February Prompts 1&4: Correspond; Viewing the Moon, Thinking of You

Outside the porthole, the stars twinkle a welcome back.

They have emerged from hyperspace 2.8 million light years away from Waystation-1, heading directly towards the colony where their destination waits in stationary orbit. Two more jumps through hyperspace and they will get to the mothership where they will dock for a Standard week, and then start on the return voyage.

The shuttle is silent. They are used to it. The silence makes it easier for them to take note of minor problems. Back Home, they live alone, but the noises of their neighbors press in all around them all the time. They don't ever say it, but find the absence of sound calming.

They know of colleagues who play music in transit or catch up on shows that they download onto their personal devices. Several use the time to catch up on their reading and a dozen fiddle with whatever craft project they have. The Service Admin doesn't care what its employees do. As long as the shuttle makes the destination safely, the pilot can do nearly whatever they want, as long as it is a thing to be done solo. Very rarely were aux-support allowed to share a shuttle, but there seemed to be two or three shuttles running the more dangerous routes that did have two-pilot systems.

They don't think they could bear sharing the shuttle's cramped living quarters with another. For one thing, the pilot and the aux-support would have to spend so much time with nothing but each other's company. Utterly unbearable, in their opinion. Being alone was so much better.

A prerequisite for the job was being able to work alone without any contact with Home or Waystation for a stretch of a minimum of 2000 Standard hours. That had been the easiest of all the tests. They remember the interview process and the other physical tests they went through. Zero-grav, multi-G pressure, low oxygen, suit work... It had been brutal; 74,800 had applied, and only 386 were successful.

Even with all the advancements in technology, space is still space.

And space is dangerous.

The job is safe, mostly. Oort raiders ignore the shuttles; very little of value to rob, first of all, plus it will piss off the System too much to be worth the risk. The task is monotonous in itself, but space already is excitingly deadly enough to make monotony a treasured trait.

But not everyone likes being alone with only themselves for company. It isn't easy to hear only your own voice for extended time periods.

They do like it, though. Every time they make the journey, they are no one but themselves. There was no need to figure out the acceptable thing to say, the acceptable way to behave, the acceptable thought to have. They can just be.

A passing rock twice the size of the shuttle is in the way of their charted path, so they climb the y-axis to go over it. To starboard, the dusty pale green moon they see each journey is but a hint of a smudge, but they smile in that direction. Once the moon is the size of their thumbnail, they will go into the second hyperspace jump. This moon has been named Artemisia by the System. A pretty name for a pretty moon.

A sudden beep startles them out of their reverie.

It hasn't come from the console, thank goodness. It is from one of the many cases in the hold. They glance over their shoulder. They are not supposed to touch the contents of the cases. That is the law, and there are cameras trained on the cases.

But a second beep emerges, and then a series of tinny, distorted tones. The sounds make the pilot nervous. They can't contact Home, Waystation-1 or Waystation-2 for advice — the former two are already out of range, and the last is not yet in range.

Whatever the sound portends, they have to deal with it. Activating the shuttle's autopilot to proceed at one-tenth of the original velocity, they head towards the hold. With their heart in their throat, they approach the cases.

The sounds are continuous now, looping over and over. It is almost familiar, but they can't be sure.

If it's a bomb... They swallow nervously and quickly retreat. A protective suit is stowed just behind the pilot's seat, and they hurry back to don it. The air recycler hisses and spits. They inhale and cough at the staleness.

Of course Service Admin doesn't bother refreshing the O2 capsules until closer to the expiry dates. The stuffy heat inside the suit, after several breaths, settles to a comfortable 25°C. The suit will do for now: fireproof, blastproof, radiation resistant, inbuilt air and heat recyclers and a homing beacon at the neck.

They waddle back to the cases, the suit muffling noise somewhat, and strain to pick out which compartment is making the sound. They find its source in 217.881.1.

The case is carefully extracted. The strange notes ring out, still tinny and

annoying.

On the floor, it looks just like any other case. Rectangular, the originally clear hyplas surfaces scratched to near-opacity from use.

Then they see it. The latch is loose. It must have come loose when the shuttle came out of hyperspace too close to an asteroid fourteen parsecs away and they had to swerve manually. Something inside must have shaken loose too.

Relief floods their system. They contemplate the options for a moment, and then gingerly lifts the lid. They will need to write a report, but that will keep them busy for a while through hyperspace.

A card is inside, along with the correspondence of others living on the — they take a quick look on the side panel — seventh deck of Wang Chuan.

When they open the card, the tones play a song. They recognize the melody; it has been a long time since they have heard it sung for themselves.

Happy birthday to you

Happy birthday to you

Happy birthday to you,

Happy birthday to you!

The song repeats, shrill and artificial, until they close the card. Then they open it again to skim over the words on the card.

Dearest Emma, happy birthday!

Hope it gets to you in time. Then again, there is always the next birthday, so I guess you can keep reusing this card for celebrations!

I don't know if I'll ever be able to go to Wang Chuan – intergalactic flights are so exclusive and expensive, unless you become a shuttle pilot – but I'm so pleased that we became pen pals!

Lots of love!

Your friend from Home,

Yen Ling

They're not supposed to read other people's letters. Slightly guiltily, they fold the card and locate the empty envelope it fell out of and slide the card back inside, silencing the overly-shrill tune.

Emma P Fong

Wang Chuan Deck 7

Cabin 118.2

They have fun stickers in their personal satchel, so they dig out one with a cartoon walrus and seal the envelope with it. When they make the delivery, they will explain to Emma what happened and apologise.

It is a lonely job being a mail carrier in this day and age, they muse as they climb out of their protective suit, but the fact that they can facilitate real relationships gives them a tingle of pride.

They should find someone to write to. Maybe they can share photos of Artemisia with a friend.