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“And now – for the exciting conclusion to…”

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Booms the deep gravelly voice from the media screen. “Oh turn the crap off would you. I’m sick to death of hearing about that stupid fucking ship.” She says it to me from behind her console. Lt. Anise Rashida. Dressed in her baggy black jumpsuit, her maroon hair braided tightly to her scalp. The pale mocca colour of her skin looks vaguely blue in the backwash of her monitors glow. From the rolling nature of the glow I can tell that the security data she is looking through is scrolling at an incredible rate. If it weren’t for her slight modifications from a childhood injury she would never have been able to take it all in. Bionic eye implants gives her an extra external memory core so that visual data can be saved in snap shots and rendered into code directly inputted into her brain and via her visual enhancement processors. Makes for a great cop who can recall everything she has ever seen. “Babe, you know that whatever info they are releasing about the event will be heavily doctored or reframed to depict The Company in the best light possible. What a crock. I see “official” documents all day long. Some of them are from cases I worked and what gets archived or purged from the system, or even reported up the chain of command can be wildly different from the actual events on the ground.” She is non plussed by her admission. Just a matter of fact. Well, more like fiction. But to the masses still aboard the torus station, what gets passed down to them is expected to be taken as gospel. Loose lips sink ships, so they have cracked down hard on the conspiracy theorists, and anarchists alike. Quietly transporting them off station, never to be seen or heard from again. Only their closest friends and family know that their presence has been totally erased from the ship board archives. Some real Gestapo shit. But, we’re paid well, always busy, and are provided with more entertainment options than you could ever grow tired off.

“Don’t you think it’s weird that the station has become so empty over the last few years? Like shift change used to be this momentous thing, three times a day. Now you’ll be lucky to get eight people in a power lift down to the main concourse. Where has everyone gone?” I ask this question daily, and my glorious security chief wife just rolls her eyes at me and continues to work from her spot in our joint gel couch. The covers pulled down around her waist in a fluffy puddle of fabric. Although she is still wearing her coveralls she has removed all her webbing, strapping and holsters. Her cache of side arms and her baton and cuffs are securely squared away in her closet lock box. If we are ever hit with a pocket sized nuke, right in our rooms, that thing will still manage to survive unscathed. Without those bodily restrictions her coveralls look rather baggy and almost comfortable. The tough teflon weaved fabric can soak up a knife stab as well as a ballistic projectile from a small to medium sized weapon. Up to a .45 caliber bullet, but that would likely break the bones directly behind the path of the projectile. Not that the station engages in much small arms fire. We’re more likely to suffer meteorites, close calls by comets or kamikaze spaceships or crewed transports. The criminal element aboard the torus is mostly fixated on unlicensed sex and drugs. Quick and easy, simple to hide. Except when a curious case of VD sweeps through certain sections of the station. Things are drying up, now that the station is not the huge concentration of people it once was. The remaining security teams are bored, and spend most of their time on rounds checking for hull breaches or previously undiagnosed damage from the fallout of the events that surround Margot’s Fever.

“Jesus.” A loud in draw of breath from the bedroom. A gasp. Something Anise has never done before. Ever. And she was apart of the crew that had to go out and collect the masses of corpses from around the station after the accident. “What is it? What’s the matter?” In the span of a heart beat I’m up off my chair, across the adjoining room and at the foot of our bed. “I’m being transferred. To someplace listed only as UB313. Where the fuck is that? There’s no sector on this ship with that designation.” A strange look is upon her face. She must be trying to access the external visual memory to cross reference the place name. “How are you finding out about this now, at this hour?” I ask. “Oh, well you know that Lt. Dave is dealing with his daughters leukemia, and he gave me a field promotion and access to the intranet within the security force. Who boy, and I thought I knew a lot of shit before. Some of the notes, appendices and evaluations logged here are super strange. I don’t even know why we’d even have half of this stuff. Looks like I’ll get notified on Friday morning. With orders to ship out on Saturday night. Says you aren’t on the manifest to join me. Well, fuck me. How do you like that, fucking bullshit.” A mask of calm covers her face, the briefest moment of rage suppressed by years of training and personal will power. “Right. Well I’ll have to get that sorted. Don’t worry babe, I’ll not leave you behind.”

Dear god, why didn’t she just leave me behind. The cramped dark cell is wet from the damp air, and human waste. There isn’t even room to stretch out my legs, or to raise an arm. The only light visible through the bars of the dog kennel sized door is a sickly pale green. I have not seen nor heard from anyone since I boarded the security vessel on our trip out to UB313. I was directed to climb into a separate crew compartment than my wife, and the last thing I remember was falling to the ground. Like succumbing to a gas attack, or anesthesia. Then I woke up in here. I screamed myself hoarse over the course of three days. Not a soul responded to me. This cage is so tight I am unable to look at my biometrics implant in my forearm. I think I’ve been left here to die.

“Right this way Lt. Col Rashida, we have a med pod couch for you up at the front. This will be an extensive trip and your duties rigorous. We have some rejuvenation treatments set up for you aswell.” The ships captain is leading her away from me. A tug on my right elbow is the only direction I get as I’m led to a soldiers bare bones gel couch at the rear of the vessel. There are a whole slew of empty berths surrounding a huge metal canister. I’m roughly placed into my couch and the glass door shut unceremoniously. Before I can even say thanks, the room goes black. My vision immediately begins to swim as a soft hiss can be heard by the vents near the headrest. There’s no coolant gel, no sedation. This is different. I can hardly breath. What the fuck is going on here…

“Welcome back to the land of the living Lt. Col. Rashida. We have some troubling news for you. Your husband Ravindar didn’t survive the transit. The far crew compartment suffered an ammonia leak from a micro meteorite shower we were breaking through upon deceleration out near Saturn. We are so sorry for your loss ma’am.” The junior office starts to turn away from the gel couch, as the Lt. Col starts to ask a question. “Please, can I see the body. I’d like to gather his personal effects.” Rising from the couch, feeling slightly woozy from the rejuvenation treatments. “That will not be possible. Company protocol is to jettison all dead crew from the ship upon detection, so as to limit any possible exposure to decay, bacteria and airborne contamination.” With a crisp salute, he exits the med bay where the pod is located. A few members of the medical staff can be seen milling about. Death in transit has unfortunately become very common place these days. No one is safe. Before she can even think to dwell her wrist chirps with her new orders. Looks like she has about twenty weeks of intensive zero g combat training to augment her current skill sets. No time to think. Her wrist alarm is telling her she is late to meet her XO, and get debriefed. The darkness out here is pervasive and deeply oppressive. The black ops site runs dark both figuratively and quite literally.

 

PART XVII

The official report on the events surrounding the launch of Margot’s Fever.

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Official Document_Mission Briefing for The Company_Designation: CLASSIFIED: RE | Margot’s Fever. ORD NO. 200076317 – FAA

After the events during the launch of Margot’s Fever and it’s alleged subsequent ten year absence [Captain’s Psych evaluation attached in Appendix Sec. 29] we have determined that there was merely an unknown error type during the ships jump to safety after the initial destruction of the observation decks and the shearing off of the starboard thruster housing. The following excerpts are from the various in person interrogations The Company investigators conducted on behalf of the Torus station security council, joint chiefs and the entire board of directors.

Lt. Jenji Tashimoto: Engineering

“I’m not denying anything, sir. It’s only that the events didn’t unfold exactly like that sir. Yes sir. I understand I’m under oath. All I’m saying is, is that those reports you are quoting aren’t one hundred percent accurate. That is all I am saying. I am not calling you a liar. No, No I’m not. Listen ok, I was there alright. Look at my fucking biometrics ok, just fucking read them. We’ve all aged ten years… Ok. It wasn’t mass hysteria, it wasn’t a hoax, we blew the leaders of the [REDACTED] out the god damned air locks, ok. We fucking ate a full two thirds of the [REDACTED] because there was no way we could have known how long the jump using the [REDACTED] engines would take. the math was off… I’m telling you the truth! Just look at the biometrics data…, let go of me… No don’t you dare put that shit in my veins…”

Although some of the stories vary a little bit, the call to check the biometrics data is a popular refrain among the two hundred souls who reappeared after the failed jump by Margot’s Fever. Lt. Tashimoto came very highly recommended for his position in engineering. Although he now seems agitated and to suffer from a severe case of PTSD. His manner was confrontational, and we were forced on more than eleven occasions to subdue him with Thorazine, and later on, Fentanyl derivatives. He was adamant about the time span too. Although the on station sensors only registered their disappearance over the course of less than one half second.

Col. James O’Brien: Medical

“The captain is a good man. Given the circumstances, and the data sets we had he made a judgment call. I know how that goes. You’re looking for a scapegoat, a way to tie this up with a clean little bow, and hang it around his god damned neck. Listen… I didn’t agree with it, but his assessment of the situation was sound. But have you not checked the [REDACTED] scans, we’re all ten fucking years [REDACTED]. Many of those who survived are showing serious signs of malnourishment. That doesn’t happen over a half a second trip, or if you skip your fucking breakfast. He told you. He told you outright that he did not want to captain that ship, and you sent him anyway. No, he didn’t show signs of being suicidal, or of a predisposition towards murderous rage. He was a hard nose captain, who ran a tight ship and could get things done. It was a traumatic event, no wonder he’s showing signs of psychosis. We had a mutiny to deal with. Jesus fucking Christ guys, aren’t you listening to me. We ATE members of the crew! We ate friends, colleagues, mentors, everyone who couldn’t cut it over the [REDACTED] gap, those who fought to turn around and jump back, when we thought we’d [REDACTED]…

The remaining medical staff from Margot’s Fever all parrot the same thing, there was a mutiny, they had to kill the leaders of the challenge group, who wanted to turn around and come home. Many of them junior members of the crew. Those who didn’t realize they were traveling trillions of miles in an instant with no hope of returning home to the same time frame they left. Relativity has eluded these select few. Though none lived to return in order to give us there side of the mutiny. we only have the resources provided to us by The Company, regarding personal notes, video logs and such to go in in making our recommendations.

Lt. Juniper Brash: Navigation

“He told us that we’d gone into the sixth dimension. That we never traveled forwards at all, we just sort of dissolved out of our reality, or existence or what have you, and wound up some billions of years in the future as the universe itself was ending. We saw the last handful of stars before they too winked out. Just empty blackness. Ten years of looking at nothing. No light beyond our own ship board fixtures. No stimulus, nothing on the sensor arrays, nowhere to navigate to or from. He told us, he… he told us that the ships AI [Refer to Captain’s Psych Eval*] told him, after ten years of compiling data, or counting one’s and zero’s as he was want to say, that it was finally time to jump back to where we thought the earth would be. Listen I am telling you, that under no uncertain terms, this ship does not have an AI on board. The only items that you could even possible say had any sort of intelligence are the hull repair drones, and a tiny fraction of the cleaning bots. But their programming only helps them to not get stuck under doors, or tables, and how to recognize damage to the hull’s shielding and environmental protection. It’s just insane. He told us he was talking to a grey metal box full of pink goo kept in a storage room on the engineering decks, and it straight up talked to him, via the ships intercom. That’s fucking nuts, the guy is in-fucking-sane. Sir.”

We have reason to believe that we’ve got enough anecdotal eye witness accounts of the Captain, to place him under protective custody and have him removed to a soft location out beyond Charon. The penal colony there won’t recognize him, and he can undergo the therapy he requires to live a long and prosperous life. Other such similar recommendations are being discussed for all other surviving members of Margot’s Fever crew. Those that confessed to murdering and eating the rest of the crew may be quietly euthanized in transit. And disposed of during course corrections. No physical evidence shall be made available to anyone. Discretion is advised. Code level : Zulu Alpha Prometheus.

It has come down from the top brass that any and all data pertaining to the event is to be purged, or moved off sight to our non disclosed silent operations out beyond UB313. However the security guys have requested data on the Fabric of Reality Engine. They want the data sets from any operations system wide diagnostics that may have been run during transit, and the flight plan, the navigational data. Basically everything about the ship, except data regarding the crew, or their personal logs. Although any entries originating from the bridge, engineering decks, or the sensor arrays will be transferred to them as well.

Official Document_Mission Briefing for The Company_Designation: CLASSIFIED: RE | Margot’s Fever. ORD NO. 200076318 – FAA_Continued

…How can there be this much data in the black boxes. They must have been corrupted. There are millions of terabytes of information in here. The sensors and antenna array data is off the fucking charts. They are recording Gamma bursts from detonating neutron stars for fuck’s sake… The coordinates are bonkers… The data is so complex, it’s not even relevant to three, four or even five dimensions. I think they went to the sixth fucking dimension… I believe that they managed to time travel. Or shift, no phase is a better term, they phased back just milliseconds before they left. The time loop, theorys regarding fate and free will, the theoretics on this will make someone an absolute fortune… It’ll take us decades to cover all the data here. Then we’ll have to parse it all for errors, corruption in the data, or sensor malfunctions… Whatever happened here, it was not what the simulations and math predicted… Glad it didn’t really. If it had, the entire solar system would have compressed down into a black hole and killed all eight billion of us, once they kicked off those experimental engines…

Black Sight: UB313 Research Base

From the limited amount of data given to us, we think that by all accounts the engines worked, just not how we had originally planned. We think what happened was that the trip was not instantaneous, at least not how we humans perceive it. Even light takes years to travel vast distances. From the incomplete data sets made available to us we believe that they got spooked in the blankness of transit, and that they panicked. That would explain some of the blankness in the sensor data. Perhaps the excess of gamma radiation was shielding stars from the ships view. They then made the jump back so quickly that they damn near landed on themselves as they were just about to jump out. We haven’t worked out the temporal science yet. The math guys are trying to work it out now as there is talk of phasing or resolving back into our time space [sic.]. Once the off sight guys review the data, they think they can figure it out fairly quickly. It was a less than one half second jump, so there won’t be too much extraneous data to parse. We have been given no data regarding the crew of the ship, so we have no new information or insight to give there. We would kill for the opportunity to interrogate even just a handful of the two thousand members of crew. We suggest that you commandeer Margot’s fever, send it out to us here, and let us test drive the engines for further insight.

Official Document_Mission Briefing for The Company_Designation: CLASSIFIED: RE | Margot’s Fever. ORD NO. 200076689 – FAA_Continued

Absolutely not. The ship has been decommissioned, and the program jettisoned from the university archives, and all knowledge therein has been purged, in unofficial terms.

Torus Station : Two years after the events of Margot’s Fever.

Inside the media screening suite, sits the HR director Ms. Taylor. She is surrounded by members of the security council, joint chiefs of staff and the full board of directors. The room is quite cramped with all those orange jumpsuits, and their attendant staff. The room smells of rich cologne, Bourbon and some cigar smoke. The walls are painted a mixture of dark green, yellow, red and a rich burgundy. Ms. Taylor has to be conscious of where she stands, otherwise she might fade into the scenery behind her. Her crisp, tailored jumpsuit, a deep burgundy, with Green, Yellow, Red, and Brown arm bands is standing at the head of the table ready to lead the group through vetting The Company’s Official re-enactment of the events that will be released to the masses. “Thank you for joining us here today ladies and gentlemen.” A sweeping arm wave, a gesture of welcoming and of a collaborative tone. Ms. Taylor looks to be about twenty years of age, though she is far older than that. The counterparts in the room are all in their seventies, and are too far gone for the rejuvenation treatments she frequents. She caught that train right on time. The lights in the room go dim, and the movie flashes up on screen.

“So what do you think?” announces the most junior member of the board of directors. Looking around the room Ms Taylor pipes up. “I think that this fictional recounting of those events is a travesty, a total miscarriage of justice. Like a prolapsed anus, that script is both painful and messy. It skips over so much, and portrays that captain as a loon right from the get go. If I know my people, and I know them well, a good portion will hate this. Hate. It. But for the masses, it’s perfect.” with a clap of her hands, the room breaks up and everyone filters out and back to their living quarters.

The rebuild has been tough for everyone over the last two years. The last thing HR Director Taylor wants is to fuel the conspiracies, and set some growing agitation alight. She would have preferred that they answer a few of the tougher questions surrounding the events, and the disappearance of the crew, but she didn’t produce this film, and it’s not her place to edit it. Just vet it with an eye towards morale, and the new normal aboard the torus station. Her inability to know more chafes at her neck. Perhaps a visit down to the Sanitation department might provide some much needed answers. Seeing as how she has had them under her purview for more than two years now, a visit down below might actually be in order. Calling up a display inside the media suite, in the dim lights, she waits while the pinging noise from her wrist biometrics chimes softly in the empty room.

 

PART XVI

When they told me I had been selected for the maiden voyage of…

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Margot’s Fever I told them no thank you. When they asked me why I would turn down the opportunity to be a part of an historic crew going to the edges of the known universe in search of missing elements from our shared human past, I told them I was petrified of the ship, and the potential to be lost to both time and physical space. Too many unknowns, too many variables to weigh and calculate. It couldn’t be done. I thought better of it, but I told them flat out that the fact we could warp space time, and the fabric of our reality scared me to death. Left me in a state of paralysis that could potentially doom the ship. The empty dull faces staring back at me in the board of directors chamber said those were perfect answers, and they saw no reason that I should not captain the ship out to the edge of oblivion with a full crew compliment of two thousand souls. I wept. Then I threw up. I thought about murder, I thought about suicide. I thought about walking through the nearest airlock with no suit on and embracing a heartless cruel death. Instead I shipped out. Margot’s Fever would become a monument to hubris and human folly. And the weight of it all would rest firmly atop my shoulders to grind my soul to dust. And it all began the evening of the ships launch event.

“Alright helmsman let’s pull about on the starboard side and ignite the in system ion engines. Bathe those media bastards in brilliant blue light!” Seated in my captain’s chair at the center of the bridge, I am surrounded by scores of officers, dutifully buried in their tasks. Noses pressed to screens, tablets and work stations alike. Everyone wants to make The Company happy, and putting on this dog and pony show to hype up the mission goes a long way to accomplishing that. Great video feeds and network coverage can boost The Company on more fronts than they’d ever let us in on. Not just morale, but a moral victory for humanity. To finally be able to send man to the furthest reaches of the eternal abyss and live to tell the tale. What a thrill, or so they thought. Those desk jockeys never did anything real beyond count the zeros in The Company cheque book. Keep in black, we got your back. In the red, you best come back dead. “Pulling about starboard side, captain. Ignition in three… two… one… firing all three engines, we are lit sir.” The helmsman is an androgynous Ceresian individual of moderate height, with an undercut and long violet hair on top. Competent. But no ability for banter. The role of captain is very isolating when your subordinates don’t have the confidence for exuberant banter. Where’s my XO, the commanding officer can really give us all shit right when you need it the most. “Ok, now ease off, and let’s float for fifteen kilometers then we should get the go ahead from transportation for us to make our way out of the system before firing off those Fabric of Reality engines.” affectionately known as FOR E’s, like four ease. Never want to be within one hundred au’s of any habitable system when you kick those fuckers off. They run on something like antimatter, would wipe out everything in the system and create a super massive black hole in its place. More of a devastating weapon than a mode of transport. And to think we have nineteen year old technicians trained on its maintenance like it’s just any old engine. Oh, to be young and stupid. So my I’ll placed regard for technology and personal skill. Some shit just wasn’t meant to be bottled up and used at the whim of mankind.

Wee-ooh, wee-ooh, wah wah wah… warning bells are sounding, proximity alerts are buzzing, hull breach klaxons are blaring. Margot’s Fever is starting to list dangerously toward the Torus station. “Navigation, how far out are we… engineering, status report on the hull damage, are we breached? Medical, are we showing many casualties? Sound off!”

“We’re only point five of a kilometer from the station, we’re falling back along the line. Somethings hit us. Whatever it was, it’s massive. The thrusters aren’t responding. I can’t get the ship to course correct.” The navigator is a pale, bald woman who is only about ninety pounds and four feet tall. She looks puzzled and bewildered at the same time. “Engineering here sir. We have major malfunctions all across the board. Hull breaches, engine failures, and our sensors are getting peppered by biologicals. Jesus, I think those are bodies. Christ all mighty, the Torus is coming apart at the seams…” “ok medical, I’ll assume you’re not in a state to collect any possible survivors from deep space?” “No life signs sir. We’ve got enough problems from within the ship sir. Whole decks have lost atmosphere, suffered catastrophic decompression in the XO’s crew compartments. I’ll get back to you sir.” A second violent shake pushes Margot’s Fever right up against the outer torus of the space station. In the dark recesses behind the moon, the glow of the sun adds a beautiful halo around the torn and rended edges of the outer ring sections. Bursts of flame, and geysers of escaping oxygen can be seen. Bodies, like a hail of bullets are sucked out of the station by the hundreds. Beyond the destruction the only thing visible are the exhaust blooms from other ships that are breaking their acceleration towards the dying station. “We can’t take much more of this abuse. What is our hull integrity like security?” By now everyone is shouting over the alarms, alerts, buzzers and klaxons. It is a cacophonous mess inside the bridge. From behind me a deep voice booms. “Hull integrity at fifty four percent and dropping sir. We need to get out of here now.”

Inside the luxurious suite where HR director Catherine Taylor lives, a live cast is showing the horrific deaths, in gruesome detail of two hundred of the most rich and famous members of the torus station. The dead camera men floating out in the void with the gigantic listing ship Margot’s Fever in frame. Gas and sparks and bits of shrapnel are jettisoning off the massive interstellar ships hull. Save for the timer blinking on the media screen, the room is empty and has been untouched for hours.

“Good evening Catherine, I didn’t think we’d see you back in the med bay for another treatment so soon.” The doctor, dressed from head to toe in blue, is the only person on board the torus station with the cahones to call her by her birth name and not by her hard earned title. “Isn’t tonight the big launch event? What I would give for a chance to dress up and mingle on the observation decks. God, what a sight that must be. I bet the hors d’oeuvres must be spectacular.” “Oh, you have no idea. Succulent culinary delights, to be certain. But with two new unions under my purview I’m exhausted. I can’t even bring myself to watch it. I have it set to record. I’ll skim the feed later on, I’m sure.” “All right then Catherine!strip down and we’ll get you sorted out ok. Do you need me to initiate it for you, or can you handle it now, by yourself?” Without waiting for a response the doctor strides across the brilliantly lit room to her office, a small alcove tucked against the far wall. There are several others just like it scattered about the octagonal med bay. “No, please, do it for me. Bitch.” Catherine steps lightly on the cold metal floor and hops up into the medical pod. Pulling the heavy door closed over the tube, the inner screen jumps to life. The biometrics scan immediately, and a cursor and prompt appear to flash before her eyes. Running through the checklist she decides to set the rejuvenation protocol to the three hour full tissue and fiber recalibration setting. More staff under her means she can take the resources appropriate to her station. With this expanded role, she is now, unofficially in charge of some fifty seven percent of all staff aboard the Torus station. She out ranks every other senior member of the board of directors. With a smirk on her face she triggers the program count down. “This never gets old.” She says out loud, it echoes within the small chamber. Over the med pod pa system the clock counts down. “Rejuvenation protocol four set to commence in five… four… three… two… Ooooo-ooonnne….” with a sudden jolt, the coolant gel spurts out, as the med pod system jitters in the midst of the power grid overloading. A look of shock is frozen upon Catherine’s face, as the med bay goes black, and the doctor is drawn helplessly out into the far reaches of space.

“There’s no time. I don’t know who, or what the fuck those exhaust plooms are, punch the FOR E’s, and get us the fuck out of here, now!” “Fucking hell sir. No. I can’t authorize that. I refuse.” Shouts the helmsman. “You what? We’re all going to die out here. The station. It’s gone. Dead. Totally dark. In thirty seconds, those people.” I’m waving indistinctly at a general direction of what I can only assume are a collection of ships. “Killed about forty thousand people, and critically injured this vessel. We have to assume that they have, or will attack every base, rig, ship and station in this system. We must save ourselves. We were never going to make it back here to this time anyway. Fuck them. Punch it. NOW!” I am absolutely livid. In a panic, and can’t give any thought to anyone who isn’t under my direct supervision. “Forget it. I’ll do it my damn self.” Leaning over my console I punch in my seventeen letter override code, ease back the trigger and squeeze, the vision on screen before us goes entirely black.

Three years later, and I am still unable to come to terms with the choices I made while under extreme pressure. Duress, you might even say. Truth is, I wanted the helmsman to ignite the for ease so that I didn’t have to live with the knowledge that I doomed our home solar system. You can’t just extinguish eight billion human lives and go grab a cuppa with your pals after a long shift. For those who survived the initial attack, and weren’t on the bridge, it was life as per usual. The weird thing about the drive was there was no sudden acceleration or thrust to denote we had moved so far so quickly. We folded the fabric of space and popped out the other side. The computer is still attempting to triangulate where we ended up. Three years and it’s still counting ones and zeros to locate us. I jest, but I think we’d jumped through space and into pure nothingness. There are only a handful of stars in view here. And it is unsettling to say the least. The damage we suffered means we only have one chance to make a successful jump anywhere else in the universe. We have to guard that option with our very lives.

Five years out here and we’ve finally had to put a mutinous insurrection to rest. It cost us dearly. Nearly a full two thirds of the crew were either killed in the fight, or jettisoned off the craft for their part in it. Seems the theory of relativity didn’t occur to some members of staff until we had to float near dead in the water for a year. Some of the younger crew members were desperate to turn around and jump home. But you can’t travel thousands of trillions of miles instantly, and turn around and go that same distance back and expect to find ma and pa waiting at home for you. Life as we know it is gone. We have become a myth, a legend. And the unending darkness in isolation is killing us all. But oh! What a fanciful tomb.

“Captain’s journal, entry date, 3700 days since our initial jump. The ships ai has queried me for an update on our location. There are only a tenth of us left. We set out, ten years ago with a full crew compliment of two thousand souls. The last two hundred are a sad, feral bunch. Life is harsh here, among the living dead.” With a loud ping the ships computer alerts me it has an answer ready on our actual location. Turning from the terminal in the bowels of engineering I stumble over to the ships ai compartment. A tiny room, with a gray box full of pink goo in it. “Captain.” “Good evening Margot.” “I have determined our location, would you care to know more?” “Yes Margot, I would love to know where the fuck we are.” “We are currently less than one one hundred thousandth of one percent of an au from earth, in the sixth dimension. The reason there are so few stars here, is that we are witnessing the final stages of the universe. As the stars wink out, all becomes nothing, until it becomes something once more.” Falling to the floor, dumbfounded. Silence. “If we jump, do we stay put but leap dimensions?” I croak out the question to the ships ai. “Yes captain. Our initial projections for the engine were false. It is only a dimensional shift created, not forward movement.” “Do we… can we… can we go back to where we started?” “Why yes captain. Though I would not advise it. Our reappearance could be violent.” “But if there’s a chance we have to try!” Bolting to my feet, I race headlong through the ships corridors, charging toward the long unused bridge. Scanning my biometrics, retinas and finger prints, I breathe upon the service latch to release the biological locks I had put in place. Darting incoherently for my captain’s chair, I pull down the trigger on the for ease engine ignition override.

Resolving back into our regular third dimension with an incredible crash, not quite here, no longer there, we splice half in half out of reality atop of ourselves and the Torus station. Gutting the observation decks, and slicing off all thrusters on the starboard side of Margot’s Fever.

 

PART XV

I have a lot of respect for editors

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Now that I am face to face with nearly 30,000 words worth of short stories to review and correct. I do not have an exceptional grasp of high level grammar, syntax and the like. My writing style is pretty pulpy or plebeian. I did my university papers with the same layman’s appeal that I use today. I think I was accused of using purple prose once so I don’t try to get too flowery or “cerebral”. That’s not who I am. But I digress. Editing, and editors. You must have a fairly wide continuum in the quality of work you see. Although I couldn’t imagine there being too many commercially successful writers whom turn in work that requires too extensive a review. But I don’t know. I’m a graphic designer who also dabbles in sculpture, so my knowledge of the ins and outs of the world of paid writing is woefully underdeveloped. Looking at forty plus pages to go through a few times is more daunting to me than writing anything. Mind you, I write micro short stories, so if I keep it succinct I can probably write four hundred to one thousand words and be happier than a pig in shit. Creating something from nothing is simpler to me, than making sure what is written follows all the appropriate rules of the english language. Kudos to all you editors out there. And to any writer who takes on the task themselves. Brave souls, the lot of you.

Editing the collection of short stories.

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

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

Best of luck to you all.

“Rolling in five, four, three, two…”

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And the producer throws to the reporter seated on a plush white crash couch, in the middle of a small studio. The reporter is dressed in a bulky beige jumpsuit, capable of near instantaneous release of her atmospheric helmet and respirator re-breather. Not used to being in the studio, this intrepid reporter usually reports live from location, out on a ships hull, the outer surface of a far off space station or in a war zone. The reporter, named Janet Hawke, is about forty years old, slightly graying down her part line, with her salt and pepper hair pulled back into a severe ponytail. “Good evening, this is Torus station news, channel seventy three. I’m your host this evening, Janet Hawke. Tonight we are welcoming a very special guest, an historian on the emergence and use of our current biometric interface. Welcome, welcome. Please have a seat.” Gesturing off camera, the view pulls back to place the older gentleman in frame, as he steps through a dark purple curtain, to cross the few steps and step up onto the dais to his pristine white crash couch, under intense white lights, from a rig overhead. After a brief musical interlude the man scoots up into the raised gel couch and makes himself comfortable. “No!, thank you, it’s a real pleasure to be here today. I was told I’d be interviewed by Rosie Reyes, but YOU, the one and only Janet Hawke wow!, you’ve reported on some truly auspicious events. I’m positively tickled pink, I am. Wait until my husband sees this!” With a charming giggle, he affixes his game face, and cues the producer with a subtle gesture that he is ready to proceed. “Now, dr. Benjamin Hoyt, as I’ve come to understand the history of our current technology stretches back more than five hundred years.” “Oh, yes, it really is a marvel, we have so much documentation, patents, interviews and research dating back to the nineteen fifties if you can believe that.” The two, on camera appear to be talking directly to one another, but in studio you can see the fancy white gel couches are actually on gyroscopic frames, and are about three meters apart. Safety, and precaution preclude the old fashion face to face interviews of centuries gone by. The magic of editing, and camera work. Do wonders never cease. “That is truly astounding.” “Quite, but things weren’t always so compact, nor non intrusive like they are now… ah, may I?” Gesturing to a media monitor, cutting back to Ms. Hawke. “Oh, visuals!, please do.” She says, leaning back into her couch and out of frame. A water bottle at her side, she carefully unscrews the lid and takes a sip. “Here you see, are the originals… most archaic huh! A waist band, held with velcro and button snaps, loaded with only a few simple sensors and outputs, with leads to ECG Electrodes, attached to the heart, lungs, kidneys and a power source. This design stayed virtually untouched from the nineteen fifties until two thousand twenty one.” Panning backwards the camera then fades to black, then comes to life as a voice over, with the archival video playing of ancient astronauts talking about their medical devices. “After this period, the devices were miniaturized but still held in place externally with a waist belt. That lasted from two thousand twenty one until roughly twenty sixty.” A new slide show is queued up by the producers and the staff in the editing suite behind the cameras. “Things then start to get very exciting, now we enter the first draft of the wrist control. Though these units were bulky by today’s standards, it was a massive leap forward in technological advancements. We now had a modicum of room in which to affect the body at the atomic level. By all accounts painful to wear, and we have numerous stories of people cutting themselves, and tearing through suits while maneuvering in eva. These units didn’t last much beyond four or five years, somewhere in the vicinity of twenty sixty to twenty sixty four… Yes, yes, we have a clip of one such incident. Sit back and watch.” Dr. Benjamin Hoyt’s feed is cut short, so that he might grab a quick drink, or flush his old suffering bladder. It always makes him pull a funny face as it happens. Makes his husband laugh hysterically every. Single. Time. The producers welcomed the insight given by his publicist Danielle, and built in several such cues into the segment. His inner ear piece clicks on. “We’re back in three, two….” the voice fades out. “From this we leap forward to the first ever capsules designed by oh my, I can’t quite recall…” From off camera the Doctors chipper publicist named Danielle Del Veccio prompts him with the requisite information. “Flight commander Neil Todd and his wife Jen.” Closing her binder, she steps away from the dais the crash couches are upon, and out of the field of view of the studio lights overhead. With a slight flush in the cheeks, Dr. Hoyt starts in again. “Flight commander Neil Todd and his wife Jennifer Todd. Though their work on the Non Sequitur was seminal, they opted to have the sensors removed from their person and integrated thoroughly into the ships systems. Ugly hard shell yellow boxes were placed through all crew areas, and had redundancies built in that are the framework of the systems you see in use today. In my professional opinion I think going external was a mistake, as when their cascading catastrophic failure happened, we weren’t able to get a full diagnostic on his state for well over three weeks. But they were brilliant, so they must have known something I don’t. However, given the era, and what was going on at the time politically, there was very little that could be done.” A sweeping camera shot of the studio as the show moves to commercial break. The lights go up, as an indistinct murmur pervades the room. Notes are added to the script, and portions of the slide show are clipped and tightened up for the repeat cast in several hours time. A large red countdown clock ticks over, as the seconds drop away. The bright studio lights dim.

“And we’re back. If you are just joining us now, expert historian Dr. Benjamin Hoyt is giving us an in depth look at our current state of biometrics, and how it came about.” Reporter Janet Hawke, once again smiling into the camera, her poised position on her gel couch a welcoming visage on the late hour news program. “Well, as I stated before the break, the Non Sequitur and all of the following designs are fairly similar, except that now you find our fully realized subcutaneous implants, with nano bot technology. These units, buried just below the skin, the size of a match book, are now interlinked with nano bots that infiltrate every organ and tissue fiber within the body. Just remarkable technology. We can now keep everyone from catching the common cold, flu, sinus infections, simple blood borne infections, ear aches, tooth aches, blood clots and even regulate the bodies temperature to stave off hypothermia, and hyperthermia.” The camera pulls back to show the good doctor with a massive grin upon his face. Cut to video feed of crowds oohing and aahing, as though they were in the studio. “Though the system is great, we still have to go to medical bay for treatments for Cancer, Aids, and a few other radiation related maladies.” “That is truly, truly remarkable. Man kind has achieved so much!” Janet is gearing up for her closing remarks, but Dr. Benjamin chimes in. “Oh, for the layman, the best thing about the nano integration is that the body sock waste system has been interfaced with nano’s, so no more catheters or Colostomy bags for waste expulsion!” “Can’t forget that! , and with that bombshell, this is field reporter Janet Hawke signing off for channel seventy three news. No exceptions, and no exemptions!” Stepping in front of the cameras the producer announces. “Ok, and we’re out, that’s a wrap people…” the sight of sound boards clacking, lights coming up to full strength, and studio personnel begin to walk about the small studio space. A very tall Venetian walks over to Janet to say. “If we have any pick ups, or pre-roll we’ll come find you in your dressing room. We might have to do a promo or two with Dr. Hoyt, so we’ll keep him out of the green room, and prepped to go on short notice.” Without waiting for a response, the large individual from the Venus science base is heading back to her booth, to triple check the data, and facts on the time lines. Over Janet’s ear piece she can hear her say, “We’ll need to interject some graphics into the slide show that Flight commander Todd’s Non Sequitur and subsequent classes of capsule ran circa twenty two forty until twenty two sixty. Let’s make sure our time line display really pops this time.”

 

PART XIV

“Dude… don’t lump me in with THAT fucking Martian…

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Come on man, don’t do me like that. Tsk. Dumb ass mother fucker. I’mma tag you back, you little punk ass bitch.” The argument sounds heated, but those programmers are twin brothers and are just really into their game of robot wars. Honestly, they are probably only ninety pounds when all suited up in their cyan student grade coveralls. As a bunch of truly gifted people, this group of students don’t leave the university grounds much, if at all. Building miniature fighting robots and holding tournaments on the weekends is how they unwind. A few brave souls have gone up to the green sector for some sexual encounters, but it took a real long time to get up there from the university dormitory, and they got lost a few times on the trek back. That green sector is humongous, those labyrinthine corridors will mess with your mind. The GPS on their moded biometrics came in real handy the fourth time they wound up crossing the main concourse from yet another direction. Truly maddening.

Up in the highest level of the technical program’s dormitory the gathered group of about twenty students are hard at work tweaking their entrants in the weeks bout. The fights aren’t exactly a secret, but due to the potential for catastrophic failure, the fights are frowned upon, but not entirely banned. A few professors like to swing by, place bets (usually based on hours to spend marking the robotics undergrads papers and assignments) in order to liven up the atmosphere. A bunch of asthmatics and robotics fanatics aren’t known for throwing ragers on a friday night. The room is twenty meters on each side, and four meters high. The desks have been piled up in a corner, and some mag lev fitted portable work bench, tool box combos have been brought in. There are bottles of oxygen and acetylene boxed up with a make shift welding rig. These miniature robots can kick up sparks and chew through the composite materials their shells and armor plating is made from. It’s as though Robot Jocks were taking place, if they were eight inches tall, and controlled with haptic gloves that link with biometrics, and wrap over a jumpsuit. Clunky, and definitely not sexy, but exhilarating all the same. Tiny LEDs, and sensor arrays beep, and blink and chime as the battles wear on. A thick layer of oil coats the floor, and the smell of ozone is thick in the air. Smoke swirls around the vents, seeming to hang near motionless by the cold phosphorescent lights. The room has no windows, and is located in the center of torus station. This part of the station has hundreds of rooms just like it, though most of them are dark. A few have intrepid students pulling all fighters, working on homework projects, or applications for Grant’s for professors. All very academic. A murmur of chatter and snark can be heard out in the halls. The security teams doing their rounds rarely come in here, they wave at whomever is at the door, usually it’s Paco. Paco is a very petite fellow born and raised on Mars. He has an odd sense of humor, but is one of THE best welders in the program. He has this dream to work as an ice hauler, just touring the galaxy, fixing mining gear and getting old. “Hey Paco, why the fuck you even bother with school mang, you don’t need a Ph D, just to work ice. That’s stupid.” Torrence, the local fire cracker, always stirring up shit. He’s not gifted per se, but he can get shit done just the same. Hates all the extraneous school work, but loves the program and his band of nerdy brothers and sisters. No relation. Turning back from his perch at the door, leaning on his work bench, Paco with his shiny red coveralls looks like an oversized child, but with amazingly strange facial hair. “Tsk… you know what mang, they brought me here fo’ free, mother fucker! I learn some shit, get a level three cert and it’s all cooked mang! I’m outtie. Find me a sweet wife, have a few kids, haul some frosty and settle down. No stress, big money. Yeah.” High fives and snickers of laughter all around. “You won’t catch me doing military projects for The Company, no way mang!, free range, long hauls for ice. Pirates don’t take down ice haulers. Those separatist goons don’t hijack your ship and jettison you out into space so your lungs explode, or your blood turns to gas and tries to RIP you apart. Nah-uh dude. Not for this Martian, eh Julian.” He pauses for effect. “I heard that shit. I’m not four meters from you by the door, dumb ass. I’m not a lifeless corpse out on the float hey, mother fucker.” Paco, turns back to the door, exchanging rude gestures with Julian, who is hunched over his bot on the floor. Foot steps can be heard down the hall, Paco pipes up. “Hey, yo! Who’s there. I see you man. Just cause you’re dressed in bla…” the sound of rapid fire gun shots echoes loudly through the room. Paco comes apart at the hips, cut entirely in two. Blood splatters across the door, and the tool bench he was leaning against. Ricochets can be heard pinging off the metal surface, with metal slugs punching through ceiling tiles, walls and bodies alike. One double strike catches a tiny robot in the center of the floor and ignites the oxygen tank at the rear of the room, which kicks off the acetylene bottle beside it too. With a boom the room erupts into flames. With no where for the pressure to go, it blasts out the doorway and down the hall. The covert shooter is ripped apart by the shockwave and resulting wall of flame. The heat is so intense that the room melts into molten slag. All that is left are trails of smoke, and incinerated entrails. The group will later be identified by their bones, and those without shattered teeth, their dental records.

A mile above, both decks of the observation lounge have just been breached during a live cast of the launch ceremony for the new starship Margot’s Fever. Many of the stations most famous celebrities have been sucked out into space, and died horribly.

 

PART XIII

“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

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