Space, Inc

by Julie E. Czerneda

  “That’s what I finally needed to hear,” he said as his throat began to go dry, as the years of sadness ended with this moment of joy.

  She kissed him, in the same deep, passionate way they had kissed in their college years.

  Then suddenly, she was gone.

  After they finished planting the bombs, Andrew, George, and Ed scrambled aboard the Rocky Road. An hour later, the Rocky Road soared away from the asteroid. They’d go beyond the range of the blast before detonating the bombs, but set them off soon enough to avoid danger to the oncoming Long Island.

  A day later, the Rocky Road reached a safe distance from Odette. As planned, the Long Island was still out of range. Andrew smiled; they had outrun Chang.

  Andrew typed the detonation code into the transmitter. He hit the “send” button.

  “It’s done,” Andrew said. He began the countdown under his breath.

  “We have a strong signal from the probe watching Odette,” said Ed. He sent the asteroid’s image to all the monitors.

  They watched the bomb explode. Although fragments of rock flew in all directions, most of the asteroid stayed intact. Amidst a gray cloud of pulverized stone, slowly but surely, Odette shifted its path.

  Aboard the Long Island, Colonel Chang and his crew silently watched Odette shift into its new orbit. Never before had they seen an asteroid move amidst a cloud of its own debris.

  “This damn well better have worked,” Chang said, breaking the silence.

  “Colonel, your orders?” said Major Peters, the ship’s first officer.

  “Plot a course to intercept Odette,” said Chang. “I want to be sure this trajectory is completely safe. We still might have to destroy it.”

  As the Long Island continued toward Odette, deep space probes monitored Odette and sent data to Space Station Reagan. With the data, asteroid trackers began mapping Odette’s new orbit. Would Odette hit something sooner or later?

  A day later, Mission Control sent the answer to Chang. “A one in a million chance, and they got it,” he reported to General Boyd.

  Back on Space Station Reagan, Mission Control sent the same relieved message to all ships and probes: Odette had changed its orbit and no longer threatened to strike Reagan or any other station.

  The Long Island was preparing to head home, leaving Odette alone, when she received a distress signal from the Rocky Road. The rock blasters had returned to Odette for reasons unknown and now were in trouble. Calls to the Rocky Road only returned a recorded mayday message. Chang had no choice but to respond. What could be going wrong aboard the Rocky Road now?

  Andrew looked around. George was telling Rachel about her mother’s vacation to Spain last year. At his station, Ed explained to his dad how probes and beacons sent images back to Earth and traveling ships. George and Ed were making up for lost time with their loved ones, talking about family and friends, hopes and plans.

  Sally, still dressed as a Ducks cheerleader, came back into the control room. Andrew knew he could imagine her in other clothes, but he wanted to remember her this way. The college years had been the best time of their lives, when the present was full of life and happiness, when the future seemed eternally bright.

  Sally sat down beside Andrew and took his hand. “Why did you return to us?” she asked.

  “To bring Chang to the asteroid,” said Andrew. “I’ve known Chang for several years, and he’s always sad. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s someone in his past. If it is, he needs to come here.”

  Shortly after the Long Island landed on Odette, Colonel Chang and six commandos quietly boarded the Rocky Road. As the commandos took control of the engineering sections, Chang went to the control room.

  Chang raised his helmet visor. “We received your distress signal,” he said. “What’s wrong, is anyone injured—oh, my God.”

  In addition to Andrew, George, and Ed, he saw other people on the ship: a woman in a red jacket; a man in blue jeans; and a girl in a cheerleader uniform.

  “You’re just figments of my imagination,” Chan insisted.

  “Captain Ross reporting for duty, sir!” someone announced from behind him.

  Chang spun around. A soldier, dressed in green jungle combat camouflage, stood there. His name tag read “ROSS.” He was unscratched and alive, the way he had been when Chang last saw him.

  Chang put a hand on Ross’ shoulder—his solid shoulder.

  Chang tried fighting back the tears, but a single drop rolled down his cheek.

  “Oh, dear God, why can’t you be real?” he asked. “Why couldn’t I take you home to your wife? Instead, I had only your dog tags to take to her….”

  One night in the U. S. camp in Haiti, Chang had heard strange sounds, like someone stumbling through the garbage dump just outside the camp. Change had ordered Captain Warren Ross to investigate the sounds. As he walked into the garbage dump, Ross had stepped on a land mine and been blown to pieces. Ross had been married only ten months.

  If only he hadn’t ordered Ross to investigate the sounds …

  Chang had never fully recovered from meeting Ross’ wife Karen and their newborn son Daniel. He had given her Ross’ dog tags, and soon afterward, applied for space station service, away from Earth’s fighting nations.

  After Chang ordered the commandos to return to the Long Island, he talked to Ross in the control room, oblivious to the others, both living and dead. Finally, Chang heard the words he had needed to hear for nineteen years.

  “Karen knew the risks, Major,” Ross said, calling Chang by his rank during the Haitian War. “Her father and grandfather were both in the Army. She knew we could be killed in action anytime. I’m sure she never blamed the Army or you.”

  “Thank you, Captain,” Chang said. “Let me say again that I was proud to have you under my command. I wish I had been able to tell you at the time.”

  Chang and Ross exchanged salutes. The colonel sighed and closed his eyes. When he opened his eyes, Ross was gone.

  Sally, Rachel, and Dad left again, leaving the three rock blasters alone with their memories—and Colonel Chang.

  “I’m gong to drop the charges of willful endangerment of a space station,” said Chang, staring out the window at the stars above Odette.

  Andrew joined Chang at the window. “Thank you, Colonel,” said Andrew.

  “It’s the least I could do, considering you’ve lost five million gold units in scavengers’ commissions,” said Chang with a wry smile.

  Andrew nodded. “That’s a lot of money, but we can’t put a value on this asteroid. It’s priceless.”

  “And mysterious,” said Chang. “We know nothing about it. Is it one of the legendary Siren Stones? Could there be more of them? Where did it come from? Did someone send it to us? Is it alive?”

  “Do you think the asteroid is alive?” Andrew asked.

  “I don’t know,” Chang answered, “but it doesn’t matter. It does something wonderful, and that’s what counts. You’ve done the human race a big favor.”

  “How’s that?”

  Chang gazed at the stars again. “You’ve saved something the human race desperately needs: a place where people can make peace with their pasts.”

  George and Ed joined them at the window. Up in the black sky, there seemed as many stars as there were lost souls in the human race, each wishing for a chance to say unsaid words.

  “I have friends, family—we all do—who could be healed by coming here,” said Chang. “Too bad it’s so far from Earth.”

  “You brought more explosives, didn’t you?” asked Andrew. “I think we can give Odette another nudge. Drop her in behind Mars, for instance. Not so close to Earth as to endanger anything, but close enough so people can come here.”

  “I have the explosives,” said Chang. He gave Andrew a serious, questioning look. “Are you sure you can do it again?”

  “Yes, I’m sure,” said Andrew without hesitating. “We’ve done it once already.” Behind him, George and Ed nodded.

&nb
sp; “Fine. You can have the explosives,” Chang said. Then he became silent, deep in thought. “I have a problem, though,” he said after his silence. “How will I explain this to General Boyd? He’ll think I’ve gone crazy. I don’t want to get discharged as a mental case.”

  “Don’t worry about the general,” Andrew said. “He’ll understand after he comes here, just as you did.”

  “Of course,” said Chang with a smile. “And he will come here. This is a Siren Stone, after all.”

  * * *

  Derwin Mak lives in Toronto and writes quirky science fiction short stories. His stories are about ballerinas, tiny aliens, unlucky Titanic survivors, and vile U-boat captains. He was an anime correspondent for the Canadian magazine Parsec and has written articles about royal families and nobility for Monarchy Canada magazine and the Napoleonic Society of America. He has university degrees in accounting, defense management, and military history.

  FEEF’S HOUSE

  by Doranna Durgin

  TEMPORARY HELP WANTED

  Short-term contracts available for general laborers. Short-term and renew-for-kind available for those with experience in the service sector, skilled tradespeople, and certified technicians. Apply at any public interact screen by accessing the Toklaat Station’s Temporary Job Placement System. Be aware that providing a false statement via a public system is a Category 4 offense and, if convicted, offenders face severe fines and imprisonment.

  THE interact screen stared sternly at Shadia, showing her a form full of questions to which she had no answer. To which no duster would have an answer. Local personal reference. No chance of that. It’s why she’d chosen the temp form.

  Commonly known as the “duster form,” but only if you said it with a sneer.

  Local address. Wherever she landed on any given night.

  Last posting. Three weeks Solward on Possita IV.

  Shadia scanned the form with the contempt of a duster for the mag-footed perms and then, recalling that she sat in front of an interact screen connected to Toklaat Station’s temp job placement system, she hastily schooled her expression to something more neutral. Jobs no one wants, jobs with no guarantee of security. The first she was used to; the second suited her. She didn’t want still to be here in the first place and she certainly didn’t want to tie herself to work or community.

  There. There was an empty form-line she could fill. She manipulated the interface with absent ease.

  Instantly, a woman’s face filled the hitherto blank square in the upper left of the screen. “You had a terdog? A real terdog?”

  A real terdog?

  I didn’t want to be here in the first place. Not filling out forms, not pretending it suited me, not remembering the sight of my friends boarding the hydropon repair ship, buying passage with three weeks of shoveling ‘cycle products and glad to do it. Not hiding my reaction to such a question. A real terdog? Was there any other kind?

  Politely, Shadia said, “A kennel of real terdogs, sir. Belvian Blues, which we used to find subterr rootings for export—”

  “Yes, yes,” the woman said, rude in her eagerness. “I have just the position for you. It pays well and suits your unique skills.”

  Her unique skills? She had a duster’s skills. A little of this, a little of that, learn anything fast. Take what gets you off-planet or off-station when you feel like going.

  Unless, of course, you fall on your ass in front of a zipscoot and rack up such a medical debt that you’re stuck on-planet until you repay. Stuck. In one place.

  Stuck.

  Most wary, Shadia said, “What’s the job?”

  Her application screen rippled away, replaced by the familiar format of a job listing. Almost familiar … except for the header logo, which caught her eye before she had a chance to focus on anything else. Permtemp. “There’s been a mistake, sir,” Shadia said. Her recently healed thigh cramped with her sudden dread that it wasn’t actually a mistake at all. She forced herself to relax. “I’m not a perm. Just a temp. I put it on my application.”

  “This is a priority position, young woman. In such cases we extend our search parameters.”

  “Apologies, sir, but temp is a preference, not a restriction.”

  The woman’s eyes flicked aside to her own interact screen where Shadia’s partially filled form would be displayed. Her demeanor cooled, enough to give Shadia that same prickly unease she got any time she stepped out of duster turf and into perm areas. “Shadia,” the woman said, pronouncing it wrong, shad-iya instead of shah-diya.

  Shadia didn’t correct her.

  “Shadia,” the woman said, wrong again. “Why are you applying for work on Toklaat?”

  I have the feeling you know. No doubt the woman had instantly called up all of the records Shadia had accumulated since disembarking here. “Med-debt, sir,” said Shadia. Damn perm. They thought themselves so superior, with their airs about commitment and stability and dependability. Dusters thought them staid and boring and knew better than to expect permanence from any part of their lives.

  “Then you won’t be allowed to leave the station until the debt is paid?”

  Shadia stopped herself from narrowing her eyes. Of course the woman knew the terms of duster med-debt. “Yes, sir.”

  “Filling this job is very important to us. Our permanent residents, by definition, have little chance for exposure to pets of any kind.”

  No, of course not. Only the affluent could afford a pet in a station environment, even a station like Toklaat with copious gardens and play spaces and other luxuries. And the affluent wouldn’t need to check station listings for jobs, temp or perm.

  The woman smiled a grim little smile. “I can’t say for sure, but I suspect that with the priority placed on filling this job, it would be very difficult to remove you as a candidate.”

  And as long as she was listed as a candidate for one job, she wouldn’t be considered for others.

  Oh, God. Stuck.

  * * *

  Until this moment she would have said all stations smelled the same. A whiff of artificial scent meant to cover the disinfectant that was ineffective in some places and astonishingly strong in others. But no disinfectant would handle this smell. No artificial scent stood a chance. Wildly exotic pet residue, abandoned and left to stew.

  Blinking watering eyes, Shadia tried to evaluate her new home.

  Home. How long had it been since—?

  But no, this wasn’t a home. This was enforced labor, and as soon as her med-debt was paid, she’d find some way out of this place. Off of this station. Back to the habits to which she’d become accustomed these past fifteen years, just over half her life. Her hip twinged, reminding her why she was still here; old memories twinged to remind her why she wanted to leave.

  Shadia concentrated instead on her new environs. Two floors of space, an unimaginative floor plan that put living quarters above several rooms meant to simulate a home environment for pampered pets while offering a practical nod to the need for cleanup, food preparation, and isolation of cranky or antisocial animals. There was, of course, a tub.

  Precious water, used on dirty pets.

  There was even an old schedule tacked directly to the wall next to the tub. The hand-scrawled names were water-stained and worn, but Shadia got the gist of it. Once a week for most of them, twice for some of them. And not all of them were bathed with shampoo and water. There was one called Mokie; it seemed to be bathed with a special oil. And Tufru used a product she found in the storage bins over the tub … it reminded her of cat litter.

  Cat litter. When was the last time I cleaned a litter box? Stinky old litter box, never could have the fancy self-cleaners because Ma and Dad said we needed to learn responsibility. As if working in the kennels wasn’t enough. Worked in that damn kennel from six years old to—

  Old enough.

  Shadia left the tub area behind. Hastily. By the time she reached the spartan little office, she was full of anger. The way she liked it. Good cleans
ing anger, snarling that the very part of her once-was that had sent her on duster ways now had her trapped on Toklaat.

  Nothing’s permanent. See what you can see. Drift from station to planet to orbiter, grabbing catch-work rides and reveling in the newness of the next place until it got old, finding new friends when the old drifted away, your only true bond the very thing that would eventually drive you apart. Duster ways.

  Still snarling, she found the paperwork that suggested she name the facility and directed her how to hire the assistants she was allowed—just enough help so she could sleep and acquire food and personal maintenance goods, for the pet care facility served all three shifts. There was a com-pin so she could be contacted by customers or assistants at any time, a cashchip for operating expenses, and an ID set. Her ID set.

  Fast work.

  Shadia picked it up, fumbling the slick bifold set. Employer information on one side, personal history on another, a large recent image of herself—source unknown to her—and a fourth side that sheened blankly but held all of the set’s information and more in digital. She looked at the image. It showed her from the head up but somehow managed to capture her scrawniness beneath the patched duster’s vest-over-coveralls she wore. Mementos covered the vest, from crew patches to a shiny bead made from a shell found only in a single place on a single planet. And they hung within her hair, an unimpressive dark blonde never given the opportunity to go sun-streaked, but long enough to hold beads and twists of woven goods. The tactile hair of a woman who encountered very few mirrors.

  Her appearance clashed with the purple border around the image, the one that proclaimed her as a perm job worker. A purple border she’d never thought to see on her own ID set, not after being dragged into the duster’s life while she was still young enough that her original ID lived in the back of her underwear drawer.

  Dragged into it, maybe. But I embraced it. The very involuntary nature of my introduction to the life was a blessing, an event that taught me a duster’s way is the only way. People think we’re crazy, bouncing infinitely from station to station to planetside to station. Space dust. But in reality we’re the wisest of them all. They count on their lives to continue as they know them. We admit up front that it’ll never happen that way, and make the best of it.