Writers Guidelines

By T.C. McCarthy

Fedorov patted his pocket to make sure the device was still there. "Screw this," he said, "I can't see."

"Why didn't they just send 'bots?" asked Ruslan.

"We're cheaper." He took a long drag off his cigarette and flicked it, watching the butt spin down the shaft in microgravity. "And for this kind of a job, they like it done delicately. Human touch is what they said."

He imagined cleaning bots floating through the mineshafts, sucking up bodies and stuffing them into trash compactors while the androids videoed everything, documenting each speck. Nobody in the company wanted that.

Fedorov took a deep breath. Something was off. It wasn't bad yet, but there a noticeable smell -- like milk that was just a few days past expiration -- and he grimaced at the task ahead. Only one thing made it worthwhile: a fat paycheck. He'd sell his feet for the right price.

"Send in the janitors," Ruslan said. "When we're done with this I'm voting for the Reform Party."

"Company finds out and you've had it."

Ruslan shrugged. "Who cares? I figure I have a better chance of getting assigned to a Hospital ship if Reform wins. And they want to legalize drugs. Nurses and drugs would be too cool."

Fedorov was about to respond when he heard something. He pointed his flashlight down the tunnel and the noise came again, a soft gurgling. The last thing he wanted to do was find out what it was, but they couldn't just sit there -- not if they wanted to get paid. The janitorial contract was clear: body-bag the dead, recover the courier-robot, and clean up loose ends. Those last two made him want another cigarette. He pushed off to float down the passage, Ruslan following, until their lights illuminated an orange jumpsuit.

A miner had been pinned to one side of the tunnel, steel bolts driven through his body and into the wall. He was still alive. The miner tried talking, but instead of words, globules of fluid floated away from his mouth to splash against the rock, and a few seconds later he was gone. Both men lowered filter masks to keep blood from getting in their eyes and lungs.

"Aw, man," said Ruslan. "This is beyond whacked."

Fedorov nodded. "Yeah. We'll get this one on our way out." "Friggin' miners. How many left unaccounted for?" Ruslan asked.

Fedorov glanced down at his map unit. "Beats me. Come on, mess hall is around the next corner."

"Hospital ship, Fed." Ruslan glanced once more at the body. "Hell, I'd even take a bulk garbage posting. Anything's better than this."

***

The door hissed open and Fedorov nearly screamed. An arm had blown out of the room when a slight pressure difference equalized.

"Crap," Ruslan said. "Dammit!"

Fedorov pushed his way through the hatch. "Look at this."

He fought the urge to vomit. Their employers had said to expect casualties, but that didn't make it easier now that Fedorov actually saw them. Many of the station's crew had been bolted to the walls like the one they found near the airlock, and others drifted, severed limbs trailing maroon streamers. While Fedorov waited for Ruslan to bag the floaters, he looked down at his coveralls and shivered. Their grey fabric had turned black from blood.

"Hurry up," he said.

"I'm trying!" Five minutes later Ruslan finished with the loose ones, and pulled the rod-cutters off a shoulder strap. The bolts snapped loudly as he cut the remaining bodies free. "What happened here, anyway?" he asked.

Fedorov shoved his hand into his pocket and gripped the device tightly. "You read the contract, same as me. Don't ask, don't tell. Come on, let's get it done, we still have to find the bot."

"Remember when they just beamed votes from mining outposts--instead of using couriers?" Ruslan finished cutting down the last corpse and pushed it into a bag.

Fedorov grinned. "How else would the Company have cheated its way into power?"

"I changed my mind about the next posting -- once Reform wins," said Ruslan. He wiped the blood from his face mask.

"Yeah? What is it now?" asked Fedorov.

"Pimp."

"You're an idiot."

Before Fedorov could push off for the next hatch, it opened with a hiss. Both men froze. Fedorov's stomach tightened and he almost dropped the device when he yanked it from his pocket. He punched a series of buttons. From the corner of his eye Fedorov saw the courier-bot fly in. Blood covered both its arms and in its left hand it held a pneumatic bolt gun, connected by a black hose to a compressor unit on its back.

"You gotta be kidding me," said Ruslan. "The courier-bot wiped these guys?"

"I'm really sorry Russ," Fedorov said. "The miners were going to vote Reform and the Company wouldn't have it. They offered me a bonus for any other Reformers I took care of. You really should'a kept your mouth shut."

Ruslan's face went white. The bot moved toward him and he kicked off a table, trying for the other hatch, but his rod-cutters tangled in the arm of a chair. They ripped out of his hands, sending him in a wild tumble.

"Time to vote!" the courier-bot said.

Ruslan slammed into the wall and steadied himself before jamming his hand in the hatch lock. "Get him off me!"

"Friggin' idiot," said Fedorov. Ruslan disappeared through the hatch so that he had to shout. "If you'd just kept your mouth shut, I wouldn't have had to add you to the list!"

The bot streaked into the tunnels after Ruslan, and Fedorov sighed. He pulled himself into a chair. A few moments later he heard a muffled scream, followed by a series of rapid thumps as the bot, Fedorov guessed, drove bolts through his friend. He slammed the shutdown button on his controller and when he pushed up from the chair it occurred to him.

"A hospital ship would be cool."