The Needs Package (Pt1)

--This is my first attempt at science fiction. Let me know if you
want to read the next part. Contains swearing and some sexual
language.--

The intercom clicked into life, a burst of static followed by a
belch.
'Morning guys,' Scruggs laughed, 'listen up you lazy toe-rags. While
you slackers were sleeping off the ILLEGAL ALCOHOL you necked last
night, your leader has been busily hauling in the package that prompted
your binge. She's here guys, and she's a beauty. Come and get
it!'
Boyd threw a pillow at the speaker. 'Why's the son have to say stuff
like that? What's the company goin' to do hu? Come and confiscate my
liquor?' He rubbed gunk from his mouth and rolled over.
'Boydy-boy, Boydy-boy. This is the big day man.' Morris jumped from his
bunk, drumrolled his fingers on Boyd's bed and examined him flabby
biceps in the mirror. 'Girly-girly day. You want to get a shower man.'
He pushed at his gut, pulled at the waistband and inspected the
contents of his boxers. 'Make yourself look pretty Boydy-boy. She gets
to say no. What would you do then? And she gets to choose who goes
first. I'm smartening up man - I don't want a poke after Scruggs'
rotten old sausage has been in there.'
'I don't want no company whore. I want Jen. She's the only girl for
me.'
'Yeah, yeah, Jennny-Jen. And what will happen when you get back
Boydy-boy? 'Oh my darling Jennifer, I've been faithful these three long
years.'' Morris stuck his first under his shirt and squealed, 'Oh
Geoffrey, look at my beautiful new baby.' Fuck that man, I'd rather
have a whore.'

Boyd had heard it all before. For eighteen months, Morris hasn't
stopped taking about this day. Sometimes Boyd thought that Morris only
took this contract because of the Long-term Needs Package. When you're
as good as Morris you can pick and choose your contracts. The mining
corporations fight over you. They offer anything you want, because they
know you can shave a few trillion Rupees off their budgets. Why would a
man like that take a barrel scraping contract like this?

Boyd opened his eyes slowly. In the blur of waking, the photo of his
wife beside his pillow would smile and glow. For a moment, he could
pretend she was there, before he caught a glimpse of Morris sniffing
his underwear. 'You better hope the whore likes cheese Morris.'

Years ago, when Boyd had some sort of career, he worked the asteroid
belt. It was easy money. You got to recognise rich rocks by their shape
and the way they danced. You could avoid the ones that had been mined
dry and learn to spot the veins that the geo-phys had missed, or veins
that cowboys had mined in the early days, but left more under the
surface. The contracts where short. He had his own crew. The company
liked his yield ratios and left him alone. He was pretty much his own
man.

In the asteroid belt the sun looks the same as you see on Earth.
There's no warmth through the glass, but you can fool yourself. Out on
this cold moon you can't fool anyone. The sun outside the cabin window
was not much more than a star. It lit a desert of unchanging rock that
would never reach freezing. He could not stand to look at it. Sometimes
he caught himself imaging that he could see the Loop stretching all the
way back home. But that was nonsense, just the vapour trails of
explorers thrusting out into the outer system.

For Boyd, coming here, sacrificing three years of his life at the edge
of the solar system was hardest thing he'd ever done - and the easiest.
He felt miserable every day. He missed Jen every day. He missed the
kids every day. And that made it easier. It made it easier to think
they were far, far away, at the other end of the Loop. Being on Earth
without them would be harder still.

There was comfort within these tin walls, the photos, keepsakes in his
locker. Those things let him believe that they were still waiting for
him at home. Letting Morris believe made the illusion seem more real.
And saving himself for a woman he'd never see again? Maybe that made it
made him feel better, maybe he did that just to drive Morris
nuts.

The mining station was small. Designed in a time of belt-tightening the
breathable area had been kept to a minimum. Most of the real work was
automated. The three Manned Personnel's role was to keep things moving
around the clock. They fixed the machines that repair units couldn't.
They made sure the units didn't blow, or run amok.

Stories had done the rounds about the first fully automated plants on
Jupiter. One day it stopped working. The MP crew that responded were
cut to ribbons by the automated mining units. It was just a rumour, but
the unions and the press loved it. Afterwards the corps put crews into
all their mining operations. They set up pensions, insurance, and
on-the-job Needs Packages.

'She came down the Loop at oh-three-hundred,' said Scruggs. He tapped
his fingernails against an oblong of ice, the size of a man, on the
Loop bay floor. Loop travel was cheap. Flash freeze the consignment,
hook it onto the trail of virtual particles your recon ship left
behind, and blast it into space. Dangerous travel. Plenty of risks. But
cheap, the Loop was cheap.
'Be another couple of hours 'till the whore's thawed. Wanted you to see
her for yourselves.' He smiled at Boyd, 'If Mr Morris can wait that
long.' Water trickled from the block along a gully in the floor into a
recyc drain.

Scruggs was a good Team Leader. He didn't dress much different to them
- threadbare company shirt with the logo hanging off, ripped shorts and
none-regulation sandals. He was more likely to wear the company beret
but that was to keep the air leaks from getting to his head, rather
than loyalty. In a place like this, with a small team, it didn't matter
who was in charge. You relied on each other not to mess up, to close
right valves and open the right vents. Your life was in their hands,
and trust had to be unconditional.

The thing Boyd liked most about Scruggs was he never pulled rank. Body
had been on contracts where the Team Leader had been on a power trip.
Psychology bods can do all the tests they want, but nothing can
guarantee how a guy's going to react when he wakes up one morning,
twenty months into a three year contract, and realises he's on a rock
hurtling through the void. When he realises these guys have to do
anything he says, and there isn't much the company is able, or willing
to do about it. They'd never send a psychology out here would
they?

If anything Scruggs was likely to go the other way. He drank more than
Morris, nearly as much as Boyd. They'd spent many happy nights ignoring
the shift patterns, drinking Boyd's lab-brewed hooch over Morris'
collapsed body. Boyd had caught him popping the odd pill, pills that he
kept in a plaggy-bag in his locker. When he drilled, he sang old slave
songs, and when he was drunk he told stories about his forefathers in
Africa. How they'd set villages alight and sold the women and children.
How they'd herded the people like animals, stolen their land and looted
their gold. Not the stuff that you get taught in history lessons. It
was as if he wanted to take responsibility for their actions. Maybe
that was why he was here. Maybe that was why some mornings he wasn't
too steady on his feet. If he let the yields slip, and didn't care,
that was ok by Boyd. If he vented a flue while one of them was inside,
that was entirely different.

Morris ran his hand over the ice and held up a wet palm. 'She's got me
wet already man. Can we turn the therm up?' Melt water tricked into a
drain on the floor.
'She'll cook if you thaw her too fast.'
'So,' Morris shrugged, 'I'd do her roasted man. Look at those tits. All
real you know Boydy-boy. You know what happens to implants in the
Loop?' He winked at Boyd.

Morris had showed him photos in one of his sick mags. Some magazines
would pay women travel a Loop, just so they could take photos. Boyd
couldn't work out what sickened him most - women desperate enough to
sacrifice their bodies for a few billion Rupee, magazines sponsoring
it, or the sickos that bought it. Or the sicko that flick through
Morris' magazine stash when he's cleaning up a unit.

Morris squatted behind the ice, his face distorted, examining the
woman's thighs. 'Natural brunette, just what you like eh Scruggs? Do
you think she's got room enough for two?'
The ice had melted enough for the features of her face to solidify. As
her skin warmed, the ice melted on the inside too, and washed tears of
transit gel down her face. She looked peaceful and smooth, and suddenly
Boyd wanted her to stay that way.

'Leave her alone Morris.'
'Oooh Boyd-boy. Hey, Scruggs, Boydy's got love for the company whore.
You want to watch that old heart Boydy-boy, Jenny-Jen's gonna find
out.'
Scruggs and Boyd exchanged glances. 'I've a drill-unit to re-tred,'
said Boyd, 'I'll be in the maintenance lab.'

Boyd sat for a long time holding a soldering iron to a reel of solder,
inhaling the fumes that rose. The drill-unit started crackling, brought
him back to life. He'd dripped solder all over the main IC, probably
fried the whole thing. 'Shit.'

Company regs state power supplies should be isolated before work, but
nobody ever did. Everyone said it was because they didn't have time,
but the truth was people were lazy. They wanted to get down the rec and
start drinking. Boyd had all the time he wanted, but he still didn't
isolate. He picked up the smouldering unit and flushed it down the
disposal, another million Rupees worth of junk to be spat out into
space. One day one of those bits of junk will have revenge for being
abandoned. Back home abandoning was a criminal offence, but out here,
it just meant a slight adjustment to yield, a few hundred Rupee off
their commission.

Sometimes he watched the junk float into space, hoping to make another
star. A few months back, they had a bet to see whole could flush most
in a week. Morris won by jettisoning drilling rig four. Boyd had spent
the previous month getting it back into working order, but Morris would
do anything to win a bet, even if it cost him thousands more in
commission.

There were plenty of other units in the mal bin. He picked out an old
recon-servo. It must be thirty years old at least. The company spared
no expense out here. Boyd guessed that was because they didn't expect
to see the equipment again. He picked up a hammer and screwdriver and
started chiselling the debris from the maintenance port. He glanced at
the clock. Ridiculous, what was he waiting for? He wasn't interested in
any Needs Package.

The company made such a big deal about it, about sex, as if no man
could stand to live without it. It wasn't surprising. Their culture
bred workers that functioned on a primal level. The need to survive in
the harshest of climates. The need to do what no sane person would do -
to live without love or the warm of a family. The need to sacrifice
everything - for a little bit of cash that they probably wouldn't live
long enough to enjoy. The need to fuck. At least the company could sort
that one out. But Boyd had lived without for so long, it didn't seem
important.

The maintenance port popped open and stagnant water sloshed out over
his shorts. Damn, a big wet patch, right in the crotch, stinking of
methane. He grabbed a rag and sponged the cloth. Scruggs and Morris
could fight over the whore. When the intercom burped into live, he
ignored it. The recon-servo needed a total refit. The reflex tendon had
come loose and ligaments were torn. It would take hours to right.
Morris was whooping and laughing through the con. Boyd put down his
soldering iron and stared at the speaker. Then he picked up the cloth,
stood up and wiped his shorts again.

'Boydy-boy! Boydy, boydy-boy! I knew you couldn't miss this. She's
nearly done man.'
'You spent yourself already Boyd?' Scruggs was pointing at his shorts,
but Boyd just shrugged. 'Our friend Morris couldn't wait.'
The block of ice had reduced to a cocoon.
'I nudged up the thermo a notch,' said Morris, rubbing his hands.
'Won't do her any harm. Will it sweetheart? Come to daddy.' He leaned
over the block. Each puckered word blew a cloud of vapour from the
shimmering surface, 'come on now, you know you want it.' He caressed
the space above her forehead.

Suddenly, the girl's eyes popped open.

Morris screamed. The girl screamed back, the cry muffled by the ice.
Morris leapt back, crashing into a stack of shelves, sending tool
clattering. Her arms jerked into life, flailing uselessly against the
sides of the tomb, head thrashing, gasping for air.
'What's happening? What's happening to her?'
'She shouldn't be awake yet. I told you Morris - '
'Get her out, she can't breath.'
'She could die if we break the ice.'
'Get that hammer Morris, break her out.'
'Why is she awake man?'
'You can't break the ice.'
'Break the fucking ice.'
'This is an order Morris - don't break the bloody ice.'
Morris looked at Scruggs, at Boyd, and brought the hammer down on the
edge of the block. White fractures squealed away from the impact.
Scruggs yelled, 'no!' but Morris hit the block again.
The block screamed. Every crystal in it cracked and shattered. The girl
burst from her grave, naked and spewing, retching her pre-flight meal
over Morris' boots.

The men stood back. When she had finished, the woman straightened up
and looked right at them. She had no inkling of modesty. Her long mane
of jet-black hair was matted with transit gel and sprinkled with vomit.
The lines had been ironed from her face, scouring it of age. But, freed
from the illusion of the ice and their imaginations, they could see her
withered breasts, and the scarring above them. She squeegeed gel from
an arm, taking it down to the bone, and smiled coyly at them. Three of
her front teeth were missing.

Scruggs took a step back. A grin crept across Boyd's face. Morris
brushed down his shirt, rubbed his hands on his shorts and, holding the
hammer in his left hand, extended his right towards the woman. 'Morris
Nathaniel Law at your service ma'am. May I just say how pleased we are
to see you.'