by Phil Geusz
Geusz/Lagrange
Lagrange
A Novella by Phil Geusz
First Printing January 2012
Published by Legion Printing, Birmingham, AL
Copyright Phil Geusz, 2011
ISBN: 978-0-9829866-3-9
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without explicit permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
I
"We live in an age of true space exploitation," Commodore Tottson said, winding up his formal speech. "An age where ordinary people can and do live out their entire lives in habitats such as this magnificent Lagrange station without ever stopping to think about the fact that they are immersed in the most hostile environment ever colonized by Mankind." The distinguished explorer smiled, displaying a perfect set of teeth that contrasted nicely with his midnight-black coveralls and coffee-colored features. The Commodore was a very handsome man, with graying hair. His uniform looked as if it had just come from the tailor shop, and his shoes were so perfectly polished that they could have been used as shaving mirrors. "It is said that even the most impressive of technological miracles becomes commonplace over time," he continued, "and perhaps the truest measure of our triumph is the very normalcy of Lagrange's lifestyle. Merchants can spend their days thinking about buying and selling, not about where their next breath of air is going to come from. We attend our temples and churches and mosques on holy days, free to contemplate sacred texts instead of worrying about orbital decay. Children may go about the terribly serious business of growing up without fear of sudden power failures. Most of our citizenry has never put on a vacuum suit in their lives, and probably will never have a need to. Indeed, Lagrange's accidental mortality rate is far lower than that of Oslo, Nairobi, or Chicago.
"Yet despite our seeming triumph, very real dangers remain. There is only hard vacuum to be found beyond our hulls, and our very existences depend upon highly sophisticated and complex life support mechanisms. As certified Command Navigators, the very highest responsibility of each and every one of you will be to ensure the safety of those in your care. Because things have become so easy, you will be the seasoned space hand; there will likely be no one else around able to help you. You must be prepared to improvise and to find creative ways to keep vital gear running. You must be skilled in EVA work, and you must know how to lead. There are very few of us left, we true spacemen, and our duties grow in importance every day." He smiled again; clearly this was the end of Tottson's routine speech. There were fourteen of us in the class, and all of us applauded heartily.
"Thank you!" Commander Mayberry said from the side of the room as she too applauded our guest speaker. "Thank you, sir, for a most welcome visit!"
"It's quite all right," Tottson said modestly. "I'm certain that these young men and women will someday soon be paying courtesy calls on me in my cockpit. And I them, of course." He paused and smiled again. "In fact, I understand that I have a working Brother already in the room, fully rated for intra-orbital pod work. Is that correct?"
Suddenly the room went dead silent, and I blushed under my feathers.
"Yes," Mrs. Mayberry replied after a hesitation that was only a fraction of second too long. "Yes, Marvin Mackleschmidt is a working pod pilot."
"Indeed!" the Commodore replied heartily, looking out over the classroom. "That's a terrific responsibility for one so young, and the qualifications are not all that much less than for a Command Navigator."
"Yes," my instructor replied. Gamely, she tried to change the subject. "Tell me, Commodore. On your last trip out to the Kuiper belt you found some most interesting-"
Tottson, however, was having none of it. Imperiously, he raised his hand and cut off Mayberry. "Who is this pod pilot?" he asked. "I'd like to pay a courtesy call, so to speak."
Suddenly I had a headache. Technically, as a Pod pilot I was indeed entitled to recognition as a brother Navigator, albeit barely. However, I'd much rather have crawled under a rock.
There was a second long silence. Then, finally I raised my hand.
"Ah!" the Commodore replied, his smile barely flickering as I stood and smoothed out my plumage. His self-control was most impressive; it wasn't every day that you found yourself confronted by a six-foot-tall chicken man. Tottson was politeness personified; if I chose to present myself to the world as a chicken, his manner clearly stated, it was no business whatsoever of his. "So you're the over-achiever!" He stepped across the room and extended his hand. "Pleased to meet you, ah…Brother. What ship?"
I gulped. The Commodore had been my hero since long before my voice had changed. I'd read every single one of his logs, and watched every docu-drama ever made about his adventures. There was no way out, not after he'd gone so far out of his way to be nice to me. I had to answer no matter how badly I wanted to deny the terrible truth. "Aphrodite, sir" I replied.
Tottson's face froze, and I looked down at the ground. "PT-69!" a classmate offered helpfully.
"The Pussy Pod!" another chimed in. There was a muffled snicker.
There was another long, awkward silence. It stretched out until Tottson realized that he was standing stock-still, gripping my unmoving hand. "Well!" he answered, releasing me. "Well…"
"Marvin has a perfect safety record after three months," my teacher interjected, attempting to defend my honor. Mrs. Mayberry had been my Pod certification instructor as well. I liked her a lot; she was allowing me to take her very expensive courses on credit. "He's doing well."
"It's a tremendous honor to meet you, sir," I mumbled, still looking down at the floor.
The Commodore nodded curtly, then returned to the front of the room. "Three months of perfect safety," he began again, though clearly his heart was no longer in it. "Three months without a single hard docking, without a downcheck of any kind. Now, three months isn't exactly a world's record; I've met a very few remarkable men with thirty years and more of such exemplary service. But three months is a solid beginning that each and every one of you should take note of…"
No one was paying attention, however. Instead, everyone was staring at the single white feather that had somehow found its way from my head onto the left shoulder of the Commodore's otherwise immaculate space-black uniform.
II
Twenty minutes later, I was boarding a taxi. Aphrodite was located clear at opposite end of Lagrange from where my classes were held. There was no way that I could walk such a distance, even though I was trying to keep expenses under control. My pod made its run at twelve-hour intervals, and right at the moment there was no relief pilot available. I had a schedule to keep.
"One credit, please" the taxi's mechanical voice intoned as I climbed in. I tossed a coin in the hopper. "Thank you, Sir or Ma'am" the voice replied. The simple machine was baffled by my plumage, I knew. It happened every time. "Destination?"
"Sixty-Series dock bay," I enunciated carefully. Aphrodite was docked at lock number sixty-nine, of course. My employer had paid extra to get that specific number.
"Yes, sir!" the cab answered me, sounding more confident now that it had established my gender from the sound of my voice. For a brief moment I was pressed against the seat as we accelerated, and then I was on my way. "There are many fun places to go and entertaining things to do at Lagrange Station," the cab said. "Especially for adults."
"Do tell," I replied wearily. The only way to shut off the cab's ad track was to insert another credit, which I had no
intention whatsoever of doing.
"Truly!" the cab replied, interpreting my remark as genuine interest. "In fact, there are several attractions to be found in the immediate vicinity of the Sixty-Series Docks. The most famous of these is the Henhouse Gentlemen's Club."
I closed my eyes and sighed. This was at least the thousandth time I'd heard this spiel.
"For those who are of legal age," the taxi continued after waiting in vain for my reply, "the Henhouse offers a truly exhilarating and congenial entertainment experience." There was a short pause. "They have a lot of nice girls."
There were no windows in the taxi, as the tracks often passed through privately owned areas where prying eyes were unwelcome. So I sat in my seat looking straight ahead, offering the cab no encouragement at all. The ads were less obnoxious that way.
"The Henhouse was conceived by Beauregard Montclair," the cab explained. "It's based on a similar establishment that was once located just outside La Grange, Texas back home on Earth. It became the most famous establishment of its kind in its day, a place where range-weary cowboys could come for a little rest and relaxation from time to time. There was once even a major Broadway play made about it. Mr. Montclair and his staff are determined that today's spacefaring cowboys should be able to find similar opportunities for rest and recreation located conveniently near Lagrange station."
I rolled my eyes. The Henhouse was a bordello, pure and simple. We had a bar, yes, but the girls were our bread and butter. Prostitution was illegal in Lagrange Station, but the Lagrange Board of Aldermen was only empowered to regulate a sphere of space a hundred clicks in radius. The Henhouse orbited precisely one hundred and one kilometers out at all times. Part of my job was making damned certain that we never, ever drifted any closer. As things stood, the Aldermen could only stare at us spinning outside their portholes and fume impotently as their more adventurous sprits spent every spare credit just beyond their legal grasp. Beauregard was becoming very rich, very quickly. And the girls themselves weren't doing too badly, either.
"The cover charge is only a hundred credits," the cab continued. "This amount covers your transfer fare both ways aboard the newly-refurbished pod Aphrodite, and two complimentary drinks. More exotic pleasures are available at reasonable charges."
Much more exotic pleasures, I thought to myself. Much, much more exotic.
The cab began to slow. "I hope that you'll take the time to sample the truest pleasures of life, sir," it admonished me as we came to a smooth stop. "Dock Sixty-Nine. Be sure and tell them that the Lagrange Cab Company sent you and get a third drink free. We wouldn't steer you wrong."
Yeah, yeah, yeah, I thought as I piled out, tossing my school computer over my shoulder. Be sure that your company gets its percentage of the take, you mean. Beauregard preferred to keep his patrons well lubricated; they would get that third drink for free regardless. Drunken johns were far more generous with their wallets than were sober ones.
As always, the Sixty-Series docks were among the busiest in Lagrange. Reserved for orbit-to-orbit pods only, they handled perhaps a third of Lagrange's total traffic. Dock Sixty-Nine was located all the way out at the far end of things. It was usually a far longer walk to Aphrodite than mere distance would seem to dictate.
"Hello, Marvin!" one of my fellow pilots called out as I passed Dock Sixty-Two, moving just as quickly as I could with my head held low. It was Jacob Fox, an acquaintance of long standing. "Been out scratching up some new business?" He laughed, and so did most of the others standing around with him. Sixty-Two was home to Excalibur, which shuttled at high boost between Lagrange and Armstrong Station, our newer and smaller twin located over at L-Four. Excalibur catered strictly to the carriage trade, ferrying men and women to whom time was far more valuable than money. Conning Excalibur was a very cushy job, one virtually guaranteed to move Jacob quickly up the incredibly competitive piloting ladder. He was piling up kilometers and making important contacts, while I was running the whorehouse tram, logging a miserable hundred clicks on each circuit.
And his boss hadn't made him get himself made over into a chicken as a condition of employment, either!
"Hi, Jacob!" I called back, trying not to admire Excalibur's sleek lines through the ports. "I'm afraid that we've already got all the business that we can handle."
"I'm not surprised," Jacob replied. "The Fleet's in, after all." Everyone laughed again.
I felt myself blushing under the feathers. The mining Fleet was in; that was how Commodore Tottson happened to be available to come speak to my class. Even worse, it was also payday for the construction riggers who were working massive overtime to expand our South Pole extracting facilities. The Henhouse would be full to overflowing tonight.
"The working girls get no rest when the Fleet's in," Jacob repeated nastily. "Maybe you'll have to help them out? What with all those feathers, a man could get confused. One hole's as good as another if you're drunk enough."
I stopped in my tracks and clenched my fists angrily, then began walking again as the laughter died away behind me. I was still a very new and green Pod pilot, and I knew it. Having a fistfight on my record was no way to earn a prestigious, dignified deep-space run someday, not when there were plenty of other qualified pilots out there without criminal records who would line up three-deep to take the job. In fact, I was rather beginning to suspect that I held the only piloting job in the known universe that certified pilots would not line up three deep for. No wonder Beauregard had hired me despite my inexperience. No one else had been desperate enough to apply.
A few johns were already sitting around drinking in Aphrodite's waiting area when I arrived. This was fairly normal; most of our clientele spent weeks saving up every penny for a trip out to the Henhouse, only to blow every last credit they owned and begin the cycle again. Most of the men were wearing deep-space coveralls; they were from the Fleet. A few were dressed in civilian attire, however, ranging from inexpensive casual shorts to full formal tights and doublets. Three of the private rooms were already spoken for, I could see. The private rooms were a royal pain in the butt for my crew and I; they were provided (at a price) for those who wished to remain anonymous. Arnold was working the bar when I walked up. "Hello, Marvin!" he greeted me as I stepped up to the rail. "How's tricks?"
"Don't ask," I replied as my fellow Henhouse Staffer poured me a non-alcoholic cola to drink. If Beauregard had been around I'd have had to pay like everyone else, but at the moment he was Earthside trying to sweet-talk his investors into backing an expansion. "Thank you," I said as he pressed it into my hand.
"Don't mention it," my coworker replied with a very friendly smile. Arnold had originally been recruited as Talent, not Staff. In the beginning the Henhouse had catered to the gay crowd as well as the straight, and Arnold had been remade into a Nordic-looking muscleman as part of the effort. The experiment had simply not worked out, however, and the Henhouse had gone hetero-male only. That left Arnold with a huge morphing bill and no easy way to pay it off. So Beauregard had kept him on as Staff, even though he was probably paying far too much for him. My boss might be a cheapskate in some ways, I knew. But in other ways he was genuinely a man of honor as well. I would have really liked Arnold if he hadn't so obviously had the hots for me. It was the feathers, he'd explained once. The feathers made me irresistible.
So I didn't linger at the bar, instead carrying my drink with me as I began my preflight inspection. Aphrodite floated in solitary splendor outside the Dock Sixty-Nine windows, her violently pink paint glowing warmly in the sunlight. I took a moment to visually inspect her hull, which encompassed the first items on my checklist. There was no visual damage, check. No extra mooring lines affixed, check. No workers present, check. Lurid big-breasted cartoon-chicken murals spread out for all the world to see, check…
I sighed as I entered the elevator and lowered myself down into Aphrodite herself. The Pussy Pod, everyone else called her, even her passengers. Once she had been a mining pod, ferrying gasses a
nd other volatiles from station to station all around cislunar space. Beauregard had bought her for a song, however, and then converted her huge internal volume into multi-decked short-hop passenger seating. Aphrodite, as Beauregard had renamed her, had far more power than was needed for the kind of start-and-stop work that she and I performed every day. However, her engines would last forever under such low demand, and otherwise she suited her new role perfectly.
There was even plenty of room for free advertising on her swollen, billboard-like flanks.
Everything came up green as I sipped on my cola, and soon Arnold was speaking to me over the intercom. "We're about ready out here," he said. "Just a couple more to strap down."
"Right," I agreed.
"It's a huge crowd," he added. "I've never seen anything like it. We've topped out."
"Really?" I asked, checking my mass-meter. Sure enough, it indicated the largest figure that I'd ever recorded.
"Really," Arnold replied emphatically. "We'll have a full three hundred aboard the Henhouse. I actually had to turn people away. That's a first."
I shook my head. Three hundred? The Henhouse was just a collection of orbital shacks, really, assembled together into two equal masses and then spun about a center for gravity. It was certified safe for three hundred, I knew. But where would we put them all? And how could the girls possibly serve so many customers in a mere twelve hours?
Well, neither of those were my problems. I was just the pilot, after all. And the maintenance man. And the piano player, for the next twelve hours. "Three hundred," I agreed. "Well, Beauregard will be pleased, at least. Up ship in about five minutes?"
"About," Arnold agreed. "See you at home, hon." Then he made a kissing sound into the microphone, and switched off.
I sighed and shook my head before getting down to business. "PT-Sixty-Nine to Control," I said formally into the radio. "Peter Thomas-Six-Niner to Control. This is Aphrodite. Do you read me, over?"
