Chapter 1: Not on Schedule
“O.G.R.E 1, come in, O.G.R.E. 1. What is your position?” the shrill voice of the
corrections officer squealed through the radio.
“Nothing to report yet,” Dax replied, rolling his eyes.
His suit rumbled around him as he looked through the thick, clear visor,
separating him from the void. His target, a piece of twisted metal from a re-entry accident,
floated listlessly in front of him.
As he looked down, the Earth spun peacefully miles below him. He gritted his
teeth in a snarl as he grabbed for the magnetic gun attached to his leg. Pulling the piece of
equipment free, he aimed it at the metal as the thrusters on his suit shut off.
“You’re not O.G.R.E. 1!” the C.O. exclaimed over the radio. “O.G.R.E. 2? Dax,
what are you doing out there?”
“I’m an orbital garbage removal expert,” Dax said, squeezing the trigger. “I’m
doing my job. No reason to give it to someone else.”
The gun let off a low hum as it pulled him the rest of the way into the debris.
Catching himself on it, he placed the magnet gun back in its holster.
“This isn’t your job; this is O.G.R.E. 1’s job. Report back to your ship
immediately!” the corrections officer shouted.
“I could, or I can tag this piece of debris for rapid collection and not delay the
return of the Mars mission another day,” Dax countered.
He tapped his fingers on the metal as he waited for a response. The soft impacts
of his heavy suit clanked through the form-fitting piece of equipment and into his helmet.
Several more seconds of silence drifted on the crackling radio. Dax turned to see their junker of a
ship, more spare parts than original, floating a few hundred yards behind him.
“You there, Johnson, or am I just doing my best Ian Malcom impression out
here?” Dax asked.
“It’s C.O. to you,” Johnson’s voice crackled back. “Command says continue the
mission.”
Dax raised his left arm. A bracer filled with just about every tool he’d need sat on
his forearm. Grabbing a small metal disk from the bracer, he attached it to the debris. With a tap
in its center, a soft red light started to blink. The radio squawked, sending a bolt of pain through
his ears.
“I thought we were fixing the feedback problem!” Dax snarled.
“This isn’t Johnson,” a young voice Dax knew was Mark whispered. “Johnson
never called command. There’s a debris cloud headed your way; you need to find some cover
right now. You’re going to get torn apart out there.”
“And this is according to?” Dax asked.
“It’s according to Johnson’s radar, which I am piggie-backing. You have fifteen
seconds; it’s coming from your twelve. I’m not messing around O.G.R.E. 2. Hurry.”
Normally, Dax would have ribbed Mark a bit more, but something in the kid’s
voice told him this was not the time.
Dax drew his magnetic gun. He ducked himself behind the debris and activated
the tool, holding him in place. Dax took several deep breaths. Gritting his teeth, he lowered his
head and braced himself with his free hand and knees against the debris. He’d dealt with debris
clouds before. These mini storms were never fun, but Dax had weathered a few storms in his
day.
With a soft tink and a brief flash of sparks, the first strike of the cloud punched a
hole through the bottom of the debris.
Easy, Dax coached himself in his mind. Easy, you’ll be all right. Control your
breathing. This too shall pass.
“Mark, how big were those pieces?” Dax asked.
“Largest one was five times the size of a grain of sand. Why?” Mark replied.
“Because I think it just punched a hole through my cov...”
Dax was cut off as a hail of debris peppered the sheet of twisted metal. He
flinched as multiple holes were punched through inches from his head. He took several deep
breaths, fighting the racing of his heart from the debris storm. His shoulder kicked back,
accompanied by a flash of sparks and a sharp pain that caught him off guard. He took a quick,
deep breath.
“Good, at least I still have structural integrity,” he muttered after a quick check.
“You what?” Mark asked.
The last of the debris cloud clattered against the junk Dax marked. After a few
seconds of silence, he shut off his magnet gun and holstered it again. As he turned back to his
ship, appropriately named the Junkyard, he activated his thrusters. With a soft rumbling, he
slowly accelerated back to the rust-stained craft.
“C.O., we ran into a slight snag. There was a debris field that crossed our path,”
Dax explained as he approached the hatch for his return. “Suit took damage, maintained
structural integrity. It just needs a surface repair.”
Dax grabbed the port handle. He pulled on it, but it didn’t budge. He let out a
frustrated sigh, planted himself with his magnet gun and pulled on it again. After several
moments of pressure, the latch clicked, the handle gave way, and with several hard yanks, the
port opened.
Dax deactivated his gun and placed it back into his holster while pulling himself
inside. Grabbing one of the handles, he turned himself around before leaning back into space. He
closed the door, immediately greeted by a flashing red light.
Airlock occupied. The Speak and Spell-sounding computer announced, Initiating
atmospheric re-compression.
“Uh, Dax, I’m seeing that the airlock isn’t... you know... locked!” Mark said
over the radio.
Dax gripped the small door and pulled as hard as he could with one hand while
trying to twist the lock with the other. The oxygenation vents rattled as they filled, readying to
open into the room. Frustration more than anxiety bubbled within him as he struggled with the
poorly maintained handle.
“Dax, are you going to get that thing latched?” Mark asked.
“Workin’ on it!” he growled from behind clenched teeth.
Dax grabbed the latch with both hands. He planted his knees against the door’s
frame, and with all his might, he leaned back and pulled on the handle. Metal groaned under his
hand as the vents stopped rattling.
He glanced at them and shook his head.
“Computer, airlock isn’t sealed. Don’t try to repressurize. You’ll blow the whole
ship!” Dax shouted.
Negative, you do not have the authority to make such commands of this vessel.
The pieces of Dax’s suit clattered as every muscle in his body trembled. As he
pulled with all his might, the latch gave way with a low chunk just as the vents opened. Oxygen
hissed into the airlock, filling it in seconds.
Dax tumbled back, clattering into the airlock’s back wall. With a relieved
chuckle, he steadied himself on the wall, still floating in zero gravity. Three beeps rang out
before he was violently pulled to the ceiling, crumpling into a heap as he made contact.
“Are you kidding me?!” he snarled.
Air pressure normalized; artificial gravity reactivated, the computer announced.
“You couldn’t give me a heads-up?”
It is part of the regular O.G.R.E. protocol. You should have been made aware of
this during booking. Do you need to be re-booked?
“You schedule that and I’m going to microwave your server,” Dax growled as he
pulled himself to his feet.
That is illogical, as it would not harm my primary programming. It would,
however, irreparably damage your ship, leading to loss of life.
“Some things are better than going back to that dirt ball,” Dax replied as he made
his way to the internal door. “And you’re no Vulcan; you don’t get to operate on logic.
Otherwise, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
Incorrect, data shows that...
“Mark, shut her up!”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” Mark replied over the ship speaker.
Dax grabbed the internal door and pulled as hard as he could. With an ear-
splitting squeal, the hinges gave way, letting the door swing into the airlock.
“I said Mark, not Hal,” Dax replied as he stepped through.
“I’m not trying to kill you; I just can’t get into the system, and you know why!”
The shift of artificial gravity threw Dax’s balance off. He caught himself before
turning to shut the internal door. It took a few hard pulls before the latch locked in place.
“Fine,” he said, releasing the door and getting back to his feet. “Then at least get
this suit off me!”
“Already have the de-coupler in place,” Mark replied over the radio.
Dax turned. Across the deck were a set of robotic arms that sat inside one of three
alcoves. Identical armored space suits to the one he wore rested inside. The once shimmering
suits bore the scorch marks of previous O.G.R.E.s who weren’t fast enough to get back to their
ships before Earth’s gravity got them.
Gouges and scratch marks covered the suits from glancing blows with heavy
welding used to fill in the direct hits that were survivable. Dax approached the arms and stepped
backward into them. They quickly grabbed the suit and haphazardly unscrewed the protective
barrier from him before pulling it away.
Each piece removed was accompanied by a tight pinch, unnatural twist of a limb
or a jab to the spine. With the last part of protective gear removed, the floor under him shifted,
dumping him, in a dark grey jumper, onto the steel waffle flooring. A sharp pain shot through his
knees and elbows on impact.
“I freaking hate this place,” he snarled as he pulled himself back to his feet.
O.G.R.E 1, suit accepted. Damage detected, initiating damage report.
“You got close on that one!” Mark’s voice echoed from a nearby corridor.
Dax grabbed the waffle grate wall before rounding the corner. As he made his
way down the narrow corridor, the suit bays were visible through the grate. Moving further down
the barely shoulder width gap, he looked at the visible wires and exposed pipes that kept their
ship in space.
A soft thunk, thunk, thunk, sounded from the walls as Dax ran his fingers across
the rough metal. When he reached the end, the hallway opened to a small semi-circle with three
more rooms attached to it. Two of the three doors were shut. A soft blue light flickered from the
third.
“You’re going to want to come in here,” Mark’s voice came from the center
room.
Following the voice, Dax entered Mark’s quarters. The ship’s computer systems
that used to be on the main deck were expertly mounted on his cheap metal walls. Small piles of
salvage from his ‘walks’ were scattered around the room, burying the bed.
Dax approached the throne-like chair, grabbing it. He turned it around. Mark sat
with his knees curled into his chest. His scrawny form was dwarfed by the enormity of his seat.
He grabbed the piece of food ration that stuck out of his mouth. Biting down, he winced as he
pulled it free before motioning to the monitors.
“C.O. is pissed,” Mark mused. “I’ve been able to mute him because he’s been
delivering possibly the most creative string of swears he’s come up with yet.”
Dax looked at one of the screens. An overweight bald man screamed at the muted
screen. On another, a question appeared asking if the job was completed. Dax leaned over and
pressed the yes before unmuting the corrections officer.
“On our next inspection, if there’s a single bolt out of place...” Johnson stopped
and looked to the side.
“The job’s been completed, C.O. Debris tagged and ready for removal. Should be
passing the retrieval vessel...”
Mark pointed to a third screen. Dax followed his finger to read the information
about pickup E.T.A.
“... in about eighteen minutes. With that, re-entry path for the Mars shuttle will be
cleared for them.”
“This wasn’t your mission to go on, professor!” Johnson barked.
“You don’t even have a diploma. You don’t get to call me that,” Dax snapped.
“And the job got done, didn’t it?”
“Your next job will be sent by end of Earth day. You’re up in rotation. Your job
today won’t count. You will still be expected to make your walk tomorrow.”
“I wouldn’t think about shirking my chores,” Dax replied.
His sarcastic tone caused Johnson to stand up and lean against his desk. He
pointed a sausage-sized finger at the camera.
“All you do when you take their jobs is prolong all of your time up there. Those
walks don’t count toward the tallies of anyone else’s sentence. Instead of ever seeing Earth
again, one of them is going to shank you and drop you out of the airlock, and I won’t blame
them.”
“Yeah, you and everyone else. We’ll keep an eye out for the next job,” Dax
huffed before hanging up on the officer.
“What’d you do?!” Mark exclaimed, his eyes widening.
“Boring conversation anyway,” Dax said, taking a step back. “Anything new?”
Mark pointed at an upside-down mug in the corner of the room on a plate.
“I think that might be the last one, do you mind taking care of it for me?” Mark
asked.
Dax walked toward the plate; he placed his hand on top of the mug. He smirked,
looking at the set-up for what felt like the thousandth time.
“It’ll always amaze me that you’re willing to go into the void of space, but
something as little as a spider will have you terrified.”
Dax lifted the mug. He quickly spun it and thrust it back down, smashing the
spider that was trapped underneath.
“We are hard-wired to dislike things that scuttle,” Mark countered.
Dax picked up the plate and looked at the smashed insect.
“It’s not scuttling anymore. And shave your face. Your peach fuzz looks worse
than Michael Cera’s.” ...
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