Jailmates

by Lesli Richardson

  All of it. They’re practically large enough to be a coalition force all their own. The coalition government granted them exclusive development rights to uninhabited regions of a galaxy arm in the Andromeda Galaxy, and they’ve purchased countless rights elsewhere. In return, Maxim Colonies distributes medical and scientific advances it makes, with initial exclusive patents, of course. They also provide the military with a lot of new and improved tech. But it’s not like the company is hurting to make bank or anything.

  “It’s a lot less risky than most of the shit they put us through on missions now,” he adds, something my mind has already considered as I race through the possibilities.

  “What about vacations?” I ask.

  “Three weeks a year, paid, free round-trip ticket anywhere, including jumps. And a guaranteed off forty-eight hour block every week.”

  “You’re kidding?” I don’t even get that now. I’m lucky to get forty-eight hours off in one block once every six months.

  “Nah, man.” He draws his personal com from a cargo pocket in his tac pants and calls something up. I feel mine buzz in its pocket seconds later. “There’s an email with all the deets. I sent for info last week.”

  “And you’ve already signed up?”

  “Damn right, I did. I didn’t want to miss out. They’re expanding and eager. You don’t even have to do mining tech. They have other jobs that are even safer and more boring, like transport maintenance tech, and space station mech-tech services. They’re hiring in all divisions. Med, ag, terraforming. They’ll even pay to train you if you don’t have the skills, but you won’t make as much to start, of course. Hell, they’ve even got a mail-order bride division.”

  “A what?”

  He laughs. “Well, I guess they don’t call it that. ‘Assisted Domestic Partners’, or some bullshit like that. But that’s what it is. People looking for short- and long-term mates.” He punches me in the shoulder. “Fucking pussy like you, find you some short-term contract and bend over. No more whining just because we take a little incoming flak.”

  I want to punch him in the mouth and somehow resist the urge. I don’t need to do a stint in the brig this close to my departure date. “Seems I remember you crying next to me while we huddled under that genny last year on Albion 4 and prayed the grunts shoved those bugs back.”

  Stacks grumbles and turns back to the mirror. “Fuck you. And you’re welcome, by the way. Asshole.”

  At least that’s something to shut him up. “Thanks.”

  After I finish my morning kit, I grab my stuff and head back to my bunk to stow everything before hitting the mess. On my walk to my bunk, I pull out my personal com.

  Sure enough, I find the email from him.

  I’m scrolling through it when I reach my bunk to stash my stuff. The email has a listing of all the Maxim Colonies divisions, and, yes, there is the Assisted Domestic Partnership Division, nestled between Zoological Studies and Botanical Engineering.

  They really did do everything.

  I don’t have time to look at it right now. Not if I want chow. So I move the email to my saved folder and make a mental note to read it later once my shift ends and I’m back in my bunk.

  A boring mining tech job might be right up my alley.

  Not like I’d find any women looking for a short-term husband, right?

  Chapter Two

  Because Stacks and I are short-timers, we’re assigned to a supply ship heading inbound to Space Station Argo Anubis 8. We’ve been on board for the past two months. Most everyone on the mech crew with us are short-timers, except for the ship’s permanent personnel, who are usually lifers, or lifers so close to their retirement they warranted cushy postings. Most of what we do on this trip is repair and refurb equipment recovered from hot areas, or which was somehow damaged or malfunctioned while on other vessels.

  It’s boring, repetitive work, and I love it. Because other than the inherent risks of traveling around in a metal bubble in the cold expanse of space, it’s relatively safe work.

  A damn sight safer than a lot of things I’ve endured over the past five years.

  Once my shift ends for the day and I have evening mess and a shower, I retire to the tiny room I share with Stacks and two other guys, climb into my bunk, and close the privacy screen.

  Usually, pulling a screen that early in the night before lights out is silent code for a guy trying to rub one out.

  Tonight, however, I spend my time scrolling through the Maxim Colonies’ web portal. I sign up for a user account, which allows me access to their vast job database, residential program listings, educational opportunities, and other information.

  I quickly realize Stacks wasn’t pulling my leg when he told me about his signing bonus. If I want to assume a little more risk, I could apply to several postings with signing bonuses of fifteen mil and higher, for a minimum guaranteed service period.

  Fraaaaak…

  That kind of money on Axind 5 would mean my mom could not only retire, but she could afford to go to secondary school, too, and I wouldn’t even have to work for a while, if I didn’t want to.

  A long while. I could attend secondary immediately instead of waiting for Mom and Hells to graduate.

  My com buzzes with an incoming alert and I look to find a message from Mom.

  Dear Simon,

  Can’t wait to see you! Helleia insists she’s going to cook dinner for you. We’ll see how that ends up. Between you and me, you might want to eat before you come home, haha. Let me know when you’ll arrive so I can reset your security access to the building. (Would you believe they charge us now for having more than two adult residents? I paused yours while you’re gone to save a few credits every month, sorry.) We love you, and it’ll be so good to have you home.

  Love,

  Mom.

  I’m glad I have the privacy screen pulled when my bunk’s alert panel notifies me Stacks and Jones have entered the room, because it also conceals the sound of my sniffles from them when I realize exactly how much I miss Mom and Helleia.

  A lot.

  I feel guilty she’s apologizing for pausing my security access to save them money. I should be home and taking care of them right now.

  I will be soon. Then I can take a couple of months off and use that time to scour the MC database for a well-paying gig. Meanwhile, I’ll pick a short-term job to bring in money and get Helleia into secondary.

  Unlike with the military, in a private job I can take a vacation to go home to see them a couple of times a year.

  It isn’t worth merely a second look—it’s probably how I will proceed, once I’ve had time to assess my options. I’m not a guy who likes to jump into something without thinking about all the ramifications. It took me my entire senior year of primary school to decide to join the military. Mom had left it up to me, not pushing me one way or the other, even though I asked for her opinion and knew she wasn’t happy about me doing it.

  Helleia wasn’t happy about me joining the military, either. Especially because she felt guilty I was doing it in large part for her future. Except she’s my little sister, and I’ll do anything to give her a better life, including joining the military.

  Me? I’m just a guy. I’m an above-average mech-tech, and making sergeant proves I’m reasonably intelligent but I’m no superstar. I advanced mostly because I have mad research skills due to growing up in a household that had to pinch pennies, and I’ve got a finely tuned intuition, or so I’ve been told. I was always damned good at diagnosing and fixing units no one else could or would.

  But Helleia has a drive I don’t have and never have had. The main reason I made ranks in the military was due to my mech-tech skills. I know she’ll kick ass in secondary, though. Once she’s graduated with a degree in whatever she decides to do, she’ll be able to earn money to help our family.

  Maybe she’ll even meet a great guy while in secondary, who knows? She wants to eventually have a family, children, maybe a larger apartment in a bio-buildi
ng with parks where you can raise kids in a way Mom couldn’t afford to raise us.

  I’d love to be an uncle. Don’t really want kids of my own, but I’d love to be there to see Hells raise hers.

  I spend an hour scrolling through listings when I spy a couple for the Assisted Domestic Partnership Division, or ADPD, as it refers to itself. I click through to that division’s section and start investigating, just out of curiosity.

  A lot of the ads are for males seeking females. There are plenty of males seeking males, not quite so many for females seeking males or other females. There are also listings for nonbinary seekers, which I don’t understand, but whatever. I’m not judgy. A majority of the seekers are humans, although there are several nonhuman races included. I also notice that some of the seeking ads specify nonhumans of certain compatible species can apply.

  I click one that catches my eye simply out of curiosity, an older human woman who is a government official on a distant mining outpost and looking for a permanent live-in baby daddy—sorry, not my jam—but then I spot another ad which makes me pause.

  The profile picture of the seeker is a head shot, which isn’t unusual, because most of the pictures of the humanoid-type species are head shots. Only the nonhumanoid races are full-on body shots.

  But she is…well, pink.

  I mean, I’m not saying she’s a pinkish flesh-colored human. I’m saying she is pink, with what looks like electric blue and violet…hair?

  Although I’m not sure that it’s hair like humans have, and no clue if it’s her natural color or not. It looks like it might be thicker, solid pieces, not individual strands. She isn’t looking directly at the camera, either, more down and to the side. The picture speaks of loneliness and heartbreak, and something inside me immediately makes me click on the ad’s details to read them.

  TIME-SENSITIVE POSTING: Immediate opening for a limited-contract conjugal mate for a Pfahrn. (Minimum monthly sexual biological mandate participation required.) High-end living accommodations, food, reasonable living expenses, spending money, and transportation provided during contract duration. Maximum contract length five years, potential for seeker to terminate early due to circumstances changing. Respondent may NOT cancel contract early once accepted and sealed. Privacy required. Species/race/gender irrelevant, but respondent must be bipedal humanoid, single, unmated, with no biological children. Minimum 100 mil guaranteed signing bonus regardless of contract expiration, half paid up front, half escrowed. Annual 1 mil salary. Additional 25 mil bonus upon completion of all five years, pro-rated if seeker terminates early, and…

  The ad goes on to specify reply information and a few other details. They need someone within four standard weeks.

  I read that posting at least ten times before I click on the button to save it to my account for future review. I’ve never worked with a Pfahrn, never even seen one in person, although I’m pretty sure they’re usually green with reddish hair. Maybe that was just the males, then?

  I also don’t know what a limited-contract conjugal mate is, although I can guess. Especially when combined with the “minimum monthly sexual biological mandate participation” proviso.

  Sex will no doubt be required. Some of the ads specify trial periods to see if the respondent will be a match for long-term marriage, some specify they’re looking to produce children as part of the deal, and some just want sex partners for contractual times while assigned to isolated outposts. Everything in between, but long-term arrangements. Nothing less than six standard months in duration is listed.

  I do know that there are probably few to no unskilled jobs that don’t involve severe risk of injury or death to myself that would pay me that kind of money.

  Spend a maximum of five years to earn money I could bank, and send Helleia to school, and give my Mom a break, all for…

  What, for having sex, basically?

  It’s food for thought.

  I’ve never had a girlfriend. I lost my virginity to a woman in my basic training class who felt sorry for me, I guess. I’ve had sex in brothels real and holo during my time in the military. Spent the occasional weekend pass with female military personnel. Grew to appreciate the technology of a plasti-vag, which all human male military personnel are given as part of our basic kit, even if my hand is more convenient and leaves me feeling less detached during the process.

  Hey, I even had an interesting overnight with a Carmidian barmaid on an outpost planet once. Her tentacles were a little disconcerting, until I got used to them and realized they were prehensile.

  Meaning they could do…interesting things to multiple parts of my anatomy at the same time.

  Including parts of my anatomy I didn’t realize were erogenous zones.

  I might have been drunk at the time, don’t judge me. It did open my eyes somewhat. And other…places.

  I know some guys in the military hook up with each other, even straight guys. I never did, and I never took offense when I was approached by a guy, either. Kind of flattering, actually. Nothing against guys who do that, but I need trust for a long-term relationship like that. A random hookup is one thing, and I’m guilty of that more than a few times, especially if alcohol was added to the equation. Just never found any guy attractive enough to think about doing a semi-permanent hook-up with.

  I try to roll over and go to sleep but time and again I find myself opening my personal com unit and looking at the ad.

  At the picture.

  I don’t know anything about the Pfahrn, whose name is Mohrn, except the contents of her ad.

  Is she beautiful?

  Eh, I wouldn’t say that I’m the most progressive of guys and blind to looks, but that kind of bank would make anyone look pretty tempting.

  I don’t know what kind of biological mandate is required, but I do know there are all sorts of drugs—hell, even injections—that can help a guy perform.

  I’m not sure how I’d explain it to my mom and sister if I decide to take the job. I’m sure I can think of something without having to outright lie to them.

  Obviously, Mohrn must be rich to afford that kind of pay.

  It’s only five years. Or, perhaps, even less.

  As I finally fall asleep that night, it still weighs on my mind.

  * * * *

  The next morning I awaken a few minutes early and find my mind immediately returning to Mohrn’s picture.

  Am I seriously considering contacting Maxim Colonies about the ad?

  Maybe.

  Because I can’t help but tally how many years that kind of money will keep Mom in the apartment without her having to work, and that’s after I deduct a generous amount for Helleia’s secondary school expenses, and for Mom to get her degree, and for living expenses for me during my own education.

  It would mean Mom could finally retire.

  Except why hadn’t anyone replied to the ad yet?

  What was the catch?

  I mean, I wasn’t really going to reply to the ad.

  Was I?

  Stacks ends up standing next to me at the sinks again this morning as I try to shave. We are less than twenty-four hours inbound to the space station where I’ll officially end my military career. I don’t want to be this close to freedom just to end up tossed in the brig for shoving the guy’s face into a vacu-shitter for being annoying before coffee.

  “Did you look at the website last night?” he asks.

  “It’s interesting,” I fib as I shave.

  “You could clean up in a mining job, you know.”

  “I’m not going to rush into a decision on any job just to regret it. There were a lot of postings to look through. I barely got through any of them.”

  That much was the truth.

  As I go about my day, any time I have a few spare moments, I find myself thinking about the Pfahrn’s downcast eyes, the sorrow painted across her face. In most of the pictures posted with ads everyone else more or less looks at the camera, and a majority of the posters are at least attempting
a smile, or what passes for a smile in their species.

  The under-used creative part of my mind wants to conjure a fantasy of some heartbreak on the seeker’s part—a family tragedy, maybe a cancelled wedding, or a fiancé dead, blown up in space, perhaps.

  What else could explain the forlorn expression on her face?

  What color are her eyes? Are they blue, or green, or brown? Something else?

  Besides the amount of bank listed in the ad, another detail keeps spinning through my mind.

  Species/race/gender irrelevant.

  That means she doesn’t care if the respondent is a man or woman, or human or not.

  Couldn’t be for reproduction then, right?

  Maybe there was a clause in a will or something that requires her to have a mate to inherit her family fortune.

  I like that possibility, because it sort of means I’d be one of those white knights, right? Riding in to the rescue for her…and for my own family.

  At war within me, the growing urge to respond right away to get more information before someone else grabs the cushy job, which clashes with my simmering concern about why no one has done exactly that yet.

  Then again, I didn’t even know about the listing until yesterday. Maybe no one else does, either.

  Another thought hits—I wonder if I can piggyback another job on top of that one, make double bank? If I only have to perform once a month, would I be free the rest of the month to do…whatever?

  I have a feeling I might be sending in a few questions of my own at the end of my shift.

  Except I’m not sure how I feel about that.

  Chapter Three

  I don’t receive a lot of messages on my personal com.

  As in, unless they’re from Mom or Helleia, or spam messages, or pay stub receipts from the military, or bank receipts and alerts, I rarely get any.