2 - Cargo

A Chapter by lilynait

I didn't have to do much more than shout and run at people for them to hug the wall and make a gap for me in the narrow, metal sheathed hallway.

“Out of my way,” I shouted.

The group of ragged people split straight down the middle to let me through. One burly man opened his mouth to say something but no doubt changed his mind with one look at my body. He turned in disgust and scowled, but I gave him no mind as I ran passed.

A pair of passengers slipped silently out from a blind turn and I was hard pressed to skid to a halt before them. They jerked back in alarm, and the shorter of the two stumbled, offering me the chance to slip by with a hasty apology.

I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the metal of the wall, and my fists clenched by my side as I tried to get the b*****d Strater out of my mind. I turn the next corner faster than was safe and planted a fist into the wall to keep my balance. It wasn’t hard to pretend that I was punching a certain someone in the face.

That desire hadn't fully disappeared, and I still pulsed with energy that I'd love to disperse. Witty sayings and comebacks belatedly barrelled through my mind like I was barrelling through the ship, lost opportunities due to my lack of timing and foresight. I had so many opportunities to knock that man down a peg, and what did I do? I stayed quiet and as compliant as an initiate.

I forced myself to slow into a trot and calm down.

It wouldn’t do to go looking for a fight with Bronson, especially when she placed such value on punctuality. Besides, that slimy a*s-kisser Strater wasn’t worth a shouting match with my boss.

With so many of my companions being what they were, I felt compelled to pause and catch my breath but I refrained. Could you just imagine the sight of an Artie of all things puffing away in fatigue? Absurd.

Most times, I relished in the bending of the metabolic and physiological laws that governed my companion’s biological lives, but you know what they say about having too much of a good thing.

The sight of the white, dented skin of the cargo door quickened my pace, and I heaved a sigh of relief at the familiar scene. The repainting of the ship gave the door the clever sheen of newness, but I knew that this hunk of metal had been opening and closing for us cargo workers since Terrace had started up.

I followed the door up to meet the vividly glowing ‘CARGO’ sign hanging above, untouched from the repair work. It bore all the years of wear and tear like a proud badge of merit.

I pressed the tips of my fingers to the scanning pad embedded on the side and tugged at my collar with the other hand. I squeezed through the door before it had opened completely.

I leaned back and took a moment to savour the quiet. The wall was cold through my shirt, but the support it offered meant much more than the discomfort.

Strater’s laugh echoed unnervingly back at me, a distorted, high-pitched cacophony that I tried to banish with a shake of my head. The underlying drone of the machinery of the ship helped drive the memory away. I focused on the white noise; the gentle humming of fans, the grind of metal on metal, and basked in the welcoming that my territory gave me.

The door locked away the outside world, in all its light and hustle and gave me the refuge I’d needed after Str-

I wasn’t going to think about him.

I took another second of stillness before I brushed down my uniform and checked my hand for damage. My reflection peaked out at me from the metal of my arm the same way it did from the walls, undistorted, clear. My knuckles were still smooth to the touch and flexible enough when I flexed it. It seemed like I’d escaped another maintenance bill.

Somewhat calmer, I started down the dimly lit corridor that led into the locker room, walking between rows of framed certificates that dotted the walls with their shadowy edges. The very presence of these pieces of paper and glass lifted my head and my mood until I felt the hint of a smile tugging at my lips.

The deep bold lines on the far left frame created an allure that I found impossible resisting. One more stop, I rationalised, before I had to deal with the temper of my boss.

I traced words that I could barely make out, feeling the embossed edges with the sensitive parts of my fingers. The warm buzz of the hologram below sent shivers through my hands where they rested, and I blinked to readjust my vision.

The contrast of the world changed, all at once, and what had been darkness and shadows became illuminated with false-colour light.

Indigo Galley’s Best Cargo Crew of 740AF, awarded to Jacqueline Bronson of Terrace and her hard working companions for exceptional service in port and in the field.

My eyes lingered on the bottom right of the hologram where an image of myself stood, arms linked with Ross, with Bronson to our right. Our red suits, so clearly emblazoned, lifted our figures from the doldrums of the past and into a world of colour.

The locker room was empty when I entered, the sparsely decorated chamber seeming to reprimand me with its quality oak benches. I didn’t settle down on them when I pulled on my red suit but they were always a sight to see, hidden away in the drudges of the ship. Wood was rare but Bronson got them just for us. I didn’t linger long.

I didn't see Bronson right away when I entered, but I couldn't see much of anything. The back of the hold was tightly packed and I had to squeeze through a narrow junction to reach the main walkway. It was good to see the Terrace carrying so much cargo; I looked upon the containers with the same anticipation as I would a spread of credits, ripe for the taking, and for a second, forgot about the trials of the day.

It was easy to lose yourself in the labyrinth of floor-to-ceiling container stacks, but I traversed the meter wide walkway with all the confidence that you’d expect from my years of experience. Of course, I couldn’t say the same for my younger, unexperienced self who had been thrust into this new, alien jungle, not yet orientated in the world of microgravity. What a difference stable footing could make when you tried to make a good first impression.

I took in the entirety of the cargo hold with my younger version’s eyes and conceded that it wasn’t the prettiest thing I’d seen, with its squat build specialised for storage, and with little consideration to aesthetics. Like its blue name plate, the Cargo was full of dents - scars that marred and defined its body in turn, testament to its endurance and capability like a battle-tested shield.

I scoured the tops of the command platforms for a sign of my boss and caught sight of her dusty brown hair high up near the centre of the Hull, where she oversaw the actions of several Loaders at once.

It was slow, navigating the container piles stacked in the Hull. I longed for the pull of microgravity to release me from the two-dimensional world but it wouldn’t be until take off that we’d be truly free.

The column that supported the command platform rose high above my head. On one side, a ladder was bolted down.

I pulled myself up two rungs at a time with quick, strong strokes.

Bronson must have heard the clang of metal against metal as I bounded up the struts. I figured I might as well make a show of hurrying, especially if I was in for a lecture. The rungs were stern in my grasp and under my legs, but they were at best something to be tolerated, and discarded when the time came. Dock shifts were something of an annoyance, and this whole ladder climbing business wasn’t something I enjoyed.

Bronson’s gaze was trained on the stream of uploading containers and I watched as the cargo piled on top of each other on the floor below. Nearby, unseen, someone controlled the Binder and wrapped layers of restraints over the incoming boxes.

The head of the red suits was in her mid-forties, a strong woman with a rectangular face and wire frame glasses. She wasn't especially large, but she had a presence about her that towered above the others. Even Ross who stood a good head or so taller often said he felt like he was looking up to her.

“Thanks for sending Strater, Bron.” I caught her attention during a lull in the traffic.

“Keys, I expected you ten minutes ago.” She turned irritated eyes to me but didn't stop moving the containers. They stacked up like neuclotides during DNA replication, each filing under the other in a controlled whirlwind.

I shrugged, outwardly unrepentant. “Shouldn't have sent Strater if you wanted me promptly.”

“Is he still antagonising you, Keys?”

I made to answer, but a hush from the woman took the voice from my throat and turned my attention towards the hulking piece of metal that’s just making its way into the container stream. Bronson’s forehead creased and she stared at the machinery with a glare so hot that I was surprised it didn’t melt and fall streaming through the cracks and irregularities of the Cargo floor.

The tip of the Drill arched high into the top edge of the stream, and glistened with the green glow of Solentium. It faltered in the stream, a tiny wobble that nearly turned the bracings of my legs into rubber.

Bronson’s back stiffened and her lips sought the confines of her tongue.

Without taking my eyes off Bronson and the Drill, I shuffled across to the console and activated it with sure, precise taps. I picked up its glow from the corners of my vision, and sent out a Stream of my own to meet with the overly large piece of cargo.

The wobbling ceased and it was with a surer momentum that the Drill continued on its loading pathway.

Bronson’s chuckle caught me off guard, and I spared half a second to look over to her, incredulous. She shook her head, glasses nearly slipping passed the tip of her nose and we turned back to helping each other with the Drill.

The Drill was set down near the side of the hold and Bronson took a breath and rolled her shoulders, releasing a series of cracks as cartilage and issue settled back into their places. One hand reached up to push her glasses further up her nose and tucked a strand of her hair back behind her ear.

“Sorry,” she said after a while. “About Strater, I mean. Probably should've sent Sammy or Ross but I wanted the job done as quickly as I could. He didn't give you too much trouble did he?”

I shrugged again, all bravado and posturing. Strater was someone I did not want to think about right now. “Nah, same old.”

She arched an eyebrow high into her hairline. I pretended not to see it.

“Look, Keys. If he’s still being an arrogant a*s, tell me. I’m not going to stand him messing with my people, you understand?”

She pulled another incoming container from the stream and set it floating in the direction of the LUX. I grabbed the next container, also in the olive-green covering of the Luxury cargo and spied several more coming in.

“Awful lot of LUX for a resource body, isn’t it?”

Bronson grunted non-committedly. Apparently, she was in a good mood if she let my awful attempt at changing the subject pass.

“All books, too. We’ll rack in a handy sum this trip.”

She rounded on me with a rare grin, lips stretched thin over a spread of teeth. I nodded, before the words made me double back at her in disbelief. She looked at me knowingly, and her mouth opened in a silent laugh. Why on Earth are we hauling books of all things to a mining planet?

“Physical ones?” I asked and halted the container in my stream. The more experienced woman beside me continued to load the LUX with a focus that was borne from practice. Her hands guided the container from its place in the stream to the top of a stack, and the Binder moved to secure it.

Her nod sent me over the edge of disbelief into the realms of madness. What? Just, what?

“What are they going to do with all those? Don’t tell me they’re going to read them. Is it some kind of investment?”

I still couldn’t wrap my head around the fact that a Resource Body could afford to buy containers and containers worth of physical books. I wouldn’t even be able to get one with my month’s wages.

Bronson smiled and shook her head. “Don’t know, don’t care. And if you don’t start working, I’ll make sure I find you’re replaced with someone who appreciates the hard work that goes into managing a Cargo Hold.”

The sting of her smile silenced me for several minutes, and I hunkered down on my task. I moved container after container to their rightful places and watched as the Binder came to tie them down with restraints. Too bad I didn’t catch sight of the Binder’s controller; another familiar face, even without the conversation, made long shifts on top the platform all that much easier.

“Keys, take over for me. I need to check on the others.”

She frowned as she set down the last container, her forehead knotted in bands of electrical cords. The gaze she sent to the far corner of the Hold was so focused I wondered if she had surgically installed a bionic eye but the reflection cast by her glasses told me otherwise. I stared for just a moment, caught in the indirect light of her vision, apprehensive at the thought of being held under it.

She gave me full control over the LUX Stream and progress slowed immediately.

“Oh,” Bronson said as she stepped backwards to the ladder. “Thanks for helping with the Drill - I knew I kept you around for a reason. I’ll let the tardiness go this time.”

I sent her a wave of my hand before I picked up the slack on the Stream, moving LUX after LUX into their place on the Hold.

It was only a couple minutes later that the tenor of Bronson’s voice reached me again. The pitch of it was as sharp as the Solentium tip of the Drills. I listened with half an ear as words and phrases took turns overpowering and being overpowered by the sounds of the Hold and Terrace’s engines.

If what I heard was true, I might have to give Sammy a talking to as well; I’d have thought she was above such rookie mistakes. Using low grade restraints on those Drills, really?

“Hey Keys.”

Bronson's voice arched high over the rumble of the engines. I set and secured my last LUX and bent over the edge of the platform to get a better look. She stood, just shy of the entrance to the cargo storage, arms folded in a tight cross on her chest, and face full of thunder. Sammy stood beside her.

“Yeah, what?” I called back.

The sheer distance that separated us made the conversation somewhat surreal and I had to fight down a grin that threatened to undermine Bronson’s ire. It would’ve been much easier if I could simply push off the platform and glide down to them but once again, it seemed that the lack of stable microgravity inconvenienced us at our best.

Sammy, I noted, looked satisfied, not an expression that I expected after dealing with Bronson. Our youngest member was a short woman, with curly brown hair pulled back into a ponytail. I would've called her pretty if not for the burn scar that covered her right cheek and forehead. Her arms folded beneath her chest in a precocious sort of manner and her smile curled up passed her scar like an unruly piece of wiring in an electrical box.

Bronson, on the other hand didn't look satisfied at all, and I could almost feel the lecture she was building up inside. Sammy wasn't the target and that didn't leave many options.

I got a sinking feeling in what I would've called my gut as I stared at them, one smug, one waiting to explode.

“Get down here, Keys. It’s trouble.”

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