Dieselpunk ePulp Showcase 2 (Anthology)

Bloom

BLOOM
 
Created by Anita Dime



- Chapter 1 -

Beep…beep…flicker-flash…

“Bob,” - short, direct, down-turned: all curtness conveyed in Stan’s tone - an understood “you’re going to handle that aren’t you.” Period. No question about it. The incessant beeping had been carrying on for one too many cycles and was on Bob’s side of the control panel.

Beep….beep…flicker-flash…

Beep…

Bob rolled a yellow pencil between his palms, smiled a long “uh-hunh-yep-feel-the-burn” kinda smile towards Stan, and then clamped the pencil between his teeth. Teaming up for well over fifteen years now, these two ran operations at the Region 5 Port Terminus, a Water Company owned, mobile, mid-sized spaceport located in the Kuiper Belt, a prime aqua harvesting location.

Flipping a few switches, the exterior keying lights along the spaceport’s loading channels began flashing, queuing up the T1 Taipai, an Earth resource drop-off supertanker, to link into the receiving payload system.

Bob patched his comm-link cable into thirty-seven on the switchboard’s patch bay, connecting to Shipping-Receiving. “Carl, incoming algal crude,” he said.”Five cylinders. Prime the empties for return.” On-board, the viscous “pea soup” bio-fuel would be further processed into diesel to run the enormous Hedgehog power generators.

Beep…beep…flicker-flash…

Carl engaged the receiving spaceport payload doors, prepping the arrival of the coppery cylindrical canisters. The huge piston driven armatures opened the external doors, a system not unlike a revolver speed loader, enabling swift rotation of the empties out of the chamber and replacements in. “Copy that,” he responded. “The receiving crew is ready. Should I schedule the casting of a new buoy net?”

“Yeah, go ahead. Send out those ‘little boys’,” said Bob. Snovea buoys were a one-time use kinda deal, balls compartmentalized with chemicals that when mixed, would create temporary gravitational forces, pulling space ships towards port. U-235 was a product of the massive endothermic reaction, which could be picked up by ships, like the T1 Taipai tanker, and used as a fuel source. Casting a new net of gravitational buoys would prep for the next algal crude delivery.

Thinking of the last shipment, Bob continued, “Have the lab run a QA spot check test from several tanks. Check that they haven’t been cut with something.”

“Yeah, sure thing.” Carl asked, “Hey, what’s that beeping?”

“If things check out ok, then add these to inventory and release twenty-five units to BioFuel Lab 108.” Bob paused, adjusting, committing various procedural system checks and locks. “And never mind the beeping.”

“Down to 15 percent,” said Carl. “Glad they’re finally here. We’ve been waiting on this shipment.”

“Yeah, no joke,” agreed Bob.

Carl asked, “Anything else?”

“Nope. All’s good. Take it easy. Out,” Bob cut comm and abruptly, swiveled his console chair, facing Stan. “Affectionately” he gazed at Stan, lovingly with anime-doe eyes. “Say it,” he taunted.

“Seriously?” rolled Stan’s eyes.  “You do realize that that is the air control system alarm.” Bob was unmoved.

“Say it,” said Bob.

“Can’t you see I’m a bit busy here?” Stan wasn’t lying; he was busy, monitoring Lester and Walter’s routine harvesting procedure. Though, all-in-all, he really had a “koosh” job, one you could maintain with a cup of joe in hand.

Outside, in space, was a different story. Clamping down on the Aerogel hexie-combs, Lester locked them into place, retracted his cable, and snapped his spacesuit back into his longboard glider. Initiating the aqua-harvester alignment sequence for comet LONEOS 7, Lester dreamed of cigars and whiskey back at port. It’d been a rough week.

With a slight booster tap Walter narrowed his proximity to Lester, ready to manually support. Gracefully, he maneuvered, gliding through space, the distant sun gleaming off metallic particulates in the comet’s wake.

Within the spaceport’s control tower, a quarter of Stan’s control panel lit up, screaming panic. “Indicators within reach, thank God,” he thought. His attention snapped to his bank of four-inch monitors. After quickly reviewing the data, he voiced his concern, “Hey, come on now, Fellas. I know it’s late in the day, but pay attention. Harness those drafters right. Lester, LONEOS 7 was yesterday. This is NEAT 4, same routine, different coordinates. You get this baby out of alignment, and you can explain the space drift issues to Central.” The purple and orange glow from the square control buttons illuminated the lower base of Stan’s glasses. He shifted, looking more like a night radio DJ than a space aqua farmer.

Beep….beep…flicker-flash…

Beep…

“Yeah, OK,” acknowledged Lester.  “Hey, what’s that beeping?” he asked.

“Never mind that annoying beep.” Clenching his jaw in his attempt to not raise his voice, Stan stewed and said, “Bob’s just flipping the switch, now – aren’tcha, Bob, ” he continued.”He’s then heading to the A.I.R. generators to swap out a few lichen filters.”

“Did I hear Uncle?” asked Bob, grinning and batting his eyelids.

“Yes, Uncle,” resigned Stan.

“You guys at it again, huh.” Lester shook his head. “Cycling through a few too many filters, aren’t you?” Lester asked with an aside, “Hey, Walter. Here, step in. I’m beat.” Effortlessly, Walter took over, like a synchronized swimmer completing the routine.

Don’t get it wrong. Lester’s a first-rate, harvest technician, clocking his second, ten-hour shift. Clive, who was recovering from some kind of bronchial infection, just couldn’t make it out of sickbay; he was still coughin’ up a lung.

“Fifty-nine,” Bob said, smiling as he stopped the beep, silencing the room. The ambient, mechanical cha-chunk of the spaceport hovered. He got up and popped out his earplugs, grinning, “You’re shy by four beeps, Buddy.” Opening the door, he began whistling and strolled out of the room.

“Ear plugs! You cheat!” Stan’s voice chased Bob down the corridor. Focusing back on his crew, he punched up vehicle system diagnostics. “That’s what I thought,” he sighed. “Great, more forms.”

Forms, forms, forms – a huge part of Stan’s duties, filling out fleet inspection, employee health, and harvester incident forms - he pulled up the glider’s flight record and began to log the vehicle inspection request, prepping files to submit to Sid in Fleet Maintenance. “And Lester, you’re looping space dust on the right glider’s edge. Have Sid take a look when you get back to the docking bay. Don’t need no fin peeling out there next week.” Sometimes it took a small tear in the glider’s ultra thin wing to peel the entire panel away.

Walter swung the last armature in place, singing, “Alrighty, it’s aligned and secured. I think I’m done here; releasin’,” With masterful dexterity, Walter and Lester maneuvered their longboard gliders away from the comet tail and harvester, “and punching in port coordinates now, routing back home”.

“Copy that, Walter. See you two on Thursday. Get some sleep.” Stan logged time codes, vehicle VINS, and total man hours into the system. It would take over from there, relaying comet arrival times to the Region 6 Port Terminus, where they would gather the harvest of space minerals and water stores: filtering, purifying, and filling the water tanks to sell the crop over the counter to consumers.

From when it began, all the spaceports had grown considerably, as populations moved off Earth to re-colonize elsewhere. Water was a high demand resource. For this perihelion spaceport, Region 5 Port Terminus, most didn’t dream that it would be their final stop, becoming “home”.

“Roger that and out,” said Lester.

Stan sipped his coffee and hung his glasses off the front neckline of his blue-grey T-shirt. The collar sagged, revealing a bit of his white chest hair. He ran his fingers along the right side of his hairline, tracing the crisp edge; just yesterday he’d buzzed it back. He rubbed his eyes, blue with a tinge of tired.

His headset blipped, engaging. Stan chipmunked a handful of sunflower seeds into his cheek. “Region 5 Port Terminus, this is NACSE Klondike, requesting docking clearance.”

Stan cracked a sunflower seed, shelled it, and savored the salt. “Vivian,” he thought - her name as velvety as her voice. “Sing it again, Sweetheart,” he thought.

“I repeat. Region 5 Port Terminus, this is NACSE Klondike, requesting docking clearance.” Stan cracked another sunflower seed. God, her voice was beautiful.

Stan cracked yet another sunflower seed. “Well, hello there, Gorgeous,” he beamed, “it’s been a long time.” Two seeds left. He paused. “NACSE, is it? When’d-you start working for the government?”

“Stan?” Vivian questioned. “Is it really him?” she thought; her fists whitening with tension. “Oh, God, here we go.” She flatly started again, overcompensating for her growing anxiety, “Stan. Come on, Stan. Clear me for landing already.”

Stan paused, remembrances on his lips, the salt of her on those balmy, Hawaiian nights. He loved her now, as he had then, and cracked another seed. “Have a drink with me? You can tell me all about the NACSE.”

The control room door slid open and shut. Clicking on the overhead lights, Bob dropped into the neighboring chair, a timely return.

“Stan, where’s Bob?” Vivian’s irritation was brewing, percolating acid blips and daggered evil thoughts, “Bob still there? I know you two are inseparable. So, where’s he at? Get him on the line.” As Bob positioned his headset, Stan waved him down.

“Vivian, it’s just a drink,” soothed Stan. She emotionally spun out, like on a roller coaster ride, scared and elated of what might follow.

An agitated “Fine,” Vivian blurted. Followed by a “Fine!!” and a few extra exclamation points of surrender. “Now can I board?”

“NACSE Klondike, you are cleared to land at Docking Bay 3,” grinning in his most professional voice, Stan switched off his comm-unit and cracked his remaining sunflower seed, leaning back. “What was this feeling? Happiness?” he thought.

Bob turned towards Stan, “Pretty cheap trick there, Buddy.” He pulled a rotary controller from his console drawer. “NACSE? Not good.” He sighed, “Go on. I’ll take it from here.” He pulled the power knob and clicked-clicked the dial, turning to Channel 3, powering on the black and white TV and Atari system. “What? Just a little Warlords.” He shrugged, inserting his favorite cartridge.

Stan rolled out of his swiveling chair and raced for the door. “Later, Chum.” He winked, pulled out his imaginary finger gun, accompanied with that swell-guy teeth clicking thing, and then he skittered down the corridor.

- Chapter 2 -

Rushing with anticipation, Stan made his way through the crowds and makeshift shanties of the spaceport. People clambered on in the haze of bartering, which exhaled about the water coolers. The centrally located water coolers were selling stations, where people traded anything they could to fill up their ships’ water tanks to move on from this port to the next and beyond.

This spaceport, well, all the ports were aging, but this one was an early installment to the rosary of ports that hung within key comet orbits. Company survey crews diligently mapped and remapped routes to track the gravitational drift of the short-orbital comets, aligning and realigning ports in order to keep harvesting production effective within the ring.

Self-sustenance was pivotal out here. Various technological features were implemented based on economical resources, time, system longevity, and governmental regulations; well, what small amount of regulation there was in this new frontier. Ports became a hodge-podge of things that you just had to make the most of.

Outfitted with oil refineries for diesel and kerosene distillate production from algal crude, the spaceport was a noisy, hot place; diesel took fewer processes to make the fuel and gave off more energy when burned – more bang for the buck. The toxic nitrogen and acidic, black gooky by-products for the most part were either cycled to the lower farming levels for supplementing the genetically multi-flavor-enhanced mushrooms or blown out into space. The equipment aged with everything else within the port; the CRT particulate filters and catalytic converters failed more frequently, leakage into the interior hull of the ship was apparent, but these processes were a necessity for the sake of the power generators.

Central, the Water Company’s main headquarters, flourished with business, wealth stock-piled beyond imagination, because come on, who could live out here without water. Inadvertently, the spaceports became trading posts, bazaars like Tokyo’s once well-known Akihabara. This created several profitable side businesses for Central.

All that wealth went into minimal spaceport maintenance within the rosary and high tech ship development, which kept operations going by getting resources anywhere - weaver-ships, which traveled faster than anything out there, connecting remote terra-formed colonies, mining stations, and the like, but never served as commuter flights.

Rich, noncommercial spaceships would come and go, but many people got stuck in this middle-world. The poor dreamers aspired to live off planet, having depleted their savings to get this far - no money, no ability to pay for water. They became permanent port fixtures, odd-jobbers, saving to leave.

The lucky ones got employed by the Water Company, steady money, and then they became lazy, choosing to stay comfortably within the ‘known.’ They ran the refinery equipment, harvested water and mineral collections, flew longboard gliders within the fleet, machined maintenance parts, or clerked in Shipping & Receiving.

The somewhat lucky got hired on for scraping the inner hull, section by section, removing blackened gook, for water rations and food stamps. Their raccoon eyes gave them away; oily blackened rings from the respirators slowly tattooed their facial pores. Overtime, they created a network of snitchers, spying from above the marketplace; they watched and noted all the daily transactions, quite a second income really.

So, the spaceport’s headcount slowly accrued, and long chains of tethered, derelict ships ‘bobbed’ outside, waiting to be reclaimed to continue the journey.

- Chapter 3 -

Stan passed through to the docking bay, greeting Vivian as she removed her lipstick-red helmet. Her black tresses tumbling round her space suit. “Vivian, Baby, you’re the bee’s knees.”

“Scrap it, Stan. Geez,” Vivian flared all shades of crimson, flustering when he laid one on her. “Why you! Ooof!” She pushed him away, tripping on a diamond track edger, nearly falling, but he steadied her. Deep down, she was flattered.

“Nice Bugatti,” he patted her compact, streamlined ship. “I like the retro-curves – pretty cool.” He smiled.

Emphatically, he urged, “Come on. I’ll buy you that drink.” She was all act, and he knew it, taking her helmet in hand and grabbing her by the elbow. The landing crew would take care of her craft. Stan guided her through the crowds to Cargo’s, one of the three bars in the joint.

Bioluminescent bacteria spheres floated within the small, circular moat, rhythmically pulsing blue with the mechanical hum of the port and softening the riveted, metal framework of the room. The Company had updated a few onboard systems like lighting, an easy, cost-effective improvement.

Setting her helmet on a stool, he nestled in around her at the bar. “Gin fizz and a whiskey sour, Billy,” ordered Stan, sweltering charisma.

Vivian fidgeted, looking first at the row of glowing bottles behind the mahogany bar, then nervously at her hands, studying her manicure. Feeling the weight of his stare, she rummaged through her hip pack for her electronic cigarette and ‘lit’ one.

“How long had it been?” Vivian thought, feeling his presence enveloping her, protectively cocooning her. “The familiarity,” she mused, instantly diverting to a new thought. The vaporous smoke swirl wrapped round her pinky, softly glowing blue from the cigarette’s tip. Resting her thumb’s cuticle upon her lip, she slowly edged her lip with her nail. “Damn memories,” Vivian cursed, zipping up her pack, hiding again.

Stan palmed her cheek, catching her off guard. Her eyes snapped to his, pupils sparking, dilating upon seeing his openness. He knew, if he waited in silence long enough, she would eventually settle in, and she did. “Ah, Stan,” Vivian smiled, warming, all mushy inside, “I give. I’ve missed you too.” An introspective thought clawed at her gut. Was that regret? Dwelling sucked, so she moved the conversation forward, starting where they had ended so long ago, “The job really turned out to be a chance of a life time. Look where I am now,” Was she convincing him or herself? Shaking it off, she continued, “Me, a lichenologist.” She glowed with pride of accomplishment.

Billy set the drinks down before them and moved to the sink to “tidy up a bit”, appearing busy and out of earshot.

Stan’s frustration was coiling, retracting within himself. “A lichenologist, working for the NACSE,” groused Stan. Yeah, she had chosen the job over him. The mechanical hum of the ship filled the suspended silence.

Vivian shifted uncomfortably, “Well, yes. Look, the Water Company has been cited a PSD - Prevention of Significant Deterioration permit.”

“Yeah, I know what it is. We were updated to the new air system twelve years ago and just inspected two,” Stan punctuated, “two years ago. You’re early.” He swirled his highball. The ice, a luxury, glittered with purple-green mica particulate – a club signature.

“The Clean Air Act has been amended with new NCIS field data, and a new mandate passed. Class I areas have been moved to a two year versus five year cycle.” Vivian unzipped the top section of her suit, unwinding into what she felt most comfortable with - work. “Population densities are getting heavier out here in this region of the Kuiper Belt, and they’re stepping up the detection of air pollutants in your atmospheric systems. Seriously, how many people do you have on board this station now? You got a parking lot of space junk tethered to eternity outside, and how is your doctor holding up? I wouldn’t be surprised if the logged respiratory cases are rising, or have you been asked to curb the numbers?”

“On or off the record?” Stan took another swig. All the work chatter had put a damper on his mood. “Yeah, right,” Stan slid sarcastically, “Clean Air Act –bah. You know it’s all a racket; they just want their cut is all. Since when did they really give a damn about people out here.” He took another drink. “They’re only squeezing more dough from the Water Company, forcing payment, or we risk being shut down.”

“I don’t know about that,” Vivian said. “You’re so cynical. Some agency needs to dictate laws for the well-being of the people, or we’ll be faced with new epidemics.”

She dragged the peanut dish closer and munched down a few. “Alright, different angle,” she postured, “I give a damn about people. That’s why I’m here and do what I do.” Silence fell heavy. “I’ll run a few tests; review the lichen bio-indicators tomorrow.”

Casually, Billy inserted himself into the conversation, like a host checking on his guests. “Your cigarette, you need any flavor cartridges?” Billy asked Vivian. “I’ve got tobacco, peach, and menthol.”

“Yeah, do I. Bit tricky finding them. I’ll take two tobaccos,” Vivian said, feeling Stan’s coolness.

Billy nodded. Turning his back to them, he concealed his motions, pulling two tobacco cartridges from the drawer: one from the main supply and the other from a slim black box with red flame logo. Closing the drawer, he paused for a moment, looking at the couple’s reflection in the bar mirror. “They didn’t notice,” Billy thought. Turning once more, his smile appeared, placing them on the bar. “I’ll add that to your tab, Stan.”

“Sounds good. Thanks, Billy,” acknowledged Stan, and Billy drifted to the backdrop.

Vivian downed half her gin fizz and shifted to other topics. “So, what are you paddling around in the Kuiper Belt for anyway?” she asked. “I figured you’d be terra forming or asteroid mining or something, but aqua farming?”

“Well, look. This gig pays a hell-of-a-lot more, Sweetheart,” Stan responded, “and I’m less likely to get stranded out on a rock somewhere. It’d be my luck that some company would close-up shop, save on expenditures, and leave me out there. I’ll learn from Emit’s mistakes, thank you very much.” He raised his glass to lost college friends.

“Yeah,” nearly whispering, Vivian toasted sullenly. Emit had been her first love. He had impressed her with rock music and sushi rolls, carried a set of ebony chopsticks in his boots engraved with pink opal, cherry blossoms. “Look,” she yielded, “I’m tired, Stan.”

“Sure, of course. I’ll show you your bunk.” They downed the last of it, and he showed her to the closet-sized guest quarters, leaving her alone to the hum of the ship and the soft glow of orange, glowing lichen clusters upon her walls.
“Well, that was better than expected,” Stan thought.

- Chapter 4 -

Day came too soon. Vivian followed the spaceport maps to the labs division. Donning grey coveralls and a respiratory mask, she began with sample retrieval from the airshafts, return registers, and atmosphere generators. The algae incept respiratory (A.I.R.) generators were huge, transparent, arching lichen tanks, which had replaced the bulk of the exterior ship panels, wrapping the outside of the ship.

Lichens’ hardy survival skills in extreme environments beautifully leant itself for this adaptation in space. Cheap too in comparison to the active instrumented air quality monitors. Why not double duty, creating oxygen through the lichen’s photosynthetic system, while sporting sensitive atmospheric safety features?

The fungal component within lichen’s symbiotic relationship had been genetically modified to withstand the external forces of space, while the algae gathered blue and red light waves from the distant sun. The lichen filtering system cleaned internal air supplies, using carbon dioxide and caustic nutrients to grow, producing oxygen – worked like a charm when in-balance.

Vivian spent the day studying floristic and element baselines, tissue concentrations of persistent organochlorides and watched the nitrogen dioxide levels spike dangerously outside of cautionary limits. Dismayed she pulled away from the equipment after seeing the pending doom. Solving the spaceport’s air quality control problems was going to be complicated and unclear.

It was obvious that the population needed to be decreased, but by how many and how quickly could it be carried out? With fewer people to support, all the other manufacturing could be culled back.

Vivian wrapped things up, unzipped the coveralls, stepped out, and tossed them into a laundry bin.

Walking the corridors of the port, she found herself in sick bay, interviewing Dr. Morrison and a handful of patients, all suffering from some sort of respiratory infection. She made copious notes on her recorder: dates, symptoms, longevity, fatalities – anything that could help her measure the severity of the situation.

Afterward, Vivian wandered towards the ‘belly’ of the spaceport where the bulk of the people mingled, trading wares and food. Stressed, she needed a walk.

- Chapter 5 -

The machines droned chuhchung, chuhchung, chuhchung. The active noise cancellation systems weren’t 100%. Vivian walked through the spaceport looking at machine shops and craftsmen, grinding and cutting parts to repair the engines that made the spaceport ‘go’. Gazing up to the ceiling of the inner ship’s hull, she wished she could see her invisible foe, knowing those toxic fumes caressed everyone and everything.

Listlessly, she passed from vendor stall-to-stall, hands tracing across the capacitors, resistors, recycled copper wire, LEDs, and tin can music makers. People scraping parts from their ships to trade for food, a livelihood that they created from the lost dreams of abandoned worlds originally sought. “Ships that they would need now to flee this death trap,” she thought.

She found herself at the control room corridor. Her badge clearance would get her here, inside the inner hallway, but no further. She slumped to the ground, flipped her recorder on and in her solitude began to dictate her findings, entering in PSD form details. Waiting, Stan was bound to turn up, to or from his shift; she bent her head over the recorder and continued on.

Twenty minutes passed before Stan appeared, “What’s up, Buttercup? Hmm, you’re looking a bit beat. Coffee?” He offered her his steaming mug.

“No, it’s OK,” Vivian pushed against the wall, standing. “You got a minute?”

“Sure, I was just starting my shift, but you’re welcome to come in and hang out,” he invited, badging through the control room door and flicking off the portal lights. Their eyes adjusted to the warm glow of the console buttons. “Have a seat.” He lit a candle.

“Hey, Bob,” Vivian smiled.

“Heya, Angel, good seeing ya’” Bob stood, wildly hugging her. “Been so long!”

“You’re like Heckle and Jeckle,” Vivian laughed. “I figured you wouldn’t go anywhere without each other.” The familiarity of it all, being back with the boys – felt good - fond memories.

“Well, someone’s gotta' clean-up after this idiot,” Bob cajoled.

“Go on. Have a seat.” Stan dropped into his swivel chair, flipped on his headset, and began reading the system logs to catch up on the current. “What did you find out?”

“Well,” Vivian began hesitantly, not knowing how to begin – not easy being a Death Angel of sorts. “Well, it doesn’t look good, Guys. I’ve completed my report. I’m just not certain what comes next.”

“And...” said Stan, hanging on her words.

“Stan, this port needs to be evacuated,” said Vivian frankly. “The air systems have reached,” she continued, “more than reached capacity. After talking with your ship’s doctor, it sounds like respiratory cases have been on the rise in the last six months, and I’m afraid the longer you limp along like this, the higher risk you take with everyone’s lives.” Vivian stared into the flame of the candle, watching the blue and orange flicker.

“Evacuation? How exactly does that happen?” asked Stan. “If these folks had the means, they’d be outta here already.”

Vivian said, “I know. I know. All morning, I’ve been trying to get my head around it. I just don’t know. Many have already stripped components from their spaceships in order to buy necessities. You can see it in the bazaar. How many of those vehicles floating out there actually run any more?”

Bob put away some random binders. “Stan, you think the Company would step in at all?”

“Ya’ that’s a joke. They hardly make repairs around here - didn’t address any of the items from the last NACSE inspection. If anything, they’d abandon this port, pushing it out of orbit to drift and bring in a new high-tech port.”

Bob sulked in his chair, “cheaper to start all over than retrofit,” he said.

“It would contain any disease element there might be too,” added Vivian.

“Vivian, have you sent that report yet?” asked Bob.

“No, no,” Vivian said. “I wanted to talk to you two, first. Maybe you could introduce me to a decision maker around here so we could come up with a solution together?”

“Yeah, decision makers, right. You’re looking at ‘em,” snickered Bob.

“We’re the highest ranking employees onboard. Everyone else is at Central, keeping their distance to reduce their risk,” said Stan.

“Stan,” said Vivian. “Maybe asteroid mining looks a bit better now,” she shrugged a half smile, a poor attempt at lightening the mood.

“A gathering. We’ll have a gathering. Bob, make an announcement will you? We’ll head down to the market place,” Stan proclaimed.

“Oh, goodie – a gathering,” thought Bob. He switched on the PA system and announced, “those onboard who want to live please report to the market place for a gathering.”

“Ah, great Bob, brilliant, no panic there at all,” Stan scolded.

- Chapter 6 -

By the time Stan and Vivian reached the market place, a frenzy buzzed through the crowd, a quelling panic or stifled cough about to erupt with mass body odor stoking the flames of discomfort.

“So, what’s going on?” rumbled the crowd as Stan and Vivian climbed upon a few crates. Billy, the bartender, pulled the gate down on the bar, moving towards the back of the group, saddling up next to Myra, a Snitcher.

Adjusting her goggles to rest upon her forehead, Myra scratched an itch on her cheek, smearing sooty circles beneath raccooned eyes. She clonked together the heels of her steel toed boots. Strapping her respirator to her tool belt, it sagged from the weight of her tools. Billy climbed up to the scissor-jack platform, sitting down and swinging his legs out over the edge next to hers. He pushed a Chiclet her way, which was eagerly accepted, of course.  Myra smiled falsely; anger building inside of her, stating, “This isn’t going to be good news is it.”

“No, I don’t think so, Myra.” Billy leaned his elbows across the lower metal bar of the cage.

Stan looked at Vivian and vice versa. They just worked here like everyone else. How do you begin a calm doomsday conversation with a confused mob of people that will be losing their home?

“Quiet please, everyone,” Stan said. “I know, not the best announcement,” Stan apologized quickly and moved on, “so, this is Vivian. She is from the NACSE agency and has been inspecting the port’s air systems. Vivian, can you please share your findings?”

“Thanks, Stan. Sure.” Raising her voice, Vivian continued, “I thought this was going to be all routine stuff, but the indicators aren’t good. The port has reached its maximum levels. It’s a delicate situation, and there isn’t any other way to say it. People are getting sick; it can’t be put off any longer: one, the population must be decreased or we all die, and two, the machinery repairs must be a higher priority.”

A murmur filtered through the crowd, stopping upon a grey, stubbly man with a newsie-style woolen cap. “So who goes? Who stays? The Company going to send ships? The Government going to send ships or what?”

“Please quiet down,” Stan interjected, trying to calm the group, “My sense from the Company is that they will escort people out to their tethered ships and send you on your way,” not quite the right reassuring thing to say, he rushed on to the next bit, ”but I understand, it would be a death sentence - starvation. You would have left a long time ago, if you could have. The Company isn’t interested in becoming a domicile, so, sending fast ships to evacuate people to where ever... I doubt it – costs too much.”

“Cheap ass bastards!” yelled Snitcher, drawing all eyes. Her voice carried over the crowd from her perch. “Can’t afford to maintain their equipment!” Myra knew the equipment inside and out. The power generator engines were top-notch and equipment stress levels could’ve been monitored. “They’re just cheap is all – Company not replacing worn parts or replacing at longer than intended intervals.”

The anger began to swell within the group, a white-hot rage of making due for too long – Company fault or no.

“I hear you. We’ll make it an internal priority. You seem to know a lot about the power generators and certainly not afraid to speak your mind. How about leading the maintenance crew in identifying failing equipment and task a scavenging crew?” Stan tried to remain calm, focusing on delegating work in constructive ways.

“2006 RJ103,” called out Billy’s voice.

Stan shifted his weight. “What’s that?” asked Stan, straining to hear.

“2006 RJ103,” Billy repeated. “There’s an asteroid mining colony on Neptune’s Trojan moon 2006 RJ103, and it sits within the Interplanetary Transport Network, so, well supplied. It’s getting there that’s the trick.”

A murmur of optimism circled the room and quieted at Vivian’s feet. “I’ve been there for air quality inspections,” she said. “It has the space and water resources, but for those who go, it would mean indentured servitude, hard labor in exchange for room and board with three square meals a day,” Vivian remarked.

“Mining. It’s a tough choice but between death versus death, I’d take this option,” a lanky fellow piped up. The crowd began to internalize options and silently, their conclusions divided the group.

“What about the children?” cried out a man’s voice.

Stan didn’t know what to say. Would he give them onboard preference? Who would care for them? Then mechanically, spilling forth, he said, “One child from each family may stay. Clans meet and choose a storyteller and a Nan to care for the children. I’ll see if I can get transport back to Earth for the remaining children.” Stan’s voice quivered, dividing families was never in his career plans.

Vivian grasped his hand, offering her strength, knowing the options sucked. “It’s pretty bad,” she thought, squeezing his hand. “If you don’t do anything, we will all die.”

Myra leaned in closer to Billy. “What about commandeering the port?” she whispered, meeting him eye to eye. “We’ve spent months planning.”

“I know. Timing is crazy, isn’t it?” Billy whispered back.

“Do we stick with the plan?” asked Myra.

“Yes, we’ll commander the port and push outside the rosary. Move to Neptune’s Trojan moon. This supply route is busy and unincorporated.”

“Maybe it’ll delay Company action.” Myra suggested, “Once we get out there, we can reevaluate. Yes?”

“Sure,” said Billy. “I suppose as long as this lady’s report hasn’t been submitted, the Company wouldn’t know what’s coming.” Billy lowered his voice, discreetly handing her the slim black box with red logo. “I didn’t think I’d actually have to use this. The scientist, she smokes electronic cigarettes.” Billy continued, “She bought two. So, I can’t control when she switches to the spiked cartridge, but when she does, she’s a goner.” Billy paused. “May be it will buy us some time.” Myra’s face blanched; everything, their plans to commander the port, the severity of their actions, and the necessity to evacuate everyone, was accelerating, erupting like a toxic algal bloom in a sea of stars.

THE END


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Read more Anita Dime short stories at http://www.anitadime.com/. Visit her on Facebook http://www.facebook.com/anita.dime or Twitter @AnitaDime.