It's A Deadly Job, But Somebody's Gotta Do It

The square, manila envelope hit the desk with a thud. I jumped, my feet reflexively dropping from the desk to the floor. My eyes snapped open, my expression a mixture of irritation and fear. To my relief, the noise had come from a gofer-a wide-eyed, innocent mail boy-and not from a superior officer.

The kid, little more than a child, with bright blue eyes and a cheery disposition, wore the drab gray coveralls his rank demanded. I was surprised. If High Command was letting toddlers like this into the service, they must be real desperate.

The gofer smiled broadly at me before turning away. I frowned. Apparently, the kid was new to the station. No one smiled on Station Omicron 4. At least, not for long. A smile was the quickest way to earn yourself a broken jaw.

"Gofer!" I barked, shaking my head from side to side, comforted by the sound of my bones snapping into place.

The kid turned around, the smile still on his face. "Sir?"

I picked up the envelope. "What's this?" I demanded, waving it back and forth.

"Mail, Sir!"

"I'm not blind, gofer," I replied, blowing out a sharp breath. I glared at the manila envelope. "This better not be what I think it is!"

The kid swallowed, and the smile disappeared. "Begging your pardon, Sir, but I don't know what's in the envelope. I guess it's your new orders. My transfer orders ca-"

"Orders!" I snapped, glad that the gofer had fallen into my trap. I slammed my hand down on the desk. "These better not be orders! I just finished my last run! I have three days leave on the roster!" Normally, an extra tour wouldn't bother me, but Station Command had passed over my leave three times, and it was starting to wear on my nerves.

A bead of sweat ran down the gofer's face. "I just deliver the mail, Sir! I don't know what's in that envelope. Maybe they aren't orders . . ." The kid began to stammer, and the bead of sweat turned into a rivulet.

I took a deep breath. "Get outta here," I growled, grinding my teeth together. The kid saluted and turned away. "And kid," I called. "Don't smile so much. Smilin' won't get you far around here."

The gofer left, nearly at a run, and I settled back into my chair. The high-backed, standard issue chair was uncomfortable, but marginally better than the floor or desk, my only other options. I stared at the envelope for a moment, tapped it on the desk, then looked around my office.

It was small, little more than a cubicle, but better than what most pilots got. Metallic grey. Dark. Spartan. I didn't have a lot of knickknacks and didn't really want 'em. On one wall hung a picture of Earth with the caption, 'Remember where you're from. Remember what we fight for.' Other than that single reminder of home, the wall was barren.

Against the other wall stood a bookcase, nearly devoid of books. My flight manuals were there, dust-covered and unopened, and next to them sat a pile of junk-awards, medals, and commendations intermixed with disciplinary reports and infraction cards.

They all meant about the same to me.

Behind the desk, a large porthole cut through the hull of the station, offering a stunning view of nothing. The scene was black and barren, broken only by the twinkling of far distant stars. I spun my chair around and gazed out the window, the envelope momentarily forgotten. Far to the left I saw Ureil, second planet of the star Czalor, and the only planet in the system considered viable for terraforming.

Even now an army of planetary engineers scoured the surface of Ureil, trying desperately to adjust the planet's climate to within the limits dictated by High Command in Acceptable Limits of Planetary Variables - 217^{th Edition.}