So, he started work immediately. The station was a marvel of engineering. It had a G-wheel and compensator, which made gravity in the station exactly equal to that of Earth's norm. The facilities were all perfectly planned out and it even looked cool, all shiny titanium and chrome. When Cody Burns finished his design blueprints and papers, and the station was finally built, the US officials handed over a check, with a few extra zeros added on, "just for a bonus."
Unfortunately for Mr. Burns, he never had a chance to spend his newfound fortune.
Scarcely two months after the station's completion, he was quietly and efficiently assassinated and the builders' shuttle was mysteriously "lost" in space. Space Station-C was an entirely undercover operation.
A year later, after several equipment checks and numerous job interviews, the space station was fully operational and all staff was on board. The two coordinators, Alexander Vorcht and Michael Wilson, met in the VIP conference room.
"We need a test case," said Vorcht.
"Yes. Absolutely," agreed Wilson. "The Processing Center must be tested on a low-risk subject. Preferably a student. Most students are expendable." Vorcht gave a nasty, thin smile. "We need to prove that the Processing Center can truly overcome all personality issues and produce the ideal cadet."
"I think I have just the right person for you, Wilson. Currently under suspension from school. Rap sheet as long as the Amazon: violence, graffiti, insubordination, and definitive signs of juvenile angst." Wilson looked like his birthday had been declared a national holiday.
"Perfect!" he exclaimed. "Who's the subject?"
"One Jeffery Emmerson," Vorcht read from his papers. "Resident of Rockport, Maine. Aged 15."
"I think Mr. Emmerson should pay our station a little 'visit'" said Wilson, with a twisted grin.
***
Martin Fletcher stared into his cold coffee. You'd think it was easy being president of the United States. With almost all the functions of the government automated, all he had to do was sit in his office and venture out for the occasional speech. However, Fletcher had big plans for his country, not only his country, but the whole world. He pressed the red button on his desktop. Thirty seconds later, a harassed little man in spectacles and a shabby suit hurried in through his office doors.
"Mr. Fletcher, sir?"
"Aaah. Robins, I've been wanting a talk with you." The man sank into a chair across the desk from the president. This was not a chair he enjoyed occupying.
"You have, sir?"
"Yes. It's about the Underground project."
"The Underground project, sir?" said Robins with a shudder. "Surely you are not planning to continue."
"Of course I am planning to continue, idiot!" A flash of anger spasmed across the president's face. "I need your figures! Immediately!" Robins cringed visibly.
"I have done the analysis, Sir, as you instructed." He handed over a single typed sheet. "Everything is correct, but I would strongly advise you not-" He was cut of as the president raised a warning hand.
"Robins, you are here to do mathematical analysis. You do not advise. You simply obey!" He returned his gaze to the figures, tracing each line with the forefinger of one hand. Robins rose to leave, understanding the meeting to be terminated.
"Oh, and Robins..."
"Yes, Sir?"
"Get Mr. Wilson on line four."
"At once, Sir."
"It had better be."
***
Why do these things always happen to me? wondered Jeffery Emmerson, pacing the confined space of his cabin. It was a very small room. One bunk in the corner, a single closet, and a steel door that only locked from the outside. This was not what he had wanted to do with his life.
But what did I want to do with my life? It was a good question. Jeffery Emmerson had never thought about this before. He had lived in Maine all his life and knew nothing of the world outside. School had never seemed right, but then, not very much had, not even home.
Growing up on the docks of Rockport, he had only ever really known one thing for sure, and that was that he never wanted to leave. So much for that. When I get back there may be no Rockport. When I go back...if I go back...
***
The little boy ran down the pier and jumped of the end. He landed in the clear, cold water with a splash. No one else felt like swimming, not in the middle of March. No one, that is, except the seals. They frolicked and played out in the deeper water. The boy paddled out further away from the dock. Nobody came to the docks on Sundays. There was no one to watch him.
The seals didn't swim away as the boy got closer. One of them even emitted a happy bark and swam towards him. The boy mimicked the bark and splashed further out, flicking water at the seals. They seemed to accept him without question. It was a beautiful picture, boy and seals, playing in the early morning sun...
"BOY!!!" The morning stillness shattered and the seals dived down and were gone. "GET BACK HERE!" A huge man was standing on the dock, holding a lobster trap and bellowing. The boy looked back, scared, but paddled in to the dock, obediently.
"What do you think you're doing?" the man shouted, hauling the boy out of the water by the armpits. "Swimming when there's work to be done!" The boy cowered, dripping wet, water pooling off his swim trunks onto the dock. The man raised his fist, his face red.
"No, papa! No, please NO!!"
***
Updated at 5:07 April 2. Sorry for the continued editting!
Gender:
Points: 890
Reviews: 6