The two women got on their knees to get the floor liquid up. The goop left sticky stains on their suits.
“How do you know this isn’t hazardous?” Hazel asked, taking her time putting the dirty pads into the trash.
“Just mission muck,” Lottie said. “We’ll see more before the night is over.”
A sound came from the next room, the gentle slap of rubber against a hard surface.
Lottie’s heart surged in her chest, but she kept her mouth shut. She went to the narrow opening and checked the next section.
“Is someone there?” Hazel asked.
“Can’t be,” Lottie said. Nothing in disarray. Her breath sounded loud in the suit. She pressed her palm to her chest to calm down.
“Just ship noise,” she said.
The two women set to work, going through each compartment and scrubbing everything down. Lottie was accustomed to heavy workload late at night and kept a good pace. At one point, she thought someone was watching and she turned, expecting to see Clem, but no one was there. Now that she was inside the Hopper, swimming in strange smells and substances, she had an idea what “feeling funny” might mean. Her skin was cold and her dinner didn’t sit right.
“Do we have time to rest?” Hazel asked.
“You barely move,” Lottie said. She’d been watching Hazel from the corner of her eye. She had house pets that could do better.
“This is super hard,” Hazel said.
“No whining,” Lottie said. “Next area is the sleep station. It’s smaller.” The sleep station was a series of cocoon-like pods, one for each astronaut. The section was lit with a few dusty lights that cast a dingy glow over the worn cloth of the pods.
“What do you think?” Lottie said. “The Moon mission lasts over a week. This is where you’d sleep, strapped in so you don’t float around.”
Hazel’s eyes got big. “How do they relax, stuffed in like that?”
“That’s the job,” Lottie said. “We gotta pull all this stuff out for laundry.” She leaned into the first pod to release the sleep gear. A muffled pop came from inside and a wave of spoiled smell boiled up.
Hazel gagged. “I can’t stick my hands in there.” She tried to back away, but she didn’t get far in the cramped quarters.
“Nothing to worry about,” Lottie said. She pulled the girl to her side and showed her how to untangle the straps and sleep cloths. Hazel’s hands jabbed in and out, like she was reaching into a box of spiders.
“I’m so sweaty,” Hazel said, in a shaky voice.
Lottie noticed it, too, a cold, uncomfortable damp in her armpits and crotch. “Hard work is good for you,” she said.
Lottie had to do the last pod by herself. She cinched the laundry bag and left it on the floor.
“One section left,” Lottie said, urging Hazel to the control room. This was the tiniest room yet. The two women squeezed in side-by-side.
“Just got to wipe all this down,” Lottie said. “Then we’re done.”
“All this?” Hazel said, a creeping despair in her voice. Lottie knew how she felt. The room was nothing but giant consoles, with racks of buttons, dials and display screens. Switches stuck out from tiny shelves. Anything that wasn’t a gadget was a window facing into the dark of the Space Barn.
“Grab a cleaning pad,” Lottie said. “Sooner we start—”
“I can’t stand it in here,” Hazel said. She stared up through the windows.
Lottie didn’t know what to say. Her joints ached and a fiery pain flashed through her back. She was dying to sit down.
“How come you don’t you retire?” Hazel asked.
“Usual reason,” Lottie said. “Money.” Admitting it to this girl was especially discouraging. She eased herself into a command seat, her legs slick with sweat.
“My Mom wants me to go to the Moon,” Hazel said.
“Every Indian wants their kid to go to the Moon,” Lottie said.
“I’m too tired to h,” Hazel said. She sat in the other command seat and crossed her arms.
In the sleep section, a cluster of sleep fasteners clanked together, followed by a quiet flop.
Hazel grabbed Lottie’s arm.
“It’s more afraid of you than you are of it,” Lottie said. That’s what her Daddy had always told her about bears. And it was mostly true.
“What is?” Hazel whispered.
“That’s not our worry,” Lottie said.
Hazel stood and peeked out the opening. “I’ll be right back.” Before Lottie could stop her she sprinted out to the main hatch. Her boots clomped down the ramp.
“No safer out there,” Lottie called. She wondered if she should chase after the fool. Clem would probably let her out and Lottie was stuck with walls of tiny doodads to be cleaned.
The smell flared up again with a rhythmic, liquid noise, like a tiny fountain.
“Settle down, you,” she called. She grabbed a cleaning pad in each hand and worked the panels at a brisk pace. Hazel didn’t return and Lottie’s head baked in fury. No doubt, she had Clem holding her hand, and utilising his good looks to ensure she remained calm and the centre of attention.
Lottie hed the control room, her poor arms like limp noodles. She made her way back to the main work section. A long, black tail snaked into a floor vent and disappeared. The grey goo was back, possibly thicker and more syrupy.
“That’s enough,” Lottie hissed. “Old woman trying to get a job done. Leave it alone.”
Her boots stuck to the floor. She could barely lift her feet. She yanked a few last pads from their packaging, tossed them down and wiped up the last of the fluid. Then she sat on the floor, hed. She wondered how long it would be before someone came looking for her. She would have cheerfully strangled Hazel at that moment, though she doubted she had the strength.
She closed her eyes and counted to three. When she opened them, she saw the compost bin. She crawled to the floor switch and, after a couple of tries, the thing came open with a mighty SHUCK.
She tossed the gunky pads in and used the sides of the bin to climb back to her feet. She took her time getting down the ramp.
Hazel’s Hazmat suit was wadded up on the floor. She had her purse out and she brushed her hair.
“I thought you’d be rubbing against that security guard by now,” Lottie said.
“He wouldn’t let me in without you,” Hazel said. “Did you see that thing?”
“What thing?” Lottie asked.
Hazel tossed her hairbrush into her bag. “I don’t think I’ll ever get that smell off me,” she said.
“No,” Lottie agreed. “I don’t think you will.”
THE DAMNABLE ASTEROID
By Leigh Kimmel
Leigh Kimmel lives in Indianapolis, Indiana, where she is a bookseller and web designer. She has degrees in history and in Russian language and literature. Her stories have been published in Black October, Beyond the Last Star, and Every Day Fiction. You can see more information about her current projects at her website: www.leighkimmel.com/.
I HAVE ONLY a little time. I must get this warning out for all mining outposts throughout the Asteroid Belt.
Two weeks ago, Urtukansk acquired a companion. From the moment the smaller asteroid became enmeshed in Urtukansk’s gravity well, it aroused our profound distaste. With each passing day, we found it harder to maintain our work schedule. Crossing the asteroid’s surface from our habitat to the uranium pits and the breeder reactor meant seeing that scabrous lump rising and setting in its rapid orbit overhead.
We started finding excuses to stay inside. There is always more maintenance than a single pod of miners can keep up with and still make its production quota. Fix the balky valve in the ‘fresher, lay new circulator lines in the algae ponds, run tests on the electronics in the life-support monitors—all legitimate tasks, but also all ways to avoid making that trek across the surface and having to see that horrid thing sweep across the starlit sky.