Intervention

Intervention

Chowchow, nicknamed for the cabbage relish he dearly loved, kissed his good luck charm, a silver heart shaped locket that had belonged to his wife, now deceased some seven years. He powered up the shuttle Moonbeam and prepared for liftoff. Whatever his load was, it must be pretty damn important to get him out of bed at midnight, moon time, and pay him triple his normal wage to ferry whatever it was to the space station circling the earth.

This trip was anything but normal. The dispatcher was new to him. He recognized none of the warehouse staff, the two guys accompanying the load were unknown to him and just shook their heads when he tried to start up a conversation. Management had insisted that he was the only one who could do this job. “Yeah, Right,” he thought to himself. He could name five guys off the top of his head qualified to make this flight, and any one of them would have jumped at the chance for triple pay. “Just like I did,” he admitted to himself.

He wasn’t even sure why they even kept the space station operating. Covid-33 had knocked off at least half the earth’s population and the earth itself was in quarantine and off limits to space travel. “If I was one of those guys sitting in limbo on the station, I’d be trying to figure out how to get a billet at the Mars Station. Hell, even the moon depot where I work is better than being on a cramped, undersupplied, increasingly obsolescent space station,” he mumbled under his breath.

He ticked off his orders in his head, “No communication with the space station. Approach the station no closer than 100 feet. Assist the load handlers to get suited up in their space suits. Help the handlers guide the load into the space lock. Open the spacelock for them and keep. the door open until they hand maneuver the load across the 100 feet of space and return. Secure the space lock and bring the handlers back to Moonport. No problem at all,” he thought. “But this is some real secret crapola.”

It went like clockwork. He drew parallel with the station and mirrored their orbit, got the load and the handlers safely out and back into the shuttle, secured Moonbeam and returned to home port, with still not a single word from his passengers.

He watched as the dispatcher moved his pay, which was in cyber currency, from an account he did not recognize into his personal account which he did recognize. He watched as port personnel, who he did not recognize, serviced his shuttle. Satisfied, he returned to his quarters and resumed his sleep.

Chowchow slept soundly and long, awakened only when his alarm started playing Johnny Cash’s old song, “I Walk the Line '' as it did every morning...Shall I say it?...like clockwork.

Out of curiosity, he checked his Apple Communicator and verified that his payment was still there. It was. But he noted that there was no indication of who made the deposit.

After dressing he went to the canteen for breakfast. They fed him well. Fried eggs, hot biscuit, almost real bacon and hash browns. He could have been at IHOP instead of in a canteen on the moon.

He took his tray to a table where his buddy Ray was starting his second mug of coffee. “Morning, Chow, what’s up?” he asked.

“Nothing,” Chowchow replied. “Just the same o’ same o’”.

“Big news this morning,” Ray said. “The space station blew up last night. A fuel leak, they’re guessing.

“Wow! Did anyone make it out?”

“Nah. Totally wasted. Space aint kind to mistakes.”

“Look, I gotta go. See you later”

“Yeah. See you later, Chow.”

Chowchow went looking for, and found, his supervisor. “You know I went out last night, don’t you?”

“Yep”

“Fuel leak? He questioned.

“Covid -33”

“Really?

“Yep. Fuel leak.”

“I’m good. See you later.