Garbage Day 2

The graveyard had been still, dark, and silent for the most part. Even when a gentle breeze blew by it seemed as if none of the nearby trees were effected by it. The only thing that destroyed this calm scene was a gravedigger.

"Still nothing," the gravedigger spat out some tobacco and began covering up the grave he had just exhumed. He had been at it for hours. He was in search for an item of great power. An item that may teach him the ways of immortality. An item that would make him a god.

He finished up with the grave and went to the steps of a catacomb entrance to sit down. He pulled out a smoke and a lighter and began to light his cigar. He noticed a crow landing on a headstone and began to talk to it.

"What are you looking at? you never seen a hard workin' man before?" He went back to puffing on his cigar.
"All I see is a pathetic excuse for a man," came a voice from the darkness.
"Captain? Is that you? I didn't think you were coming back to Bridgestone until a few months from now." The gravedigger had a nervous tone to his voice.
"Alas I was, but we had some trouble in Fort Lumms so we had to come back for some supply. But enough about my travels, how are you?"
The gravedigger cleared his voice and started talking "Well, ummmmm, I ain't find the head yet, boss. Don't worry though, if you give me a few more-"
"I DON'T HAVE ANY MORE TIME! You told me you knew exactly where the head was. You should have it by now."
"Just one more night, Captain. I promise I'll have it."
The Captain came in to the light and stared the gravedigger with his Moon-eyes.
"Your services are no longer required," then just like that, he cut his head off. "Argh, its hard to find good workers these days." The captain spots a piece of paper in the gravediggers pocket. He grabs it and examines it. It seemed to be a map of the cemetery and it also reveal the location of the head. "Hmmmmmmm, perhaps ye was more help to me then I thought." He stole the lantern and the shovel from the dead mans hands and went off into the graveyard.

not that great, but whatever

The Captain opened the map and realized it was upside down.
"ARGH, NO WONDER IT HAS TAKEN FOREVER! THE BLUNDERING FOOL HAS HAD THE MAP UPSIDE DOWN THE WHOLE TIME!" The Captain kicked over one of the tombstones in pure rage. "No matter, I can now find the correct location and get back my Nora." He began his walk into the darkness.

"Here it be." He looked away from the map and read the name of the grave.

Ichabod Crane

His mouth broke into a grin. "Ah, this be the right place."
He began digging until he hit something solid. He got on his hands and knees and began wiping away the dirt to see what he had hit. Just as he had expected, an old wooden hatch.

"AH HA HA! I CAN ALMOST HEAR MY SWEET NORA ALREADY" He opened the hatch and voyaged down into the unknown.

Spoiler:

Damn. That pretty well summed up Horace Chance’s thoughts as he ran down the hall, leather shoes beating a fierce rhythm on the tiled floor, only emphasizing the smattering of bullets clicking at his heels. “That could seriously have gone better,” he muttered under his breath.

He heard the buzzing and deftly shifted to the left, feeling the displaced air of several near-misses. The world slowed to a crawl for a moment as Chane took stock of his world. He was running down an ornate hall lined with Greco-reminiscent pillars and the odd surrealist painting. The irony of the choice of art was just beautiful. He was being chased down said hallway by no less than three armed and no doubt well-trained gunmen. Why? He had misappropriated something from them which they had most definitely misappropriated from its original owner.

As he figured it, he had two options, continue running and hope that he is not filled with rather unholy holes before he can make an effective escape or standing and fighting. That made him smile wider. He was an unarmed man in fedora, vest, and dress slacks. Any outside observer with half a brain would have bet their lives on the outcome of that fight.

And then time slammed back into motion. The smacking of leather soles on tile echoed down the hall along with the clicks and sounds of racking slides of reloaded weapons. One of the gunmen chuckled as his magazine slid into place. And then Mr. Chance walked up the wall to their right.

Overcoming their shock, a few of the gunmen opened fire, still running towards Mr. Chance. The shots went wide. He started running towards them spiraling up the wall and onto the roof before coming down on the left wall.

They fired a few more rounds. And then he was too close. He kicked off the wall and flipped in the air, sending his left foot into the face of the nearest gunman. The high quality leather met with roughhewn features with a wet crack and the gunman fell to the floor. Mr. Chance was already on the next man.

It was the gunman with the reloaded pistol. He smiled. He couldn’t miss from two feet away. His brain sent the impulse to his finger to pull the trigger. There was a flash of steel, a loud bang, and someone cried out. It took a moment for the gunman to realize that there was a chain wrapped around his wrist and that very chain had pulled his gun to the side. The bleeding man was one of his colleagues.

With a deft movement, Mr. Chance pulled back his pocket watch, and returned it to his vest pocket. The force of the movement pulled the handgun into the gunman’s face. It struck his forehead with such force that he was incapacitated instantly.

And just like that, the fight was over. Mr. Chance smiled to himself, twisting the little jewel in his hand as he continued walking down the hallway. The other Surrealists would be pleased.

Mr. Chance glanced over his shoulder, making sure he was the only one there. Of course, he was just being paranoid. There was no one there. There never was. He was in some decrepit and abandoned art museum. The walls, bare of any of the paintings for which they were built hold, were crumbling, and the corners were lost in shadow. The skylight above was encrusted with broken shards of glass through which a crescent moon cast its scarce light.

He chuckled to himself a bit. As a group, melodramatic served only as a gross understatement for the Surrealists. He stood in a circular room, once the effective center of the museum. It was where the people gathered to chat, sit on the benches to rest, tried to find a guide, or whatever it was that museum patrons did. It wasn’t as though Mr. Chance had ever been to one himself. Taking up a good portion of the room were two semicircular pools, separated by a walkway running between them.

He was staring into the depths of one of the pools. The water was so clear, so still, it was as though it were a sheet of crystal. “Well, here we go.” He took a deep breath and leaned forward. Farther, and farther, until gravity finally won, pulling him into the crystalline waters of the pond. There was a moment of disjointedness, a feeling of tumbling through a vast nothingness. Then gravity reasserted itself and Mr. Chance found himself falling out of the pool of water and up onto the ledge of the pool. He was in the museum from earlier, but not.

Great stained glass windows let in multicolored light from the ceiling and the walls were covered with beautiful tapestries and canvases covered in wondrous art. People fluttered about through the museum, women, men, children, all wearing the obscure clothes of the elite of history. All colorful and exuding culture. Then Mr. Chance caught sight of their faces. Just blurs. Every one of them. It was always the same, but it never ceased to unnerve him in the extreme.

He quickly hopped down from the ledge and crossed the crosswalk to the other pond, looking down the whole way and holding his fedora down over his face. In one step he was up on the ledge of that pond. Much faster now, he fell forward the crystalline pool.

Again, there was that disjointedness, that turning and flipping of the universe. Then the world righted itself and he found himself walking through a generic doorway into a half-lit room. The Surrealist sanctuary: more reminiscent of a poker den than the secret hideaway of some of the most extraordinary people in the world. The circular room was lined with doors, but they were of no interest to Mr. Chance at the moment. His eyes were drawn to the man in the center of the room, standing at a waist high table, dented and scratched with age.

Mr. Chance doffed his hat in greeting to the man. The other man did not. He just stood there, radiating importance and calm, in his generic grey vest, grey fedora, grey coat, grey dress slacks, grey everything. Everything grey, save those block-like sunglasses and night black gloves. The sights seen by those eyes, the works done by those hands. The leader of the Surrealists.

As an afterthought, Mr. Chance took the gem from his pocket and threw it onto the table. It bounced a bit before it came to a stop at the dead center of the table. The man at the table’s face creased into a small grin.

“Good work, Mr. Chance,” he said.

“Thank you, sir,” Mr. Chance replied, shocked by the high compliment. “What now?” he asked with his usual eagerness for the next mission.

“It’s time to make some plans,” Mr. Serious uttered as the doors around him began to rattle open, one by one.

The first door opened to a familiar face. A very familiar face. It was Mr. Risk, Mr. Chance’s twin. They shared every characteristic, the same face, the same height, the same eyes, that same half-smile and general self-satisfied look. Their only difference outwardly was that Mr. Chance wore a dark brown vest and lighter dress slacks. Mr. Risk wore the opposite color scheme. Mr. Serious forced them to do so. It was the only way the Surrealists could tell them apart.

Mr. Risk walked up to the little round table with a grin for his brother as the next couple of doors opened. Out of them walked Mr. Fallacy and Mr. Integral. Swiftly following their entrance, the door on the far right opened and out came Ms. Luck. An oddity among the bizarre, Ms. Luck was all angularity and grace. Unreadable and polar, one never knew where they stood in those cold eyes. For now she was smiling, which everyone else in the group took as a good omen.

The last door did not open at first. It shook, and it rattled, and then it stopped. And an eerie silence made its way through the room, as everyone but Mr. Serious tensed, waiting to see who the last member of the next group escapade would be. The door began to rattle again, more vehemently this time. Suddenly with the sharp crack of a boot colliding with the door, it flung open and Mr. Humor entered the room, his face split with a smile and laughter on his lips. He is bright white uniform contrasted sharply with that of the darker Mr. Serious, and the hypnotic swirl of the glasses worn low on the bridge of his nose only served to draw attention to the madness in those eyes.

“Good, everyone’s here,” said Mr. Serious to no one in particular, his voice flat and emotionless as is his usual. Mr. Serious looked about the group, taking in the scene. A group of exceptional individuals all… and they were absentmindedly playing with a gem of unknown importance, tossing it back and forth like a die among them. He sighed inwardly. This was why he led. Not out of unparalleled ability on his part, nor necessarily vast intelligence. It was his maturity of understanding, of vision.

“Tell me about your new toy,” he spoke to the group. Mr. Humor was silent, not partaking in the play, but grinning fiercely all the same. Mr. Fallacy’s face contorted into a scowl immediately and Ms. Luck tried to hide her amusement at the extreme nature of his reaction. Mr. Risk looked to his twin for help, who did the same. Mr. Integral had a distinct look of apathy.

“Come on now, think about it. It’s a surreal item,” Mr. Serious urged them.

Mr. Integral rocked back on his heels, releasing a low sound most easily described as ‘nghh.’ “The sides don’t add up.” He pulled a napkin and a pen from his pocket and began rapidly covering it with calculations. After a moment he became frustrated, threw down his pen and drew five dollars from his pocket and handed them to Mr. Fallacy.

Mr. Serious caught it instantly. “You two… placed a bet on the infallibility of math?” Mr. Fallacy nodded, beaming, and Mr. Integral made the ‘nghhh’ sound again. “Yet you’re members of a group that researches and exploits flaws in reality?” The same response. Mr. Serious shook his head. “Let’s just-“

Mr. Chance interrupted, “Wait, where’s Ms. Fortune?”

“She’s been banned from the meetings for some time, Mr. Chance,” Mr. Serious replied.

Mr. Chance leaned forward, placing his hands on the table, “She’s a valuable asset to the team, I don’t see why.”

Mr. Serious opened his mouth to explain but was cut off by Mr. Humor, who managed to get his words out between suppressed laughter, “I think you’re more interested in her assets, if you know what I mean.” He began to nudged and wink at the people next to him in an overly exaggerated manner. Ms. Luck just frowned at him.

Mr. Serious ignored Mr. Humor, and pressed on with his intended point. “Symbolism. Nothing is more important to the Surrealists than symbolism. Now. Can we continue?” For a man with no tone in his voice, he somehow managed to convey agitation. It was most likely from his repeated smacking of the table to emphasize his words.

Everyone nodded, so he laid out the plans.

The Icarian Voyage, the latest technological development of a foreign culture, shot silently through space from one colony to another.

What was particularly remarkable about it wasn't its hyperdrive, capable of going many times the speed of light. Such velocity was attainable decades ago. Nor was it the ship's AI, capable of managing every aspect of a small metropolis. The program was so complex the equivalent of a processor spanned a small room and could be labelled with regions corresponding to certain functions.

None of the ship's crew knew the irony of the ship's name transcribed into English and, even if they had, they would have thought nothing of it. More generally, they would be incapable of thoughts at all. The entire crew was in stasis, their minds downloaded to the ship's storage banks, which rested comfortably on an end table.

That was the remarkable part of the ship.

Even with superluminal speeds, travel between the home planet and colony lasted between a year (low cost, questionable exposure to radiation) to a few months (such as a super-luxurious cruise yacht). Even a super-luxurious cruise yacht grows tiring after several months.

The truly significant part is the brain download: this reduces the precision of care the body needs to be kept in and nearly eliminates additional power costs. The state of memories in the brain could deteriorate; they would be reintroduced before they woke up. For safety purposes, a back-up is also saved and stored disconnected from the ship's electrical system. Because the journey is tautologically unmanned, the crew is only half a dozen individuals.

In order to manage both normal ship functions as well as those normally carried by the crew, an advanced AI was introduced. The story starts with one particular subroutine of this program.

This subroutine (nicknamed Jeffrey) monitored electrical connections throughout the ship. Of particular note is the connection to the data banks.

It merely clicked, and the banks echoed a click in response. Click, click. Click, click. Click, hum.

Hmm. Click, hum. Click, click, hum.

"Hum" was incorrect.

Jeffrey queried his command in the case of a hum and received a "hum" in response. Something was clearly wrong.

He queried his supervising subroutine (Alice), who again queried the command list for instructions with missing commands, and received a "hum" in response.

In this manner the chain continued until a high-level routine (Leeroy) recognized this pattern as a strictly technological failure and directly queried the mind of the ship's technician, giving it the appropriate information and preemptively waking a subroutine to interpret the output.

Leeroy received a "hum" in response, which he relayed to the translation subroutine, which translated the hum and output another "hum."

Leeroy declared an error with the ship's storage banks and called for the replacement, which was lugged into the room by service robots before the robots and the backup banks were all swept out of the whole in the hull that destroyed the original data banks.
_____

When the Icarian Voyage landed on the alien colony, docking officials discovered severe external damage. Reviewing security tapes (also stored locally), they saw the room housing the data banks destroyed by some loose projectile in space. It also continued to destroy portions of the AI governing physical shock, pressure, and other auxiliary information that would have been useful is diagnosing a meteoric collision.

Immediately after collision, lights on the computers lit up as many routines and subroutines were initiated before the door opened with the replace data storage, which was thrown from the ship.

The major implication is that the six crew members, while unharmed, no longer possess any significant memories.

Tug and Sketch sat in the parking lot of a prestigious bank, in their working van. They were both dressed in winter clothing that would conceal their identity. The two were a pair of thieves, and always operated as a unit. Sketch was a magician, a graduate of the national Association (as all competent mages were). Such an occupation was rare for a graduate, as most mages moved on to humanitarian aid, magical research, or the lucrative craft of enchanting and magical forging.

Additionally, criminal activity for a mage was particularly risky because of the Guard. The Guard were a complement to the local police specifically created to capture or eliminate mages, as the police were ill equipped to do so. The capital punishment for a mage is to remove his hands, something the Guard does happily.

The police still pose a threat, however. A mage still dies if stabbed, and that is the protocol for police encountering mages in the field. Tug is Sketch’s perfect complement in this respect: if the police try to attack Sketch in close range, Tug (a more-than-skilled melee fighter) will defend him; likewise, Sketch can protect Tug from the police at long range. The duo can only be foiled in combat if there are an excess of policemen or members of the Guard, who are specially trained to disrupt magic.

That analysis set aside, it was best for both of them to avoid combat. There were few enough mages that Sketch couldn’t manage to hide if a search were performed seriously.

Tug was going over the plan with Sketch. “So. We need to get into the safe deposit boxes. We have this key –” a plain silver key with an embedded computer chip “– that’ll get us inside the room. If anyone asks, it’s an inheritance.”

Sketch nodded. “Box number one-one-three-eight, right?”

Tug confirmed with a sheet of paper. “Yeah. So once we get in, you’ll take out the camera and open the box, then we fight our way out.”

“It’s kind of too simple,” Sketch said, worrying. “I don’t want to draw too much attention to us if I can help it.”

Tug shrugged. “It can’t be helped, unless you want to forfeit the job. But we already accepted. Besides, you always draw attention. The Guard come running whenever you use magic.” He glanced at the dashboard. “Our time’s coming up. Let’s go.”

They left the van and started walking into the bank. “Hey, Tug.”

“Yeah?”

“Do you think it’s gonna rain later? I saw some clouds on the horizon.”

“I don’t know. Here’s the key.”

The bank employee inserted the key in a machine, which gave off a crisp beep. He returned it and motioned the two thieves into the vault.

Inside, they were surrounded with chests of valuables, both personal and practical. Tug nodded at Sketch, “Let’s make this quick.” Sketch raised his hands into the air and they were surrounded by electricty; a moment later, he projected it at the only camera in the room.
__________
The Guard Office was bustling with activity moments prior, due not to an excess of crime but rather understaffing. The phone rang twice before the member of the Guard picked it up. The voice on the other end sounded relatively calm.

“I’d like to report an anonymous tip.”

“Yeah, go ahead.” He took out a notepad.

“There’s a mage who’s going to rob a bank in about fifteen minutes. The Two Thirds National Bank, West branch. He’s a graduate.”

“And how do you know this information?”

“I knew him at the Association school. I don’t want him to hurt anyone.”

“All right. We’ll keep a patrol car in the area.”

“Thank you very much.”

Had the Guard payed it much heed, the voice may have seemed unnaturally calm with a pretext based on apprehension. However, it was not his job to overthink every anonymous tip. A patrol car already in that sector would just move a few blocks over, and most likely nothing would happen.

He sighed and pulled over another set of forms.
__________

Drayden stepped out of his meditation to a call at the door: two brief knocks. It was his master. He answered and kneeled, standing at his master’s acknowledgement. Drayden was a talented individual who worked as a personal assistant to a powerful wizard. He didn’t know much more about him, but that much was not necessary: he received more than adequate compensation in magicallly enhanced weapons.

“Drayden, I have a task for you.” Drayden only nodded. “A piece of property was just stolen from the information technology company, Infinistone. You will retrieve it and return it to a courier in the docks. The item itself is going to be on Northwest fifteenth street, by the convenience store.” He lowered his head. “The two who have stolen it are very capable. One is a graduate mage who knows demon magic. They stole a dragon egg.”

The wizard smiled knowingly as he watched Drayden leave. Conflict is the key to progress.
__________

Sketch let loose another spell, this time breaking the lock to the safe deposit box. Once security realized they couldn’t fire into the room (thanks to the ward Sketch had placed) and couldn’t enter the room to due the danger from both Sketch and Tug, they only aimed at the door, trying to contain them until the Guard arrived.

“Tug, get the lockbox.” Tug ran to the safe deposit box and Sketch to the doorway, holding the key, now glowing red. Standing safely behind the ward, he warned, “It’s a grenade. Put the guns down.” They did so immediately, and Sketch turned around in time to see Tug get the box open.

“Sketch. This is a dragon egg.”

“Oh my God!” Distinctive sirens cut through the air, ending his surprise. “Oh, hell. It’s the Guard. And we’re cornered.”

Tug became afraid. “We can’t kill them, can we? Even if we did, they’d find us. Killing Guard is too serious to ignore. What are you doing, Sketch?”

He was drawing on the ground with chalk. “I know something that’ll help. Give me a dagger.”

“You’re not doing demon magic, are you, Sketch?”

“Look, it’s that or prison. And they’ll cut my hands. Besides, I have this from a good source. Ouch.” He cut the tip of one of his fingers, and his blood ran down to his wrist. He put his hand over the center of the rune.

As soon as a drop reached the ground, the rune emitted a blue light and a ghostly figure rose out of the center. Vaguely human but lacking any fine details, it seemed to be a solid incarnation of a shadow. In place of eyes, it had dark walls which seemed to hold back a vast consciousness. It spoke with a voice which seemed to come from insanity itself.

“A bunch of Guard are coming for us. Fight them!” As the demon swept past (although its legs didn’t seem to move), Sketch shouted to its back, “Don’t kill them, though!”

Tug grabbed the dragon egg and Sketch. “Come on, we need to go.” By the time they stepped out of the vault, the demon was standing amongst the bodies of the Guard, either alive or dead. He seemed to nod at them as they passed.

“In the car. Don’t get blood on my seats.” Sketch pulled his sleeve over his hand as Tug pulled out of the parking lot. The sounds of more Guard sirens rang out through the city. Tug was leaned over the wheel. “Man, that was way too close.”

“That was more than close. We won’t be able to do anything for a while, and that’s assuming they don’t catch us outright. I’m surprised we even got away.”

“With that reaction time, the Guard had to have been tipped off. Who could’ve...? Well, we’re safe for now. Call the employer.”

Sketch pulled out his phone; “Oh, yeah; I almost forgot.” He dialied and waited for an answer.

The line rang twice before picking up.

“Hey. We have the object. Christ, you didn’t tell me it was a dragon egg.”

“That is unimportant. The Infinistone courier is in the docks. Good job, but be careful. The Guard is looking for a demon mage.”

“Oh, yeah. Thanks for teaching me that. It really came in handy. Can’t say I want to repeat the experience, though.” My finger still hurts. There was a click as the employer hung up. “Yeah, it wasn’t a good conversation anyway. How are we, Tug?”

“Just fine, as long as the Guard doesn’t –” Glass. Broken glass filled the air, and a shock sent Tug flying into his seatbelt. The front was crushed in. Tug looked up to see only a figure on a bike before losing consciousness.
__________

Drayden rode on his motorcycle down fifteenth street, keeping an eye out for the described van. There.

A street sign was wrenched from the ground and fired torwards the front of the van, embedding itself in the engine and breaking the windshield from the force of the shock. The driver wasn’t moving and the passenger started stepping out of the car. Drayden got off of his bike.

The passenger charged at him with alarming speed, his arm glowing blue at his side. This is not a normal mage. Drayden pulled a sword from his bike and the mage slowed. Well, whatever.

He raised his sword and the earth around the mage shot up, encasing it an a makeshift tomb. Drayden found in the car a sack containing the dragon egg. As the Guard caught up to his location, he left for the docks.
__________

The president of Infinistone sat in his office. It was in the top floor of a large tower, and the sound of rain filled the room. Through the glass windows he could see the entire city, and it was all drenched by rain.

The phone on his desk rang. He answered on the second ring. “President, I have what you requested.”

“Very good. Please bring it to me now.”

“All right.” He hung up.

Yes, this was a most momentous day. He pulled a cell phone from his pocket and called Drayden. “I heard of your success today, Drayden. Congratulations.” He hung up.

Everything was working out beautifully. If only –

There was another in the room. “I was waiting for you. How do you like the body?”

It looked like Sketch, but its eyes were empty and its left hand was covered in dark tendrils. It stood there stiffly, unmoving. “I am appreciative for the opportunity. It is rare that a mortal so easily lets one of us into his realm.”

“Of course, this arrangement benefits me as well. Just out of curiosity, how did you escape?”

“From the trap? I wore it down. I am not uncapable. Then those mortals this one called the Guard arrived, and I killed them. Why?”

“I was simply curious. Now that you’re here, I’d like to make another proposition.”

“You dabble in the affairs of demons frequently. What would this new proposition entail?” His voice was clearly curious, or perhaps simply interested.

“I am shortly going to come into possession of a dragon egg. Now that you have proven yourself, I wish to allow you to possess the dragon. The only condition is that, after three months of maturation, you would come into the city and try to kill the Guard Commander. If you succeed, you may continue to possess the dragon. If not, I will allow you to possess my apprentice. He is the one who stopped you earlier; he is much more powerful than your current host.”

The demon-possessed Sketch shifted in his place. “A dragon? Mortal, I am humbled by your generosity. However, your secretive nature leads me to be wary. This building belongs to the individual to which this one was returning the egg. If what you say is true, your apprentice stole the egg and returned it to the same company.”

“It is my belief that conflict is the key to progress. By letting my apprentice fight you, he would either prove himself capable or die. In dying, he would also show your own capability.

“I will not lie about my current deal. I do not care about the life of the Guard Commander; just that, by trying to attack him, the Guard will use something I want. They will bring it out of their storage to where I can attain it. If it kills you or not is of no consequence to me – and, even if it does, you have my apprentice. I merely want to make the Guard use an object of power so I can take it from them.”

The demon stood, apparently deep in thought. He started walking towards the door. “For a mortal, I approve of you. When your egg hatches, I will take it.” He disappeared into the shadows.

The president sat down. Everything was progressing according to plan.

Spoiler:

His hands steering the massive aircraft, Greg watched a series of monitors that listed off the state of important parts of the ship. He was currently docking with the station orbiting the mining planet. His payload was the working class: in a few moments they’d all be getting out of cryo.

He was in conversation with theh dock authority. “KA-748, rote phi-kappa-rho.”

“Roger. AV 3b, acknowledge.”

And the conversation continued, Greg echoing lines mechanically. He landed in the unloading dock, magnetic seals holding the ship in place while the passenger module was removed. From there he proceeded to the storage, watched closely and guided by the dock authority. The ship was docked in the hangar, stuck lifeless with a host of others. Like a mass burial.

Leaving his charge behind him, Greg inched up to a thick window to look into space.

Below him, there was the rest of the station. The living quarters and entertainment, a small bubble of civilization for those whose misfortune didn’t call them down to the mines. This is where he would be staying for the two weeks until his return trip.

Above the image of the station was the planet itself, mostly green except for a smudge of brown and steel. That planet would be home to valuable ore. He just shipped it.

Greg sighed and continued his walk to the station.