“Give me five minutes!” I shout back at Edgar, grimacing as I open the engine back up, exposing its valuable guts to me. The cloth bandage around my palm is soaking through with blood, and as I work I realize the cut is a lot more painful than I was expecting.
I still won’t waste a charge of the sealant gun on it. I don’t have the money to recharge the gun, and if something horrible happens to Stacy, Tod, Tyler or Runner… I’d hate myself forever if I’d wasted one of the last charges on myself.
I scan the innards of the engine. Engines are simple – not like people. They all work roughly the same way. At least, the ones on Independence do - because we can’t afford fancy Orb-powered machines here, like the Aurelians have.
Other than that, being a mechanic is somewhat akin to being a nurse. It’s all about knowing which bits go where, and making sure all the leaks are plugged.
The advantage of machines over people, of course, is that when something’s wrong with an engine on Independence, you can poke around inside it without causing it any pain. Surgery on people isn’t quite as simple as that.
But simple doesn’t always mean better. I think back to my days in the Capital, working my internship in nursing. I wish I could go back there – but without my parents to help with rent, and with seventy-hour work weeks expected in my unpaid practicum, there was no way I could afford to continue.
Which was ironic – that I couldn’t afford to help people. Surely you shouldn’t have to pay for that. People in Independence desperately needed help.
I know, because I feel like that’s my purpose – I should be helping people, not contributing to the rampant crime problem in Barl.
But I force back my conscience and instead focus on swapping parts from one engine to another, hopefully making both untraceable.
Not that the authorities care too much. Edgar slips them an envelope filled with cash every month. The problem is – each month they push for more, no matter how much we make. I’ve seen the stress in Edgar’s face as the end of every month draws near, wondering how much blood they’ll squeeze from us this time around.
“Work faster! Johno is coming down with new orders later tonight. Gotta make a living after these fucking Aurelians try to bleed us dry.” Edgar’s booming voice is unnecessarily loud. His hearing worsens every year, probably from the long decades in this loud shop. If I stay here much longer, I’ll end up like him – straining to make out even simple words.
That’s the least of my worries though. Chop-shops don’t exactly have the greatest worker’s safety protocols, as evidence by the rusty wrench that cut me. I’ll probably hack open an artery or die of an infection long before I run the risk of going deaf.
Plus, there’s always the risk that someone is going to come in looking for their missing goods. I know Edgar’s got his single-shot rifle, but if we piss off the wrong people…
Sometimes I wonder if it’s all bullshit – this narrative that the Aurelians are bleeding us dry. I know everyone says the Aurelians are behind the economic depression, but it stinks like politics. The current planetary elect is part of the Human-Nationalist party which thrive on anti-Aurelian feeling. Rumors persist that the ruling party is just a puppet of Lord Aeron, the richest man on Independence – who always has the shadow of his gaunt-faced viceroy lurking behind him. Mysteriously, Lord Aeron’s businesses have all flourished since the embargo halted Aurelian wares. His lower quality goods have less competition without the off-planet imports.
As a result, I’d wager his Human-Nationalist party has every incentive to keep anti-Aurelian sentiment high – but as much as I hate the warrior-aliens too, there’s one thing I’ve come to realize with certainty:
If you stop taking Aurelian protection, they’ll leave you out to dry.
I’ve never seen one of the towering aliens in person. I can’t say I want to. It still rankles that Jade and Anna left for one of their harems. I’ve heard the rumors of how violent they can be, especially during the mating frenzy.
I can take care of myself, but that doesn’t mean I’d seek out a losing fight – especially not when Aurelian warriors travel, fight and fuck in ‘triads’ of three bonded warriors.
Once again, I shake my head to refocus on the task at hand. I move to the next batch of parts, filing down the serial numbers. I have to do it by hand, and as a result my palms and fingers are calloused after years of work.
It wasn’t always this way. Once, my hands were as soft as those of Jade and Anna. I’ll admit, I miss my two friends badly, even though I resent them. Jade and Anna left during the exodus ten years ago, before the new Human-Nationalist party restricted space travel for women. Wave after wave of young women were leaving the dust and poverty of planet Independence to join Aurelian harems.
I used to receive holograms from Jade and Anna, both lounging around a huge pool on the Aurelian home planet of Colossus. They were basking in paradise while I worked my hands bloody – until they resembled those of a man.
Then, one day, the holograms stopped coming – around the time that the Human-Nationalist party put extreme restrictions on space travel.
I try not to be resentful, but it’s hard not to be when the two women you once called your closest friends joined the other side – literally sleeping with the enemy, and merely for the promise of an easier life.
I’ll admit, I sometimes imagine what life might be like as part of an Aurelian harem. No more worrying about where my next meal is coming from. Days spent in the sun, nights spent…
Well, they don’t call it a harem for nothing!
I try not to think about
