“I have friends, family—we all do—who could be healed by coming here,” said Chang. “Too bad it’s so far from Earth.”
“You brought more explosives, didn’t you?” asked Andrew. “I think we can give Odette another nudge. Drop her in behind Mars, for instance. Not so close to Earth as to endanger anything, but close enough so people can come here.”
“I have the explosives,” said Chang. He gave Andrew a serious, questioning look. “Are you sure you can do it again?”
“Yes, I’m sure,” said Andrew without hesitating. “We’ve done it once already.” Behind him, George and Ed nodded.
“Fine. You can have the explosives,” Chang said. Then he became silent, deep in thought. “I have a problem, though,” he said after his silence. “How will I explain this to General Boyd? He’ll think I’ve gone crazy. I don’t want to get discharged as a mental case.”
“Don’t worry about the general,” Andrew said. “He’ll understand after he comes here, just as you did.”
“Of course,” said Chang with a smile. “And he will come here. This is a Siren Stone, after all.”
Derwin Mak lives in Toronto and writes quirky science fiction short stories. His stories are about ballerinas, tiny aliens, unlucky Titanic survivors, and vile U-boat captains. He was an anime correspondent for the Canadian magazine Parsec and has written articles about royal families and nobility for Monarchy Canada magazine and the Napoleonic Society of America. He has university degrees in accounting, defense management, and military history.
Feef’s House
by Doranna Durgin
TEMPORARY HELP WANTED
Short-term contracts available for general laborers. Short-term and renew-for-kind available for those with experience in the service sector, skilled tradespeople, and certified technicians. Apply at any public interact screen by accessing the Toklaat Station’s Temporary Job Placement System. Be aware that providing a false statement via a public system is a Category 4 offense and, if convicted, offenders face severe fines and imprisonment.
The interact screen stared sternly at Shadia, showing her a form full of questions to which she had no answer. To which no duster would have an answer. Local personal reference. No chance of that. It’s why she’d chosen the temp form.
Commonly known as the “duster form,” but only if you said it with a sneer.
Local address. Wherever she landed on any given night.
Last posting. Three weeks Solward on Possita IV.
Shadia scanned the form with the contempt of a duster for the mag-footed perms and then, recalling that she sat in front of an interact screen connected to Toklaat Station’s temp job placement system, she hastily schooled her expression to something more neutral. Jobs no one wants, jobs with no guarantee of security. The first she was used to; the second suited her. She didn’t want still to be here in the first place and she certainly didn’t want to tie herself to work or community.
There. There was an empty form-line she could fill. She manipulated the interface with absent ease.
Instantly, a woman’s face filled the hitherto blank square in the upper left of the screen. “You had a terdog? A real terdog?”
A real terdog?
I didn’t want to be here in the first place. Not filling out forms, not pretending it suited me, not remembering the sight of my friends boarding the hydropon repair ship, buying passage with three weeks of shoveling ‘cycle products and glad to do it. Not hiding my reaction to such a question. A real terdog? Was there any other kind?
Politely, Shadia said, “A kennel of real terdogs, sir. Belvian Blues, which we used to find subterr rootings for export—”
“Yes, yes,” the woman said, rude in her eagerness. “I have just the position for you. It pays well and suits your unique skills.”
Her unique skills? She had a duster’s skills. A little of this, a little of that, learn anything fast. Take what gets you off-planet or off-station when you feel like going.
Unless, of course, you fall on your ass in front of a zipscoot and rack up such a medical debt that you’re stuck on-planet until you repay. Stuck. In one place.
Stuck.
Most wary, Shadia said, “What’s the job?”
Her application screen rippled away, replaced by the familiar format of a job listing. Almost familiar… except for the header logo, which caught her eye before she had a chance to focus on anything else. Permtemp. “There’s been a mistake, sir,” Shadia said. Her recently healed thigh cramped with her sudden dread that it wasn’t actually a mistake at all. She forced herself to relax. “I’m not a perm. Just a temp. I put it on my application.”
“This is a priority position, young woman. In such cases we extend our search parameters.”
“Apologies, sir, but temp is a preference, not a restriction.”
The woman’s eyes flicked aside to her own interact screen where Shadia’s partially filled form would be displayed. Her demeanor cooled, enough to give Shadia that same prickly unease she got any time she stepped out of duster turf and into perm areas. “Shadia,” the woman said, pronouncing it wrong, shad-iya instead of shah-diya.
Shadia didn’t correct her.
“Shadia,” the woman said, wrong again. “Why are you applying for work on Toklaat?”
I have the feeling you know. No doubt the woman had instantly called up all of the records Shadia had accumulated since disembarking here. “Med-debt, sir,” said Shadia. Damn perm. They thought themselves so superior, with their airs about commitment and stability and dependability. Dusters thought them staid and boring and knew better than to expect permanence from any part of their lives.
“Then you won’t be allowed to leave the station until the debt is paid?”
Shadia stopped herself from narrowing her eyes. Of course the woman knew the terms of duster med-debt. “Yes, sir.”
“Filling this job is very important to us. Our permanent residents, by definition, have little chance for exposure to pets of any kind.”
No, of course not. Only the affluent could afford a pet in a station environment, even a station like Toklaat with copious gardens and play spaces and other luxuries. And the affluent wouldn’t need to check station listings for jobs, temp or perm.
The woman smiled a grim little smile. “I can’t say for sure, but I suspect that with the priority placed on filling this job, it would be very difficult to remove you as a candidate.”
And as long as she was listed as a candidate for one job, she wouldn’t be considered for others.
Oh, God. Stuck.
Until this moment she would have said all stations smelled the same. A whiff of artificial scent meant to cover the disinfectant that was ineffective in some places and astonishingly strong in others. But no disinfectant would handle this smell. No artificial scent stood a chance. Wildly exotic pet residue, abandoned and left to stew.
Blinking watering eyes, Shadia tried to evaluate her new home.
Home. How long had it been since—?
But no, this wasn’t a home. This was enforced labor, and as soon as her med-debt was paid, she’d find some way out of this place. Off of this station. Back to the habits to which she’d become accustomed these past fifteen years, just over half her life. Her hip twinged, reminding her why she was still here; old memories twinged to remind her why she wanted to leave.