Specimen 959 Page 2

  He had found the old, paper-printed book on the top shelf of a locker on his first tour as a shuttle pilot in the Colonial Defense Forces Navy, abandoned by one of the quarters’ previous tenants. With so little to do between flights, he had passed the hours thumbing through its pages, trying to make sense of the Bard’s ancient words. He looked again at the page and smiled.

  Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore

  So do our minutes hasten to their end,

  Each changing place with that which goes before

  In sequent toil all forwards do contend.

  Nativity, once in the main of light,

  Crawls to maturity, wherewith, being crowned,

  Crooked eclipses ‘gainst his glory fight

  And Time that gave, doth now his gift confound.

  Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth,

  And delves the parallels in beauty’s brow,

  Feeds on the rarities of nature’s truth,

  And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow;

  And yet, to times, in hope, my verse shall stand,

  Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.

  It was nearly 8:00 by the time Norris finished dressing. His close-cropped hair, still damp from the shower, revealed the first flecks of grey, even if he chose not to notice. A glance at his holo-phone showed no unseen messages, which was a welcome rarity even during the colder months when mine traffic slowed. It was time to go, although he was in no particular hurry to complete the short walk to the café, knowing Rachel was habitually late and wouldn’t show before 8:30. He had found himself spending breakfasts with her, though before, he couldn’t really work out why.

  After her arrival at the station nearly three years before, there had been friction between them. But that certain familiarity which accompanies the passage of days had grown, and each had quickly softened toward the other. In that early time, Norris decided it was mutual, professional respect, unwilling to cede the possibility of genuine friendship. But the purposeful illusion couldn’t last. Irritating to him though she had once been, Rachel had become more than another inmate within the asylum - she was, in the end, a part of his life. She seemed to regard their relationship likewise and that was good enough for him.

  Rachel Levy was outspoken and brash - qualities Norris now appreciated more than he once had, but she was also a skilled and innovative engineer and that fact held weight in a place where practical ability and experience outshined the thin veneer of personality. She was slight of build, yet unafraid of the physical demands placed on her by her work. Her thick, black hair was always pulled tight into a high ponytail and like most women on the hill who worked in the repair bays; Rachel rarely applied makeup unless she was outbound for one of the resort hotels on the coast.

  The austere appearance favored by women that had become common to Station 8 may not have been popular as far as the men were concerned, but it was practical. Some regarded the bland fashion as a badge of honor for females who had finally found equal footing with their male counterparts in the necessarily egalitarian worlds of the Colonies. Norris could never abide the apparent need to pit traditional feminine qualities against professional ability; for him, one was not necessarily exclusive of the other.

  Norris made his way around the brightly lit, outer corridor from his apartment to the lifts in a perpetual turn to the right, following the circular contour of a building that was one quarter of a habitat complex resembling a four-leaf clover from high above. A quadrant of domed, three-level apartment structures, arranged in a tight group surrounding a central administration building, housed the station’s management staff and skilled labor crews.

  Across an open commons area from the northeastern apartment quad stood the dormitory block - a nondescript rectangle, alive with novice repair technicians and common laborers from every corner of Terran space. Bunks and lockers occupied the expansive, open bay structure that had been built into the frozen surface of a barren hillock, adjacent to the Habitat’s hub structure. A humid and perpetually warm place, noisy and ever bustling with activity no matter the time of day, the dorm was a two-level home to nearly a hundred and fifty souls who had traded privacy for a chance to get their piece of the money Station 8 generated.

  It smelled awful inside; disinfectant, wet clothing and the reek of ethnic food mounted an immediate, relentless attack on the senses. Norris typically had little reason to visit, but on the rare occasion when he did, he was reminded of life on other mining worlds when he left home for the distant, Outer Colonies as a junior officer in the Navy. Throughout his civilian career, he escaped such places, as his position brought welcome privileges and comforts that insulated him from life in “the cage.”

  As he arrived at the lifts, Norris found himself noticing trivial details that before, didn’t seemed to matter. The red, orange and yellow striping, applied in diagonals along the otherwise bland, white interior walls of the corridor seemed a comical, half-hearted attempt by the company to bring color to a drab world. Threadbare, pea-green carpet procured, some insisted, more for its cheap price and availability than a complementary effect on the décor underscored an unyielding, frugal approach that was the fashion in the early years when Station 8 was built.

  Windows along the outer wall had become dulled and cloudy after years of pounding from grit and sand, powered onward by the relentless wind. A small electrical panel near the lifts hadn’t closed properly since he first arrived. Norris glanced at the door left askew by a stubborn hinge, noting with a mild sneer it would likely stay that way long after he left. He pressed the button that summoned the lift, staring blankly at the doors. In only weeks, Norris would take his last look at the weather-beaten buildings that had become his last stop on a long, circular journey that began in the cramped cabin of a deep transport liner leaving Earth’s Resnik Orbital Station so many years ago.

  Norris was all too familiar with the process of dissociating himself from a remote outpost, anticipating still another on a distant world few could even name. But this time, it was different. Until his arrival at Station 8, there was always another stop - always a new station waiting at the end of a dull trip on budget transports. Friends he’d made as his career progressed lived along similar paths, and each had crossed another’s over the years. But most of them, he knew, would become names and faces only in his memories or the images in his personal info-archive. Now, in the last days of his contract, with no other to take its place, Norris would see the end of more than his employment; he would close the pages on a way of life.

  To most still living on Earth, or on the populated worlds of the Inner Colonies, movement between distant places had become routine in the era of Plexus Drives – those astonishing mechanisms that allowed ships to transit from system to system in only a matter of weeks, and sometimes, just in days. Out beyond the Rim, the distances between worlds were so vast, even the most direct Plexus threads consumed months crossing a gulf of emptiness. Taking a job in the Outer Colonies meant more than the money it would bring; a tour or two beyond the Rim meant leaving everything and everyone you knew for ten years, and often more.

  As his time so far from home drew to a close, Norris could not help but reflect on all he’d seen and done. With that process came a muted sense of uneasiness about the next phase of his life and what it would bring. Not unlike a prisoner about to be released after years of incarceration, he would face the dazzling changes of a civilization that had moved forward.

  Finally at the Café, Norris made his way to their favorite booth next to a low marble wall that defined the borders of a jungle-like atrium in the restaurant’s center. As usual, Rachel arrived late. With propulsion specialist Justine Ozawa in tow, she slipped quietly into the booth, rubbing the remaining sleep from her eyes. Rachel seemed almost child-like in her manner, so early in the morning. It was amusing to Norris as she came slowly to life, buoyed by a cup of strong coffee and the avalanche of sugar that always followed. In seconds, the little gi
rl gave way to the determined engineer.

  “Are you going to look at the balancers on Bechtel’s 505?” she asked.

  “I can,” Norris replied, “but I thought you were done with them.”

  “No, we’re not,” she said wearily. “And I’m getting tired of waiting for those idiots to order their filters.”

  “So tell Daynes to order them and forget about it, right?”

  “Daynes? You’re out of your mind.”

  Norris said nothing, looking with exaggerated, raised eyebrows at Justine over the rim of his cup. She only smiled and looked the other way.

  “I’ll stop in and check with them on the way over,” he offered, watching for her response.

  “Okay,” she replied, avoiding Norris’ eyes as she applied marmalade from a clear plastic dispenser to a bit of toast. Norris tried to dilute her growing anger.

  “Don’t worry about it, Ray, it’ll get done. The damn thing hasn’t been here a day and Ten Team hasn’t even started on the treads yet; we have plenty of time for the filters.”

  “I know,” she replied, tossing the bread onto her plate before turning to Norris. “It pisses me off when they complain to us, after sitting around all day doing nothing on their own Centipedes.”

  “I can’t argue with you there,” Norris said with as even a tone as he could manage. Rachel could become fierce if she suspected condescendence, even from him, but she ignored the gesture.

  “And Daynes just goes along with it!”

  She was warming up and they could hear her temper slipping away, word by word.

  “He smiles and kisses their ass when they come begging, but I’m telling you, somebody at Bechtel, and probably at Thorne, too...”

  “I don’t think he’s getting paid off, Ray,” Norris interjected softly. It was always tricky, easing her back from that place her short fuse could take her so effortlessly.

  “Oh, bullshit, Darry! You know he’s got his hand outside the door and you know just as well as I do that Bechtel is more than happy to fill it if he can get their stuff fixed and not make them pay for the parts.”

  Norris had heard the stories. He knew others believed that Corbin Daynes, the station’s quartermaster, was on the take with competing firms.

  “Maybe, but they’d burn him if they ever caught him doing that,” Justine offered. “He wouldn’t risk his position because he knows he has it made here.”

  “Who would burn him?” Rachel snorted, “Choi or Davallos? Are you kidding me? Davallos is too busy screwing her assistant to notice anything Daynes is doing, good or bad. And Choi’s hardly even here anymore. He spends all his time brown-nosing with the suits down at Demaeus. What the hell would he know about it?”

  “You’re probably right,” said Norris, his resolve dwindling by the moment, but Rachel continued without a pause.

  “This happens every time a Bechtel Centipede shows up, all broken to hell. We contract with them; we don’t work for them.”

  “I’ll swing by and talk to Daynes first thing, okay?”

  Rachel pretended not to hear Norris’ reassurance.

  “Pretty soon, they’ll start bitching about their schedule, and how important it is to get it back on the road.”

  “I’ll talk to him right after we finish eating, Ray.”

  “Gee, I never would’ve guessed that’s why we fix those things! I’m so glad they told me!”

  “Alright, Ray, I heard you the first time.”

  “I don’t give a damn what Daynes says.”

  “Rachel! I’ll talk to him, alright? Jesus!”

  “Alright.”

  “Did you wake her up early today?’ Norris said to Justine.

  “No way, boss. I know better than to knock on her door before she’s ready.”

  After a few moments in silence, Rachel finally looked up from her breakfast and offered Norris and Justine a little smile.

  “Sorry. I wasn’t yelling at you, Darry.”

  Norris feigned confusion.

  “That’s weird because it sounded just like...”

  “You know what I meant, smart-ass.”

  Justine tried her best not to laugh, but couldn’t resist. After a moment or two, Rachel decided to leave it alone.

  “Thanks, okay?”

  Norris returned a smile and aimed a subtle wink at Justine. With her temper restored, Rachel pulled up a status list from a vid pad and contented herself with log entries from the night crew, and her last piece of toast.

  Impatient to begin the short walk through the tunnels to the repair bays, Rachel and Justine waited for Norris to finish what always seemed a bottomless cup of tea as another work day at Station 8 began. It was Rachel’s turn to buy, but as he and Justine waited, Norris could see the first layers of freezing rain begin to build on the heavy glass panels separating the café from the inner courtyard in the dim, morning light.

  At last, they were ready. Norris followed Rachel and Justine down a wide staircase toward the underground hub, angling left for the tunnel that would take them to Bay 2. Brightly lit, the tunnels were alive with the sounds of movement; shuffling feet, loud and often boisterous conversation, all echoing from the polished stone floor and filthy, tiled walls. Oversized holo-displays hovered just below the ceiling, enticing with advertisements for travel and vacation packages to exotic, tropical destinations on leisure planets in the neighboring systems. Financial management services offered advice on investments, while ‘commercial companionship’ houses promised discrete, temporary services to soothe the lonely.

  Rachel was clearly more eager to get there than Norris and Justine, reluctantly slowing her pace to keep from outrunning them. Norris had long ago given up a willingness to rush, so he made no effort to speed up. It annoyed Rachel, but she had become accustomed to more of his eccentricities than just his dislike of being hurried.

  At the end of the tunnel, a stairway led up to the entrance alcove of Bay 2 and from it, a long corridor filled with the offices of lead technicians, procurement staff, schedulers and the modest spaces where customer corporations’ liaison officers worked. Beyond its walls lay the cavernous interior of the repair bay and within it, the huge machines undergoing or awaiting repairs.

  Justine begged off in order to attend a safety meeting for team leads as Norris and Rachel veered to the right, aiming for Daynes’ office. They made it halfway along the corridor when a voice from behind called out.

  “Mr. Norris! Do you have a moment?”

  “Damn it,” Norris said under his breath, “It’s Izabel.”

  “What’s she doing here?” said Rachel.

  “I don’t know, but it’s a good bet we won’t like it.”

  “Pretend you don’t hear her.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Yes you can! We’ll be here all day if you stop and talk to her! Just keep walking.”

  “Let’s see what she wants,” Norris said as he offered a limp wave toward a tall, thin woman struggling to hurry in heels and a stylish suit, both conspicuous and out of place in the corridors of a repair bay. Izabel Vieira, CenturoCorp’s exploration and development manager on SLC-28, reached Norris with a wide smile, even if it was less than genuine.

  An attractive woman in her early 30s with sparkling blue eyes and short, black hair that complemented her Brazilian skin, Izabel was the picture of corporate success. Her cosmopolitan presentation, made complete by expensive clothes and considerable jewelry, kept her always a standout in a crowd, especially when surrounded by laborers and technicians in their worn and grimy weather suits. It was no secret she enjoyed the notoriety it brought her, yet most would admit her skill as a geologist was at least equal to her political savvy. Vieira had worked her way quickly through the ranks, but her technical skill was sound enough, even Rachel respected that truth.

  “Izabel,” said Norris, blandly. “What brings you all the way up here from Demaeus?”

  “Good morning, Darrien,” she replied, making a needless show of catching her
breath, although it was clear to Rachel and Norris she hadn’t lost it. The delicate fragrance she wore was an improvement on most of the aromas found wafting through the Bays. Norris guessed the excessive price tag for a bottle would’ve been more than enough reason to lure the trend-conscious Izabel.

  “Hello, Izabel,” Rachel said deliberately, with just the right amount of mild sarcasm to show her annoyance with the interruption.

  “Oh, hi, Rachel,” Vieira replied with her own subtle tone of indifference.

  “How have you been?” asked Norris as he herded them gently toward the wall of the corridor and away from passing workers.

  “Well, not so great, actually. I have a problem, and I’m going to need some help.”

  “Okay, what problem?”

  “Um, I know this is going to sound like bad timing, but...”

  “If by ‘bad timing,’ you mean this is going to extend my contract, forget it.”

  “We’re in a bind. This is bad, Darrien, and I can’t send anyone else. Just hear me out, okay?”

  “I’m not signing a new contract, Izabel. Not a chance in hell.”

  “Don’t worry, I’m not asking you to.”

  Norris folded his arms and looked down the long hallway with raised eyebrows, waiting for her to continue.

  “Out with it; what’s this big problem, and why am I the only one who can fix it?”

  “Because you’re the only tech within a light year who knows how to repair a Chalmers 550 air truck.”

  “Chalmers? Nobody flies them anymore.”

  “It’s a little, well... complicated,” she said, looking down at the floor.

  “And here comes the punch line,” said Rachel.

  Izabel ignored her.

  “If I had any other options, I wouldn’t ask you, believe me. This is really important, Darrien. Please?”

  “I’m listening.”

  “We have a survey team doing a preliminary, with core samples. Their air truck – the Chalmers 550 – has broken down. They’re sending back data that indicates deep, multiple resources, but also, they think they’ve found seams that are less than a hundred meters beneath the surface.”