by Andre, Marc
“Oh that’s so sweet Cotton,” mother said, her voice quivering, tears pooling in her eyes. “Come and give your mother a hug.”
The shameless display of affection left me nauseated. Eventually it ended, and mother dismissed us, informing us that tomorrow was her day off and that perhaps she would run into us on the station.
Unfortunately, Mr. Yongscolder wasn’t guarding the airlock the next morning, just some guy in an orange jumpsuit whom we didn’t know. He didn’t let us off the ship because we were on Mr. Yongscolder’s list. When we told him that Mr. Yongscolder said we could leave if we showed him money, he shook his head skeptically and said we would have to discuss the matter with Mr. Yongscolder when he returned next shift.
The shift didn’t change until the early evening. Mr. Yongscolder thumbed our M-notes, inspecting them suspiciously as if they were counterfeit. Eventually, he convinced himself that the currency was legitimate, but he commanded us to go home to change into less baggy clothes and return without our slate grey mock canvas travel bags.
The passageway that led to the Libra Space Station was well lit and sloped gently upward. Through the huge portholes of the outer vestibule, we saw the sleek lines of a luxury cruise liner. Prosperous people in fancy clothes gathered around a tour guide. The guide was cute and peppy but didn’t command my attention the way a model in a skin mag could. There was no way Cotton and I were going to hang around for a boring tour when we could join our friends.
Quarters became cramped as the vestibule flooded with more tourists and their well-mannered kids. Cotton and I had to push our way through, which was difficult because the tourists weren’t trying to move anywhere. They just lingered, taking in every word from the tour guide. As we struggled through the crowd, I couldn’t help but overhear parts of the lecture:
“Welcome to the Libra Space Station. We are here primarily for a pit stop as we resupply and refuel. It is important to remember that we depart four hours from now at 21:00. This station is the sole space station for the HO Librae Star System and exists primarily to assist repairs and logistics for civilian merchant freight carriers. As space stations go, this one is rather small, and is a far cry from a resort destination, which is why we are not extending our visit. Still, there are a few nice shops here and several places worth visiting including the Arial Spa and the Star Lounge. Some of you may remember HO Librae from the news several years ago, specifically the planet Gliese 436, which is where the Space Marines unearthed the alien artifact known as the Obelisk….”
Cotton and I found ourselves trapped behind a very tall, very wide middle aged man. He was so mesmerized by the prose or looks of the peppy tour guide that he didn’t seem to notice Cotton and I we tried to push past him.
“Mister!” I called loudly, tapping him on his shoulder.
“Shush!” he said, without looking down at me. “I’m trying to listen.”
“…Gliese 581e is also a habitable planet in the star system with a few established human colonies…”
“But mister!” I said again.
“I said ‘hush!’ Can’t you see the adults are talking.” Again, he didn’t look down.
“…Dumpco Incorporated took possession of Libra Space Station as a result of the Timmons Treaty…”
After exchanging glances, Cotton and I teamed up and gave the man a forceful shove from the side, which knocked him off balance. He had to take a wide step to the side to stop from falling, and Cotton and I pushed passed him. “Hey come back here you punks!” he called after us, but his girth prevented him from chasing us through the thick crowd.
A minute later we were near the edge of the crowd. A gang of four elderly ladies blocked the exit. They were too frail to shove, and like the fat man, they gave the tour guide their undivided attention. “…if your cabin was on the port side of the ship, you may have noticed as we docked that the Libra Space Station has been built into the side of an asteroid…”
“That’s very interesting!” the tall grey haired lady said to the short white haired lady.
“How about that, an asteroid!” the short white haired lady agreed.
“Did you ask them to move?” I asked Cotton.
“No, not yet,” he said.
“…under U.N. control, the entire asteroid was considered part of the space station, but Dumpco Incorporated only manages the man-made structure at the Asteroid’s oblong pole…”
“Well, ask them already!” I commanded.
“Okay,” Cotton agreed. He tapped the short white haired lady on the shoulder.
“Yes son?” she asked kindly.
“…presently, there are an unknown number of deserters, squatters, and stowaways living in the asteroid…”
“Move!” Cotton barked.
“What?” The woman cried indignantly, “Well, I never!”
“How rude!” The tall white haired lady exclaimed.
“…in language specified by the Timmons Treaty, Dumpco Incorporated cannot shut off the ventilation system to the tunnels of the asteroid until all undocumented residents have been legally evicted…”
“I’m really sorry about that ma’am,” I said apologetically, “my brother is…” but I couldn’t quite think of what to say next.
“…there has yet to be a hearing in Interstellar Court…”
“You need to teach your bother some manners,” the short grey haired lady said.
“…Dumpco cannot provide security beyond the main structure, so whatever you do, do not venture beyond a door that reads ‘no admittance’…”
The tall grey haired woman stepped over to the tall white haired woman to ask, “Did she just say this space station is dangerous?” and that was all the space we needed. In a dash, we headed for the exit. Perhaps we were rude, but we didn’t knock over any of the old ladies. Out the door and midway down the next passageway, Cotton and I finally slowed down to a walk.
“Where do you want to go first?” I asked.
Cotton shrugged. He was just happy to explore new territory and could care less where we went next.
“How about the Star Lounge?” I suggested.
“Yeah okay.”
The Star Lounge wasn’t hard to find because there were signs with arrows at the end of every passageway. I suspected cruise liners were the same way, with no need to read the numbers stenciled onto the walls. Aptly named, the far wall of the Star Lounge was literally a giant window that allowed an awe-inspiring view into the far reaches of outer space.
“Hey there’s Hammond!” Cotton cried, pointing. Our friend’s broad shoulders were hard to miss. Allen and Ellen were sitting with him at a table. We joined our friends. Allen gave us an astronomy lesson, pointing out the giant window. The appearance of the sprawling, swirling stars of distant galaxies, all the roaming asteroids, multiple brightly colored nearby planets, and dozens of meandering spacecraft was so majestic that even Cotton followed the lecture despite his minuscule attention span.
“So if you look way over there, at the far side of HO Librae Star System, you can see a tiny speck.” Allen said.
“Yeah I see! What is it?” Hammond asked, excited. I couldn’t see the speck myself but I was eager to find out.
“That’s the Planet Gliese 581e.”
“Our destination?” Ellen asked.
“Yes, once we get going again, we should be there in a week. We could get there even faster if this area didn’t see so much space traffic.”
“Why’s that make a difference?” Hammond asked.
“Forces us to slow down so we don’t crash into stuff.” Cotton said. I was so unsettled by my brother using logic that I had to ask Allen if he was correct.
“Yes, that’s right.” Allen said, nodding.
“Well good for you.” I said, punching Cotton approvingly on the shoulder. “For once you actually thought things through.”
Allen and Ellen made slurping noises as they the dregs of their sodas sipped through straws. Feeling generous, I volunteered to buy the
next round.
At the bar, a man in front of me gave his order, “three Stardust colas and two diet Stardust Colas.” I could tell by the neatly pressed, spotless, white button down shirt he wore that he wasn’t from our ship, probably some tourist getting drinks for his family.
“One more thing,” the man said in a hushed voice, “if you could put a shot of bourbon in one of the sodas — not one of the diet ones mind you — that would be grand.”
“Is Thurgood MacDougal’s good for you?” the bartender asked.
“Yes, he’s very good for me.” the man said agreeably.
The bartender mixed the drinks as the man fumbled with his wallet.
“That will be thirty-six hundred even,” the bartender said.
My heart sank. Thirty-six hundred, what a rip off! I thought. Back home no one would ever pay more than nine hundred, not even with the shot of booze.
The man in the white shirt handed the bartender a ten M-note. The bartender placed the tray of drinks down on the bar, said, “Let me get you some change,” and disappeared.
The man turned around, propping his back and elbows on the bar so he could relax as he watched the celestial bodies through the giant window. Utterly dejected, I was about to turn back empty handed, when I realized neither the man nor the bartender had paid any attention to me whatsoever.
“Hey I think there’s liquor in my drink.” Hammond said with delight. “How did you pull that off?” I winked at him and gave him the thumbs up.
“Mine tastes funny.” Cotton said.
“That’s because it’s diet.” I said.
“Why did you get me diet?” Cotton whined.
“Because you’re too fat.” I said, harshly.
“Oh I want diet,” Ellen said.
“There should be another diet in there?”
“Why did you order two diet sodas?” Ellen said accusingly. “Do you think I’m fat too?”
“No, no,” I stammered. “I drink diet all the time.”
“No you don’t.” Cotton said. “You say diet tastes like piss.”
“I’m just messing with you, Anton.” Ellen laughed. “The whole ship knows I drink diet.”
“Hey how come you know what piss tastes like?” Hammond said loudly, his glass empty and his cheeks rosy.
“What’s going on at the bar?” Allen asked, uninterested in the taste of urine. “Why’s that guy in the fancy white shirt screaming at the bartender?”
The others turned around and I slouched in my chair, trying to become invisible. Cotton grinned. He had figured out I stole the drinks.
“Wow, those security goons are actually handcuffing him.” Hammond said. “He must be drunk or something.”
“No he’s not drunk.” Ellen observed. “But that other guy is!” She pointed to a middle aged man in a dark blue suit with four thick golden bars on each cuff and shiny badges on each of his two epaulets. He had a well-trimmed graying beard and staggered around the Star Lounge, stopping periodically to shake hands with people he clearly didn’t know.
“Who is that?” Hammond asked.
“That’s the captain!” Cotton said.
“Wow,” Ellen said, “I’ve been on this ship for three voyages, and I think this is the first time I’ve actually seen our captain.”
“Hey Captain!” Hammond hollered loudly. Unaccustomed to alcohol, the single shot of bourbon left Hammond buzzed.
Our inebriated leader sauntered over and shook Hammond’s hand. “Good to see you! Good to see you! You on the crew young man?”
“No, but my dad is.”
“Good to have the both of you aboard.”
The ethanol fumes the man expired were overpowering. Cotton gasped for air. Ellen gagged. Fortunately, our captain lost interest in us and wandered away.
“Hey isn’t that your mother?” Allen said.
Mother sat at a table near the bar, facing us. She wore a stylish slim fitting dress, but the male companion who sat across from her wore an orange jumpsuit. We couldn’t see his face, but his helmet hair was unmistakable.
“That’s your mom?” Ellen said. “Oh, her dress is so cute, and I love what she’s done with her hair!” Ellen raised her eyebrows. “Who’s she with though? You think he’d have put in the effort to dress up too. I can’t really make out his face, but he seems familiar.”
“Yeah, he does,” Hammond agreed.
Utterly helpless, I could do nothing but watch the events unfold as our drunkard of a captain wandered over to my mother to wish her well.
“How you doing today little lady? Good to see you!”
Mother blushed with pleasure. The man in the orange jumpsuit turned around to greet the captain.
“Eek!” Ellen shouted.
“That’s Mr. Fox,” Hammond cried, “our social studies teacher!”
I could feel the heat emanate from my cheeks as my face turned red.
“Your mother’s on a date with Mr. Fox!” Ellen shrieked with disbelief.
“No,” I stammered, “they’re just good friends.”
“Why’s he wearing an orange jumpsuit?” Cotton asked.
“First Mate is hiring on teachers with technical certifications to help with the repair and clean up.” Allen said frankly. “He must have just come off shift.”
“Hey maybe they’ll get married and then Mr. Fox will be your stepdad.” Hammond joked.
Apparently Cotton didn’t like the joke either. My brother turned to me and said, “Let’s go look for some comic books.”
“Good idea,” I said. We turned away from our half empty soda glasses.
“No come back guys!” Ellen begged.
“Yeah,” Hammond said apologetically, “we were only kidding around.”
“Let them go.” Allen said. “I think you took your joke a little too far.”
“You’re one to talk.” Hammond said bitterly.
On the way out, Cotton stopped by the can to take a wiz. I waited for him outside. Somebody tapped me on the shoulder. “What?” I snapped, irritated, expecting to see Hammond or Ellen.
“Well who’s Mr. Grumpy pants today?” Mother scolded.
“Oh sorry.” I said. “I thought you were someone else.”
“Well that’s no way to greet someone else.”
“Yeah, I guess not.” I agreed, apologetically.
“Where’s your brother?” Mother asked. “Don’t let him wander because he’ll get lost.”
“He’s in the can.”
“Well good.” Mother said, satisfied I was doing a good job as her parental proxy. “Hey, do you still have any of the money I gave you?”
“All of it, actually.”
“Can I have an M-note?” she asked. I reached into my pocket and handed over the bill. “Oh thanks. I need to get a few things before I go back home.” I made no effort to conceal the look of disappointment on my face, but mother either missed it or ignored it completely.
Someone very strong slapped me on the back. I knew Hammond wouldn’t approach me with my mother nearby, not even with the free liquor in him. “How’s it going Anton?” Mr. Fox smiled.
“Okay, I guess.” I said sheepishly. Talking to teachers in my free time gave me the willies.
“You got a good boy there, Melinda,” Mr. Fox said approvingly. “He’s really started to apply himself in class.”
“Oh he is a good boy!” Mother beamed.
“Be right back.” Mr. Fox dismissed himself to step into the can.
“So… err…” I didn’t quite know what to say, “…you’re on a date with Mr. Fox?”
“Oh yes, isn’t Gerard gorgeous?” Mother asked in a hushed tone.
“No!” I said.
“Oh stop! You’re just saying that because you’re a boy.”
“No it’s not just that, he’s got that freaky hairdo.”
Mother frowned ever so slightly. “Yeah it is a bit odd, but people can always change their hairstyles. I can tell he’s really buff though, and he’s got the most b
eautiful green eye.”
Funny, I thought, doesn’t Mr. Fox have brown eyes?
“He’s super smart.” Mother said. “Did you know he was a certified level 3 electrical technician before he became a social work teacher? He even helped refit the ship back on Earth.”
“Social studies,” I said, emphasizing the word “studies.” “Mr. Fox teaches social studies.”
“Oh whatever,” Mother said, dismissively.
We heard footsteps coming our way.
“Quick!” Mother said in a hushed tone. “He’s coming back. I’m going to sit back down. Do me a favor and don’t stop by my place tonight.”
The footsteps didn’t belong to Mr. Fox. “I thought I heard mom,” Cotton said.
“You did.”
“What did she want?”
“To take some of her money back.”
“Awe man!” Cotton whined.
Most of the shops on Libra Space Station sold gaudy tourist trinkets. Cotton was mildly interested in a T-shirt with a picture of the Obelisk on the front, but only because the Obelisk resembled a giant dong. At five times the price of a T shirt back home, there was no way we were going to buy it, and Cotton didn’t care enough for it to resort to shop lifting. One shop sold hard copy magazines and comic books. Most of the comics were issued years ago and were way overpriced.
“This place is a major let down.” Cotton sighed. “I guess the view from the Star Lounge is pretty cool, but these shops really blow!”
I nodded, agreeing completely.
Someone whispered, “Psst! Hey kid!” A filthy boy with reddish hair lurked in the shadows behind a tall rack of hoodies. He looked back over his shoulder to make sure no one was watching. He seemed younger than myself but older than Cotton, but it was hard to tell his exact age through all the dirt and grime. “You guys looking for some skin mags?”
“No,” Cotton said, “comic books.”
“I know some guy who’s got loads of ‘em. I can get you a really good deal.”
“Does he have Macho Moe, Space Marine # 117?” Cotton asked. For as long as I could remember, Cotton had been looking for that very issue.
“That’s the one when he fights that guy, right?” the boy asked. To me, the boy seemed deliberately vague. Macho Moe fought and killed at least a dozen guys in every issue. Cotton, however, seemed less skeptical.
