. You were on the last shift, or first shift of the day. Not sure how you would describe that. Why don’t you tell us again what you do, erm… did. If not that day, just on the regular. What your job was, is…” the formica table is empty, save for a few sheets of paper and a manilla folder with my work history and medical reports printed inside. Leaning back in my chair, oddly off balance with no arms to cross over my chest, I start into my tale. “Listen, I’m kind of an animated talker. I’m going to need arms, robotics, prosthetics, or regenerative. Whatever they’ve got me insured for that I can try to recapture some of the old glory of my work/life balance. Just as an aside. You know. Robotic appendages are my passion. Wrote a thesis on them, did a practical application on them too. Got great Mark’s. Top of my class. Even got a recommendation from the dean of the university, old Big D “the minotaur” Bradley.” I am positively beaming, I’m so damn smug.

“So as a typical dock worker, I bunk down in standard crew quarters, you know the ones out on the torus, like less than five hundred meters from where I work sixteen hours a day. The glory of rotating continental shifts. Pays well though, eh? Yeah, buddy. Big bucks for those with a class three cert. Not many folks round here get that far along. Especially in robotics, and those outboard drill rig appendages.” I can feel the juices flowing, getting into my story now. Who boy! “Yeah, so lately I was tasked with building a real robust system that can switch seamlessly between ice hauling, towing and full on drilling. Those three elements all have very different tolerances and needs for stress loads, torque, and the ability to swap in/out bits on the fly. A real pig of a job. Designing one is difficult enough, but three, in tandem. Christ! The calculations on the timing alone was enough to write a years worth of papers on. Chip load, bit speeds, stressors out the ying yang. Anyway, I got it designed on paper and then had to fabricate a proof of concept on an old mark twelve The Company had lying around, something called The Jolene Roger.” A sudden jolt, as the investigator sits up straight, comes to life. “Wait, you built a test rig on a mark twelve that had just be laying around? Those were only put in use around Pluto. How is it one ended up here?” Writing furiously on her note pad, looking to the folder to see if she’d over looked this interesting detail. “Yeah, I don’t know. I don’t ask where the resources come from, I just build what they ask me too. May I?” Looking up from her notes, the investigator motions for me to continue. “As I was saying, I had to fabricate my proof of concept. So I spent a huge number of hours gathering plate steel, titanium blocks and pistons and shielded hydraulics components and got about eighty hours in before, Boom! Do you know if the rig survived the blast? Some of my welds were exquisite. Like liquid pearl on glass.” A tap on the window of the door brings our discussion to a sudden halt. From behind the door, I can see an older gentleman from the investigative team motion for the woman to step out into the hallway. Quickly, and quietly I watch her slip out of the room. My back is to the wall, and I’m sat facing the door with just the formica table and an empty chair in front of me. The older man is talking into her ear directly, she nods almost imperceptibly. They both look back through the window of the door at me. A flurry of activity ensues as the investigators leave, and a junior officer comes in to take me back to my hospital room. I never even learned her name. No idea what caused them to run off after all those hours of examination and questioning. Must have bigger fish to fry.

“Sorry for the wait Mr. Gendry, or Jack, is it? We had to wait for your official discharge to come through from both the police force and The Company investigators before we could release your new arms to you. They’ve been especially formulated to you based on your biometrics, and the last psych evaluation you had only a couple months ago. We realize the trauma might have pushed you outside your baseline, but we think you’ll find that you can get back to work with only a minor period of adjustment. Seems that recco’ you had from the dean ofvthe university meant you got pushed to the top of the pile for these experimental limbs.” The technician takes me through a laundry list of specifications regarding my new bionic arms, and how to best care for them. Three hours later and I’m heading down the lift to my crew quarters. Life is finally back on track for Jack!

Waiting patiently out on the gangway in the dry docks are a group of unruly out of system technicians. Desperate to harvest the secrets contained in the black boxes buried deep inside the mark twelve capsule The Jolene Roger. The explosive mining charges have been set all over the mobile gantries, the separatists are waiting for the right time to pounce. In the shadows of the torus, an insurgency is building.

 

PART VII

“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

“Hey, Dougie, wake up!, Somebody’s called in sick and I need another able bodied mechanic for the…

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Last Great Venture capsule repair job on the docket today. Yo! Wakey wakey, we’ve only got forty minutes until shift change. You in, right? This comes at triple time for you if I have my math right.” The half sized door to my bunk compartment is closing even as he continues to speak. Through the clamor behind my brother Daryl, I can see the other mechanics in the cramped company lounge getting ready for bed, or gearing up for another big day on the job. The dry dock is a massive hub of activity seventy miles off the dark side of the moon. A huge spinning torus with berths for all manner of vessels commissioned by The Company. A massive multi planetary conglomerate that footed a huge portion of the bill for manned space flight privately, and thus once it gained a foot hold in the business of exploration and mining, turned it into a choke hold that shows no sign of wavering in any capacity. Except for the ever increasing need for skilled labour and experienced flight crews, The Company looks to have a near endless trajectory towards growth and colonial expansion. The number of zeroes in their bank accounts boggles the mind. One reason why working for them is so lucrative, They put resources back into themselves, and make no bones about rebuilding, retro fitting, or recycling parts and designs that are proven to work, no matter how costly. They pay well, if you know what you are doing. They care for the flight crews and mechanics just the same. Mind you, we eat better, but have very challenging continental shifts. Three eight hour stints every twenty four hours. Keeping a schedule is paramount to success around here.

Stepping out of my tiny bunk, and zipping myself into my safety coveralls in one smooth motion, I give some serious thought to grabbing a long steam shower and forgoing food, but as I amble through the door I can see a monster of a hot breakfast spread, set out for the last night shift, and fix myself a plateful before the clock ticks down diving into the nearest open couch. The lounge is cramped, with low ceilings, and walls covered in video screens and view ports of the vast expanse of dry dock. It has emergency seating available for a full crew compliment of about thirty burly mechanics with no elbow room to spare. Should the base suddenly lurch to life there would be a mad scramble for everyone to find safe harbor in a crash couch, or their private travel pod that line the exterior walls making the lounge a sort of bull pen in the middle. The crash couches are beaten to hell and well worn, but each one has a crisp glowing green light to signify they are in prime working condition. The room, just like the whole base is colour coded. Mechanics rooms and work station areas are a dark rich red, food prep and entertainment levels are green, health care is blue and managerial posts are yellow. Our clothes match, except we all have separate load outs for pockets and our everyday carry. The horn to signify the shift change is going to blare any second now, I can see my brother Daryl through the thick yellowing glass of a view port, as he’s coming back to usher me into the dry dock space. Parked beside our living quarters are all of our tool chests, equipped with mag lev bases. Those are our livelihood, and we protect our tools with biometric locks and a swift hammer to the skull for those dumb enough to have proclivities towards theft. Poking his head in through the door to the crew lounge Daryl chimes in. “Dougie, The Last Great Venture is a mark eight, so we’ve got her parked down the far end by the exhaust vents. She’s not in too bad of shape internally, but we’ve got to check the entire hull for environmental damages. Boring, time consuming, but I need a trusted set of eyes leading up the team. You up for it?” He’s not as tall as me, but with the neck of a bull and a short temper he leads his team with gusto, and is imposing all the same. His red safety coveralls have been moded to suit his specific safety concerns and needs, namely a neck as thick as a child’s torso. Out in the dry dock there is slim margin to survive should you fuck something up. Hence the gruff attitude. In his position you watch a lot of good people grow cocky, inattentive, then die horrible, gruesome deaths. A needless waste, so he has become hyper alert, and it wears on him around the edges very quickly. I’m up out of my seat, dropping my garbage in the recyclers and incinerators, hopping to the door in a single bound due to our low gravity. Daryl turns on his heels and I follow him down the gangway, passed the laundry dispenser, collecting my tool bench as we head to the berth at the far end where The Last Great Venture is docked. Along the gangway several other tool chests are parked and in various states of disrepair, as additional teams are working all over the massive ship.

“Wheew…” I whistle. “Jesus, she’s beaten the fuck up. This is environmental damage? From where? the ice rings around Saturn mixed with a metric fuck tonne of shrapnel grenades, and a blown up parts depot?… my god, the whole hull is going to have to come off. Tell me you have extra crews crawling between the inner and outer hulls looking for micro punctures and penetration damage.” The ship is huge, mark eights are the largest capsules made by The Company. Compared to the original bad boy, the Non Sequitur, this thing is twenty times the size, and just as durable. Unless you drive it at mach five through a parts counter consisting of nothing but industrial sized nuts and bolts and titanium tipped shrapnel. “What sort of moron do you take me for Dougie? Have some faith little brother. I had three rotating crews put on it the second I laid eyes on her. What a shit show eh? Oh look, here comes Andy, our beloved, and beleaguered apprentice. Shall I have him search for the… what was it again, the capacitor or the capacitator?” It’s a tried and true make work prank we pull on all our apprentices, like searching for blinker fluid, or in our case finding a gasket for the flux capacitor. Hilarious, when done out of love. These behemoths have a parts count near nine million pieces, so the likelihood that a green mechanics apprentice will get the joke right off the bat are slim to none. Plus, apprentices are typically shit on in the ship yards until they earn their full level one certification. We don’t take on apprentices very often. Our non specific set of skills intimidates lots of people. Specificity is great, if you are a neurologist, but if you have the aptitude for it, a generalist mechanic is a very lucrative and exciting profession. Never a dull day when you’re certified to do a bit of everything on all classifications of vessel.

A short young man, of about twenty is racing along the gangway beside The Last Great Venture, pushing his equally spotless tool chest, his apprentice grade pink coveralls are sparklingly clean. His hands aren’t permanently stained grease black yet. He’s been our trusted side kick for nearly eighteen months by now. He’s beaming from ear to ear in the sight of the mark eight. She is a glorious piece of machinery. Her massive bulk dwarfing every other ship in our section of the dry dock. Would have been a real sight to witness the pilots maneuver this beast into its berth. Our section of dry dock repair bay is just one of about three hundred on the outer ring of the torus. A truly magnificent sight. The torus itself is ugly in its utilitarian design, but awesome in scale. Part of why we’re on the dark side of the moon, so as not to ruin the lunar view from the earth’s surface. Andrew is rocking back and forth, eager to hear what he’s going to work on today. Any other day and we’d fuck him over without even thinking about it, but this is a mark eight, and she needs millions of dollars worth of work done, and I don’t think we can push our deadlines any more than what The Company has allotted us. “Andy, you bring your mag boots and mag lev harness connectors with you today?” Looking over Andy’s shoulder at the hull of the ship before us. “If so, saddle up, we’re on ship in fifteen minutes. Be at the aft articulated vent shielding, ready to climb up. Bring visine, as this bitch will kill your eyes today.” I can see his grin growing larger than his face can bear. To actually go up and walk the length and breadth of a mark eight, and see the berth from all angles is a once in a year opportunity. Very rare for a green mechanics apprentice. Andrew is very lucky indeed. “Andy?…” turning from the ship to look directly at me. “Yeah Dougie?… erm,… Doug. Sorry.” I chuckle, as I glower at him. “Put on your knee pads, otherwise your pristine coveralls will be charcoal black by the time you’re done. Change out the inserts on your respirator too, that environmental shielding comes apart in your fingers and turns to super fine dust that will clog your lungs up real fuckin’ quick.” Packing up our gear, we head aft to climb aboard the hull of The Last Great Venture. The clock is ticking, credits are rolling and we’ve got several hundred thousand punctures to analyze and repair. The noise is cacophonous, and the air is tangy from sparks and spent ozone. Pneumatic drills and die grinders are throwing up clouds of orange microscopic dust. The light is dim and has an amber glow from all the spent environmental hull plating. Water vapor is hanging over the ship like a woolly sweater. In among the sparks a chill settles over us as we trace every millimeter of the mark eight’s external surface. Testing doors, vents and air locks. Checking welds, and rivets alike, all with an eye towards certain death if even the smallest wounds to the hull shielding aren’t found and mended. Hours crawl by, as we sweat, swear, bleed, bow and scrape over every facet of The Last Great Venture.

Shift change klaxons sound off, and we climb down, gingerly off the vessel exterior. Andy is so excited he practically jumps from the capsule to the gangway, a solid fourteen foot gap. Us worn and weary guys use the hand rails and antenna arrays as make shift ladders and work platforms. Pulling up beside our tool chests we unlatch the mag lev  locks and push our gear back to our crew quarter storage spaces. Up ahead, there is a commotion at the main junction between the dry dock berths and our section of crew quarters. People are jostling each other, and a scuffle is breaking out. Before it really registers, Daryl is off like a shot, ready to take control and make sure cooler heads prevail. “Daryl!” I shout over the din, trying to get in through the tightly packed bodies, close to the scrum. I desperately want to stop anyone who might try to swing a wrench at the back of my brothers head in a fit of rage, or as an act of retaliation. “Daryl!, what’s going on man?” I’m within arms reach of him, when the crowd around us starts to part. A slim, wiry fella is wrapped up in a full nelson, blood on his knuckles, his pink coveralls bunched up around his face. “Dougie!” Daryl says through gritted teeth. “Just the guy I was looking for… check his Id, I don’t recognize this guy from our section.” Daryl has the skinny, greasy man locked up tight in his grasp. “No id tags on him, what’s the deal here bro, you trying to get into a tool chest that’s not yours or somethin’?” The skinny man grins at me, a good selection of his teeth are missing, or have turned black. His lank hair is thinning and he smells like shit, and decay. “Yeah nah man, yeah nah. You’se know, just doin’ mah thang…” he’s twitching and jerking with each word. A junkie of some sort. Probably found a jumpsuit in the laundry and thought he’d steal and sell off someone’s hard earned tools. The gathered crowd wants to flush him out an air lock, but instead Daryl drags him over to a yellow cubicle stationed at the edge of the gangway, a good two hundred meters from any section of crew quarters. Standard hr protocol. We’ll live where we work, but management can’t get within one hundred meters of our recreational crew quarters. We have supervisors that are part of our crews for personnel matters outside of work hours. “No, we can’t wease him, we’re not murderers. He can go sit with HR, for a protocol rehabilitation session or ten to set him straight… ” pushing the greasy looking man into a chair, his slightly dusty pink apprentice uniform looking drastically out of place among all the men in filthy red coveralls after a full shift. “Dougie, you see Andy around, I want to discuss his progress on The Last Great Venture shielding before he retires to bed.” Daryl, is looking at me, concern etched across his face. The dirty guys coveralls are awful pristine to have come out of this side of the laundry facility. “Eh no, I haven’t seen him. He was so excited from work today he raced on ahead of me.” Andrew’s grinning face is no where to be seen in the crowd, or through the dirty view port that looks into our crew lounge.

“Sorry man” the HR flunkie says, “They just found his stripped body buried in among the tool chests. Looks like our greasy friend here came upon Andy unawares, while he was locking down his unit, hit him over the back of the head with a fire extinguisher. Direct hit to the base of the skull. It was quick. From the grin still on his face, he never felt a thing… ” the words fade out to nothingness. A slight buzz fills my head. Another dead kid. This one, now he had potential. He’s going to be difficult to replace. Somewhere external to us the shift change klaxon is going off. I have eight hours before I have to be back on. Daryl is going to be ornery for a while to come. Fucking junkie scum. Should have put him out on the float like the crowd wanted. I feel a stiff drink or ten are on my immediate horizon. Outside the bleak emptiness of space continues to float around us, undisturbed.

 

PART V

Well holy shit, I managed

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To write thirty one times in the month of January. I was not expecting that to happen, at all. I had high hopes for perhaps, seven to ten written pieces, but thirty one!?! No, no chance.

Work is starting to gather at the edges, so I won’t be going all out this month, but if some creative thoughts come to me, I do hope I’ll put pen to paper, as it were.

Thanks to those who read my micro short stories. My favourite three are intertwined and tell the same continued story. Big fan of space, isolation, revenge, and loneliness. In case my writing doesn’t tell you that, I’m telling you that now.

Hope to see you around here over the rest of 2020, and beyond. The flu was generally awful, I don’t reccomend it to anyone, if they can help it.

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

“What are you doing, you’ve had that song on repeat for like…

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A full fucking hour.” She says, lifting the headphones up and off my ear. Just as suddenly, she falls backwards into her torn armchair, resuming reading her book. I sit forward in my seat, and put my pen down on my desk. It rolls away from my finger tips, falling down to the floor with a clatter. Angrily adjusting my head phones I turn towards her and say ” Jesus!, it’s so close, it’s right there, I just can’t figure out what that idea was. It was so vivid last night. I’m sure I was listening to this song when it came to me.” Clearly, I am irritable, and slightly disheveled, as I gesticulate wildly. The paper in front of me is blank, except for crossed out half thoughts and angry scribbles. Lowering her book down slightly, peering over the top she remarks. “Babe, you fell asleep on the couch last night. You didn’t even make it past Jeopardy.” Sitting stock still with my fingers pinching the bridge of my nose. “Well,… shit. I dreamt that?” Rocking back deeper into her arm chair, it’s hard stripes at odds with the growing shadows of the late afternoon, she laughs. A full throated bark. It echoes in our quiet mid town apartment. Softly, I can hear the neighbours dog yapping in reply. The old plaster walls really don’t dampen much between units here. Standing up from my chair, I grab the sheet of paper, cross the room, haphazardly covered with crumpled pieces of paper, I fold it a couple times and drop it into the recycling. I stop a moment to watch it float soundlessly into the bin. Car horns can be heard outside, a bird chirps and a siren screams in passing. The sun has begun to set, and along the sidewalk street lamps are starting to stir.

Very bad, no good, awful poetry : Series 3

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The best part about doing this series of early poetry written by myself as a teen, is that it has garnered exactly zero attention, and thus has gained no traction online, so while I have the catharsis of sharing it, I know deep down it will remain just as hidden to the outside world as it would had I left it untouched in my note book, on the shelf in my office, where it has sat since late 2009. Oh the unbridled joy of on line anonymity. Plus I’m a straight, white male, so not a whole lot of flack comes at me, unless I were to go out of my way to be a huge asshole. And I save that sort of thing for snide remarks at a movies expense while at the theater. So Boo.

If you’re just joining us now, or me, now, a few things you’ll come to understand. I’m not a professional writer, though at one point in my formative years I had ambitions for becoming a comic book creator / writer. I did give serious thought to Journalism school at Sheridan College, but did art instead. Probably money well spent given the caliber of the work if you look across the length and breadth of my old written pieces. Yikes. So feel free to curl up and have a good chuckle at my expense. From what I’m seeing as I revisit these old works, is they aren’t terribly offensive, except in that they are just awful. Low grade, faux depth, pretentious gobbledegook. Another three hot, steaming turds for your viewing delight.

1.) The sky at night Circa 1999

A lone ball of flame. Gas from an unknown region. Source of light in an uncaring life. A wonder. All ablaze, separated by nothingness and the cold distance between us. I can see you there, hovering, seemingly still, yet you twinkle. Do I dare dream on you tonight, what a wish, what wish, my wish, my right.

What I think is going on here, is like a version of wish upon a star, but kind of mopey and murky. I don’t think I had started to work nights yet, as a high schooler. I did work one semester for a place called Norkim Distributions in Brampton, a job I got because of a former girlfriends parents. I was lucky enough that they drove me to work and picked me up for the 90% of the time I worked there for a semester out of high school. I remember not being able to talk to anyone for most of the day, then as I got home, tired, I’d just natter away until I made my parents angry and they told me to just shut up. I get it now. I’m not a big fan on inane nattering. It was more as a way of dealing with being virtually silent the whole day, and feeling like I might explode if I didn’t just get a days worth of talking out once I got home. It definitely felt solitary. Doesn’t make the poetry any better though now does it. And they say that pain and sorrow create great art, no!, Talent, talent creates great art. Not merely being a morose mother fucker.

2.) Gripe : Twice daily Circa 1999

Whatever I mean, whatever I’ve said, it won’t matter much if I can’t get out of bed. Whoever I am, whomsoever I was, it doesn’t mean anything, and it didn’t mean much. Wherever I was, wherever I go, I won’t do anything, if I go it alone. With, without, what can I say.

Some of these I remember writing, even if vaguely. But this one eludes me, almost completely. I think I am really absorbing a lot of Temple of the Dog at this point, and trying to skirt the notion of completely ripping of Chris Cornell and the Mother Love Bone guys. It doesn’t flow together at all. The rhythm is off, and it sort of just fades away. Like I was trying to be prophetic, and found pathetic instead. On a second reading I guess, I wanted to be told I had something to say, but there really is no “there” there. It’s just pure, unadulterated cheese, “Fromage” for the old school Much Music Ed the Sock crowd.

3.) The fix is in Circa 2000

Sure, I still feel miserable three months down that road. A long hard journey through the vast unknown. But what’s to worry, because when I’m dead and gone, all those years from then, what will it matter, if I was a little mixed up inside my head. Time off, time alone, time apart. It’s all a healing process taken for a broken heart.

Whoo, that ones a bit of a floater. But I will say this, it follows a through line, and doesn’t get too heady. No major calling cards of a bloated sense of writing skill. Fairly layman in execution. No changing places with the man in the mirror. A break up poem if ever I wrote one. That’s it for this installment of terrible, awful poetry. If this does anything at all for you, feel free to post any of your own, miserable teen angst prone writing. Be free of your poor choice of prose! let the wicked underbelly of flatulent poetry free. Blast it into the ether! Fill the void with your own stinky mass of blind ambition.