by Lilian D. Vercauteren
Klay’s head is in space. So is the rest of his body, technically, since he’s standing on the surface of mining asteroid SB92X. But it’s his head that feels particularly weightless because she is late.
Normally, one could set their hour counter to her mail ship’s arrival and it’d be as precise as Corp time. But now his mind drifts towards worst case scenarios. He pulls up the delivery details on the screen inside his helmet and confirms the day and time again. He shivers and fiddles with the suit’s pressure gauge, triple checks his radio. Down in the mines the maulers’ artificial suns saturate his life in bright light almost 24/7, but when he’s up top he has to strain his eyes to see where right ends and left begins. Still, he does a full 360 for any visual signs.
A long time ago in this exact spot, he would’ve been far from a lone lookout waiting for a single ship. He’d have been dodging space tourists and packed tour buses when SB92X—then affectionately called Sunny Side Up—was home to a bustling stop along Intergalactic Route 99 headed for the Expansion Region. Diners, hotels, malls, casinos, and in its heyday, an aquarium filled with robotic fish were only a few of the roadside attractions. But ever since hyperspace travel had become all the rage, the asteroid was completely deserted; its suns burned out, orbiting quiet and forgotten in a dusty corner of the Gorgussian Quadrant. That was until Mine Inc. recruited him and dozens of others fresh out the Intergalactic Force to work the underground maulers drilling for palladium.
Klay stares into the nothingness around him trying to stay ahead of the doom when he’s startled by his receiver.
“My helmet light broke,” she radios. “Last delivery was a bust. Debris flying around like confetti at a Space Girls reunion concert. Approaching on your nine.”
“Your helmet light’s always broken.” He tries to sound irritated, but the relief of hearing her voice floods his veins like a drug. He flicks on his searchlight and ignores the pounding of his heart against his collar. “I was about to have you called over the galactic intercom: Will USP freighter 20115 please report to lost and found.”
She blows a raspberry. “I’m about to call you in as a stray beacon. Can you turn down that light of yours? You’re totally blinding me.”
Not seventy-five yards away he sees the dark outlines of the mail ship. He double checks the anchor, disengages his gravity boots, and jumps. At last her brown spacesuit with the golden patches of the USP logo moves into his light beam as they float towards each other.
“Damn.” She shields her visor. “Haven’t seen this much light since I crash-landed on Swindy 8.”
“The dwarf sun?” He peers at her darkened helmet, trying to get a glimpse of what she looks like but, as always, sees only his own reflection. “You actually looked at it?”
“Didn’t mean to. I still see black spots.” She floats closer. “Speaking of, any luck getting to that rock’s core?” She motions behind him to the asteroid that, from this distance, looks like a big dark clump.
“Give it at least another year, I’m afraid.”
“Oh well. It pays the bills. And the goods you’ve been ordering so much lately.” She tosses him a box.
With a jerk, Klay reaches for it. “My eggs!”
“Eggs? Rust on a rookie, you just lost me ten creds. We had a bet going at Distri about what a shipment all the way from TerraFactory could be. Zynder’s gonna be insufferable for guessing food.”
“What did you guess?”
“Drill bits enhanced with stygian ore. That seems more your speed than eggs.”
Klay tries not to smile. She knew all about the latest and greatest mining equipment, apparently. He balances the box on one hand. “It’s a bit light for that.”
“I figured it included gravity offset marbles. Are they chocolate, at least?”
“No, the real deal.”
“Gross, with yolks? From an actual chicken?”
“I paid extra for non-synthetics.”
“Oh great, you’re one of those. You’re starting a farm…” She reaches for her clipboard with the forms he has to sign.
“No! My bunkmate has a birthday coming up. I’m making him a cake.”
The radio transmits only static for a moment. Klay switches the box to his other hand. “So…”
He wants nothing more than to stall her. If it were up to him, they’d be here until his next shift. But did she enjoy their interactions as much as he, he wondered often. He’d been meaning to talk to her beyond the small talk one does over delivered mail and had practiced some lines in the small mirror above his bunk, but he abandoned that quickly because the cringe was real, and also he got caught by a roommate who then told half his shift group about it. Besides, she probably chatted to every person she delivered mail to. Maybe (there was a high probability) she was just a friendly, cool person, and not necessarily thinking about some guy she regularly delivered packages to, even though that guy thought about her all the time.
He stares at her helmet, wishing more than anything he could see her face, so he could see if she was sincerely interested in him or just being polite while scrolling her social feed at the same time.
“Why?” she finally comes back.
“Because… cake is delicious. You never had any?”
“Does vanilla flavoured algae pudding count?”
“Absolutely not.”
“But how do the eggs make it good? Aren’t the shells too crunchy?”
“You don’t use the shells. You crack them open and add them to the batter.”
She grunts. “So you’re telling me to be careful, but you’re gonna break ’em anyway?”
“Yeah…”
Another moment of silence lingers between them. Klay takes a deep breath, and before his brain—screaming at him, Forget about it, don’t do it, DON’T! Rejection incoming!—can stop him, he says, “So would you like to stop by for some cake?”
He can’t believe he just said that. She’s probably busy with work and doesn’t want to come to some lame party with a bunch of miners on an asteroid where she doesn’t know anyone. He sure wouldn’t want that. But she does seem more outgoing, and Gods! She is not responding! He winces. See, now he made it awkward.
“Did you say something?” she says. “I saw your mouth move, but I think you were on the wrong channel.”
Shit. He pushes the dial back to the correct frequency. “Oh, yeah, thanks. No, that was just me talking to myself.” His temporary courage is sucked away like oxygen in an open air lock. Dammit, way to go, Klay. Now she thinks you’re losing it.
“So,” she says, “starting next week my route is changing; they upgraded me to a new district. More cred. No more delivering fragile cake ingredients to dark mysterious mining asteroids, though.”
Klay’s heart might as well have ground to a stop entirely. This is her last delivery? His mind feels like it’s coming apart at the seams. “Y-you’re breaking up with me?” he manages.
“Seems like it.”
“Just before it got good.”
“I want the eggs in the divorce.”
“No way. You can have the asteroid.”
They’re floating mere meters from each other. If you don’t do it now, you will never have another chance! You will NEVER see her again. He checks the channel, clears his throat. “Would you like to come to the party and have some cake?”
He catches himself mid-cringe, right as he remembers his helmet light works fine—and worked this entire time—and she can see his face clear as day. He quickly returns his expression to his best “don’t care if you say yes or no” setting. “It’s, eh, in three days.”
“Eggy cake, huh? I don’t know.” She floats closer and hands him the clipboard, but a sudden gush of space grit whips it out of his glove.
She curses while they both dive after it. Now that she’s right next to him, his light shines directly on her face. She wears an eye patch only covering half of a scar running over her face—and catches him staring. “What? Never seen a space pirate?”
“N-no, I haven’t.” He scribbles his details on her clipboard. He feels bad for staring, but how can he not? She’s gorgeous. “Please, don’t plunder me?”
“Ha! At United Space Post we make no such promises.”
“Promise you’ll come to the party then.”
“You still want me to come, now that you…?” She stops her broadcast and vaguely indicates her helmet.
“I’m gonna send out updated invites. It’s pirate themed now.”
“I guess I’ll bring some booty.”
Klay feels the blood rush to his face. “Yup.”
“Well, I’d wink at you, but then I’d be flying blind.” She half salutes before turning back to the mail ship. “Be seeing you, drillhead.”
“I hope so,” he says, but she’s already out of range. He waits until she’s back on board and can no longer see her. He turns off his light, and stars strewn across the galaxy blink, uncountable, sprinkled like flour on a black canvas. A warmth radiates within his chest as all of space shimmers and gleams endlessly around him.
Three days later, barely audible over the propulsive maulers, deep in the mines of SB92X, a message comes in on Klay’s personal text channel:
ChainMail_Maiden39800: Wow, your handwriting is really bad, drillhead. Did you even want me to hit you up?
He almost chokes on a coffee tablet as he quickly switches to talk-to-text and sends back:
Space_Bakr: Give me a break. I had gloves on.
ChainMail_Maiden39800: You do realize those official forms stay on file forever?
Space_Bakr: Good, it took you forever to read it.
ChainMail_Maiden39800: I broke several interstellar laws looking up your information because I *couldn’t*.
Space_Bakr: Several laws? Just so you know, I’m not sure I can make a cake big enough to hide a shiv in.
ChainMail_Maiden39800: How’s your cake coming along anyway?
Space_Bakr: There’s a slice with your name on it.
ChainMail_Maiden39800: You don’t even know my name.
Space_Bakr: Come over and tell me.
ChainMail_Maiden39800: I already ate. But suppose I got room for dessert.
Space_Bakr: You need the coordinates?
ChainMail_Maiden39800: You’re very funny. See you soon.
Born and raised in The Netherlands, Lilian D. Vercauteren roamed strange lands for almost 20 years before returning to her tulip-y roots. She started writing at the Writers Studio in Tucson and left a piece of her heart buried somewhere in the wide open spaces of the American West. Read a few more of her Space Americana stories at www.ldvercauteren.com.
Get notified of new work as soon as it’s published!
We believe fiction that’s fun to read matters.
The Lit Nerds 