--B.T.L.: Before the Launch
--Dura-Chamber Archive Scan * 002298
The training would last through today. Then she wouldn't be needed anymore.
Russ Rodriguez tried to keep her expression neutral. Her boss, soon-to-be former, stood assessing her work.
Every so often, she stepped back to ease the distance between them. He never noticed when he was crowding her, which was always. To make matters worse, he never wore a mask. In Russ's opinion, only idiots didn't wear masks.
"You're really good," David said. After watching the bot alongside her, he then noted, "But this thing's faster."
She had been the caretaker of the Instigator for four years. It was an old ship, but lovingly maintained. The Captain, Boomer, ran supply runs to the moon, having been laid off from Space X. Automated pilots, he had told her.
Now, tech had caught up with her job. A.I. developed, and bots replaced service positions, too.
Bots couldn't be trusted. Her best friend, Jason laughed at that, terming Russ's reasoning an "irrational fear." She knew what she knew, and bots would replace them all. Soon, Russ would need to be an actual adult, another thing Jason teased her about.
David had warned her about the change just two weeks ago. One week to expect the shitstorm, and another to train her replacement. Train a damn hunk of, well, not metal, but not flesh. Then, Russ was out.
As her shift ended, Russ pushed past the bot to the locker room. The thing didn't follow. It didn't need a locker room, break room, or bathroom. From a business standpoint, she could understand the appeal. That didn't stop her from hefting a wrench in hand and considering a smash up of alternatives.
In the end, she packed up the wrench and her few possessions in the locker. At the bottom of the rusty shelf, a white note beckoned. Notes were for rich people, not ship janitors. Russ checked around her, sure this was a prank related to her send-off.
When no one emerged from the shadows, she picked up the note. It was thick, which meant it cost more than a week's wages. One side was smooth, blank. The other side boasted scrawling letters:
THE INSTITUTE INVITES YOU ON A MISSION.
THIS IS YOUR CHANCE TO CURE THE STORM.
7890-786
That was it. A rather anti-climactic message. And it promised a cure from the incurable Storm. Plenty of doctors and companies had been confident in a cure. Twenty years and three billion dead later, no one spoke of cures anymore. It was rude.
Now, this rich-person letter spouted the impossible. And why would they choose her?
Jason appeared from around the corner. His dark hair spilled over his forehead, brushing over his brown eyes. He noticed the note in hand and nodded at her.
"You going, too?"
The feeling of novelty wore off somewhat. She wasn't the only invitee. She wasn't special.
Russ shrugged.
Jason grinned. "You've got nothing better to do."
Out in the workroom, Russ heard the bot clanking away, filling her place.
"Maybe," she said, slamming the locker shut for the last time.
"Later!" Jason called after her.
Russ grumbled in response.
She walked home, backpack full of stuff. The note was tucked safely into a side pocket. Once she reached the barracks, she scanned her ID card and entered the adult dorms.
The rows of beds and partitions echoed with quiet. It was a Tuesday. People were working.
But not me.
Russ unpacked the note. Briefly, her hand hung over the plastic phone. Then, she snatched up the reciever and called the contact number. Someone answered immediately.
"Russ, are you ready to put your flight training to use?"
They knew more about her than they should. She could respect that.