2
Meet the Crew
Mark’s Station is a colony on Galwen, an airless moon with a one gee somewhere between Earth and Pohl, which is bigger and heavier. A major issue with interstellar space is adjusting to different one gees: everyone's basic gravity, atmosphere and sun frequency.
I get plenty of exercise, given the difference in gravity, it's akin to an uphill hike in high altitude. Everyone walks as there is little or no vehicle traffic on the narrow streets. There were electric cars for a short time but after many collisions, traffic jams and the rowdy attitude toward authority, it quickly became apparent that foot travel was easier on everyone. Small trucks or golf carts are used for emergencies, deliveries and for VIPs in a hurry.
I lucked out getting a job and internet in one day. At 1500 hours sharp I arrive at the shop in jeans, a long sleeve shirt, comfortable shoes, and an extra coat. Gaga, the office secretary, hands me my ID as an shrill alarm sounds. A gust of cold air sweeps in and we reflexively hold our noses and blow to pop our ears as the pressure drops. Even inside the enclosed office one can feel the effect of the Bailey Safety door opening to let a ship into the rear bay.
Mark’s Station is a tightly controlled environment. Bringing a ship into the shop requires airlocks and elevators as most everything is below ground. Protocols and alarms are strictly enforced to protect from rapid decompression, freezing temperatures and local radiation. Ah, the many dangers of living in space.
“Stay away from the crane area,” Gaga reminds me as I head out to the shop. That is an area marked off with a danger line painted on the floor where the anti-grav crane operates. I bypass it, stash my gear in a locker and get to work.
Aside from Stan and Gaga, the other human in the shop is Temple Giotti, the chief mechanic, a lithe woman with a café au lait complexion and an intense personality.
She takes me around the shop for a detailed safety instruction to remind me how dangerous shop work can be.
"Always remember the golden rule of mechanics, if it glows don't touch it," She says in all seriousness. I agree with a small salute. She points out my work station which has a lot of empty space for tools.
"It's baby fat, it will grow out," she explains when I frown in confusion.
She pretty much runs the shop and takes her work seriously. She also does not suffer fools easily as the “three amigos” Chuck Berry, Johnny B Goode, and Elvis find out.
Their large hairy physique and phony names mark them as Rogues, immigrants of mixed races from their home worlds. They are usually mine workers or adventurers running from the law. These guys aren’t very bright and I know they won't last long. Chuck makes the mistake of being an asshole-- not uncommon with Rogues.
“What is your problem?” Temple snaps at Chuck, who is constantly ogling her. He seems pleased that she finally notices him.
“Nothing my toolbox can’t fix,” he leers over the work table.
“I’d shove you out of an airlock first,” she says, giving him a withering look. His comrades continue to rib him as he sulks in rejection.
Chuck keeps harassing Temple until Stan notices and fires him. The boss, with his entrenched military habits, will not tolerate conflict within the unit. The other two take the hint and keep their heads down, although Johnny didn’t keep his low enough.
When the McKinley engines are tested, they generate an intense magnetic field--too intense if you ask me. We had been warned about leaving steel tools anywhere near the testing cage, a roomy section of the shop separated by an aluminum cyclone fence. Sometimes, a carelessly laid tool is sent flying to crash against the cage. Sure enough, Johnny gets hit in the head with an airborne wrench and is knocked out cold. We never see him again. After that, Elvis always wears a hardhat and is super friendly to everyone.
The shift crew is reduced to me, Temple, Elvis, George and two Pohls, who rarely speak. One day George joins us for lunch in the lounge, settling his large frame on a bench that aches under his weight. He greets me with a cheerful nod and a smile as he puts his lunch on the table, a keg sized mug of root beer and a sub sandwich from a local deli big enough to feed everyone.
“Say boss, what’s this gee-gaw?” George asks holding up a green vegetable he fishes out of the sandwich.
“It’s a jalapeno pepper, very spicy,” Temple informs him. He gobbles the pepper with delight. While he chats amiably with Temple, I watch the Pohls sit at another table across the room. Imbler and Fet communicate with each other in a silent fashion I can't figure out.
I am intrigued as they sit still eating small, jello like squares and drinking foul smelling liquid from tall glasses. Their movements are slow and graceful but as pointedly artificial as their neat wigs and weirdly colored contact lens. Occasionally their movements will blur momentarily like a film fast forwarded then return to normal.
“Dun me, can’t get used to that,” Elvis says, blinking several times and shaking his head. I agree, their sporadic changes in tempo and stiff human appearance are unnerving.
The elusive, reserved Pohls allowed humans to have a colony on their largest moon and generally leave us alone. It is a cordial but cool relationship which is why they insist on having a few of their own around to make sure we behave. Humans have never been to Pohl, because of the heavy gee and hostile atmosphere. The Pohls however, adapt well to the thinner air and lower gee here.
Sitting at the lunch table and watching the two alien mechanics piques my interest once more. I'm not close pals with Temple but rely on her to fill me in on technical stuff and the crew. I nudge her with an elbow.
“What do the Pohls really look like?” I ask under my breath.
“You don’t want to know,” she replies, giving me her patented “don’t go there” glare.
“Really?” I push on.
“This is one area where you should leave your curiosity unsatisfied,” she answers with a mixture of parental scolding and odd discomfort. I glance at the pair and wonder.
3
The Vomiting Lunchbox
Galwen is the ideal stopover for travelers passing through the Alliance, a loose federation comprised of eleven species from seven planets in four solar systems. General stores, hotels, ship ports and maintenance shops supply the needs of folks on their way to other worlds. It's always busy.
Between the three shops, Mussel Mechanics gets a lot of business. We repair, refit or soup up just about everything. My job is to design and install small ship interiors. Most transports came out of the factory or from the dealers as a basic shell, then modified to accommodate the owner’s physiology and one gee.
The Cassarians are “fat blobs” as Stan calls them, alien white trash with flabby bodies and pasty skin. They are the nouveau riche with rare metals found on their planet they trade to the Alliance. They have no class or taste so they are always happy with whatever we give them.
The Jova, on the other hand, have excellent taste. They are tall, elegant and extraordinarily handsome. The females are the dominant gender so the males defer to me in a respectful way that makes me glad I left Earth every time I deal with them. Likewise, the male Jova are fine being treated as equals by us.
We don't get any business from the Pohls, as they do their own craft maintenance. Too bad, you can tell a lot about a race by the configuration of their ships.
One day as I walk down the hall on the way to work, I happen to glance through a partially open office door to see what looks like a large bowl of slimy, white rice noodles on top of a rumpled blue tablecloth partially draped over a table.
A few minutes later, while chatting with Yuki in accounting about my paycheck I notice Imbler pass by in his standard blue coveralls and adjusting his wig the color of corn silk. It takes a few seconds for my distracted brain to make the connection and my eyes widen in small horror. Eww, Temple's right. Some things should be left a mystery. It takes me awhile to recover from that shock.
When I get to the shop, the crew is standing around a large worktable examining the schematic of a commuter used for public transportation. George’s tall frame is bent over as he props an elbow on the table; his chin in hand. His other upper hand taps a pencil on the table while his lower arms dangle, almost touching the floor. He looks bored with the discussion.
“What’s up gang?” I ask blithely as I walk in on the proceedings.
Apparently they have a ‘muter that is making everyone sick and can't figure out why after going through the list of potential culprits. Leaking chemicals, poor air circulation, a faulty gyro, nothing seemed to be wrong. What is making people dizzy, light headed, slightly nauseous and giving them headaches?
“Sounds like being car sick,” I suggest half joking.
“How do you get motion sickness on a ship that rides as smooth as glass?” Temple wonders, her expression shaded with doubt.
My favorite kind of joke is the “the grenade”. The punch line is like pulling the pin and waiting for the recipient to get it, like when the answer comes to the three of us humans simultaneously.
“The lunchbox,” I say.
The lunchbox is a slang term for the gattan or Artificial Gravity Generator that is standard on virtually every interstellar ship. It's been around so long no one knows the origin of the word or who discovered it. It’s size varies from a lunchbox to a refrigerator depending on the power needed to create one gee. Don’t ask me how it works, Temple tried to explain it once and it went right over my head.
Everyone makes a beeline to the ship’s open engine hatch. Amid the tubes, wires and components is an inconspicuous gray metal box. A few swift turns of a socket wrench later, Temple has the cover off and a diagnostic machine is attached. Sure enough, it's determined that the machine is malfunctioning, causing intermittent mini episodes of zero gravity. Motion sickness.
“Pretty good, little one,” George nudges me with an elbow as everyone returns to work. I give him a reluctant smile. He is the only one who can get away with calling me that.
I work with George a lot and we enjoy each other’s company. His four arms are a constant source of wonder to me. He crosses his upper arms when he is pondering. He parks his lower hands on his hips when he is annoyed. When he does both-you don’t want to be around him. Stan hired him as a grunt because of his extraordinary strength. Today I'm helping him with a Collier, and his two upper arms are busy holding the engine's cowling.
“Will you hand me that drill please?” He asks with his usual politeness, pointing with a free hand to a large pneumatic tool lying on a nearby table. I pick it up and promptly drop it on the floor, it's so damn heavy.
“You need help with that?” he asks.
“Nah, I got it.” I groan, straining under the weight. I drag it along until I'm close enough, where he picks it up with ease.
I appreciate his friendship as I still feel like an outsider at the shop. My work is considered cosmetic and often the last part of the detailing process so the mechanics have no interest in it. I spend a lot of time crawling around under control counters and jam into small spaces installing wiring or components.
“Hey little one, come join us for a beer,” George calls to me as I sit exhausted after putting the ugliest carpet in a Cassarian space yacht.
He gives me a welcoming look with his large childlike eyes, knowing how important it is for me to be included with the gang. I value the freedom of Mark’s Station but have moments of regret when loneliness grips me while sitting in my tiny apartment feeling homesick.
“Sure,” I say, smiling at the offer.
1 comment:
Wow!
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