This is chapter 12, have you read chapter one yet?
Somehow, Simonee was the first one ready and waiting at the airlock. The strap on her duffel tugged at her shoulder, pressing through the soft cotton of her hoodie. She’d packed just about everything she had—things she needed, things she probably didn’t need but would be good to have, and things she didn’t know about hiding in the clothes she’d scooped up off the floor. So, everything really—still not much, but every gram of it pulled her down.
She hated being early though—in a rush to get ready, now waiting on everybody else. So she busied herself with her smartcomm, scanning networks, scrolling the local feed, and mapping surveillance, which was, surprisingly, light—just a few cameras in the transport terminals then beyond that—
“It’s over 30 degrees out there, are you sure you want to wear that?” Estrella stood there—uniform crisp and clean, hair braided again, one duffel in her hand.
She pocketed her smartcomm. “I run cold.” She was already sweating.
“Suit yourself, just don’t let that get stuck in the cleaning chute.”
“Wha—”
“You seriously gonna wear that?” Mariem stomped in, a duffel in each hand. “It is hot as balls out there.”
She shook her head. “It’s comfortable, I wore it on Enceladus Station all the time.”
Mariem’s eyebrow and lip leaped up in sync. “You mean the ice outpost orbiting the ice moon where you shacked up with the Ice Princess?”
She tugged at her hoodie and looked at it. “Okay, maybe I didn’t think this through.”
Mariem snorted. “I’ll say. Better roll that up real tight for the chute.”
“Why—”
“¡Ajúa!” Carlos barreled in—white shirt, khaki shorts, steel toed sandals, a huge duffel over his shoulder.
And a huge grin. “You all ready? They’ve got the jetway lined up and should be ringing our bell right about—”
Bing-bang-bong. The airlock chimed.
Carlos jogged up and hit the release. The inner door opened onto a grungy looking fellow backed by daylight filtered through clear plastic. His overalls were at least two sizes too big—orange and drenched in splotches of grease, they draped over him and puddled around his ankles. Tufts of silver and brown erupted down his face and into a scraggly beard. The skin around his hairline and neck was red and crusty, and his lips had a bluish tinge. A full breather mask dangled from his neck.
“Sorry ’bout the wait folks.” His esses and effs whistled through a missing tooth. “I’m Sonny, the dockmaster, and I’ll be taking you in, today.”
Carlos opened his mouth to say something, but Sonny looked right at Simonee. “Goodness, miss, you sure you wanna wear that out there? It’s kinda warm.”
Now they were all looking at her. “Yes, I’ll be fine. And the chute. I’ve heard about the chute.”
Sonny nodded. “Yup, don’t block the chute,” he whistled. “Alrighty, follow me.”
Like Bastien’s inter-ship-access tube, the jetway latched magnetically and was also tubular—clear plastic with a spiraling rib and composite planks along the bottom. And it was warm, but what she noticed first of all was the gravity—real gravity, fresh from a well not refocused gravitons—and it was lighter. Not much, but her duffel pulled less, her feet swung more, her head felt floaty and she had to look around just to keep her eyes steady. Orange suited workers bustled about outside where other ships and other tubes relayed passengers to and fro. And above—
Sky. Blue open sky.
Oof—from behind. She stumbled, duffel swinging—a clamp on her shoulder.
“Come on, Sim, eyes on the road.” Mariem was behind her.
“Sorry, it’s just...”
Mariem chuckled. “Lots more where that came from.”
The top half of Cloud Ball 9 took over the view ahead, glinting in the hot sun behind. The jetway converged with others at a square grey building, embedded into one of the huge triangles of glass that rose up at least ten meters at the apex. The glass smeared sunlight into a sheet of glare and then it was gone, swallowed by the grey building where plastic met polymer and aluminum breaking into a room full of shuffling travelers separated by ribbons of stretched nylon carving lines and guiding the flow to one of several doors.
Sonny led them to one such door where they crammed together once again in another brightly lit room.
“Alright folks,” Sonny said, gesturing at a conveyor belt. “Bags here.” Pointing to a set of doors. “Fumigation pods there.” Fingers pointing up. “Cloud Ball 9’ll dispose of any perishables in yer luggage—don’t blame me, house rules. When you get into a pod, strip down, put yer clothes in the chute and they’ll clean ‘em separate. You can pick ‘em up at the cleaning desk inside. There’s a fabbercayder inside the pod that’ll fashion you up a comf’terble, compelment’ry, and very sty’ish onesie so no one need worry ‘bout wanderin’ the terminal naked.”
“How long does the cleaning take?” Estrella asked. “I’m sorry, but I need this uniform for official business.”
Sonny nodded. “Course, adm’ral. What’s on your back should be ready right away. Bags’ll be delivered to the accommodations noted on yer file. Just make sure yer name and ship register’s on yer bag. Paper tags right there by the conveyor, if you need ‘em.”
Estrella nodded with a slight bow and Sonny turned to Carlos. “The Fénix’ll get taxied to the shop hangar in a few hours. If you need somethin’, have ‘em come find me and we’ll work it out. Otherwise, enjoy your stay, folks!”
The door closed. Simonee watched Estrella toss her bag onto the conveyor and enter the first pod. Carlos and Mariem marched up to a shelf by the conveyor and pulled paper tags from a slot in the wall. She sidled up beside Mariem.
Carlos grabbed the pen first, and Mariem drummed her fingers on the shelf as he scratched at his tag.
He passed her the pen, lark-tied the tag to the handle of his duffel, then tossed it on the conveyor before disappearing into the next pod.
Mariem tied a tag on each bag and turned to her. “Need the pen?”
She took it. “Yeah, um... can I copy the registration number?”
Mariem huffed and lifted one of the bags. “Here.”
Simonee showed teeth. “Sorry.” And scribbled as fast as she could.
Dropping her bag beside Mariem’s, she watched it travel along the length of the room, disappearing into a square hole behind a flap of black vinyl. When she turned, Mariem was closing the door on the third pod. It latched with a shunk and “Occupied” showing in a little window on the door.
All three said “Occupied”. She had no idea what was going on in there but after a few minutes of waiting, she heard a muffled yelp come from Mariem’s pod. Then the first pod clicked green—”Vacant”.
She turned the latch and stepped into a brightly lit chamber, narrow, white and smooth. Tiny nozzles pocked the center from ceiling to floor. To her left was a bench; to the right—a chute. On the wall a sign showed the androgynous outline of a person putting clothes in the chute and then another being sprayed by the nozzles.
Simple enough.
She stripped—looked again—the person with underwear lines had an X through it. The person with no lines was circled. Sigh. She stripped the rest of the way.
By the chute, a warning:
Oversized items may jam the chute.
DO NOT FORCE ITEMS INTO CHUTE.
And another outline-person putting a ball of squiggles into the too-small chute square.
Her boots went into the chute first—slid down—clung-clung-shump. Good enough. Her other clothes she wrapped in the hoodie—tight to keep them from separating. It went in fine enough—a tuck here, a shove there—shhhhhhoof—but it went down. No big deal. She didn’t know what the fuss was all about.
Tepidly she stepped to the center of the chamber, the nozzles pocking her heels. On the wall, the naked outline stood with arms and legs spread. This one they added a smile to for some reason, but its eyes were flat lines—odd.
Arms out, legs spread—the fans kicked on first and they were not warm and her skin exploded in full body horripilation.
The nozzles started dripping, then spraying and—”Agh shit”—she yelped as jets of cold liquid blasted her body—minty in her nose, dripping from her hair, burning the organic eye that she should have shut. So cold, everywhere, seeping into her skin, tingling in all the wrong places.
Then it was over—except for the fans, which turned on full, drying off the shower. Her teeth rattled. Her stomach rolled in, and she hugged herself. The fans died and, while dry, every step away from the jets was like walking on ice. She blinked away the burn as she turned in slow circles, searching for a towel, anything she could cover up with.
A mirror on the wall beside the exit flickered on, framed in light. Her naked self, eyes-wide, arms wrapping, centered the frame and another person-shaped outline appeared in the mirror, arms to its side.
Clothing fabricator—she forced her arms down. The mirror flashed and the outline-person came to life, took a seat at a sewing machine, and went to work.
Cute.
Ding—a panel by the mirror slid open and there, on a fixed metal hanger, hung a white unitard with red accents and built-in slippers. It really was a onesie—not ugly... really. It reminded her of some futuristic starship uniform from the serials where women never seemed to need pockets or wear underwear.
She pulled it off the hanger and slid herself into it—perfect fit. Comfortable, with padding and support in the right places. It didn’t zip up as much as just seal along the seam, magnetic, or something, it didn’t matter. It warmed her but wasn’t warm—not cool either. Somehow... just right.
She fussed down her hair before stepping out into noise—people everywhere. No sign of Carlos or Mariem or Estrella.
She squeezed through the crowd, searching for signage pointing the way to the cleaning desk. It couldn’t be that far from the fumigation pods, right?
There—a line of service windows. Oh, Carlos and Mariem were in line.
Then a hand landed on her shoulder. She spun. Grey eyes caught her over brown bubbly cheeks and smiling teeth. No hair. Also wearing a white and red onesie—hand still on her shoulder. She looked and it was... not complete. The wrist just ended in two clubbed fingers—and she knew.
This was a construct—one of the defects. It wasn’t even the hand really, it was... the familiarity. She thought she could always tell which meant...
She pulled away. “Hey—Hi, um, sorry, did I... I’m supposed to be over there.” She hooked a thumb at the cleaning desk.
The constru—girl smiled bigger, if possible, and nodded, also pointing at the cleaning desk.
“Are you also...” But that didn’t make sense.
The girl shook her head, then pointed at Simonee before swooping both hands up her own chest and away, fingers pointing.
Simonee shook her head and backed up. “I don’t—” Her back hit someone, and another hand found her shoulder.
Turning, she found herself staring up at a very tall man in a white button down, bronze face framed by a dark beard, topped with a red turban. The hand on her shoulder, now in front of her, was... metal—shiny plates shifting smoothly—reaching for a handshake.
But his eyes aimed over her head. He nodded. “Yes, Ginny, I see. It is her.” Though nobody said anything.
She looked back. The girl was still beaming. “Who—”
“Ms. Saran.” She jerked forward. “My companion here is a big, big fan of yours. May we call you Simonee?”
“Uh... fan? I—”
“Apa!” Thank god! Carlos was walking toward them arms wide. Wait, Apa?
She looked up at him. Apa Mann?
But he was wrapping his arms around Carlos. Hands slapped backs.
She turned to the girl, pointing. “Ginny, right?”
She nodded.
“Do you... all wear... that?” She picked at her own onesie. “This?”
Ginny nodded. Simonee grinned tight and held up a finger, nodding, backpedaling, rushing to the cleaning desk where Mariem was collecting her clothes.
Mariem turned. “There you are. Get lost?”
Simonee shrugged past her to the desk. “Simonee Saran, from The Fénix.”
The clerk peered at her over a terminal. Her long, colorful nails ticking the screen. “You just come out of your pod, hun?”
“A bit ago, actually.” She pointed at Mariem. “I went in after her.”
The clerk shook her head. “Hmm, well we had one chute drop nothin’ but a pair of boots, which are right... here.”
The clerk put her boots on the desk.
Her shoulders sank. “Where’s the rest of it?”
An eyebrow went up. “Did you shove anything bulky in there, like a big heavy sweater?”
Shit. “Yeah... a hoodie, but it went down I saw it.”
She rolled her eyes and nodded. “Mmm-hmm.” Shook her head. “I’ll send someone fishing, but it won’t be quick. They’ll send it to the accommodations on file. What’s your name again?”
“Simonee Saran.” She pushed the boots back on the desk. “Can you just put these with the rest of it, please?”
She slinked back to where Carlos, Mariem and now Estrella were chatting with Apa Mann. Estrella and Mariem had changed back into their regular clothes. Carlos had not. On a man of Carlos’s stature, the onesie was not a good fit.
At least she wasn’t the only conspicuous one in the group.
Estrella cleared her throat. “I don’t mean to intrude, but, we have an appointment at the correctional facility down below, and my father needs to put his clothes on—even if this is technically an improvement.”
Carlos looked down. “Right, it’s comfortable but men don’t get padding on the boobs. That spray turned my nipples into pop rivets.”
She watched him walk back to the cleaning desk, picking the onesie out of various creases as he went.
Then a glance from Estrella caught her eye, before Estrella nodded at Ginny. “And, Apa, you haven’t introduced us to your friend here yet.”
He shot a startled look at Ginny, standing by, still smiling. “Oh no, Ginny, forgive my rudeness. Friends, Ginny here is our liaison for Sanctuary, where you all will be staying.”
Ginny bowed and stepped forward, moving her hands quickly in front of her body—right palm over her two-fingered left hand, shifting outward and separating, outlining a space in front of her. Then she pointed at Apa and swooped her hand towards the group.
Her face softened, brows raised and smile gentle. Simonee’s implant caught patterns in her movements—language—recorded, flagged, cached. She reached into her pocket and—shit—no pockets. Her smartcomm was wrapped up with her clothes, stuck in a chute—nothing to parse and translate, no agents, just... blind.
Apa translated for her. “Sanctuary welcomes you, friends of Apa. You are our honored guests.”
Estrella returned hand signs of her own and Ginny communicated with her directly.
Mariem leaned down and whispered, “Modern Sign Language, we all learned it in training. Estrella’s just showing off. Hey, I thought you were getting your clothes.”
She whispered back. “They got stuck—the hoodie.”
Mariem snorted. “Told you. But hey, now you fit in with the locals.”
Great, twinning with the local constructs—Molly—shit.
“Are many of your constructs deaf, Apa?” Estrella asked.
Apa’s brow dropped. “Admiral, Ginny is not mine. None of the sanctuary constructs are mine.” He brightened. “A common misconception, I’m afraid. Oh, and Ginny isn’t deaf. She came to us with epilepsy, and the correction procedure, sadly, left her unable to speak.”
“My apologies, Apa, I misspoke. Of course, I meant Sanctuary—not you personally.” Estrella bowed her head, but something in her eyes told Simonee that was a purposeful mistake. She was learning that Estrella Santiago rarely made mistakes, or asked questions she didn’t already know the answer to. She was probing.
Or reminding—don’t become interesting. But Simonee needed to find Molly now, see Joy.
She swallowed. “Apa—I mean, Mr. Mann?” Why did everyone have to look at her at the same time?
“Yes, Ms. Saran.” And how did he know her name?
“Would it... how could I...” She cleared her throat. “I need to speak with Molly.”
Her eyes danced between all of theirs and she breathed, locked onto Apa’s. “As soon as possible.”
He turned to her in full, hands on hips, smiling. “Indeed—Ginny?” And a chill went up her neck when he covered his right eye briefly with that shiny metal hand.
Ginny wasn’t smiling though. And that seemed to rip the smile off his face. “What is it?”
Ginny lifted both hands up, then tipped them over and down. Apa winced. “Today?”
Ginny nodded slow.
His frown pulled down; he rubbed a silver fist against his chest, then pointed at Ginny and tapped his head with the same finger.
Ginny nodded quicker, smile leveling back up.
“Well, Ms. Saran. Ginny will take you to Molly.”
Gulp—twinny with Ginny.
He continued, “But first, I’m afraid, you’ll have to sit through a funeral.”
New to Simonee’s story? The Cannibal of Cloud Ball 9 is Book Two of The Girl with the Cybernetic Eye. Book One—The Ice Princess of Enceladus Station—is complete and free to read on Substack here. Or get the eBook here for a convenience fee that supports the author.
I see clogged pipes is still an issue in the future.
Great humor, world building, and characterization going on here. I like how one garment tells you so much about Simonee.