Record of a Spaceborn Few

by Becky Chambers

  Locally required information:

  Ship: Asteria, Exodus Fleet

  Address: 224-324

  Standard date of birth: 23/292

  Age: 20

  ‘There we go!’ Ras said. ‘Damn, finally you look like you’re having fun.’

  Kip couldn’t help but smile. He could get in so much trouble for this, and yet . . . yet he felt like he’d cut the line, like he’d been granted a reprieve from the agonising wait between birthdays. ‘Do I look twenty, though?’

  Ras pursed his lips and nodded. ‘Totally.’ He cocked his head. ‘Maybe don’t shave.’

  Kip didn’t have much to shave yet except his upper lip and a patch on his chin, but he didn’t feel like sharing that. ‘So, now what?’ he said. Now that the scary part was over with, the lack of plan felt kind of anticlimactic. ‘We could go get some kick, or . . . redreed? Do you wanna get some redreed?’ Kip had tried it once and didn’t like it, but he could get it now, and that was the important thing.

  But Ras shook his head. ‘I have a way, way better idea.’

  Sawyer

  Compared to the brightness and bluster of the rest of the plaza, the job office was a rather humble spot. Still, it was welcoming in its own way. There were benches outside where people could skim through listings on their scribs, and calming plants in neat boxes, and pixel posters cheering the reader on. Need a change? We can help!, read one, the letters glowing above a loop of a relieved-looking man setting aside a vegetable-gathering basket and picking up a stack of fabric instead. Another poster featured a teenage girl standing in a semblance of a hex corridor, surveying doors printed with various symbols – a leaping fish, a magnified imubot, a musical instrument, a shuttle in flight. You never know where a job trial will take you, the pixels read.

  Sawyer took a seat on the bench beside the girl with four lives ahead of her. He’d just left the office, and done what the compost woman had suggested. Going back in armed with advice had put a spring in his step. Coming back out . . . he wasn’t sure what he felt. He hadn’t talked to the same clerk as before, so he’d missed out on the satisfaction of returning to say aha, look, I have passed your test! Learning that there was an expected order of vocational initiation had felt significant to Sawyer. The clerk hadn’t conveyed the same, but why should he? What was significant about filling out the same formwork he probably filled out dozens of times a day? What had Sawyer expected? A knowing nod? An approving smile?

  That’s exactly what he’d wanted, he knew, and he felt stupid about it. But then again, he’d been given no next step, no direction beyond ‘thank you, we’ll contact you when a shift becomes available.’ When would that be? Tomorrow? A tenday? More? In principle, Sawyer didn’t mind downtime, especially when he didn’t have to worry about food or a roof, but the idea of rattling around that big empty home until some nebulous point in the future arrived didn’t sit well.

  He set his jaw. Getting down about everything he didn’t know yet wouldn’t do any good. Maybe he could try making inroads with his hex neighbours again. Maybe they’d be more than distantly polite if they knew he was going to clean up the same messes everybody else did. Maybe he’d go out there at dinnertime today instead of going to a cafe or hiding out insecurely in his room. He’d never really cooked before, but he could chop stuff, at least. He could help. He could—

  ‘Working up some courage?’ a friendly voice said.

  Sawyer found the speaker: a stocky man with an infectious smile and a mech arm. Such implants were common among Humans back home, but Sawyer hadn’t seen many in the Fleet. ‘I’ve already been in,’ he said.

  ‘Needing some comfort, then, judging by your face.’ The man raised up a canteen, signalling the intent to share. ‘Want some in liquid form?’

  Sawyer smiled and put up his hands. ‘I better not,’ he said. ‘I’m kind of a lightweight.’

  ‘Then you’ve got nothin’ to fear here,’ the man said. He waggled the canteen. ‘Just tea. Lil’ sugar boost, that’s all.’

  Sawyer’s smile grew, and he nodded. ‘All right,’ he said, joining the man. ‘That’s very kind.’

  ‘I’ve been in your shoes,’ the man said. He filled the canteen lid and handed it over. ‘Not a comfy thing, having idle hands, huh?’

  ‘No,’ Sawyer said, nodding in thanks as he took a sip of tea. Stars, but this guy wasn’t kidding about the sugar. He could already feel it clinging fuzzily to his teeth.

  The man stuck out his hand. ‘I’m Oates,’ he said.

  Sawyer returned the handshake, a kick of happy adrenaline coursing through him. ‘Sawyer,’ he said.

  ‘And where are you from, Sawyer?’ He pointed toward Sawyer’s mouth. ‘We don’t grow Rs like those in the Fleet.’

  Sawyer laughed. ‘Mushtullo.’

  ‘Long way from home.’ Oates pulled a redreed pipe and a tiny bag out of his jacket pocket. Sawyer knew what was coming next: ‘You got family here?’

  ‘Nah.’ He had the reply down pat by now. ‘Just trying something new.’

  Oates nodded as he filled his pipe – redreed in the hand he’d been born with, bowl in the one he’d chosen. ‘Good for you.’ He hit his sparker and took one puff, two puffs, three. The smoke rose steady. ‘You been here long?’

  ‘Two tendays.’

  ‘How’s it treating you so far?’

  ‘Great,’ Sawyer said, a little too fast, a little too loud. ‘Yeah, it’s . . . it’s been great.’

  Oates eyed him through the pipe smoke. ‘Bit different than home, huh?’

  Sawyer took another sip of the sickeningly sweet tea. ‘Still finding my footing, I guess. But that’s normal, right?’

  ‘I’d say so,’ Oates said. He offered his pipe; Sawyer declined. ‘So what kind of work did they hook you up with?’

  ‘I put my name in for sanitation.’ Sawyer tried to look casual as he said it, but he was keen to see how that answer was received.

  Oates did not disappoint. ‘Sanitation,’ he said with a favourable look. ‘A time-honoured gig.’ He took a long drag and let the smoke curl slowly from his nose. ‘That’s good of you. But tell me honestly, now that we’re tea buddies and all – that’s not really what you want to be doing, right?’

  ‘Well . . .’ Sawyer laughed. ‘Does anybody?’

  Oates chuckled. ‘No. That’s why the good ol’ shit lottery exists in the first place. What kind of jobs did you do back on Mushtullo?’

  ‘Lots of stuff – uh, let’s see . . . I’ve worked at a cafe, a fuel depot, a stasie factory—’

  ‘So, you can lift stuff and follow directions and be nice to people. Good, good. What else?’

  ‘I can write code.’

  ‘No kidding.’ Oates looked interested. ‘What kind of code?’

  ‘I’m not a comp tech or anything. I didn’t go to school for it. But I can write Siksek and Tinker, and—’

  ‘Tinker, huh?’ Oates rolled his pipe between his metal fingers. ‘What level?’

  ‘Four.’

  Oates studied Sawyer. ‘Listen, I know we’ve known each other for all of three minutes, but I can tell you’re a good dude. If you really want to start with the sewers, I won’t bother you further. But if you’re interested in something more . . . dynamic, I’m on a salvage crew, and we’re looking for some extra hands. Specifically, someone who knows Tinker. I’ve stopped a few others today, and you’re the first I’ve chatted with who’s got that skill.’

  Sawyer had started to take another sip of tea, but the cup froze halfway there.

  ‘Now, lifting shit and following directions is the main part of the job,’ Oates went on. ‘But we use Tinker more often than not. You know how it is with busted tech – sometimes you can’t get a panel to work or a door to open, and it’s always faster when we’ve got people who can just get in there and force code the thing. That sound like something you could handle?’

  ‘Yeah, definitely,’ Sawyer said, loud and fast again. ‘I’ve never done it before, but—’


  ‘If you’re level four, it’ll be cake.’ Oates folded his lips together and nodded. ‘All right, well, if you’re interested, come meet me tonight at shuttledock twelve, after twenty-half. I’ll take you to meet my boss.’

  Sawyer’s heart was in his throat. This was it. A friend. A crew. Holy shit, the compost woman had been right! Five minutes out of the job office, and just putting his name on that list had changed things. ‘I mean—’ Sawyer stammered, ‘that would be awesome. I can just go find the listing, if that’s easier, I don’t want to take up any more of your time—’

  ‘Not at all,’ Oates said. ‘Besides, my boss doesn’t use listings. Personal recommendations only. She’s a face-to-face kind of person.’ Smoke escaped from between his smiling teeth. ‘Great judge of character.’

  Tessa

  There had been a time, once, when Eloy hadn’t been a bad boss. Or maybe he always had been, but he just hadn’t yet been given the opportunity to let that quality shine. In any case, he’d been Tessa’s vote for Bay Eight supervisor last standard, when Faye stepped down and left for the independent colonies. Tessa missed Faye. She got shit done, but you could go have a drink with her at her hex in off-hours and forget that she was in charge. Tessa had never been buddies with Eloy, but he was a reliable worker, and absurdly organised. He had that no-nonsense edge you needed when you had to go speak for everybody else at cargo guild meetings. But as soon as he got his stripe, he turned into one of those people who equated being in charge with being outwardly stressed out. He hadn’t broken any rules or disrupted workflow enough to justify the workers voting him out yet, but it was coming. Tessa knew it was coming, and it was going to be ugly, but . . . well. That was the way stuff worked.

  Eloy paced around the workroom, fingers tapping against his pockets. ‘And you guys have no idea who’s responsible for this yet,’ he said, tossing the words at the patroller without looking at her.

  The patroller – Ruby Boothe, from the Santosos’ neighbourhood – was keeping it cool, but her patience was visibly running thin. ‘That’s why—’

  ‘Because this is the fourth,’ Eloy said. ‘The fourth theft since I took this job. The sixth in a standard. And you haven’t caught anyone. Not a one.’

  ‘That’s why we’re asking questions,’ Ruby said, her grip on her scrib tightening ever so slightly. ‘And why we’re out there inspecting the scene.’ She pointed with her stylus toward the storage racks, where her volunteer second was walking with the now-awake Sahil – no worse for wear – trying to figure out what had been taken.

  ‘Questions.’ Eloy shook his head. ‘You’d think with all the questions, you’d have some damn answers by now.’

  ‘Eloy, come on,’ Tessa said. She knew he wouldn’t like her taking the patroller’s side – and the terse look he threw her confirmed that – but this wasn’t helping. ‘How many people do you know who could do with some extra scrap to melt?’ She nodded at the patroller. ‘She’s got a hell of a list to narrow down.’

  The patroller gave her a thankful glance. ‘Precisely,’ she said. ‘And there’s no telling if the culprits are the same as the previous times. Nothing we’ve found here so far can tell us if this is an organised group, or a copycat, or a first-timer. Someone hit your worker’s bots, and they made off with some scrap. That is not a lot to go on, but we’re doing our best here.’

  ‘Yeah, well, while you’re doing your best, we’re falling behind. I have to go to my supervisors and make excuses for why you can’t keep this from happening to us.’ Eloy gestured at Tessa. ‘She can’t do any of the shit she needed to do today because of this.’

  Tessa rankled at Eloy using her as fuel for berating the patroller, but there was a kernel of truth in there she couldn’t argue with. The crime at hand had a stupid irony: someone had been impatient enough with cargo bay processing times that they’d resorted to theft, thus setting the processing schedule back further for everyone. That was the part that really pissed Tessa off, more than falling behind in her work, more than finding Sahil knocked out, more than having to spend what should’ve been a quiet morning listening to Eloy take things out on people who didn’t deserve it. The theft benefited the thief, and maybe the thief’s friends or family, but that was it. They’d taken things out of the hands of people who also needed them, who had grit their teeth and followed the rules and made do without.

  Sahil and the volunteer patroller came back. Eloy looked over. ‘What’d they get?’ he asked.

  Tessa squinted. ‘You feeling okay?’ she asked.

  Sahil was still looking a bit rough from his bot hack – dark around the eyes, paler in the cheeks. But he nodded. ‘Just groggy,’ he said, giving her a faint smile. ‘Medic said it’d be like this for a few hours.’ He turned his attention to the boss. ‘So, teracite, mostly. Looks like they grabbed a few handfuls of sixtops, too, but not much. Just whatever they could put in their pockets as they left, I guess.’

  ‘How much teracite?’ Eloy said.

  ‘A good amount,’ Sahil said. ‘I’d say . . . about a hundred kems, give or take.’

  ‘Oh, fucking hell,’ Eloy snapped. Tessa said nothing, but she felt the same. A lot of good things could’ve been done with that. Medical equipment. School computers. Shuttle upgrades. But instead, somebody was either going to melt it down for home use – personal smelters were everywhere these days – or sell it for creds. She hoped the thieves would go for the former option. The idea of somebody using the stolen stuff to repair their hex was easier to stomach. The latter meant luxuries that were nice but not necessary, and that . . . that was worth an Eloy-style rant or two.

  ‘They’d need an autocart for a haul that size,’ Ruby said, tapping her chin with her stylus. She looked to her second. ‘What does that tell you?’

  ‘A merchant,’ the volunteer said. Tessa had missed his name, but he was older, and had the look of someone who had been excited to get his name pulled for this job. She didn’t blame him. Tagging along after full-time patrol to keep them honest beat the pants off sewer duty. ‘Either that, or someone who had access to bay-to-bay transport.’

  ‘Yup,’ Ruby said.

  Eloy frowned. ‘That is not much to go on.’

  ‘No,’ the patroller said, gathering her gear bag. ‘But it’s something, and it’s more than we had when we walked in here.’ She picked up the empty tea mug resting on the desk beside her. ‘Where should I . . .’

  ‘Just leave it,’ Tessa said. ‘I’ll take care of it.’ She smiled – the kind of smile you gave someone when the circumstances sucked but you appreciated them being there. ‘Thanks for the help.’

  The patrollers said their goodbyes and left. A silence sat uncomfortably in the workroom.

  ‘I’m sorry, Eloy,’ Sahil said. ‘If I’d—’

  Eloy put up his hand. ‘Shit happens,’ he said.

  Tessa frowned. ‘It wasn’t your fault,’ she said, speaking the words someone else should have. ‘You sure you’re okay?’

  ‘I’m okay. Really.’

  ‘I’m gonna come check up on you at home later.’

  ‘Fine, fine,’ Sahil chuckled. ‘Eloy, do you need anything else from me?’

  Eloy was somewhere else. He gave Sahil’s question a halfhearted headshake. He seemed to have barely registered it.

  ‘What’s up?’ Tessa asked.

  Eloy let out a sigh that frayed around the edges. ‘I was going to bring this up at the next bay meeting, but you might as well know now. The board’s talking about AIs.’

  Sahil looked confused. ‘AIs for what?’

  ‘For us,’ Eloy said. ‘AIs instead of us.’

  ‘Wait, what?’ Tessa said.

  ‘They think it’d do away with the Oxomoco backlog. Sort through everything we’ve been trying to, get it recycled faster, have it done in a fraction of the time, keep it from happening again.’

  Tessa laughed. ‘We don’t have the infrastructure for that. Do you have any idea the . . . the heavy duty gear you need to run on
e of those?’ Her brother had one on his ship, and it was one of the most expensive things he had to maintain. Had to hire a separate tech to look after it and everything. AIs were long-haul stuff, big-creds stuff. There were AIs in the Fleet, sure, but they weren’t the thinking kind. Just public safety systems, the kind who could recognise fire or turn off gravity if you fell a long way. Not the kind that watched everything and were programmed to sound like people. Not the kind that could do a Human job.

  Eloy stuck his hands in his pockets and shrugged tersely. ‘Yeah, well, apparently labour oversight has been on their ass about our processing times, and the idea’s been floated that the cost of building a . . . I don’t know what the terminology is here – building the shit you’d need to run a bunch of AIs – is less of a pain in the ass than doing things like we do them now. So they say.’

  ‘That’s . . .’ Tessa shook her head. It was insulting, to say the least. ‘They’re not serious, are they?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Eloy said. The words indicated nothing, but the look on his face said he’d be worrying about it.

  ‘They can’t be,’ Sahil said. ‘There are so many higher-priority projects floating around. They’d never tag the resources for it.’

  Tessa stared off into the cargo bay. She remembered, when she’d been in her teens, how M Lok next door had left one morning to go test the oxygen mix and came home that afternoon having been told that, thanks to the new monitoring systems his supervisors were going to install, he wouldn’t need to do it anymore. The job office got him new training and a new profession, of course, but it was a hard switch for a man of forty-five, and all the harder because he didn’t like his new career in aeroponics the way he had his old one. He was still at it, to this day. She wondered if he still thought about taking air samples in life support.

  ‘Sahil, go home,’ Tessa said. ‘Get some rest.’

  ‘I had plenty of that already,’ Sahil said with a grim smile.

  She laughed. ‘Some real rest.’ She looked to Eloy. ‘And if it’s all the same to you, boss’ – she looked out to the overflowing racks of things people needed, the dormant liftbots awaiting her command – ‘I need to get to work.’