Ion Trail 1: Ochlophobia

The crowd was densely packed, a flowing, chaotic crush of humanity, eyes unfocused or intent on something up ahead, no one meeting anyone else’s eyes. There was the occasional small cluster or pairing of people who were engaged, talking and laughing, obviously out for some social purpose in this busy, bustling locale, but the majority seemed focused on some other destination than here. I was one of that latter majority, my gaze raised just above the level of people’s heads, but not focused on any one thing, instead darting from one sign to the next or dropping briefly to confirm a momentary opening that I could slip through. I bumped people, and felt hips and elbows jostle me in return, but it didn’t even seem to register with the distracted citizens. When humans were this congested, you got used to it.

Well, most people did. I was just trying to ignore the rising panic I felt. I’d never been able to get used to large groups, despite having been born on a can colony even more overpopulated than this. In comparison life here on Kestrel station was luxurious, with many young people having tiny closet apartments all to themselves, or sharing slightly larger accommodations with one or two roommates; at most. But while I’d learned young how to wear the mask of indifference, I never felt anything other than skin-prickling, barely-restrained terror when I found myself in the midst of such a mass of people.

My childhood hadn’t been pleasant.

There was a word for what I was, one of those quaint Greek root words that were so popular among the various medical and psychological sciences during the last couple of centuries that humanity was bound to its home world, Earth. I guess being able to put a name to these things made people feel comfortable, but it never did help me. The only thing that would make me feel better would be to get the hell out of this crowd.

Finally I saw it, the place I was looking for. Dion’s Imports was a modest mercantile operation with interests in a handful of star systems, and they were my first client. Technically, they were a client of Grey Dwarf Shipping, but as a newly fledged freighter pilot contracted to Grey Dwarf, I was responsible for getting the load to Proxima Tau IV intact and on-time. Of course there was a problem; the shipment of tchotchkes and “ethnic” décor that was Dion’s primary trade had been half-loaded, when the digital manifest had been corrupted. Apparently only Dion himself had the backup files. Rather than sticking to the generally more working-class districts around the star docks, Dion liked to keep his shop and primary office in the middle of the affluent, popular Inner Loop Mall. Instead of relying on the questionable intelligence of his cargo factor, here I was pushing through the masses to talk to the man myself after several calls went unanswered.

I nearly stepped on a diminutive woman, garbed in the latest fashions out of Neo-Seoul, as I forced myself out of the press to the old-fashioned plate-glass front of the upscale shop. I quickly hauled open the door and stepped within, letting its clear, heavy glass close me off from the busy streets as I took a beat to close my eyes and just breathe. While the shop did a brisk business, the mere dozen patrons browsing its aisles was blessed solitude compared to outside. Expensive products from a dozen planets crowded the shelves, displaying a dizzying fusion of traditional crafts and the latest edge of human artistry. Dion kept his office upstairs, so I wasted no time looking around. I could hardly afford Dion’s wares, and had little use for them in any case.

“Dion!” I called as I jogged up the last few steps, raising my hand to knock on the door. “Dion, we’ve got a problem!” A muffled reply came through the door, and unlike the ostentatious manual door downstairs, this one slid aside smoothly to let me enter.

“Rickard,” said the comfortably stout man behind the desk, half-rising to greet me. I snorted at the courtesy, but appreciated it anyway. Dion wasn’t wealthy, but he was well above my meager station, and owed me no such niceties. “What is this problem? I didn’t expect to see you in person.”

“I tried to call,” I said quickly, then rushed on, before implying that he was wasting my time. “Manifest crapped out.” I winced at my choice of words. First day on the job, and here I was talking like a cannie to one of Grey Dwarf’s most reliable customers. “I mean, the datapad was corrupted. Diaz said you kept the only backups.” His brow furrowed, and he turned to pick up his personal datapad from his desk.

“Yes, that’s true,” he agreed affably, tapping at the pad. “With competition being so fierce, I don’t like copies of the manifest being available on the datasphere. Hmm.” The furrow in his brow deepened, and the smile lines around his mouth disappeared into a puzzled frown. I waited for him to continue, and after a few moments of tapping on the datapad, he looked up at me. “The datasphere appears to be unavailable.”

“What?” I asked stupidly. Datasphere access was almost universal, even on an overpopulated can colony. It was nearly impossible that access would be anything but stable and strong on such a well-heeled station as this. I raised my wrist to check my commlink, noticing for the first time that the signal icon was a dull red, instead of the normal pale green. “That shouldn’t be possible.”

“Indeed,” he replied, then hitched his shoulder in a shrug. “But I suppose that’s not your concern; my cargo is.” He reached over to tap a device on the side table, and a faint light flickered on before it unfolded to reveal a slot about 30 centimeters across. A few brief taps on his datapad, and the device started to hum, and smoothly extrude several sheets of plas. “Please be careful with this, and ensure that it’s properly wiped before you recycle them. Preferably once you’re already on your way out of system.” He folded the sheets into an opaque sheaf of plas, then handed it to me. I tucked them firmly under my arm before nodding.

“Of course, sir,” I assured him. “Won’t let it out of my hands until I’m safely away.” He smiled and sat back down to tap at his datapad again, effectively dismissing me. I turned and quickly hurried down the stairs, hearing his office door whoosh quietly closed behind me. The datasphere being down was really strange, but Dion was right; it wasn’t my concern. I already had my updated navdata and my ship’s local datasphere had synced up this morning. With the hardcopy manifest, we’d be able to ensure the shipment was complete and properly loaded, and I’d be out of here anyway. I steeled myself to push out into the crowds one more time.

This job was perfect for someone like me. Training had gotten me out of the can colony before my sanity had completely eroded and it had generally involved classes of no more than 50 other pilots, all of it paid for by Grey Dwarf Shipping. I owed them about five years of work to repay the cost of the training, but if I was thrifty, I should be able to buy my own ship by then, and I could renegotiate my contract or go looking for other opportunities. Five years of nearly indentured servitude was a heavy price, but I’d pay it again; the empty space between stars and the quiet of a ship with no one aboard, that I didn’t specifically invite, was everything I’d ever dreamed of.

The press of bodies began to thin as I left the Inner Rim behind, and I could see the tell-tale shift of character in the station that let me know I was moving into the more practical outer nodes. I was able to go faster now; it wasn’t empty by any means, but I could walk without constantly brushing past other people. My anxiety had faded from nearly overwhelming screams to a comfortable yammering in the back of my head. But as I was approaching the blast doors into the B-Sector star docks, a nervous edge to the constant buzz of voices finally broke into my preoccupation. Something was off.

I slowed down, looking around and making a conscious effort to notice people. There was no high-fashion or expensive coiffure here; shipsuits and coveralls dominated, worn by the working class that kept the station spinning and stocked with all of the goodies that made the Inner Rim so successful. But instead of the stolid expressions and business-like movements I expected, I saw people drifting into clusters, murmuring nervously, and I felt my anxiety spike up again. I moved closer to one of the groups of people, and noticed that they were all tapping fretfully at their commlinks and datapads, and the reason finally became clear; the datasphere. I tried to relax as I identified the problem, but somehow knowing didn’t make me feel any better. Even with my mind elsewhere, the sheer impossibility of it struck me again. Humanity had grown used to constant, readily available information flow. Except for a few planets here and there populated by back-to-nature communes and various types of technophobe, which limited datasphere access only to spaceports or government complexes, on-demand information was as natural as breathing.

I clutched the sheaf of plas sheets and quickened my pace again. I needed to get my cargo loaded and get out of here. Once I was away, I should be able to access my ship’s datasphere; when on-station, it synced once per rotation, and otherwise shutdown; there was no need to have it on when the station’s datasphere was already sufficient. A good, updated sync made sure I’d have everything I needed for the long, quiet spaces between stars When I got to my Proxima Tau, everything should be back to normal.

Abruptly, the entire station lurched, and a nearly sub-sonic rumble swept down the corridor, causing me to stumble to retain my feet, and succeeding in knocking down several other people nearby. The clean white lights suddenly dimmed to be replaced by stark yellow floodlights and whirling red and yellow crisis beacons. An ominous, deafeningly loud claxon filled the corridors.

The blast doors in front of me began to grind closed.