Greg perched himself at the edge of the glass barrier. A toxic amber pool spread out before him until it reached the opposing side where the barrier came full circle. Through the distorted glass of this barrier mechanical shapes and lights shifted like avant-garde art in motion and past that the stagnant figure of Atlas stared back at him.
Greg tipped his glass back and let the synthesized alcohol slither into his mouth and disappear into the abyss of his stomach. With the contents empty Greg set the container on the slate gray square in front of him on the bar, one of many condensation collectors fastened in tandem with the stools. Greg was alone in the renovated cabin that functioned as a ‘watering hole’ for crew members who wanted just that, affectionately called Back Alley.
The vessel he was a crew member of, the Titan, was a repurposed cruise vessel before the colonies, where tourists could see the edges of the system in their wild, unsettled beauty. Because of this VIP rooms such as Back Alley had viewing ports where occupants could see the stars, the planets, and more often, the void. Greg stared out the viewing port giving a slight nod to the sign above, “The Void” printed in large emphatic letters on it.
The time of system cruises was gone, Titan was set in permanent orbit around Atlas and served as a waystation for cargo going back and forth from the planet, one of many. The crew had been reduced from exorbitant as befitting an entertainment vessel, to a skeletal framework of dock workers and suits. The quaint town that sprawled out below the viewport had been replaced with buildings and facilities to accommodate the vast network of machines that made everything possible. The designers gave it an aesthetic flair simulating a bustling city in order to maintain the crew’s mental state of compliant drone. All this against the backdrop of Atlas’ majesty, it’s first city, a tribute to humanity, an architectural superbeast visible from orbit.
Greg’s thoughtless gazing was interrupted by the mechanical shift of the door and the slight change in the atmosphere. Greg had two guesses who was disturbing him, but the scent of perfume reduced it to one. He turned his head left anyways to confirm it.
Jessica Tile, a suit and head of Greg’s department, the new boss, in the sense she had only been there a couple months. There was only one reason for her to come visit him in person, as if the blue dress she wore didn’t give it away. She had been making her way through the ranks and Greg knew eventually it would be ‘his turn’. Greg had been around long enough to see fashions change several times and he was not ashamed to admit that he was happy that no frills dresses so tight they practically bonded with the skin had made a comeback, and despite being an office jockey Jess had the kind of body only a corporation could build.
She made no attempts to hide her intentions, a cat caught in the act of stealing in the way she sashayed over and plopped herself onto the stool next to him. Greg admired the way the fabric stretched against her moves when she sat before turning back to The Void. In spite of her unprofessional dress her hair and makeup were every bit the opposite, with the former being pinned in place into a tight bun that could only be achieved in zero gravity.
“Nice dress,” he said, and he motioned his glass filled in the interim in a mock salute, “Hardly seems company standard though.”
She smiled appreciatively, “It’s company standard to get a budget approved and if this dress helps facilitate that then it becomes company standard.”
“Very nice, but as a supporter of OSHA, I can’t approve. That dress is dangerous.”
The compliment earned him a soft laugh, “What are you drinking?”
“Spiced rum, straight, no ice.”
This garnered her interest, “Thousands of drinks you can synthesize the meds into, and you choose rum, that’s pretty rough.”
“What can I say, I like things a little rough.”
She had been setting up her own drink when he said this, and she half snickered half snorted in response, she turned away for a moment embarrassed by her own reaction. In truth, Greg was surprised at the gall of the line, but he had no reason or intent to be cautious, he was shooting at a fish in a barrel, with a shotgun. Still, he smiled, her reaction was the first honest response he had seen from her since she showed up. It had been fake smiles and sympathy for the workers until this point and a sense of pride that he thought had been beaten out of him by the job coursed through his veins.
“Alright Casanova, what’s the real reason?” She recovered herself and finished selecting her drink. A clear liquid sifted into the glass of her respective slate.
“It reminds me of home, and it reminds me that I’m drinking something not good for me.”
“A lonely protest against the company?” she inquired.
“A reminder to keep my head in the game,” he stared at her drink with curiosity.
“Tequlia,” she answered.
“Isn’t that usually gold colored?” he asked.
“Depends on how it’s made, where it’s from.”
His curious stare moved from the drink to her.
“It reminds me of home, and what I’m doing this for.”
In a gesture unbefitting his nature he set his drink between the two of them. Understanding it’s meaning she brought hers alongside his and they both took up the other’s drink.
“To homes not forgotten,” he saluted. She mirrored him and they both drank.
“Oh, that’s rough.” she said wincing.
“Ugh, completely,” he replied with the same face.
They both laughed at this and for the second time he witnessed an honest reaction from her. Technically what they did was illegal, the sharing of synthesized medications was against multiple levels of company policies, Sol System and Atlas’ laws, but so was fraternization. In hindsight Greg would play it off as profiling the situation. In truth she inspired him to taste a piece of another person’s life.
“Still, it’s better than that stuff Mark cooks up behind the fuel reservoirs,” Greg smirked.
“Totally the truth,” she replied with a smile.
A silent, awkward gap opened between them as they realized what was said became apparent. Greg’s inner voice began to chide him, asking questions he knew the answer to but didn’t want to, understanding the full measure of their implications.
“Smooth move, Cowboy,” his brain mocked him, “You want to go down the entire list of guys she went through before you or maybe just the ones of interest. I mean as long as you intend to dine on your foot ask her which ones stood out for her.”
“Shut up,” he told himself.
“Of course, she knows about Moonshine Mark, hell he probably had her right on top of it. Ten Solaris says the new batch has a distinct flavor this go around.”
He had turned his gaze back to the viewing port. The gap between them was growing wider by the second as he silently warred with his mind. Something was irritating him; it had been for a while and he didn’t know what it was, she wasn’t the cause of it, but she definitely made him aware of it, and that was making him spiteful.
“Why does everyone call you Cowboy?” she broke the silence.
He turned to look at her. She was throwing him a lifeline. He was genuinely curious to know why. He wasn’t frustrated, the crew was comparatively small but willing partners weren’t exactly hard to find and monogamous relationships were rarer than paper documents, nonexistent. This however had the unintended consequence of feeling almost incestuous, so ‘new blood’ had that ‘new smell’.
“That’s a heavier question than you realize,” he said, “But I’ll tell you if you answer a rude one from me.”
“No harm in asking,” she said.
“What generation are you?” he asked.
Her face turned serious, “I take back what I said about harm. That’s a very rude question.”
Her face assumed a businesslike demeanor, one that implied she had given up on her original quest. Greg was sad to see it go but he fixed her with an honest smile. She looked away, turning to the same void he had been gazing at, after a moment she made a decision and turned to him.
“Seventy fifth, no I’m not a new model.”
Greg smiled, and turned once more to the void, “Back when this vessel was operating at its zenith the idea of being raided by aliens or pirates was a matter of entertainment for the guests, so in like fashion pirate entertainers were hired to attack.”
“Is that so?” faux curiosity played across her face.
He continued, “In the natural play of events other entertainers were hired to have mock battles in in small fighter craft to oppose them. Everything played out nicely for everyone, guests were entertained, businesses made money, everyone flourished. Then, one day, everyone got a dose of reality. Terrorists hijacked the fake ‘bandit’ fighters, refitted them with real weapons and attacked the Titan for real.”
A side glance told him he had her genuine attention.
“There were only six of them, but with no actual means to counter a real threat the crew, the guests, everyone was at their mercy, zealots of an ethno-religious group from what I can remember that intended to take everyone hostage to garner attention and then make a statement by destroying the Titan with everyone on board.”
“So, then what happened?” she asked, genuine interest growing in her voice.
He turned to her and locked his gaze with eyes so dark brown they were almost black, easy to get lost in.
“Three engineers retrofitted three of the defender fighters with makeshift weapons scrounged from on hand tools and engaged the terrorists. Wartime jammers made computer targeting impossible, so up close and personal combat was the only way to engage them. Get in as close as possible by stealth and then hit them with everything.”
Greg took a swig of his drink, “It didn’t work, they were discovered approaching from behind and were unloaded on. One of the defenders, a young engineer named Buck, was the unlucky one and his fighter disintegrated.”
Another swig, “Fear, adrenaline, madness. All kinds of things will flow into your head in moments like that. One of the other engineers let loose with the makeshift weapons firing off slag bolts. Six shots were fired, each one miraculously found it’s mark either killing an enemy pilot or disabling and or destroying a bandit fighter. Six shots, six kills, the engineer returned to the Titan with much fanfare and was hailed a hero. They nicknamed him Cowboy for his six-shooter. The Titan company managed to spin the ordeal into a profit and made him a spectacle for a while, and the nickname stuck.”
Greg took a final swig of his drink having finished his story. Jess had been nursing one of her own and finished it off with a big gulp and smiled.
“Riveting story, I imagine it impresses some, and it has to be a lot more interesting than the truth. One small flaw though. The Titan was retrofitted over two hundred years ago. You may be old but...”
“First generation,” Greg interrupted.
Jess stared at him, processing what he said, as if one statement could dispel her disbelief. He held her gaze unflinching. Her eyes widened and he felt them sucking him in.
“You’re lying,” she whispered.
Her response was understandable. The tales of the first generation of humans modified for space were legendary. Mistakes of mankind stumbling into immortality by accident and not knowing how it happened. The hunting of the first generation to reverse engineer immortality was inevitable, thus finding one was very much akin to finding a Holy Grail.
“Do the others knows?” she asked.
“A couple do, they keep it to themselves, more trouble than it’s worth, or they don’t care. There’s an odd sense of loyalty in the crew.”
“Why are you telling me?”
“I figured the company was becoming suspicious, that’s why they sent you to investigate us,” he answered.
She turned back to the void, “The company suspects you’re trying to unionize, they sent me to find the leader.”
Greg laughed, “Hardly, we told the last communist they had two options to leave Titan, one involved a breathable atmosphere.”
She pulled the pin from her hair allowing raven locks to spill forward over her shoulder, “So what do we do now?”
“We go about our business. You make your eventual report to the company stating there’s no threat of Unionizing and therefore, no leader, you’ll move up the ladder until you find home,” he said in a matter-of-fact fashion.
It was her turn to lock eyes with him, “What if I don’t?”
Try as he might, Greg was being consumed by the void, and no amount of screaming, mental or otherwise would save him, “Because, the company won’t believe you, and even if they humor you, there will be a formal investigation, which I have become quite skilled at deflecting. This will take an extensive amount of time, during which the crew, as I said who have an odd sense of loyalty, beyond covering for me, will undoubtable retaliate, maybe even unionize,” he smiled.
She smiled and leaned in close, “That’s not what I meant.”
Warning klaxons and sirens set off inside Greg’s head signaling him to take emergency actions but it was no use. Warm lips pressed against his and dark tendrils of hair grazed his cheek as the void swallowed him up.
He felt a part of himself go with her as she sat back on her stool.
“Why?” he asked, in a bold display of impaired thinking.
She turned in her stool and stood up, “Because I want to hear more of your stories,” she said coyly.
He watched her smooth out imaginary wrinkles in her dress watching her fingers trace the curves.
He also stood up, “I’m old, but eventually I’m going to run out of stories to tell.”
She looked back at him and said, “Then we just write new ones.”
Greg took one last look out the viewing port, then followed her out.