 | |  | |  | |  |
When Tom next awoke, the temperature in his cabin was hovering around fourteen
degrees centigrade. So much for the repairs. His hands shook as he rummaged
through his rations locker for a pouch of coffee. He tried to slap it against his thigh,
but missed. With a grumble, he tried again. This time he made contact, and he felt
the heaters in the pouch’s lining activate, warming his chilled hands.
Casting a longing glance back at his sleepsac, he floated out of his cabin down to the
cockpit, not caring that he bumped off the tube’s sides like a pinball in an antique
arcade machine.
Sipping coffee between yawns, Tom strapped himself into his bucket seat and began
powering up the Cyrus. The magnetic sieve instantly came online, and Tom breathed
relief. The ship had checked out fine back at Thorne Station, but if a system as
simple as the envirometer could malfunction, Tom didn’t want to think about what
other systems might. During the few hours of sleep he’d gotten, he’d had a
nightmare: klaxons blared and warning lights flashed as the mag-sieve collapsed,
liberating the imps from the Cyrus’ massive collection tank.
But it had been just a dream. Tom grinned as the digital bar graph on a small display
screen began to rise. The imps were flowing into the tank just as they should.
“Come to papa,” he cooed.
He tapped a key on the base of his vidchat monitor. It lit up with the faces of a half-
dozen other Harvesters: some as close as a few light years, others farther away, but
all wishing they had a registered claim as good as Tom and Abby’s.
No one was more envious of them than Jack Whittaker, who was working—if he
could ever be so accused—a quarter-parsec away.
Tom spotted him in the screen’s lower left corner. Whittaker was sipping a pouch of
something that turned his cheeks and eyes bright red. “Drinking your ‘herbal tea’
again, Jack?”
“G’mornin’ to you, too, a-hole.”
Tom clucked his tongue in mock concern. “Really, Jack, it’s a shame. You had such
potential but never took the big risks. Of course, none of that matters now that
Abby and I will make the Harvest obsolete within a decade.”
“Big talk from a man whose partner isn’t awake yet.” Whittaker licked his lips,
leering at Tom. “Keep her up past her bedtime, Don Juan?”
Tom blocked Whittaker’s signal, refusing to dignify that slur with a response.
Tom had first met Abby over a year ago, as together they regaled some fresh-faced
novice in Thorne’s lounge with stories of life among the stars. He’d known
immediately that he’d found in Abby Carter someone without whom his life would
feel as empty as the space through which he traveled. He wouldn’t deny that he
first noticed her because she was incredibly sexy; Tom had never considered the
standard issue, chocolate-brown Harvester’s jumpsuit erotic before he’d seen how
Abby’s luscious figure filled it. But when he discovered her humor, intelligence, and
passion for life, he decided she was more exotic than any particle of matter could
be, and of infinitely more value. Kelly actually had hit the mark: life with Abby was
about as heavenly a prospect as Tom could imagine.
Why wasn’t she up, anyway? “Cyrus to Nachtmusik. Rise and shine.”
No response.
Tom furrowed his brow. “Cyrus to Nachtmusik,” he repeated.
“Where are you, Abby?”
Still no reply.
Sweat formed on Tom’s palms. Motherlode would be an awfully lonely place without
Abby.
“Tom!”
Tom exhaled—he hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath. Abby’s rosy, freckled
face filled the screen. God, thought Tom. Even when flustered, Abby was gorgeous.
“What’s up?” he asked.
“Just my blood pressure.” Abby brushed loose strands of her strawberry-colored hair
out of her face in an agitated way. “Tom, are you reading leaks in your collection
tank?”
“No.” This might not be the time to tell her his nightmare. “Are you?”
Abby frowned. “Don’t ask stupid questions this early. I didn’t get one second of
sleep. I’ve been looking for a leak my scanners say is there, but I can’t find it.”
“Maybe we should rendezvous and look together. You know what they say about
two heads.”
Abby laughed; her laugh always reminded Tom of wind chimes dancing in a soft,
summer evening’s breeze. “Yeah, that two heads are the surest sign of prolonged
exposure to radiation.”
Michael S. Poteet © 2009
degrees centigrade. So much for the repairs. His hands shook as he rummaged
through his rations locker for a pouch of coffee. He tried to slap it against his thigh,
but missed. With a grumble, he tried again. This time he made contact, and he felt
the heaters in the pouch’s lining activate, warming his chilled hands.
Casting a longing glance back at his sleepsac, he floated out of his cabin down to the
cockpit, not caring that he bumped off the tube’s sides like a pinball in an antique
arcade machine.
Sipping coffee between yawns, Tom strapped himself into his bucket seat and began
powering up the Cyrus. The magnetic sieve instantly came online, and Tom breathed
relief. The ship had checked out fine back at Thorne Station, but if a system as
simple as the envirometer could malfunction, Tom didn’t want to think about what
other systems might. During the few hours of sleep he’d gotten, he’d had a
nightmare: klaxons blared and warning lights flashed as the mag-sieve collapsed,
liberating the imps from the Cyrus’ massive collection tank.
But it had been just a dream. Tom grinned as the digital bar graph on a small display
screen began to rise. The imps were flowing into the tank just as they should.
“Come to papa,” he cooed.
He tapped a key on the base of his vidchat monitor. It lit up with the faces of a half-
dozen other Harvesters: some as close as a few light years, others farther away, but
all wishing they had a registered claim as good as Tom and Abby’s.
No one was more envious of them than Jack Whittaker, who was working—if he
could ever be so accused—a quarter-parsec away.
Tom spotted him in the screen’s lower left corner. Whittaker was sipping a pouch of
something that turned his cheeks and eyes bright red. “Drinking your ‘herbal tea’
again, Jack?”
“G’mornin’ to you, too, a-hole.”
Tom clucked his tongue in mock concern. “Really, Jack, it’s a shame. You had such
potential but never took the big risks. Of course, none of that matters now that
Abby and I will make the Harvest obsolete within a decade.”
“Big talk from a man whose partner isn’t awake yet.” Whittaker licked his lips,
leering at Tom. “Keep her up past her bedtime, Don Juan?”
Tom blocked Whittaker’s signal, refusing to dignify that slur with a response.
Tom had first met Abby over a year ago, as together they regaled some fresh-faced
novice in Thorne’s lounge with stories of life among the stars. He’d known
immediately that he’d found in Abby Carter someone without whom his life would
feel as empty as the space through which he traveled. He wouldn’t deny that he
first noticed her because she was incredibly sexy; Tom had never considered the
standard issue, chocolate-brown Harvester’s jumpsuit erotic before he’d seen how
Abby’s luscious figure filled it. But when he discovered her humor, intelligence, and
passion for life, he decided she was more exotic than any particle of matter could
be, and of infinitely more value. Kelly actually had hit the mark: life with Abby was
about as heavenly a prospect as Tom could imagine.
Why wasn’t she up, anyway? “Cyrus to Nachtmusik. Rise and shine.”
No response.
Tom furrowed his brow. “Cyrus to Nachtmusik,” he repeated.
“Where are you, Abby?”
Still no reply.
Sweat formed on Tom’s palms. Motherlode would be an awfully lonely place without
Abby.
“Tom!”
Tom exhaled—he hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath. Abby’s rosy, freckled
face filled the screen. God, thought Tom. Even when flustered, Abby was gorgeous.
“What’s up?” he asked.
“Just my blood pressure.” Abby brushed loose strands of her strawberry-colored hair
out of her face in an agitated way. “Tom, are you reading leaks in your collection
tank?”
“No.” This might not be the time to tell her his nightmare. “Are you?”
Abby frowned. “Don’t ask stupid questions this early. I didn’t get one second of
sleep. I’ve been looking for a leak my scanners say is there, but I can’t find it.”
“Maybe we should rendezvous and look together. You know what they say about
two heads.”
Abby laughed; her laugh always reminded Tom of wind chimes dancing in a soft,
summer evening’s breeze. “Yeah, that two heads are the surest sign of prolonged
exposure to radiation.”
Michael S. Poteet © 2009
Excerpt From
"Confirmation"
by Michael S. Poteet
"Confirmation"
by Michael S. Poteet
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