Posted 09 Feb 2017 science fiction
I am struggling to see what I am doing in this poor light. The hatch is open to the morning sun, but it is weak on Mars and with it pours in the dust and debris kicked up in the wind. Even the magnetized train car rumbles in the foul weather as though it was wheeling along tracks. As though this was Earth. But the noise and vibrations will cover my activities. If I could just see what I was doing. Finally, I get the steel netting in place around the crate. I thumb its cinch, and the braided cords tighten around the prize. From my boot, I draw and extend the crowbar and work at the bracket locks that hold the crate firmly in place against the corrugated decking. Two clicks in my ear. Ship cautiously signaling that I am short on time. I smile at that. My career has been punctuated by these moments when I am short on time. If doctors were a thing I could afford, they might examine me and declare me chronically short on time. I apply percussive attention from the crowbar, and the clamps splinter and break. The newer model trains use titanium from bolts to mag bars, but these old province trains are cheaply printed steel, peppered with impurities. I kick the loosed crate toward the hatch and tap-tap-tap on my comm link. A whir, and a whine, and the crate lurches out of the train car as though sucked out by the wind. Really, only I am in danger of that. The bay door of my ship waits outside. A two-meter hop at two-hundred fifty klicks per second. I grip the tether grappled to the train car's exterior and give thanks to the Old Poles for lending their magnetic forces to our cause. Pull up my hood, brace myself, and release the magnetic field from my boot soles with a specific stamp of my heel. I launch myself forward. The wind, the dirt, the scouring dust, envelop me and pull me free of the car like a rag doll. My grip on that line is all that keeps me moving – at insane speed – in the direction of the waiting maw of my ship. I land with a roll. I'm not concerned about grace. Grace is for ladies in Martian silk. The only thing I want is in that crate. That, and a clean break. The grapple releases from the train and I maintain my balance as the ship decelerates. The wind doesn't stop, but at least it no longer sounds like the ship is being dragged through gravel. "Have a nice walk?" comes the question over comms. Free to speak now. The hatch seals behind me, and I pull back my scarf and hood. "It's a beautiful day," I reply. I give the crate's lock a pulse from my EMP master key. The red LED on its panel goes out, and a soft click signals the latch disengaging. Author's note: These snippets are unedited free-writing exercises that I use as a way to shift my brain into a creative state. I use Lynda Barry's What It Is YouTube timed exercises (usually 9 minutes worth of writing) for these. They are handwritten in a composition notebook and then typed up here. As I transcribe them, I do tiny grammar and spelling checks, but the overall "clarity" (if you can call it that) of the exercise is left as-is.Next When I let fear control me