Last Two Liters
Silas ran a system check, everything was working fine. He had the computer re-calculate fuel and the results from the previous run were confirmed. He had enough to reach the space station. He turned on the comm.
”Space station Falcon, Space station Falcon, this is the Wanderer, license FX 231-09-777. Do you read me.”
He repeated and waited. Finally, the comm spoke back in a clear male voice.
”Wandered, Wanderer, this is space station Falcon Control. Repeat, this is Control. What can I do for you today?"
"Control, I’m so glad to hear you. I would like to request permission for docking."
"One moment, please,” said Control.
Silas leaned back in his chair, humming a tune, trying to convince himself he was relaxed.
”Uhm, Wanderer,” Control’s voice was more human now, a little uncertain, “I am sorry to say that, but you cannot dock with Falcon. Repeat, permission to dock denied."
"What?” Silas jumped up, “Control, you cannot deny a vessel the right to dock. That is part of the Directive."
"I am sorry, Wanderer, but the system is telling me you cannot dock."
"Why not?"
"You have back taxes from some, uhm, business transactions. You need to pay before you can dock. I’m sorry.” It sounded as if Control was really sorry.
”Since when is this a thing? I mean, that means I’m dead.”
Control did not respond. Silas checked the oxygen gauge. There were only two liters left plus what he had in the cockpit.
”Look, Control, I ran into some problems back in the Belt and I am low on fuel, low on oxygen. Can’t you get me in just for a second so I can get a refill?"
"Wanderer,” the Control’s voice wavered, “Permission denied, Please, clear this approach corridor."
"Look, it’s my life here."
"Can’t you pay the fees?” said Control in a sympathetic voice.
”I- I don’t have the money."
"How were you planning on getting fuel then?"
"I could trade.” Silas fell silent. He thought he could ask Control his name and try to plea on a more personal level, but then again Control was also under the Directive. If he let Silas dock, he would probably be fired, maybe executed. What if Control had a family? Silas was alone in the universe, nobody would cry.
”Rodger that, Control,” said Silas. “I will get out of your hair now.”
Control made a throat noise. A raspy, desperate, sad noise. A noise that said “You will die soon, but I have to live with killing people for somebody else’s money.”
The air would last Silas a little bit, but not long enough to reach anything. Maybe a vessel would chance by. He opened broadcast on all frequencies, put some music on there. He turned the Wanderer ninety degrees and went off into empty space.
Posted by: Paweł Kowaluk