Boudreaux & the Tuscan Sun

Boudreaux struggled with the maddening safety harness clasp.

Keeping the flap up and kinking his fingers to dip far enough to get to the inner-lever had been tough in Zero-G. With the gravity turned on, the straps dug into his arm pits and pinched the skin at awkward angles.

The fastener proved to be impossible.

Boudreaux grumbled, “Who designed this damn thing?”

Better yet, why’d he even have to strap in? Besides the tatami mat floor, cushions covered every inch of his two-by-two-by-four-meter room.

When put on, the straps pulled him tight to the wall and squeezed him against his narrow mattress, which still released the oniony musk of whoever’s bunk this was before him.

Captain Ren had held the flap open for him during the safety demo. Safety should’ve have to be a two-person job.

Boudreaux pulled his old cleaning rag from his overall back pocket and jammed it under the metal flap. He then dug in with both index fingers to pull the inner lever and press the tiny recessed button.

The harness clacked open.

“Yes!”

His bare feet thumped on the tatami mat.

Boudreaux rubbed his pits and inspected the canvas burns under each arm. If he had been sleeping in the Kevlar mesh sleep-suit, he would’ve been fine. But getting into the sleep-suit was like diving into a chilly river, and he avoided cold whenever possible.

He made a mental note to keep the minor belt burns hidden from the other Tuscan Moon crew members. No need for them to think he was more incompetent than they already did.

They never said as much, but he’d caught a couple of their secret glances to one another.

Being the last to sign on with Captain Ren, directly before deploying into deep space, Boudreaux had been assigned the converted supply closet next to the engine room as his bunk.

He couldn’t have been happier. Finally, a place to call his own. A whole sixteen cubic meters all to himself.

No more rotating sleeping shifts on Boss Smith’s ratty spring mattresses, which poked no matter how one laid. No more stench of other overworked hands who also put off paying for a shower as long as possible. Best of all, no more boney elbows from John-Jon to jar him awake when he snored.

Captain Ren had apologized about the faint onion smell to the room. She said it was hell to get out and, in the same breath, promised the arrangement would only be temporary.

One of Captain Ren’s quick smiles flashed in Boudreaux’s mind. He shoved his palm ident on the warm rectangular plastic lockpad a millimeter from the wall.

The lockpad did nothing.

Boudrauex cleared his throat and whispered to the plastic. “Tim.” His breath bounced back at him. It smelled like the bed. He scowled and leaned away. “Captain Ren will be ultra pissed if you don’t let me out.”

The door to his bunk gave wo quick clicks. Both internal and external locks disengaged and then immediately reengaged to reward his lie. The lockpad went red.

Like the ship, Tim—the artificial intelligence—was a few decades behind current standards, but had enough smarts to match its synthesized voice to Boudraux’s his hushed tone.

Tim’s said, “The Captain locked you in.”

Bullcrap. Captain Ren had been fervent about crew controlling their quarters. The conviction in her voice is what made Boudreaux truly feel like he had finally had his only little place in the universe. How could he explain that to the Tim?

Already frustrated from fighting the safety belt, Boudreaux bit his fist to keep from cursing at Tim.

Boudraeux thought he had escaped machines telling him what he could and couldn’t do. Heck, that’s why he’d kept relocating to where A.I. had yet to be installed on planet Chi’gan; from Doomertown to Bonanza to Moku. But, as though technology had been chasing him for the past twenty years, A.I. dongles had been installed into almost every machine on the planet.

When the first generation A.I. were put in, one could trick any coffee machine into dispensing a free cup of coffee. But once the upgrades were installed in Moku—the last refuge from second gen A.I.—Chi’gan became regulation hell. Boudreaux had run out of places to move. So he’d hopped on the Pink Sol, the first ship that would take him. And it took him alright—

Boudreaux’s eyes narrowed. He pounded his fist into his palm and ground it there.

Pink Sol’s maintenance crew had been so welcoming, but before the ship had left the atmosphere, Pink Sol’s A.I.—with its voice modulation that sounded both cranky and snobby—said Boudreaux’s ident had been hacked. Captain Jerk-Face, or whatever his name was, refused to even discuss it. The only time Boudreaux saw the dark-haired captain was when he nodded to have Boudreaux drop-chuted from the ship.

Boudreaux’s anger fled.

His head swam. His stomach lurched.

The memory of being dropped from so high—

Of being at gravity’s whim—

Boudreaux shook the high-speed horror away before anxiety made him break out in stress-sweat.

“Breathe.” He sucked in and exhaled, “Breathe.”

His ident was good. It held all of his stats and records. It had been implanted in Boss Smith’s own government comm booth. His hands had just been sweaty. It’d always been a problem. Only if Captain Jerk-Face had let Boudreaux dry his hand.

Boudreaux pressed against the pad again.

Click-click. Red.