He could be dead. 

The lifeless eyes of Brice:236 stare out… unblinkingly. He’s lying on his stomach as though dropped onto this disheveled bed from a great height. Mouth agape, a single thread of drool stretches downward from his distended tongue.

Yes, he most surely could be dead.

It’s quiet for a beat before the hooch comes alive. Lights brighten and the comm emits a gradually rising tone. It’s morning or evening, or whatever arbitrary time has been assigned to wake the resident of this tiny hooch. Not big enough to be called a room, so hooch is what they call it.  

“Greetings, Brice:236,” the disembodied voice of the comm intones, “your shift starts in one hour exactly. Your vitals show that you are dehydrated and deficient in a number of essential nutrients.”

Brice blinks his bloodshot eyes.

“Meal-O-Mat has been alerted to your condition and will add recommended nutrients to your breakfast.”

Another blink from Brice:236, but not much else.

“Your shift starts in fifty-nine minutes. Please rise.”

Another blink as Brice pulls his swollen tongue back into his dry mouth. Once inside, Brice’s tongue registers the foul concoction of stagnant remnants from last night’s many, many beers. “Priough sheorgah poose.”

“Preheating shower pod,” the comm replies.

With great effort, Brice manages to roll onto his side and slide his feet over the side of his bunk. It takes a moment, but he manages to sit up with a groan.

“Your shift starts in fifty-eight minutes.”

“Kommm, sssssteeeep cuuunnnddeeeggg.”

“Ceasing count down.”

Brice stands and shuffles over to the room’s tiny head and slips inside the flimsy shower pod. The water is warm and it helps to wash away the fog as he comes to grips with a new day.

Lit by the light of a far-away sun, a seemingly haphazard ring of brightly colored modules slowly spins around a motionless central hub. Looking more like a baby’s teething toy than the threshold of mankind’s reach for the stars, the giant, six-spoke wagon wheel is in no hurry. Eight hundred meters across, the massive station spins at the speed of a watch’s second hand. Dozens of ships hover like sparkling multicolored gnats, waiting their turn to dock. Beyond, in the dark abyss of space, fading off into the endless distance, millions of metallic asteroids sit in stony silence.

Twenty minutes later, Brice is sitting on his bunk wearing a spotlessly clean, dark blue flight suit that bears a strange insignia on the arm. Pulling on one of his black socks, and as if there weren’t enough flies in the ointment of Brice’s day, his big toe rips through the end. Looking into the drawer of the locker that sits next to his bunk, he sees only a single pair of white socks.

Reaching over to the comm unit on the wall, he touches an icon on the panel’s screen. “Requisitions… one pair, regulation black socks.”

“One pair, regulation black socks,” the Comm replies. “In stock... will be included in the oh-eight-hundred laundry consignment.” 

Brice looks down at his big toe. He pulls the end of the sock out a bit and then folds it over before slipping on his boot.

With a deep breath, Brice stands, smooths out the wrinkles on his bunk, and turns to the comm panel by the door. Tapping a slowly blinking icon, he takes another deep breath, really more of a sigh, and leans into the comm panel. “Brice:236, reporting active for shift B as in Bravo, May seventh, Earth proper year 2185.” He stares blankly at the comm panel, waiting for confirmation. 

“Brice :236, confirmed. Position A as in Alpha on shift B as in Bravo, May, seventh, Earth proper year 2185. Your shift starts in thirty-two minutes.” 

The tight hall is full of the hustle and bustle of a new shift starting up. Dozens of sharp young men and women jostle past each other as the door to Brice’s hooch opens.

Stepping out into the flow, he quickly blends into the familiar procession.

As it does every morning at zero-six-thirty, the stainless-steel Eckhart Industries, Meal-O-Mat unit instantly recognizes him. “Good morning Brice:236. Your preselected meal has been nutritionally enhanced.” A metal door slides open and Brice pulls out his meal. It isn’t his favorite meal—not even close—but like everyone else at this remote asteroid mining station, he learned long ago that you’ll never win an argument with a station cog. 

The tables were all full of sharp-looking flight personnel. All confident, lean, hard, athletic—the archetype fighter pilot persona. All except one.

A slightly pudgy eighteen-year-old wearing a messy light blue work suit waves his hand to get Brice’s attention, as though they haven’t performed this ritual every day for years. With a hint of a smile and a slight nod of his head, Brice heads off toward his friend.

Brice sets his tray down lightly on the stainless-steel table, steps over the stainless-steel bench, and sits down. “Morning Dell.”

“Morning Brice. Didn’t think I’d see you at today’s muster.”

Brice raises the oversized cup of coffee and takes a long, much-needed gulp before looking over at his young friend.

Without waiting for an answer, Dell continues, “You know what I think?”

Brice blinks slowly before turning back to his cup of coffee.

“I think you need more practice.”

Brice looks up to acknowledge a few good-natured jibes from several people in the mess hall.

“When was the last time you had a hangover?”

Brice looks back to his disheveled friend, “I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”

“A year ago, exactly.”

Brice just stares.

“The only time you drink is on your birthday. Maybe a toast at New Year’s, or if someone gets promoted. Don’t you see, that’s why you always get so hungover? You need more practice.”

Brice doesn’t even try to find the logic in Dell’s theory. Thankfully the coffee is strong.

A torso wearing a light blue flight suit much neater than Dell’s walks up and clangs his metal tray onto the metal tabletop. Everyone in the mess hall turns to find out what caused the loud noise. Seeing the source, they shake their heads and turn back to their own meals.

Cosmo sits down, pushing Dell to the side. From the look on Brice’s face, the noise was not nearly as painful as starting a shift with Cosmo.

“Looks like Birthday Boy has a hangover,” Cosmo says with glee.

Brice summons up all of his inner strength and gives Cosmo a counterfeit smile. “Not – at – all, Cosmo.”

Cosmo and Brice just sit there glaring at each other. Seconds pass; Brice blinks. Cosmo gets up and heads out of the mess, leaving behind his tray containing his half-eaten breakfast.

Brice watches Cosmo leave as Dell begins cleaning up the mess he left behind.

A large, muscular woman wearing jeans and a tank top sits down next to Brice. “I’d like to pinch his little head like a ripe zit.”

Brice turns to see his good friend, “Mary! What’cha doing over here?”

“They needed to move the laundry module around to port. Something about counterbalancing the barracks extension.”

“I hope they get it back up soon, I’m down to my last clean work suit,” Dell says, as he continues to clean up Cosmo’s mess.

Brice and Mary look at Dell’s rumpled work suit and exchange side-eyed smiles.

“Barges were busy loading up that next shipment to the Earth Ring, so me ’n the girls helped ’em out. Always like to punch in on one of those wrangler time cards,” she says.

“Like longshoremen don’t make a wad.”

Mary nods back to the door. “Why do you put up with that dirt bagger?”

“We’ve got to make accommodations for the genetically handicapped,” Brice replied.

“Cosmo’s only handicap is his personality,” Mary says as she reaches a massive arm across the table to muss up Dell’s already uncombed hair. “Hey squirt, you get that gizmo of yours working yet?”

“Trying it out today,” Dell replied. He pulls out a compact data screen and proudly hands it to Mary. “Should improve performance by 48%.”

Mary looks at the esoteric scribblings as though they were a foreign language. After a polite amount of time, she shows it to Brice, who just shakes his head and goes back to his meal. “Hope it works better than that fuel additive you came up with,” she remarks.

Brice chuckles.

“That wasn’t my fault. The Council even agreed that the catalyst was mislabeled.”

A chime rings out and a dozen people with light blue flight suits start busing their trays and heading out the door. Obviously, as part of the crew call, Dell stacks Cosmo’s tray on top of his own and stashes his little work screen in his pocket.

“Good luck with the Claw,” Brice says with a half-hearted smile.

Dell hurries off with the trays as Mary turns to Brice, “Think it’s going to work?”

Brice turns to Mary with a sigh, “Jaybird’s going to hang around after his shift. Little back-up’s always good when Dell’s trying out one of his inventions.”

“Be nice if it worked,” Mary says as she watches Dell hurry out of the hall. “Take a little pressure off of him.”

Brice nodded, “smart kid, just has a hard time connecting all the dots.”

“He hear anything from MIT?”

“Nah. I’m sure Belters are at the bottom of a very long list. Besides, unless he gets one of his little inventions to work, he’d never be able to afford it.”

Another chime rings and people with dark blue flight suits start rising from the tables.

Brice stands and collects his tray, turns to Mary, and smiles, “This is going to be a long one.”