Nebula Awards Showcase 2013 (33 page)

Now, when the airlock hissed and let in that first blast of body-odor-and-ganja laced air, Lizzie sniffed deep. As the guests emerged, stretching their arms and looking around in blink-eyed wonder, Lizzie saw them not as chores, but as people. Where had they come from? Where they were headed
to
, and what would it be like to stand in those strange and beautiful places?

As she drifted off to sleep, Lizzie pressed her face against the air vent, imagining a breeze—a wind stirred by no fan, only the goodness of the world itself. And she longed,
burned
, to feel that wind on her skin, to feel sunshine unfiltered by glassteel faceplates.

She needed to talk to Gemma.

Gemma was busy reducing the leakage on the junker's engine. Still, she dropped down the knotted chain ladder to invite her up into the cramped cockpit—their private talking-to space. Gemma took off her protective facemask, shook out her long gray hair, and patted the lap of her oily coveralls.

Lizzie curled up into Gemma's hug, resting her boots on the curve of the junker's dashboard. Momma was practical, giving Lizzie the biology-talk of why you never played doctor with the customers—but Gemma was the one who told her how Momma and Daddy had fallen in love and made Lizzie.

“Gemma,” she asked, “What was it like, when you ran away?”

“Sounds like someone has a case of Station Fever,” said Gemma. “You counted the walls yet, girl?”

“228,” said Lizzie.

“Only 228 walls in Sauerkraut Station,” Gemma nodded, clucking her tongue in sympathy. “All the walls you've ever seen. And each of those walls feels like it's squeezing you. There's gotta be someplace bigger out there, and you're gonna die if you don't step into it. That it?”

Lizzie nodded eagerly, feeling like Gemma had just opened an airlock inside her.

“Perfectly normal at your age,” Gemma concluded. “Is it that kid you liked?”

“Themba.”

Gemma waved her hand in the air, like she was trying to clear away smoke. “Themba, whatever. He's not important in the specific—for me, it was a merchant marine. Sea-green hair, storm-gray eyes, all adventure and spitfire. The important thing is that he made me think of
someplace else
. And then I had to go.”

“Daddy said you made your Momma furious,” Lizzie said.

“Oh, how I did!” Gemma's titanium-gray eyes twinkled. “Left her with just my brother—a two-man crew for a three-man station. It was years before they forgave me.”

“I guess it would be mean to leave you with all that work,” Lizzie said. But Gemma planted her finger right in the center of Lizzie's chest.

“My happiness shouldn't enter into it, Lizzie,” she said firmly. “Only you know what's gonna make you happy. That's why you should go if you need to, Lizzie—you have to follow your own dreams.”

Lizzie felt absurdly grateful.

“
But
planets are big and careless,” Gemma continued. “I'll tell you what I told your Momma: You get swallowed up there. There's so much room to spare that people just wander away. They don't need you like station folk do.

“And us spacers are fools down there, Lizzie; you've seen how they make us look in the VDRs. They laughed at me for recycling waste urine, for refusing to bathe more'n once a month, for jumping when the wind whistled. Eventually the loneliness ate me up inside, and I crept back home to take my licks. My family forgave me—that's what families do—but I never forgave myself.”

Lizzie thought how easy Themba had made it seem. Gemma pursed her lips thoughtfully, then added:

“I hate to say it, Lizzie, but Themba's probably forgotten you by now.”

“Themba would
never
forget me!”

Lizzie hadn't meant to yell. Gemma just nodded wearily.

“That's exactly what I thought about my merchant marine, 'Lizabeth.”

Lizzie knew Gemma didn't really mean that. Whenever Gemma talked about the nameless merchant marine who was her Momma's pa, it was always with such a regretful fondness. It was a hurt, Lizzie could tell, but a useful hurt, like the way your muscles ached after a long day of wiping off solar panels.

But Momma must have noticed her loneliness, because within a few days the chores started racking up. Shipments of wiring and water tanks arrived, and Lizzie spent whole days in her EVA-suit tethering vacuum-safe cargo packs to the surface storage hooks.

Then one day she saw a gigantic construct-tug blotting out the stars, a ship big enough to hold whole stations inside its belly, and soon after that a ferry-trawler dragged two huge shiny new rooms towards them, gleaming in the sun. Momma explained that the new hydroponics modules were here, two new rooms and twelve new walls for Lizzie to check.

It was exciting and dangerous work, since adding any new chambers to the station's architecture could cause any number of dangers; hull breaches, orbit eccentricity, brownouts. The last time they'd added a room was well before Lizzie was born.

“Why do we need more hydroponics, Momma?”

“We're gonna need more independence,” Momma said. “This'll give us extra oxygen and more food once the shortages start coming.”

“What shortages?” But Momma refused to talk about it. Gemma nodded grimly in agreement.

Prepping for the addition was a lot of work: Lizzie and Momma had to go over the hull with electrostatic rags to clear it of grit, and then pushed a layer of fresh sealant over everything so the surface was smooth and ready. Then, all three of them maneuvered the bulky units to the hull carefully so the new units
almost
touched—one bump might cause it to fuse in the wrong place—then clamped and vacuum-welded the metal.

Then the real welding started, which Momma wouldn't let Lizzie do because the torches could burn through the sleeve of an EVAC suit.

Next, they filled the chambers with cheap test helium to see whether there was any leakage, which of course there was, leading to tedious sealant application. And then there was the big danger when they closed down the station for a day; they air-locked off the rest of the station, broke the vacuum-seal on the new rooms, then carefully opened up the old rooms one by one until they were sure the bond would hold and they wouldn't lose any expensive oxygen. Lizzie's ears popped until they pumped in enough fresh O2 to regain equilibrium.

Lizzie was exhausted, because it wasn't like her other chores had stopped. She still had to greet the incoming guests and fill the sauerkraut vats and serve meals. At one point Lizzie fell asleep on the counter, right in the middle of serving dinner. She woke to find Momma, smiling as if she hadn't just put in a twenty-hour day, handing plates of thawed bratwurst to grateful travelers . . . And Lizzie felt shamed for being so weak, even though Momma never mentioned it, that she worked triple-shifts.

When that was done, they had to prime the hydroponics—filling the circulation system with nutrient water, lining the trays with diahydro grit, planting the seedlets. They even installed locks, which was weird; the old chamber never had locks.

On the day of the new hydroponics opening, Lizzie was thrilled to find that Momma had splurged for a sugar-cake. Everyone wore the celebration hats from storage, and Momma gave Lizzie some wonderful news: Lizzie was in charge of all the hydroponics.

“You grew those cabbages better than I could,” Momma said proudly. “You got your Daddy's native thumb.” That made Lizzie beam with pride, and she stayed up after shutdown cycle tending to the tender shoots of soybeans and oxyvines.

When she harvested her first ear of corn, she went to the observation deck and duct-taped it to the window so Daddy would see it on his next orbit.

Yet every day, she wondered what Themba was doing. She asked Momma about sending him a text, but Momma said intra-planet textbursts were expensive. All their money was tied up in the new hydroponics, anyway.

That was when the Gineer arrived.

Lizzie went to greet the incoming customers, but when the airlocks cycled, it didn't smell of BO and pot; it stank of ozone and WD-40. She started to say, “Welcome to Sauerkraut Station, the homiest place in the stars,” like always, but as she did there was a “HUP!” from the inside and ten soldiers came tramping out in a neat line.

It was almost like a dance, the way they came out; each soldier had the same bulging foreheads of Themba's escorts, a sure sign of vat-grown folks. And like Themba's escorts, they wore reflective jet-blue uniforms with plastic gold piping on the shoulders, though these uniforms had a dullness to them; some of them had tiny, ragged holes.

Unlike Themba's escorts, they clasped black needlers. They fanned out before the airlock in a triangle pattern, and when their eyes moved the tip of their rifles followed their gaze, ready to spray death at whatever they saw. Lizzie trembled as those rifle-barrels swept across her, but she locked her knees, determined not to show disrespect to a paying guest.

When they were done, they yelled “CLEAR!” The commander came striding out of the back, as calm as her troops were nervous. She was flat-foreheaded, tight-skinned as a drum, with a long rope of braided red hair tied neatly around her waist. Her suit was spotless, which could have meant she'd never seen combat, but to Lizzie that seemed unthinkable; she was thin, sharp, attendant.

The commander bowed deeply, palms touching.

“Hold no fear, little one,” said the commander. “Your reinforcements have arrived, free of charge and ready to sacrifice health for safety. Would you escort me to your mother, Elizabeth, so I might formally inform her of the transfer?”

Lizzie matched the commander's stern politeness. But when Lizzie ushered the commander into the comm room, Momma stiffened. She stood up to her full height to greet the commander—though the top of her head barely reached the commander's neck.

“I thank you for your assistance, commander,” Momma said. “But I also regret to tell you that we shan't need it.”

“I think you'll find that you will have great need of our aid in the months to come. I have tales of the depredations the Intraconnected Web have inflicted upon defenseless locales. But could I share these cautionary warnings in private, without . . . ?” And the commander jerked her chin towards Lizzie.

“My daughter is my tertiary command structure, and is privy to all conversations,” Momma snapped back, which surprised Lizzie. “And while I appreciate what you're trying to do, it'll only tear us apart.”

“You know war's been declared, Mrs. Denahue,” said the commander. “You chose your position well; you're one of three stations that stand between the Gineer empire and the Trifold Manifest. That's been beneficial for tourism, but when war comes—well, do you
really
think the Intraconnected Web will respect your home-grown capitalism?”

“Actually, it was my great-gramma chose the location,” Momma said tightly. “And you know we support the Gineer. But if you surround us with gunships, then you make us not a waypoint, but a
target
. The Web might respect our neutrality, they might not, but they sure as hell will shoot if you contest us. You might win that battle, but we'll lose everything.”

“We have a new line of ships specially designed to defend stations such as this,” the commander said. “And if something happens, we'll reimburse you for any combat losses . . .”

Momma barked out a laugh. “And then we'll be known as a Gineer station, and be drawn into every war after that. No offense, commander, but you think short-term. My family's been here for five generations; I want it here for five more. I'm not getting drawn in.”

The commander pursed her lips. “And if we decide to garrison this station?”

Lizzie didn't know what garrisoning meant, but the intent was clear enough Lizzie froze. But Momma simply looked sad, like she did when they caught customers trying to hack free time from the VDR machines.

“It's that desperate?” she asked. “This soon?”

“We're confident in our chances. But it would help to take this place.”

Momma eased her hand down into her pocket, gripping something.

“My faith is in the Gineer,” she said. “But my hand is always on the self-destruct switch.”

The commander frowned, pulling new creases into pristine skin.

“Look,” Momma added quickly, thumping her left breast. “I support you folks, my heart to God. As long as you don't go bandying it about, I'll give you folks six percent off of any refueling costs I have, to give you an edge on that Web menace.”

“Twenty.”

“Twenty's a lot in wartime. We could—Elizabeth, would you mind fetching the commander some sauerkraut?”

The negotiations took several hours. Momma called Gemma up to help set the terms, leaving Lizzie to serve hot dogs and kraut to the soldiers. But the soldiers didn't relax; they ate like they expected someone to snatch it away from them at any moment, then asked for seconds.

By the time they took off, everyone was exhausted. Momma still took the time to comb Lizzie's hair.

“I hate them,” Lizzie said. “They're mean.”

“Who?” Momma asked, surprised. “The Gineer?”

“They were mean to you, and mean to Themba. They tried to take our home.”

“Actually, sweetie, I meant it when I said the Web are bad news. Themba's people are no better . . .”

“
Themba
wouldn't try to rule our station.”

Momma shrugged. “We don't choose allies,” she said. “That's how we weather storms. Some day you'll understand.”

Still, Lizzie felt her hatred of the Gineer burning in her. They were cruel, cruel people, and suddenly she feared for Themba.

 

* * *

 

Over the next few weeks, traffic picked up and ships docked every day, carrying harried-looking people away from the upcoming war. Momma had to start rationing fuel.