The Department of Planetary Civil Defense would like to kindly remind all citizens “Do with less – so we’ll all have enough! –Rationing Gives You Your Fair Share While Ensuring Humanities Survival!”

“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.” -Proverb

“Beautiful job, as always, Rita. Wonderful. Simply wonderful.”

Rita Kunsler loved her work. She had what society considered

an important occupation. It many ways, it was true that her labors might be considered those of a menial position. But, it was also true that society could not function without its menials, and Rita gloried in the idea that she was good at what she did, and that others recognized such as fact.

“Thank you, Mr. Renson. It’s always nice to know one’s work is appreciated.”

Rita was in charge of the Clean Room at Gilkenson, Trent and Bledsou. GT&B was one of the world’s leading corporations. One of the largest and thus always at the forefront of what was considered proper, humane and politically correct. They had established a Clean Room long before most other corporations, long before it was culturally mandatory, long before it was even acceptable. GT&B was, after all, extremely forward-thinking when it came to such matters.

“I see maintenance has already taken care of the wall,” Renson noted off-handedly.

His inspection was, of course, unnecessary. It was well known throughout GT&B that Rita was an exacting task master when it came to making certain her room was always ready–always perfect.

“Oh, yes sir. I got on them right away, I did. Can’t have the next user being disturbed because of someone else’s mishap, now can we?”

Indeed, Renson had made a habit of checking the GT&B Clean Room after almost every use simply because he knew that, within the swirling vortex of corporate madness which was the reality of Gilkenson, Trent and Bledsou, he could count on Rita’s swift ministrations to have her tiny segment of their corporation spic and span and ready for the next poor soul who needed its comfort and shelter.

 It was always a pleasure for the Vice-President in Charge of Acquisitions to enter the white and blue chamber, to inspect the paintings on the walls, to sit in one of the wonderfully comfortable chairs. To smell whatever flowers Rita had chosen for that day. To listen to the comforting music. To simply recline and relax, staring off peacefully in the quiet which was Rita Kunsler’s Clean Room.

“I know it must seem as if I repeat myself, but you do a magnificent job, Rita,” mused Renson, looking over the calm order and simple harmony of the Clean Room. “You always do. Quite honestly I don’t know what we’d do without you.”

Rita took the compliment in grateful silence, standing quietly, waiting for the vice-president to finish his meditation. Renson stared at the white drawer in the blue wall stand for a long moment, admiring it, sighing to himself.

It had been a long week. Long month, long year, long …

“No,” he thought. “No. Don’t go down that road. Self-pity is the flavor that helps no meal.”

      Turning away from the blue wall stand, Renson made one last complimentary remark, then headed back for the seventeenth floor and the mounds of neatly stacked frustration waiting there for him. He could not tarry, could not contemplate the luxurious simplicity of the Clean Room when there were people counting on him. His wife. His children. The multitudinous investors and shareholders of GT&B. He had his duties, and there was no escaping them. Not then.

 Not yet.

Smiling ruefully, Renson thought about taking one last look at Rita’s small island of sanity, but decided against it. If he were to gaze upon it again that day, he knew, he would walk straight back in and sit down, and mostly likely never leave unless he was carried out.

      Rita smiled as she watched the tired looking vice-president finally depart. Poor Mr. Renson, she thought. Always so overworked. Always appearing one step away from the end.

      Still, she reminded herself, didn’t so many share that look anymore? The nation lingering in depression, so many other countries struggling to survive. Civil wars, terrorism, riots every other day–

      Rita could remember the old days, before the Internet and television had permanently merged, before the endless news flows from every corner of the world had become a never-ending, inescapeable barrage. It was easier to ignore all the suffering when she was a girl. You could turn off the TV and the radio then, not pick up a newspaper, and suddenly the rest of the planet could be made to appear somewhat normal.

      But that had all disappeared. Now, the jabbering screens and speakers never went silent. The ear pieces and the wrist phones and the pod-coms and all the rest of it, the everlasting shriek of information muttered and text-steaking at people from every corner. In elevators. In cabs and on the buses and subways. It was there when one opened the door to a shop. Or a refrigerator. Or a menu. Everywhere.

      Everywhere but the Clean Rooms.

      Such nonsense had been banned from them aroound the globe, and for good reason. The entire idea–the primal concept–of the Clean Rooms was to provide for people, too stressed out to continue onward, a place to hide from the world. To allow them to know that there was for them a shelter from the insanity of the crowd. That there was a refuge for those who simply could not take it any longer.

      Rita pulled the fuzzy rag from her left apron pocket to attack the corner of the mirror behind the vase of lilies on the blue stand. Fingerprints from God only knew whom had somehow gone unnoticed. Such would not do in her domain.

As she wiped away the offending swirls of oil and dust with a gentle motion, Rita thought on how the world had changed over the years. In all honesty, she still could not believe that Clean Rooms had once been controversial. Imagine, she thought, that something so practical, so beneficial, so necessary to the simple forward movement of life, had once been shunned and bitterly debated. Condemned.

“Lord,” she said quietly, “but people are so ruddy stupid.”

Such thinking seemed so long ago to her at that moment, though. Dismissed as something for only the poor and the desperate initially, it had not taken long for the first Clean Rooms to be established in this or that little known corner. When their popularity exploded, however, when they were declared useful, legal and needed, businesses around the world began to incorporate them with a vengeance. Before too long, most of the world’s governments were building Clean Rooms within their own buildings, as well. And soon, like coffee bars, they were everywhere.

Hospitals had come in strong after corporate headquarters. It made such practical sense. People worried about their loved ones. Folks suffering from incurable diseases. So much pain and suffering.

Rita slid her rag back into its pocket, and then stepped back to take a last look at the lilies she had brought in that morning. They were but a small bundle, only five. They were, however, well-shaped, rich in color, and long enough of stem to make a striking display. Working with them, moving two of them slightly, positioning them just so, she smiled at their simple beauty.

She also smiled at something she had heard on her way into work that morning. It had finally been agreed and approved that Clean Rooms would be allowed in schools. Oh, there had been one in every college and university for years. High schools and middle schools as well. But, the narrow-minded, those whose blindered vision saw only to the past, had fought against their being introduced into grade schools for decades.

“I am proud to announce,” the prime minster’s voice had come across with such firm nobility, “that as of this day, not only shall all grade schools be required to install Clean Rooms, but kindergartens as well.”

Such a good and noble thing, thought Rita. Such a wonderful gift to the children. And wasn’t it right? Wasn’t it proper? Didn’t they have just as much trouble coping with the world as anyone else? Didn’t they deserve–

“Ms. Kunsler…?”

Rita turned at the voice, not surprised to find Holden Edwards standing meekly in the doorway. Tallish, white-haired, a chunky man with a perpetual dour look about him, he stared inward, unsure of himself, of procedure, of what he should say or do. Understanding, Rita’s hands fell away from the lilies. Reaching out, she took the tired, weary man by the hand.

“Oh, poor Mr. Edwards … feeling just beyond it, are we?”

 ”Well, I don’t know … yet … I mean–”

“There, there,” offered Rita in a comforting tone. Leading the sorrowful fellow to a comfortable chair, she let him slide into its enveloping folds, adding, “no need to explain to me. You’re here now. What comes next is all up to you.”

She had thought she might find Edwards on her doorstep sooner or later. Although she was not privy to any particular level of corporate secrets, she did hear things. Especially about those who might soon need her saving oasis. Edwards’ division had not been doing well. His marriage was not all it could be, either.

“Comfy, are we?”

As the man smiled weakly, his eyes wandering the room, avoiding the white drawer–for the moment–Rita asked;

“Can I get you anything? A cup of tea, perhaps? Cigarettes? Perhaps a plate of–”

Edwards shook his head, thanking Rita in a quiet voice. Nodding–understanding–Rita left off the conversation. Knowing the poor worn out man in the comfy chair had already made his decision, she simply crossed the room to the blue wall table. Pulling open the white drawer, she checked the .45 automatic nestled within it. Loaded. Safety off. Ready for use.

Smiling again, she slid the drawer closed once more and then headed for her ante room. Edwards would need his privacy. And she would need to call maintenance, to let them know there would be another hole in the wall requiring their attention.

Such a practical, no-nonsense way of allowing people to deal with the problems of life, she thought. As her hand reached for the inter-building communications link, Rita told herself, it’s all so intelligent. So thorough. So egalitarian. Makes everything proper, it does. Just makes everything–

The sharp crack of a single round of automatic gunfire shattered the calm. Nodding contentedly, Rita pressed the numeral combination for maintenance, thinking;

      “Such a bright and happy world.”

This Story is the property of author CJ Henderson. Check out his website: www.cjhenderson.com

Engine 1.  The first of the Engines to be built for Project Dawn.  For such a revolutionary concept as terraforming, Engine 1 was surprisingly simplistic.

Marty walked down the causeway around the giant garbage smasher.  Anything remotely organic in waste was shipped from Earth via shuttle to Mars.  Banana peels, magazines, baby clothes, everything with a fiber of DNA still inside it.  All of that waste was dumped here, to be compressed of as much water as possible to make the burning easier.

Engine 1 was a pollution factory.  Many historical factories on Earth had polluted their environments, but usually as a byproduct of waste.  Humans had almost destroyed their home with their selective vision.  Several landscapes were permanently changed forever.  But this may have well been Humanity’s first pollution factory.  The first step in terraforming Mars had been to bulk up its atmosphere, in any way possible.  So greenhouse gases had been turned to, so Mars might trap enough of the sun’s rays to be remotely habitable.  Global temperature now exceeded 5 degrees Celsius, and Engines 2 and 3 had been retrofitted to the more friendly O2 stations.  But Engine 1 stayed ever vigilant, replenishing much of the carbon gases lost to the depths of space, and a small red planet not accustomed to such a bulky cover desperately trying to restore the equilibrium it had carried for 50 million years.  Engine 1 held the long cold at bay, the pillar of black and grey smoke rising well above the thin atmosphere, to the heights of Olympus Mons.

KA-CHUNK.  TSSSSSSssssssssssss.

Marty tipped his helmet to an older worker, Jack, in passing.  He was carrying a clipboard and didn’t see the greeting, but Marty didn’t feel compelled to draw attention to the simple pleasantries.  There was nothing pleasant about Engine 1.  The smell of garbage, the smell of burning organics, the smell of death.  But the pay was high, and it was a free ticket to Mars once your contract was served.  The government had cracked down on the engines after a few years, after no one had stopped to consider the obvious hazards of such an operation.  No one was supposed to serve beyond two years.  Jack was a venerated fourth year, but even he was starting to feel the pains of this job.  Soon his lungs wouldn’t be able to function normally, let alone in this trap.  The simple O2 tanks the workers wore weren’t enough, the soot and grime clung to your sweaty skin, the burrowing toxins ever invading your body.

Turning down a spiral staircase which in turn led to a ladder, Marty climbed down to his work station at valve control.  It was a rather simple job really: Green lights good, red light bad.  But someone was always needed to be on hand to throw the manual switch if the smasher’s pistons started to overheat, which was prone to happening during the daytime.  Marty relieved the watchman before him, and sat in his chair, tipping himself backwards a bit to admire the  smashing mallet.  He adored this view.  The garbage smasher always looked like it was coming down right on top of him.  But it wouldn’t really, he was safe by a good fifty feet.  Small comfort when the mallet itself was as wide as several houses.  But it made him feel like an important cog in the engine, a piece of the story here.

KA-CHUNK.  TSSSSSSssssssssssssss.

Everyone had a part to play in Mars.  It was starting to be carved into tombstones.  “Security Officer on the Nixon”, “Crane Operator at Engine 1”, “Water Surveyor in New Nanking Province” had started to replace “Loving Father” and “Cherished Wife”.

Marty watched the garbage heap get sorted out for the next smash.  Each little particle shoring up the pieces above it.  Holding taught for when the inevitable smashing would occur.  Only to compress the pieces together so they shored up again, ready to endure the cycle of Mars.

KA-CHUNK.   TSSSSSssssssssssssss.

This, Marty knew, was the center of all life.

                You may not know this about me, well, who am I kidding, your chief of staff knew everything about me this campaign.  But humor me when I say that my first job was as an aide to a Governor in America.  Texas, in fact.  And back then it was a tradition for outgoing governors to leave notes for their successors, friend or foe, regardless of party.  Sort of a last testament of their wisdom before going quietly into the night.

                So if I should leave one tradition, one legacy upon this new office, let it be this one from my homeland.

                No one remembers the second.  Do you know the name of the shogun that succeeded Tokugawa Ieyasu?  The heir to William the Conqueror? The only reason that we even know the name John Adams in America is because of the things he did before he was president: his official accomplishments never reached the notoriety of Washington or Jefferson.

                So I’m confident no one will remember Governor Rezicka, she will forever be in Governor Wei’s shadow and beaten by Governor Hung.  I’m okay with that, I guess.  You will have the chance to come into your own.

                Allow me to be gracious for a moment, and tell you that you are one of the most brilliant political minds I’ve met.  I was once on a bus tour in America with current President Carlton, before he went to AU politics, and I must say you remind me a lot of him.  You both have the same fire and charisma that inspires others in your camp to rally at your side.  You both even slap the podium with your fingers in just that way when your stumping.  I think you’ll definitely make it to the big chair, just like Carlton: President of Earth Hung.  Has a quaint ring to it, don’t you think?

                And if you’re smirking, don’t.  Carlton’s a prick.

                Don’t let the elected position fool you.  You are mostly the head bureaucrat on a planet of farmers and bureaucrats.  And the bureaucrats are growing faster than the farmers.  To save yourself headaches, try your best to reverse that trend.

                Make sure the Nixon keeps you in the loop.  You’ll have to fight for that. I know you’re still new to politics, while I will probably retire for good after this.  But use what contacts you have back home, they’ll make it easier to squeeze into the loop.  If all else fails, go after Chelsea Kovacs, X.O. of the Nixon.  She’s a proponent of the underdog, she’ll hear you out.

                You’ll be getting a lot of calls from the old nation-states, particularly Russia, America, and China.  They tend to think because they invented most of the aerospace tech they have a bigger share in our affairs, and may not treat you like an equal.  If they do, just tell them to shove it.  Especially the Americans, they hate that.

                From The other side, don’t let the emerging territories governors get on your ass either.  They may be appointed by the President, but don’t be fooled: They know they are hard to remove and don’t need to campaign, so party loyalty doesn’t exist there.  You can’t depend on those appointed by a friendly president, but remember to reach out to those appointed by the opposite party.

                Though I have traditionally taken a firm stance with the Martian Liberation Army, you must hold their values close to your heart.  I don’t honestly know, even after the post-election, how strong your ambition to exterminate them really is.  But remember this most of all: Mars must be allowed to remain its own federal district.  You are just as important as China, India, or America.  More important.  Many forces want to exert control over this planet, even while it’s still mostly a barren dump.  You must not let them do that.

                It is your duty to the people, especially the native children who have begun to be born, to ensure that their homeland does not become a cesspool of infighting.  The other bureaucrats don’t have the power, or don’t care to see the emerging problem.  I do, and in time you will to.  I fear that Mars will become the seat of a new proxy war.  It is your imperative as Governor to ensure that the people of this world can retain their self-determination in the face of overwhelming opposition.

                It will be a miracle if you can pull this planet of 3 million through with its identity intact against the pressure of 25 billion.  That will make you an effective leader.

                If you can balance this hard fist with compassion to take care of the people, if you can ensure that the very people who elected you will not fade into silence, you will be a magnificent leader.

                You are now the second most visible person in the galaxy.  Good luck, Governor.

Signed,

Citizen Maria Rezicka

The feeling of air rushing past his face. Sure the experience was somewhat mitigated by the mask he wore, what with the low altitude atmosphere here.  But it seemed a great way to wean into skydiving to Jeremy Rush.  The feel of the air rushing past his windbreaker, roaring and whispering to him at the same time, the reddish tinted ground  slowly growing larger, accelerating as his altitude dropped. This place seems so much more beautiful up here… Jeremy reached behind his back and grabbed his chute line, and yanked on the ripcord.

CRASH! A lamp fell to the floor, rolling around on the ground until the digital lens flared and switched off as the plastic clattered around. Jeremy shook his head awake, assessing his situation quickly.

“Oi, Jeremy, you alright in there?” a woman’s voice came from the cubicle next door.

Only a few indistinct fumbling noises responded at first as Jeremy tried to place the lamp back on his desk, “..Erm, yes, Natalie, it’s fine.” Jeremy gripped the base of his lamp, his knuckles turning white, letting out a hard sigh to relax himself.  He didn’t feel groggy at all, it was like some kind of lucid dream that he’d had while awake. Must be the fuckin’ booze.  Next year I won’t party at all. Resuming his work, Jeremy opened a drawer in his filing cabinet, pulling out the next folder of flexis he’d be updating.   He double checked the folder. Br-Ce, yup. Jeremy picked out the first flexi and scanned it’s laser transfer over the data port in his computer. May 21. No new claims. Yeah, yeah, Jeremy thought dryly.

It was predictable who would have a claim and who wouldn’t based on the date of settlement.  A thousand years of insuring property, and really there were no changes.  Just tighter regulation and longer chains of bureaucracy.

“Hey,” a head popped over the plastic cubicle wall, Natalie, “We got a claim from District 4, an old…”

“N-400 break down, yeah yeah,” Jeremy finished, rolling his eyes in boredom, “It’s always the same deal.”

“Hey, they were only meant to last for ten years.  Now it’s been almost 20 since the Israeli strike.”

Jeremy slid the flexi in his hand back into the folder, holding his hand out for the one about the claimant in question.  Natalie sarcastically slapped it into his hands, smirking at him.  Jeremy scanned it for details, grumbling, “Glad they just go in and shoot the union these days.  Shoulda done that 20 years ago then we wouldn’t have this problem.  Fucking American manufacturing.”

“Well you people have no one to blame but yourself,” Natalie grinned like a Cheshire cat.  Jeremy raised an eyebrow at her.  Natalie was part of a growing community: non-Jewish Israelis.  They didn’t quite have the loyalty to the state that their Hebrew compatriots did, for them it was pure economics.  Israel had been the top edge in irrigation and terraforming technologies for 150 years.  On an arid planet that was to be 90% farmland, it was an economic giant.  That had brought her and hundreds of others here, to Zion, the hub of all Israeli activity on Mars. “Just get back to work, will ya?”

Natalie gave him a salute and winked, “Yes, sir. Let me know if you need help.” And her head popped behind the cubicle wall like a whack-a-mole.

Well, better have a piss before I settle into this one, Jeremy stood up, meandering down the hall to the restroom.  Letting the swing door shut he looked for the nearest open stall, and turned into it. The wind was suddenly ripping through the open door, and Jeremy clutched at the frame like those baby monkeys onto their mothers to preserve their tiny lives.  He gave a yelp of surprise and leaned forward, looking down and over the surface of the Red Planet.

He was right over the Prosperity Ridge, a chain of mountains that divided the Red Plains from the coastal highlands, and kept the moisture tucked away and cradled over the Plains like a blanket of cloud cover and moisture from one of the Ferris Engines that were planted into the ground to regulate the climate.  Off on the horizon, Olympus Mons was visible reaching up and into the heavens. And above it all, the thin sound of wind ripping into the plane.  The atmosphere was so thin you had to wear an O2 mask even at 4,000 feet, but what little air was settling up here was snapping around in the cabin and holding space.

Jeremy jerked with a start when he felt a hand on his shoulder, “Hey, dude, you alright?” an older, conservative looking man asked with concern. Jeremy’s head snapped in several directions at once, trying to calm himself down, “Uh, yeah, yeah just a little hung over I think…Birthday yesterday…”

“Ah,” the older gentleman said and gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder, before heading to the sink and giving his hands a quick rinse before leaving Jeremy alone in the restroom.  He headed into the stall and finished his business, rubbing his face with his hands agonized over his experiences.

Oh God, this isn’t happening. After finishing he stepped out of the stall, and paid no mind to the figure standing by the towel dispenser until it spoke,

“Yes, it’s exactly what you think it is,” causing him to stumble and hit his funny bone on the hard metal sink.

“Ah, fuck!” he turned to see…himself.  But only himself in his skydiving gear. “What…”

“No, no.  You had it right the first time,” the doppelganger smirked, “Go on.”

Jeremy blinked confusedly at himself, “A…a neural ghost?”

The Jeremy in the flight suit shook his head, “No. No a ghost would be clean.  Get you off the hook.  Ever fading and you’d be cured one day.  Yeah like that would happen.”

“You mean…?”

The new Jeremy nodded, “A neural stain.”

“No that never…! It couldn’t have…”

“But you can’t take the chance, can you?”

Jeremy cradled his face in his hands, trying not to lose his composure.  He reached into his back pocket, pull out his phone and brushing past his fake self and through the bathroom door. “Natalie!” he called as he passed her cubicle, “I’m not feeling so well, I’m just going to get some fresh air…do me a favor and cross-reference a few of the new claims with the master lists in New Arsia.  I’ll be right back.”  He went down the stairs and into the street.  Each time he went into the streets of Zion he was stunned anew.  There were only 40,000 people in the city, and the skyline was relatively clear.  Very few places left on Earth could match the look of things in Zion.  Jeremy had heard that there are places in Northern Canada and Siberia like this.  And the Sahara when his father was young, but that was decades ago.

Jeremy was greeted by himself again, but this time he was wearing biker leather, “You’re not going to outrun this, Jeremy.”

“I’m not, stupid,” he slipped into the alley between buildings, checking the registry in his phone. He found the number he was looking for and dialed it up, ringing twice before it was picked up by a female voice.

“Zion General Hospital, may I direct your call?”

Jeremy swallowed, “Yes I, uh, think I have a problem with a neural implant.  I think I’m ghosting, just flashes, and uh, stuff like that.”

The mental clone laughed, throwing his head back, “Oh, you’re rich! Even when you’re dying you won’t be honest.  You really should, for one day in your life.”

“Alright, sir, I can patch you through to our cybernetics department.  For your medical history I will need your name?”

“Jeremy Rush.”

“Thank you. Can you tell me the name and location of the neural surgeon who performed the implant procedure?”

Jeremy paused, and the hallucinated version of himself stepped up to the speaker, “Oh-ho-ho, he can’t do that, can he?”

“Sir?”

Jeremy snapped his phone shut, leaning back against the wall of his office.  The other Jeremy sighed frustrated, “You have to fess up, Jeremy.  You can’t get any help if you just keep stalling.”

But to Jeremy, his double was standing on thin air.  He was looking out the door of the plane again, and the air was whipping by, even though he could still feel the cement wall behind him. “Stop fighting it, man,” the fake Jeremy said to him, “You know all the risks, you heard the stories.  You need to find someone who can help you before you can’t see them.”

Jeremy shook his head, “No no no, big complications like that are rare, man, only 1 in 300!  And it’s only 1 in every 1,000 implants who gets catatonic.”

“So you know.  So you think,” the other Jeremy pushed his face up close now.  It was close enough that Jeremy could see his own bumps on his face as his 5 o’clock shadow started to push out, all the little hairs on his nose were uncomfortably close, “But you played the odds and lost.  Now it’s time to reconsider.  What makes you think you can beat the odds.  Oh, that’s right,” the doppelganger spread his arms in a “that’s just great” motion, spinning around in the air outside the plane hatch, “You already lost.  You shouldn’t make it worse, fuckin’ moron.”

Jeremy held his hands to his temples and shut his eyes tight, banging his head backwards against the wall, pain and daze snapping his vision back to the here and now.  But even on this small victory, he just collapsed to the ground and fought back tears, “None of this would have happened if I wasn’t such a pussy.  I shoulda just gone natural for the dive.”

“Great birthday, right? Martian Skydiving, but didn’t wanna look like a newb, did you? That’s why you downloaded me!” he kicked some dirt at Jeremy’s face, but he didn’t feel any of it.  Of course he didn’t, this was all in his head.  ”Figured you’d save some money by buying online.  Figured you’d be able to cure that little deficiency.  And hey! Why not get a full package for half the cost of downloading a patch from the hospital that would just cure your fear of heights.”  He stooped down to look Jeremy face-to-face again, “Got a real bargain there, didn’t you, pussy?”

Jeremy lashed out, flailing his arms wildly at his hallucinated self, “Why the hell are you so mouthy?!”

“‘Cuz I’m you, Einstein.  I thought you read everything there was to know about Phantom personality disorder?”

“Then what’s your problem?”

“I don’t wanna be you.  Now pick up that phone and call the hospital back, pussy.”

Jeremy stood up to have better access to the phone in his pocket, dropping it on the ground, “Fuck,” reaching down, he suddenly saw a river rushing up at him. He hollered and swung his arms around trying to grab onto something before he realized he was trapped again, except this time bungee jumping.   But I’ve never been bungee jumping.

“You’re losing ground, and losing it fast,” the other Jeremy stood next to him.  Although he felt himself falling, the doppelganger stood perfectly level with him, each jerk and tug of the cord on his body not really having any effect on his doppelganger’s relative position.  ”C’mon, man, you have to fight it.  You’re the only hope for both of us.”  He sat down, folding his legs, a depressed look on his face, “This was a big mistake, wasn’t it, pussy?”

Of course, today, at the Zion Mental Health Facility, Jeremy Rush is well cared for.  The orderlies even think that soon he’ll be ready to function again.  Buried deep somewhere in his neural net is the stain from a downloaded personality augment, anchored deep inside his brain by now.  He is learning to live with it.  On Mars, it is said, everyone has a cross to bear.

“The days of man are but as grass;

“For he flourisheth as a flower of the field.”

                                                 Prayer Book 1662

It’s so beautiful, he thought, shoulders relaxing, stomach tightening, eyes wide with excitement. Sooooooooo beautiful.

Frank was enthralled, lost in the sight of the vast sky above him. It was not a particularly fantastic evening there in the dome. Anyone who regularly took a peek at the night sky now and then would find nothing fascinating in the bubble’s view of the galaxy’s self-arrangement that night.

It was worth it

But Frank was not one of those who got to look up very often. That was not the deal he had made in life. Frank had spent far too long living in gloom, toiling in the underground, working for the good of the colony, existing–hoping, longing, dreaming …

Oh, yeah…

Frank dug his tired shoulders into the ground–into the grass beneath them. It felt luxurious, the way he imagined silk to feel. Or the cheek of God.

Relaxing–it felt so marvelous. And, he could do such a thing there with ease. The soil within the dome was soft, moist–squishy, even. This was most unlike the rest of the planet’s surface which was brittle, fried–desiccated. The crusts ensnared within the domes, they were being brought to life, though. Slowly. Painfully slowly. One patch at a time.

It was sooooooooo worth it.

Domes erected. Debris concentrated–soiled bits of this and that–whatever was not reclaimed for the bio pits–went into the domes. And, of course, that was precious little, for everything was reclaimed in the colony. Not a slip of paper, not a loose strand from a piece of clothing. Fingernail clippings, peeling skin, even spit was collected. Indeed, even deceased human bodies were returned to the soup, broken down as nutrients for plants and animals. Bone meal mixed with feed, organs fed to pigs, flesh dried and shredded, broken down into reclaimable chemicals, everything used.

Everything.

There were, as they said, no graveyards on Mars.

The old phrase made Frank think …

Weren’t there, though, actually? Of a sorts?

And then, as the thought rolled round in the old man’s mind, he bit into the first of the apple sections, and his eyes filled with tears. Flavor rushed through his memory, looking for points of reference. Fifty-nine years of meals. Three meals a day. Fifty-nine years gives a man close to a half million meals to remember.

Oh, God  he thought, Oh my God in heaven.

He chewed at the slice of fruit, his mouth filling with saliva at the rich, thrilling taste of the apple. His tongue played with the wedge’s flap of skin, worried at it as it caught in between two of his teeth. Nothing like that ever happened at a normal meal time.

Never–

No–all the previous meals of his life had simply been a part of existence, like breathing. You picked the flavor of paste you wanted that evening or morning, or whatever time it was, and you sat with your mates and you ate. The paste slid down, tasting like what it was supposed to taste like–chemically guaranteed. The pucks were there as well, in their assorted flavors, round and thick and hard–created purposely tough to encourage gnawing and chewing, made so to keep human teeth from falling into disrepair from lack of challenge.

Never again, not after this …

Frank bit into a cherry, and his tears rolled anew. As the first drops of juice exploded within his mouth, he froze around the sensation–small, thick, perfect dark flesh with a texture woven with joy, colored by life–he had to pause, had to savor the fantastic moment. Cherry, washing over his gums, tongue, taste buds, juice reaching the back of his throat;

“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh hhhhh hhhhhh hh–”

It was worth it.

The cherry was chewed slowly, the flesh of it pulled away in the tiniest slivers. Each chewed respectfully, its flavor savored, marveled at, worshipped. Sprawled there in the grass, Frank knew he had made the right decision. He had worked long and hard, and he had earned his reward.

“Pear,” he said quietly, holding the green/golden skinned lump of fruit in his hand. “That’s what you’re called.”

Many different types of produce were grown on Mars; mankind had been there some seventy years, after all. But every potato, every lettuce leaf and section of orange, every bit of every crop went to the kitchens, to be chopped and blended and pureed. The colony had many mouths to feed. Food had to be produced the most efficient ways possible. What Frank was doing could hardly be called efficient.

So what do you taste like?

Frank bit into the pear and his eyes shown with wonder. It was everything he could have hoped for, and nothing like what he had imagined. Born on Mars, whole life spent toiling there, digging, building, pushing mankind’s interests outward into the universe, he had never imagined that eating, that food, could taste so rich, so overwhelming.

The extravagance of Frank’s luncheon staggered the back of his brain. When he had finished his first cherry, he had simply dropped the pit on the ground. He had cleaned it as thoroughly as human teeth and tongue and saliva could manage, and to the naked eye it had certainly looked stripped free of meat. The kitchens would have done a better job, certainly, and used the seed as well. The second cherry had been devoured with less reverence, had been spat away recklessly as greed sought a third and fourth, both popped into Frank’s mouth at the same time. He had watched the two seeds arc away from him even as he reached for more.

But, of course, such was the purpose of Frank’s meal. He had petitioned to be a planter, one of those who got to feast to their heart’s content on whatever they desired. He had the years, had the seniority, had the clean record of a man who had done his job and served faithfully. And thus, when the new dome had been opened for planting, he had gone momentarily light-headed with giddiness, for his name had been on the highly-prized planter’s rolls.

Not in the first ranks, those who would spread the grasses and flowers, but there nonetheless. He would be one of those who spread the secondary seeds. A mere five year wait. So great was Frank’s anticipation that the time practically flew by. And, now that his time had come, it was just as splendid as he had imagined.

Oh, yeah…

Frank took another big, slopping bite from his pear, staring at one of the earlier team’s rose bushes as he did so. It was in bloom, delicate fists of yellow all up and down its boldly thrusting branches. Pushing his bare back into the grass once more, Frank felt the first team had done a splendid job. Tossing the remainder of his pear in an arc which dropped it in an open hollow, Frank smiled. Those who came after him would respect his work as well.

He would have to work fast, however. The injection the doctor had given him was beginning to take a solid hold upon his nervous system. He could feel himself becoming warmer–sleepy. They had told him it would happen. Quickly, he ran through another entire handful of cherries, popping them into his mouth, sucking free their meat and spitting the seeds as far from himself as they could. Frank laughed as one sputtered from his mouth awkwardly and rolled down his bare chest.

Many petitioned to be planters, but few could be given the honor. Most bodies simply had to be reclaimed. But Frank, naked under the stars, when the drugs drifted him off into death he would stay where he lie, and he would rot slowly–naturally–and his rich juice would feed the soil and his blood would blossom in the cherry trees to follow. Future generations would not know his name, but they would honor his sacrifice.

Sooooooooo worth it.

No, Frank told himself, There were no graveyards on Mars. But there were wonderful, wonderful orchards.

This Story is the property of author CJ Henderson. Check out his website: www.cjhenderson.com

The suspect seated across the table was an elderly man; his grey-white hair was well groomed, an accent to his almost dapper sense of fashion. But upon closer inspection the fantasy image shattered, as his brown tweed suit had been the kind in style for a gentleman some a hundred years ago. He wore small, thin glasses, was clean shaven, and in good health. His lively eyes were curiously analyzing Detective Lorega, studying for little details that might give him an advantage in the upcoming interrogation. And although the suspect was clearly intelligent – the good ones always were – he had inadvertently avoiding looking at the detective’s face, which had not escaped Lorega’s notice. This one little tell gave him the psychological advantage he needed: the suspect was in serious trouble and knew it.

“Marcus LeBlanc,” Ray addressed him, “after almost 30 years on the run, gets picked up in a transfer station over Mars. Isn’t that strange? Did you get homesick for civilization?”

The chair creaked as the old man simply leaned forward, resting his arms on the table and looked at the detective’s face, concentrating more or less on Ray’s mouth as he spoke, as if carefully regarding every word of accusation.

“Oh but that’s not the reason you’re here, I’m sure,” the detective went on. Lorega had earned a reputation as a bit of a goader. His confessions had often contained details seemingly extracted only after he had riled his suspects up enough with sarcasm and mock understanding. “One just doesn’t pop up over the transfer station on a whim, do they? No,” he stretched out that last word, leaning back in his chair, tossing a foot on the corner relaxingly, “that’s not it at all, is it?”

Ray scanned the man for any sign of guilt or fear, but the emotional silence within the old man betrayed nothing. Trepidation, if it was there at all, was not on display.

“See, once the DNA test proved who you were, we ran your picture. Facial recognition has at least half a dozen sightings of you allllll over the solar system. But you always minded your business, never got into trouble… except for now.”

Ray leaned forward now, bringing his face in close as if to share a secret and glanced in the direction of the guards as if they shouldn’t be let in on it. The old man held his breath, the thought of having Lorega this close was uncomfortable enough, let alone having to taste him as well. As he looked at the old man out of the corner of his eye he whispered, “I’m sure you would have left that purse snatcher who knocked you down today to his own devices…if you could have. Fact is, you were right in line at the newsstand with your wallet out, and he picked it up after knocking you over for a second score. That made you a victim, didn’t it?” Ray sat back up, the air of smug personal confidant now gone, and assumed his man of the law persona again, “Too bad they had to scan your ID when you became a person of interest in a misdemeanor. Too bad it didn’t check out for a background check.”

Taking up the folder and tossing the fake ID in question on the table between them he said, “Pretty fancy counterfeit though. It only brings up the problem that the credits attached to this name have only been used two dozen times in the past 20 years.”

The old man just sighed, as if to project innocence and feign boredom with how slow the detective was moving, but inside, his mind raced, on edge, taking care to to make no missteps or incriminating replies in the questioning.

Ray appeared to pick up on this, and nodded at the man, “So why does Marcus LeBlanc, one of the 100 most wanted geneticists in the A.U., risk his cover over that long a time? You like playing chicken with the government, Dr. LeBlanc?”

The doctor’s eyes shot over to one of the corner guards, who was bending down to pick up a cup of coffee he had been nursing for the better part of an hour. His eyes snapped awake then, and LeBlanc’s eyes darted over the table, a curious expression on his face.

“Let’s see if we can piece together a story, shall we?” Lorega continued, getting frustrated with his suspect’s lack of interaction. “May 24th, 2089. Dr. Ferris and his followers are investigated by the CDA for rampant genetics experiments on unwilling subjects. Marcus LeBlanc is among those implicated in the indictment. November 9th, 2089, Ferris and his closest associates flee Earthside, never to be seen again. Dr. Marcus LeBlanc is among them. But that’s not when you disappeared is it, Doctor? Hm? I told you we found you at several places the past few years. Let’s see what we come up with then.” The old man only sat defiantly, his expression now seeming to challenge Lorega to try. Lorega obliged. “February 12th, 2098, spotted by a traffic camera crossing the streets of Glasgow, Scotland outside a coffee shop. January 23rd 2101, you were caught in a crowd photo for the newspaper during a food riot in Tokyo, Japan. But I’ll give you this much, Dr. LeBlanc, you did only seem to be passing through. Or should I say leaving? Coming out of a nightclub that was found to be a mob front for black market genetic engineering in September of 2104. Tell me, were you a consultant, or just inspecting the premises before you sold them your secrets?”

The old man only ran his tongue across his teeth inside closed lips. A nervous habit? An evil twirling of the moustache? Lorega pressed on.

“October 28th, 2103, spotted by another traffic camera in San Francisco in the Union. June 16th, 2107. Caught on a police spy camera in Mexico City in the NAU. Apparently you were there while they were casing the joint, an underground “geno-strip club”. Were you there consulting too? Or just relaxing with the ladies? You seemed interested in the triple breasted cat dancer, though maybe that’s just a bad camera angle, hmm?”

“All this, you memorized, detective? he said as he pointed his finger with each word for emphasis. “I note you haven’t opened my file except to get my card.” His voice was soft, almost sweet and affectionate. He sounded shy and reserved like a kind old sage or grandfather rather than a human rights criminal. Probably aided by the faint but present French accent in his English.

“Oh I did,” Ray responded with a bit of a smirk, “That’s why I know we’ve got you pinned, Dr. LeBlanc.”

The old man smiled, still not conceding to the identity assigned to him, “And how many reports do you get a day, hm? Four? Five? Let me ask you, Detective, you are…how old now? You look to be maybe 25 or 26. But I would guess you are closer to 35, am I right?”

Ray usually didn’t respond to questions by the suspect, even harmless ones, but as this was the first interaction with the suspect since his arrest, he decided to let him pace the conversation for a few minutes more, “Actually yes, my wife is terribly jealous.”

The man in the tweed jacket nodded, then leaned forward onto the table, clasping his hands together and sighing, looking down as if searching for the right words. Or maybe praying. He then looked up with a pleading look in his eyes, as if trying to make Ray understand, “Did you know, for all our knowledge, there are still just, gentle tricks in the DNA that can’t be accounted for?”

“So you admit to being Marcus LeBlanc?”

The man simply ignored the question, only politely pausing for the interruption before continuing, “There are simply so many tricks the genes can pull on you. Even the best geneticists couldn’t solve some of the simplest problems,” this last statement he said while holding a hand up, making a pinching pose with his fingers, emphasizing how tiny these problems must have been. “Like eyes!” he continued, suddenly full of fire, the eager professor imparting knowledge on a student, “Did you know the Human eye is never any single color? There are always…imperfections. Discoloration. A brown eye will have spots and blotches of black. Or a green eye with rings of hazel. But to make something a certain color, you must trick the gene into ridding itself of the other colors to make sure they never become dominant. We could never quite get it right. And of course eyes were always very popular.” He sounded now like an old friend, recounting the glory days of youth, “Green sometimes, rarely brown, and usually blue. But because we never got it right, they always came out a very….eerie, kind of blue.”

The two guards on the far end of the room tensed up, looking at each other. Something had come over the detective that had produced enough tension in the room to bend light. The old man’s words had all the power of a thundering volley of cannon.

“Eyes….like yours, detective.” He smirked, pouncing on his temporary advantage, “Yes I can always tell our work. I hear that…your new…what do you call them…RSDs… Resequencing Doctors? Anything to avoid the term geneticist, such a dirty word these days But they solved that eye problem, of course.”

He then nodded to the guards, “Those men have gone through an average of 3.4 cups of coffee each since I was arrested. Work is hard, but I notice you don’t have a cup, detective? Do you find it odd that you don’t need to drink as much as your colleagues? That you only eat one meal a day, not that you’re on a diet, of course,” he eyed Ray up and down, “I can tell you have quite the physique, certainly enough to impress your beautiful wife. But you simply don’t get hungry. I’d be amazed if you could eat a whole cheeseburger at once.” He paused then, reconsidering, “Well, certainly a Big Mac would be beyond you. Yes, that is safe I think.” He reached out exclamatory, praising the interrogator, “You see, you were the answer! We were going to make a race of men and women, just like you, detective. You see I am a scientist. I approach problems with Occam’s Razor. If Earth suffers from resource depletion, we don’t need to find new planets, we simply make the average Human consume less resources.”

It was now that Ray caught himself, and narrowed his gaze at the old man, “So you have performed genetics? You are Marcus LeBlanc?”

The old man chuckled, “You say that as if with contempt! Look at you, detective, look at the life I’ve given you! Any woman you desired, I’m sure? Of course, you probably don’t take advantage of that, do you? Unless it’s convenient, of course.” He snapped his fingers and laughed, “And that is our solution to overpopulation! Simply lower the sex drive! ” He went on, adding an addendum, “We did speculate about simply lowering fertility but that seemed risky to us, what if we overshot and killed the sex organs entirely? No no, sex drive was the logical thing to do, yes. We still needed the transhumans to reproduce after all!”

“Alright, that’s enough,” Ray cut in, starting to sound irritated, “I find it hard to believe a mouthy old fool like you managed to evade capture this long.”

LeBlanc laughed again, then sighed defeated, “Ah, you must forgive an old man who has seen the first true result of his life’s work in so long. I’m sure your parents never told you you were engineered, did they? No, of course not, especially with your strong sense of ethics. No. Safer to hide you. How many children were seized and placed in state retention centers, hmm? That is another fact I am sure you memorized about my supposed “crimes” before you came in here, yes?”

Ray let out a huff, “45,000 individuals are currently registered adult altered Humans.”

LeBlanc let out a genuine uproar now, “Hahahaha! Oh I dare say there are three or four times that number walking around, Detective. That, you see, yes, that, is our legacy. The perfect Humans. All highly successful, incredibly skilled, with above average mental and physical faculties.”

Ray was almost beyond himself with disbelief, “Do you understand the peril you’re in, Doctor? When they convict you, you will only have a death sentence waiting for you. You are on a list of the most hated men in Human history: Hitler, Bin Laden…Jack the Ripper!”

“Aristotle! Galileo! Marx!” LeBlanc retorted, for the first time a sound of righteous indignation in his words, “Thinkers who were a century or two before their time and condemned for it! Men like you would have crushed Bill Gates when he said ‘Make the computer accessible for all’, or Gutenberg when he made it possible for the spread of literacy. Society changes or it dies! That is probably the truth that evaded Nietzche, yes. Not only should God have died, but social morality with it. You are like the man who has been shown light but struggles against it and prefers the comfort of his shadows. If Plato could see man now! He would describe us insects; shadows are too good for such a self-destructive attitude.”

“You don’t feel sorry for the lives you took?”

“Of course I feel! I feel the weight on my soul. And in another era, say 100 years ago, our methods would have been more relaxed. But we are on a precipice, detective. One more step and humanity finds itself falling off the cliff.”

“Even though you succumb to actions generally thought of as insane?”

“Though this be madness, there is method in it!’” LeBlanc shot back, “‘Will you walk out of the air, my lord?’”

Ray narrowed his eyes at LeBlanc, “To preserve Humanity’s soul? I’m not sure. I would never harm an innocent for that. We would no longer be Human then…so yes, Doctor. ‘Into my grave’.”

LeBlanc chuckled, an amused thought occurring to him but pushing it aside to press the issue, “That is the point, detective. We will no longer be Human. And in doing so, we will have saved our race. And the best of Humanity will endure. As your love of Shakespeare proves.”

“Quoting Hamlet makes me the best of Humanity?”

LeBlanc laughed again, “That you will retain it, as will your children, and their children, yes. The best of Humanity will endure through you.”

“You seem so certain of that for having condemned me a moment ago.”

“Condemn?” a look of genuine surprise crossed LeBlanc’s face, “I do not condemn you! No, no I am merely trying to educate you, detective. As a parent tries to educate their child. But even after your best efforts, you must recognize the future belongs to them, at some point.” LeBlanc became quite animated, leaning over with a warm smile, “You are our holy grail, detective. You and the other 180,000. When my scared, decrepit generation passes on, the blueprints for our race’s future lie in you! What do you know of the last millennium?”

Ray sat silent, feeling the time to goad him on had passed.

“No? Yes, early contemporary history…the schools never do quite get it right do they? But there was a generation at the last century, they were called “Baby Boomers”. Not named so for blowing things up, but they did cause destruction on a massive scale. They were just a population explosion! They held the reins of society for so long, culture was in danger of stagnating! And almost ruined the world. The South Asian Campaigns, the Millennium Bubble, near market collapse, and so on. But once they left, the next generation, my parents and grandparents, were able to clean up the mess. Such is the nature, the very nature, of progress!”

Ray reached into the manila folder and picked out some e-board packets. He scrolled through the flexible screen in his hands until he arrived at a series of travel records, and lay them in front of LeBlanc, “Now that you admit to who you are, Doctor, perhaps you can help us with this? You booked passage on several ships, drifters, scouts, who were charted to explore beyond the asteroid belt. All four of these ships disappeared. And yet here you are.”

LeBlanc realized he had rode the shock of his revelation as far as it would take him, and settled down, examining the documents seriously, but saying nothing.

“One, the Diana’s Arrow, was recovered. But there were dead aboard. How did you survive?” Ray waited for several moments before continuing, “I may give you the benefit of the doubt and say you transferred off at some smuggler’s transfer point. Lord knows the commercial pilots don’t share all their knowledge with the A.U.. But if you did take off at a TP, do you know what destroyed the Diana?”

LeBlanc seemed to seriously consider Ray’s words. He studied the flexi on the table for a bit more before biting his lip and sighing, “For a Human, detective…you understand, for a Human I would not. But for you…for an ubermensch…I will give you an idea.”

Ray said nothing, afraid if he spoke he might give away his surprise how cooperative the suspect was being.

LeBlanc leaned in close, but before he could open his mouth the door slammed open, startling both the men at the table and the two guards. Several officers in black came in. The leader showed a badge quickly and the three men with him came over and roughly lifted LeBlanc out of his chair.

“What the hell are you people doing?” Ray shouted at them, rising.

“Sorry, detective. This is a SITF extraction. We’re assuming jurisdiction in this case,” the officer said in a deep voice. “I’m also afraid I’ll have to confiscate any notes you’ve taken during these investigations,” he invited himself to gather up all of the flexis scattered across the table.

“Can’t special investigations wait until I’m finished, for crying out loud?”

“Sorry, sir. A case of this sensitive nature can’t be waited on,” he gave that SITF, para-military salute and nodded as he led his men out of the room.

As the black uniformed officers dragged LeBlanc out of the room he shouted back over his shoulder, “Daedalus, Mr. Lorega. Daedalus. Daedalus,” he continued shouting as they left the office, broken by fits of laughter.

Madness, or joy? Ray Lorega didn’t even hazard a guess.

So please sit back, relax and enjoy the updates!

Project Leader

-Drew Cass

A voice from the Underbelly called up through the deck to the bridge.

Captain Campbell rubbed his brow.  Auditors.

“What is it?” he called back, “you blood sucking buffoon,” he added under his breath.

The Auditor made one last glance around the deck, making sure he had a good survey of the cargo hold and climbed the ladder up to the bridge.  He was a stereotypical bureaucrat.  Glasses, short, with a clipboard and a built in calculator and keypad.  He spoke in a rather casual way, though “Captain Campbell, I would note that your hold is only stored to approximately 25% capacity.  We’re eight days into a ten day run. Your hold usually returns at 65% capacity.  How do you figure that is?”

Campbell only twirled an unlit cigar in his mouth around before his pilot, Jody, and engineer Nathan chimed in.

“I figure it’s a shame.”

“Damn shame.”

“Cryin’ shame!”

“Hell yeah, three of that 40% is my share, how am I gonna get me a nice tall Luna girl on a quarter my usual take?”

Campbell pulled the cigar out of his mouth and waved the hand holding it dismissively at Nathan, “You’re not fooling anyone, you know, even hookers have standards.” He lodged the cigar back between his lips, staring out into the blackness of space through the window, voice getting low, ominous, “A’least Luna hookers do.”

“Captain!”

“Look, Audrey,” Campbell cut him off without missing a beat, addressing him by salvagers’ favorite name for auditors, “Some days, the bear just eats you.”

The Auditor huffed and looked around for something else to be angry at, settling on a sandwich next to Jody’s station, “And you know rations aren’t allowed on the bridge at any time, the crumbs could contaminate your controls and destroy the ship.”

“These ain’t rations,” Jody called back to him, “Griffon made it, it’s space junk. At best.”

Campbell jumped upright from his station, wrapping an arm around the Auditor’s shoulders and leading him down the causeway to the aft of the ship, “Now there’s an idea, Audrey!” he said with far too much enthusiasm, “Why don’t you go discuss the mess hall with Griffon! I’m sure he’d love to hear your recommendations!”

The Auditor did his best to hide his fear at falling into one of Campbell’s traps.  All salvage crews had tricks to keep Auditors and various other inspectors off their backs during flight, but Campbell was the first captain the Auditor had encountered who seemed to make a pleasurable hobby out of it.  They walked past the crew bunks to the mess, where Griffon was busy with something.  Griffon had the job of being cook, and sole physicist on the Fortune’s Gaze.  An elderly man who looked like he’d rather be in a cushy professorial job, with a gravelly scouser accent and a temper to match his unsympathetic voice, Griffon was washing plates with some steel wool in a manner like butchering a pig.

“Hey Griffon,” Campbell spoke, trying to cut through the noise of the pressure faucet.

“Griffon!” he raised his voice.

Sighing, Campbell took out his laser sidearm and fired a shot into the one of the deadbolts in the door frame, causing Griffon to scramble to turn off the sink, “Oi I know the food’s bad but you don’t have to shoot anyone!”

“I’ve got a visitor for you.”

Griffon turned around, and upon seeing the Auditor refused to hide a sneer of disgust.  “Damn Philistine’s the lot o’ ya. What am I supposed to do with’im?”

Campbell leaned in close to the Auditor, “Now why don’t you let me get back to the bridge and maybe I can find something useful,” and with that he walked out and back to the bridge, Griffon’s agitated moans and hisses reverberating throughout the ship.

“You are a sick, sick human being, boss,” Jody said, steering the Fortune towards a blip they’d been tracking.

“Same as the others?” Campbell asked Nathan, serious and cold again.

“Looks like it,” he said, checking his instruments.  He looked up at the sensor ultrasound image monitor, “SUSI says there’s a few bio readings on board….” Nathan clicked a few buttons, double checking the calibration, “No corresponding heat sigs.  Just like last week.”

“What does she say about density?”

Nathan shook his head, “Hard to tell.”

“Is it a full ship?”

“Barely…four compartments it seems, residual power, the rest has some carbon scoring, big explosive rounds.  Probably diamond tipped.”

Jody turned around, “Captain, you know we can’t salvage it if there’s dead aboard with Audrey here.”

Campbell gave Nathan a nod, who hacked into the remnant on board computer, opening all the hatches as some four or five lost souls were flushed out into the vacuum of space.

Jody fidgeted nervously.

“Easy, Jody, we can’t help them.  You know that right? They probably didn’t leave any records.”

Jody nodded, looking uncertain in the reasoning, but taking some comfort from it.

“Don’t worry kid, one day that’ll be us.”

They were interrupted by a ladle being tossed through the causeway and smacking right into the transparent aluminum window on the bridge, “You think you scare me, you retarded pisswanker?! Gov’unment’s just the fifteenth thing to try to kill me out here! If you’re lucky the Icarus will kill us all before you fall asleep tonight, damn bureaucratic savages.”

The Auditor was still shielding his head from Griffon, though the latter had run out of weapons, “Icarus?” he asked Campbell confusedly.

“It’s a spaceport rumor, they say there’s some kind of ace cruiser called the Icarus out there pirating the shipping lanes.  But no one’s ever seen a survivor.  It’s just a new age ghost ship tale,” he added with extra emphasis, eyeing Griffon.

“Ah we’ll probably all get lined up for firin’ squad out ‘ere, anyway,” he grumbled.

Campbell patted the Auditor on the back heartily and exhibited the viewing window, “Now, see Audrey? Finally some good luck.  Open salvage.”