Wired

Cosmic Rays

If Novarizon Research Cloud #36 is indeed a cloud it is one from the darkest of storms.

The year was 1997. Stead Helier sat half-reclined in an executive shuttle in transit to the prestigious space station that he, upon first sighting, hated. The station was close enough to be fully visible from his portside window and his first impression was that it was grey, lung-shaped, and frightfully ugly. The flight so far had been passable, even for a Helier's standards. The food was adequate, the stewardess attractive and the music a delight; there had been plenty to occupy himself with. And now he must stare upon this depressing sight. He missed his Mother and relished a chance to see her, yet why they must do it amongst thousands of Novarizon staff was beyond him. They clearly resented him.

The stewardess placed a cup of black coffee in front of Stead. She's right, he thought, I should sober up before I board.

The other directors, and indeed all managerial staff resented his presence as much as those on operations level. That much had become apparent after a few brief introductions and observations within divisions on Earth. Even the Spaceport bag checker had taken the opportunity to mess with him upon learning that this was Stead's first time off-world.

"Strange things happen up there lad," the old man cackled, "and not many places to go when things go bad."

Stead forced a laugh, pushed out the memory. He glanced sheepishly at the stewardess and took a long drink of coffee.

Stead's opinion of the Research Cloud improved none as he boarded. The airlock caused his ears to pop and the icy breath of the decontamination checkpoint sent a chill through his bones. Cursing quietly he took a decompression pill from a medical specialist, slipped into a set of paper overalls and followed a scowling operations manager into the station. They passed over a walkway that overlooked lower operations and a grinding of metal pierced the air and furious orange sparks danced below their feet. Stead asked the manager what the men were making. No reply. He decided not to push the matter.

Guided through a labyrinth of grey tunnels, Stead examined the strange metalwork. The unconventional welding style gave it a strange texture. The alloy had a matte finish and was rough to the touch, bulging in certain areas like an iron skin draped over the inner workings of each wall. Finally Stead spotted the light at the end. They approached a set of clear glass doors which led to another decontamination checkpoint. The operations manager loudly instructed him to remove his overalls once inside and dispose of them in the chute to the left. Beside this chute was a button that would allow him access. Stead winced at the man's volume, to which the manager pointed to his own ear. "Sorry, tinnitus."

The executive area of the Research Cloud was notably more pleasant than operations. The temperature was perfect, the décor was clean, full of calming musical tones and interesting architectural features. The air taster cleaner and richer in oxygen. A young woman in a silver Novarizon blazer greeted Stead, gestured in the direction of CD Helier's personal boardroom. It had been some time since he heard his mother referred to by her proper title of Chief Director, and it sent a small wave of anticipation though him that he should once again see her under such pretences.

The boardroom was full, yet a low tension undercut any communal buzz to be felt. A range of bodies occupied the space, from men of clear power donning hyper-expensive suits to a few bewildered looking managerial staff in Novarizon polo-shirts. There were a couple of reserved techies in lab coats and a man in what could only be described as a modernised king's garb, laced with gold and purple, a Pharaoh's tomb of jewellery weighing on his neck and fingers. The sight was almost ridiculous yet undeniably intimidating. His mother stood at the end of the great oval table of glass and chrome, smiled lightly as stead entered.