The Sleeper-Pilots

When Joe turned eighteen he took work at the space-port in Desesseintes. He was employed by a private firm which specialised in freight carrier refurbishment. The job was not technical. He was paid as a general labourer. When a ship had unloaded its cargo he would inspect the exterior for damage. Sometimes he would perform basic maintenance. He enjoyed clambering over the hulking containers. He liked to imagine the faraway places they had visited. He would scrape away grime from the filter compartments and speculate upon its likely origins.

His employer discovered him in just such a situation. Joe was seated cross-legged in the shadow of a rock-hauler just returned from a trip to the Thaniun belt. In his hands he was cradling the innards of a burnt-out filtration unit.

"What's that you've got?" said his employer. "Found something interesting?"

Joe looked up. He made an unconscious move to conceal what he was holding.

"It's nothing," he said.

"What have you got there?"

"It's nothing. It's the filter I took out this morning."

His employer looked at him for a few seconds.

"Let me see it," he said.

Joe stood up and showed him the broken filter.

"Why didn't you scrap it? I thought it was unsalvageable?"

"It is," said Joe. "The pump burned out."

"Give it here. I want to have a look at it."

The man took the unit out of Joe's hands. He stepped out of the shadows and held the assembly up to the light. He looked closely at the ductwork. He spun the blades of the fan.

"You've been cleaning this filter," he said. "What are you up to? Selling refurbs?"

"No," said Joe. "I was just looking at it."

"Looking at it? Were you going to fit a new pump? What else have you scrapped, Joe? Are you building a little storeroom for yourself?"

Joe was looking at the ground and shaking his head. He knew his face was red.

"I was just looking," he said.

"And cleaning the thing. I can see what you were up to. If there's another explanation you'd better give it me before I get your papers."

"I was collecting the dirt," he said in a small voice.

"You were collecting the dirt? From the filter?"

The man snorted. He made to turn away.

"Wait," said Joe. "Look. I can show you."

The man turned back. He put the filter on the ground and folded his arms. He looked at Joe with the expression of a man who was listening to an oft-told and unfunny joke. "You were collecting the dirt," he said. "Of course."

Joe reached inside his pocket and produced a clear plastic envelope. He presented it to the man. The man took the envelope from Joe and studied it. On the outside of the envelope Joe had recorded the name of the hauler and the co-ordinates of its most recent voyage. Within the envelope there was a fillet of black grime, speckled with grey and rust-coloured flecks. The man put his hand inside and took a pinch of the grime between his thumb and forefinger. He removed his hand and examined the substance closely. Then he looked back at Joe.

"You were collecting the dirt," he repeated. "The dirt?"

* * *

In those days Desesseintes was a major commercial hub. Joe saw many ships from every part of the cluster. He saw the many odd characters who used them for passage. There were shiploads of refugees from the Harlequin Quadrant; hard eyed slavers with chained human cargo; vacationing fighters from the wars at El Topo. There were drifters, gamblers, cultists and mendicants. There were sharps, frauds and cozeners looking for a hustle. There were victims of diseases seeking medical aid.

Joe regarded them all with wonder. In his mind they were exotic specimens. To this point his world had been insular. He had been raised as an orphan on a communal farm. His education had not been broad. Now, working at the space-port, he was confronted daily with the spectacular strangeness of life.

There were few better environments to observe such characters than the main drag of the space-port, which snaked across the north of Desesseintes. The route crossed through the heart of the industrial district, and ran directly past the yard where Joe worked.

Joe would spend his lunchbreaks in the cockpit of a stripped down freighter. His position gave an excellent vantage over the thoroughfare. He enjoyed watching the people he saw there. To those which caught his fancy he would attribute provenance and motive. One would be a smuggler. Another a spy. That one was a killer. This one a thief. Here was a princess on the run from usurpers. There was a preacher who had sinned against his god. Oftentimes he became lost in elaborate fantasies, inventing intertwined histories for each of his subjects. Sometimes he would insert himself in their stories, always in the enactment of some pivotal role. His thoughts would be broken by the sound of his employer banging on the side of the cockpit with a broom.

"Lunchbreak's over, Joe. I don't pay you to daydream."

As Joe descended from the cockpit, sandwich box in hand and reveries not quite forgotten, the man would be shaking his head with a mixture of amusement and exasperation.

* * *

Of all the peculiar peoples Joe observed he was fascinated most by the pilots who travelled with long distance freighters. He felt proud to work on their ships. He never passed an opportunity to be in their company, although this happened rarely, as they tended to keep to their own.

These pilots were a singular breed. Their experience of the world was unique. People said they could be recognised by the distance of their gaze, and it was true that even in the colourful space-port a pilot was easy to spot. They tended to walk in a shuffling manner. Often their hair was long and matted. The men grew exceptional beards. Their skin was dull and coarse, turned like thick rubber from years in cryogenic suspension. They dressed in archaic work-clothes. They cared little for the ephemeral concerns of the present, the near future being tangential to their transient lives. In truth they had few thoughts save for drinking and whoring. Having no continuity, their existence had been reduced to a hedonistic equation.

To Joe they seemed like travellers from a legendary era. This could have been an accurate description of some. Joe had once overheard, and then mentally embellished, a conversation about a story about an infamous pilot who was known in the Argonaut Tavern. She was a veteran long-hauler who was drifting between contracts. She drank alcohol incessantly and played cards against all comers. She was dreadlocked and tattooed and wore a patch over one eye.

She had been playing at a table with an assemblage of merchants. As always with such people, the conversation was centred on the comparative merits of space-ports. They spoke of various proscriptions, of incommensurate duties, and of the many circumventions they employed to evade them.

The pilot had alluded to a time when every trade route in the cluster had been subject to a central authority.

"Don't believe it," said the dealer at her table. "Wouldn't have worked. World's too complex."

The pilot fanned her cards and looked at him over the top of them.

"The world that you know is not representative," she said. "There were times in the past when the map was so small that a traveller could have visited every port in the cluster."

The dealer gave a short laugh as he examined his cards. "Absurd," he muttered.

"Many absurd things have been proven," said the pilot. "I've seen stranger things yet."

"Go on," said the dealer.

So the pilot began to speak. She told of extraordinary places where beasts ruled the land and could breed with autonomy. She spoke of crops which grew wild and of trees which were taller than buildings. She spoke of human communities whose language and customs bore no cognate resemblance to any known culture. She spoke of wars between nations which were bound to the surface of an isolate planet.

The players at the table were sceptical. "We've all heard them tales," said one of them. "Tales is all they are. There ain't no-one can attest to the truth of them."

"I'm not soliciting opinions," said the pilot. "I'm saying how it was. I lived in those places. I saw them myself."

"Nonsense," said the dealer. "Stories for children."

The pilot shook her head. She put her cards face down on the table and swigged at her liquor.

"I don't like your manner," she said.

"And I don't much care for stories that can't be held for verification."

The pilot frowned. She looked tired with the conversation.

"I fly distance freight. Been doing it about as long as anyone I've ever met. I've clocked over a hundred journeys. Some ran for over five hundred years. Believe me. I've seen things that occurred a long, long time ago."

"How long?" said the player. "How long you reckon you been doing it? What age would you put yourself at?"

"I would guess about twenty thousand."

There was a silence around the table. Then a third speaker commented.

"That can't be true," he said. "Physics does not allow it."

The pilot glared at him. "Is that right?" she said.

"You are failing to account for temporal dilation. The effects of special relativity necessitate a separate metric."

He was a squint-eyed little man with a red bulbous nose. He spoke in a high pitched nasal whine. The pilot studied his face. She licked her lips.

"Looks like we have ourselves a mystic," she said.

"I am no mystic, madam. I am a numberologist by training. If you had read the theorems of Ilgauskas you would understand …"

The pilot rose out of her chair. She put her hand to the hilt of a blade which was hanging from her hip.

"Understand this. When I name you a mystic then that is what you are. If I hear any more of your babble I will slice open your gut and spill your intestines to the floor."

The little man blanched. He spoke no further that evening and was never seen in the Argonaut Tavern again.

The Argonaut was the favoured haunt of the pilots. Joe had never been inside but he often walked past. He took glances through the windows, hoping to glimpse some barbarity within. The whores outside would offer him favours. Joe would walk on, pretending not to hear.

* * *

One day Joe was washing down a freighter. It had been cleared for use. It was to be loaded with minerals and sent on a fifty year voyage to the Primus System. He became aware of a man standing near him. The man was a pilot.

"Hello, sir," said Joe.

The pilot regarded him and seemed as if he might not respond. Then slowly inclined his head in acknowledgement.

"Can I help you at all?" said Joe.

"This is my ship," said the pilot. "Leaving tomorrow. Came to make sure I know where to find it."

"Well, she is in fine condition, sir," said Joe. "I checked her over myself. I believe this beauty is as good today as she was when she left the shipbuilders."

He slapped the hull of the ship with his palm as if he were showing it affection but his gesture seemed very small when compared with the immensity of the craft.

The pilot's eyes creased at the corners and behind his beard he appeared to be smiling.

"What cryo does it have?" he said.

"Why, I believe she's fitted with an Arcturus 8," said Joe.

"Which software?"

"Latest version, sir. We upgrade as standard."

"That's what I want to hear, boy. I'm after a good sleep."

The pilot began to walk away, but Joe wanted to the conversation to continue.

"Have you made this trip before, sir?"

"Well," said the pilot. "Not too sure. Where exactly is it headed?"

"She's going to Primus! Didn't you know?"

"Can't say I did, boy. One port's as good as another."

Joe was incredulous. "You can't mean that, surely. Don't you like to see new places?"

"I've seen it all. There's nothing there."

"Why, you just take it for granted! A lot of people dream of a job like yours. I'd love to travel the cluster. You don't know how lucky you are."

The pilot stared at him. For a moment it looked as though he might become angry, but then the muscles in his face relaxed.

"Well, why don't you sign up, boy. Take the exam."

Joe hesitated.

"I don't know. I'm no good at learning."

Now he could see that the pilot was grinning. A certain expression had come into the man's eyes.

"It's easy. Only a halfwit would fail."

"Well … I don't know ..." Joe had a strange feeling in his stomach.

"Nonsense," said the pilot. "You know the Argo? I'll see you there tonight."

Joe opened his mouth but he found he could not speak.

"I'll take you to the rep from the Pilot's Union. He'll get you training. They always want new pilots."

"I don't know, sir," said Joe.

The pilot grasped him by the shoulders and put his face up close to Joe's. Joe could smell spice and alcohol on his breath.

"You'll be there, boy. I'll take it personal if you ain't." He released him and laughed. "We'll make a fine pilot out of you, my boy," he said.

As the man walked away, Joe could see his head bobbing up and down as if he were enjoying a great joke.

* * *

Despite some reservations Joe did visit the tavern that night. He told himself he was a fool if he didn't. He was a young man. He had no family, no obligations. He didn't want to be a labourer forever. He should at least make inquiries about finding a career. To pilot a freighter would be daunting for anyone, but that was no reason to dismiss the idea. In many ways the job seemed ideal. He imagined if he didn't go to the tavern he might regret it for the rest of his life.

He walked stiffly past the prostitutes who haunted the Argonaut's entrance. Their catcalls brought colour to his cheeks. A huge-bellied albino stood at the door. He studied Joe carefully, as if judging an inferior good, then held out his hand. Joe pushed a note into the man's palm and was granted admittance to the darkness beyond.

The air inside was thick with rancid smoke. Aromas of cooked meat and spices mingled with those of sweat and alcohol. Sconces glowed red and gold, but did little to illuminate the murk. A bar ran the length of the far wall, where squat, troll-like figures perched on stools and drank grimly. The bulk of the floor space was taken up with long wooden tables where customers sat shoulder-to-shoulder, drinking from tankards and eating from paper plates.

Joe looked about the tables and tried to spot the pilot, but the profusion of beards and unkempt hair made it no easy task. He walked along the edge of the hall, his eyes flitting from face to face. A man with no ears gaped at him. A woman made obscene gestures and laughed. At one of the tables a small crowd was gathered around a pair of arm wrestlers. They hollered and goaded the combatants, raising fists in the air and clutching wads of notes. At another table a red haired woman displayed her bare breasts for a trio of slavering men. He saw a man on his own with a large tethered animal. The beast was covered in thick white fur. The man whispered in the animal's ear, as if to a lover.

Somebody gripped Joe by his upper arm. It was the pilot.

"Knew you wouldn't let me down, boy," he said. "Time to see Devil."

Joe felt himself steered through the bar. A few customers turned to look as they passed. He knew he was conspicuous amongst such a roguish crowd. The pilot was oblivious to their stares. He continued speaking as they walked.

"Devil knows you're coming. Says he wants to meet you. Stay quiet and don't act smart."

They reached an ill-lit area to the rear of the bar. Seated around a table were a few assorted drinkers. The pilot motioned to one of them.

"Devil," he announced.

Joe thought the man looked terrifying. His head was shaved bald. Faded black ink ran up from his neck and around the side of his face. His left eye was missing. In its place was a dry red crater. There was a wound on his forehead which had not properly healed. His nose looked to have been broken in several places. Close at his side was a slender girl. She could not have been much older than Joe. She was dressed in red silk. Her blonde hair was styled in a fashionable crop. Her eyes were glazed by narcotics. She seemed to move in slow motion as she sipped at her drink.

The man gestured to the bench opposite him. Joe took the seat.

"So ye want to enlist?" said the man.

"Yes sir. If I can, sir."

"First of all," said the man. "I ain't a sir. Call me Devil if you like. We ain't a formal lot in this trade."

"Okay, Devil." Joe tried to smile.

The man gave him a hard look.

"There ain't no secret to being a pilot. Freighters run themselves. Ye don't get to mess with the controls. Companies need a human on board. If something goes wrong they need an accountable face."

"Okay," said Joe.

"Only thing you got to learn is how to fill out the documents at either end. And you got to work the cryo."

"I've installed cryo machines before," said Joe.

"Ever spent time in one?"

"No. Never."

Devil and the pilot exchanged glances.

"It ain't something to take lightly. But ye don't know that till you done it."

"Yes," said Joe.

"Got any dependants?"

"No sir."

"Ye ain't in any debt?"

"No."

Devil reached inside his jacket and produced some papers.

"This is the form to sign. Put your name here and pay me a hundred. You can start training next week. A month from then there's an exam. After that you register as a long distance pilot."

He handed Joe the paper and a pen. Joe's hand was shaking as he signed his name.

* * *

The next day Joe gave his notice at work. His employer accepted it without much remark.

"Where you off to?" he said.

"Pilot training," said Joe.

The man smiled, perhaps a little sadly. As if recalling his own days of youthful adventure. He seemed not at all surprised.

The following week Joe arrived at the pilot training school. A man met him at the gate.

"You Joe?" he said.

Joe nodded.

"Follow me, then."

He took him to a low metal building. They entered through a metal door. The air inside was very cold. The floor was rough concrete. The walls were dirty and slick with condensation. There was a strong chemical odour. At one end of the building there were desks and plastic chairs. At the other end was a cryogenic suspension machine. The side panels had been removed to reveal an intricate copper manifold. Curls of mist rose from a frosted vent, which dripped steadily into a plastic container below.

For the next twenty days Joe was a full time student at the school. He was to learn everything there was to know about being a pilot.

The first day was given to the study of geography.

"I'm going to give a general overview of trans-cluster political structure," said the instructor. "We will touch on the history of colonisation. There will be some discussion of known and projected trade wars, as well as sanctions and embargoes and the application thereof."

Joe was sat at a desk with a pad of paper in front of him. He held a pencil in his hand and he tapped it nervously against the paper.

The instructor placed a small flat box on the floor. He held a control unit in one hand. He pressed a button on the controls and the box emitted a holographic shape. The shape was comprised of innumerable luminous dots.

"Here we see a representation of the inhabitable cluster," said the instructor.

He pressed another button and the hologram rotated in a clockwise direction. The dots sparkled and changed colour as they moved. The shape seemed to glisten like a multidimensional jewel. An orange nimbus appeared around one of the dots.

"Here we are located in the city of Desesseintes, on the planet of Gorm."

A section of the shape now became shaded in yellow.

"Gorm is an affiliate of the League of Hecuba. Hecuba as an entity is bound by agreements laid out in the Council of Colin."

Three adjacent areas of the shape became shaded in red, green and blue.

"Each confederate of the Council of Colin maintains ambassadorial duties with such trading associations as are congruent to their borders. Here we see the Sargossian Union, the Representatives of Fichte, and the Third Conciliation of the Outlying Narland Republics."

So it went on. Joe learnt about trade routes, taxes and economic alliances; he learnt of empires, treaties, zones and prohibitions. By the end of the day his thoughts were clogged with information. He wondered how he would ever be able to retain it all.

There was one other learner at the school with Joe. A bug-eyed boy from the farmlands to the east of Desesseintes. The boy carried an air of indifference, as if perpetually unimpressed by the offerings of the world. After their first lesson the two of them walked together to the transport terminal. They walked in silence. The night was cold and their breath came in white plumes. When they had reached the terminal they stood waiting for their respective trams. Joe ventured to speak.

"Have you wanted to be a pilot for a long time?" he said.

The boy turned to face him, but could not seem to focus his vision. His eyes squirmed about like hunted things forced into the light. At length he gave up and looked at his feet.

"Nup," he said. "Was always my intention to work land like my pa."

"What made you change your mind?"

"Had no choice," said the boy. "Need to get some place where my folks can't locate me. Figured I better ship out for the future. They won't never track me down where I'm headed."

Joe was silent for a moment, but he could not resist making further inquiries.

"Did you break the law?" he said.

"I guess not," said the boy. He laughed unpleasantly. "I lay with a girl. Her folks most likely kill me if they can."

"Really?"

"Yup. That's what I said. Her folks most likely hang me by the neck if they find me. Same as they did Uncle Tobe."

"That's terrible," said Joe. "I don't think that you did anything so bad."

"Well. I heard tell she was with child also."

"Oh, I see." Joe tried to force eye contact with the boy, but the boy seemed oblivious to his efforts.

"How does your girl feel about that?" said Joe.

"Can't rightly say what she feels. She weren't never all there in the head anyhow."

They stood in the cold. The boy chewed on his lip and spat between his feet.

"I figure I better move myself about as far away as I can," he said.

"What about your family? Won't they miss you?"

"Nup. I don't believe that they would."

"Can't you ask them for help?"

"They ain't gonna help me," said the boy. "Her folks is my folks also. They's the ones I'm running from."

Joe was silent. The way the boy had spoken it was as though he thought his situation unremarkable. As if he thought it so common as to deserve no reflection.

"Guess I'll end up somewhere anyhow," said the boy. "Most folks usually do."

"Well, wherever it is, you can be sure it will be somewhere amazing," said Joe. He could not conceal the excitement in his voice. "We're both going to see some things that we don't even imagine are possible."

The boy looked up at the night sky and sucked his teeth. He might have been considering the array of possible futures laid out before him. Then he shrugged and spat.

"Can't see it myself," he said. "One place's much the same as another, I reckon. Such has been my experience, anyhow."

On the second day they learnt the theory of quantum communication. They were taught that simultaneous data transmission was achieved by exploiting atemporal properties of entangled particles. The instructor wrote numerous equations on a large board. Joe copied the equations on to his pad of paper, although for all he understood them he may as well have been transcribing an alien language. He looked over at his fellow learner but the farm boy was not writing anything. Indeed, the boy seemed uninterested in anything the instructor had told them.

On the third day they learnt the practicalities of their profession. They learnt basic nutrition for cryogenic sleepers. They learnt to monitor their physical well-being. They learnt disembarkation procedures; methods for signing off cargo; finding accommodation; and registering at the pilot's union. These things were specific to the trade and hadn't changed for centuries. The instructor was much given to digressions on the fraternity of pilots. He said space-ports throughout the cluster were like a planet to themselves. He said things among pilots worked to scales of time unfathomable to common humanity and for this reason were exempt from the petty fluctuations in procedure which typified many other institutions.

On the fourth day they were to be put into cryogenic sleep. They were injected with nano-machines which would crawl through their bodies and relay continuous updates on their physical health.

"You're both going under for a fifteen day sleep," said the instructor. "I have to see how you respond to the freeze. Cryo doesn't suit everyone. Better we find out now if you're not up to it."

"What happens if I'm not?" said Joe.

"Hopefully we can pull you out in time. That doesn't always happen, I'm sorry to say. It might be that you suffer some brain damage. Muscle pain. Skeletal problems."

"Does that happen often?"

The man shrugged.

"It happens," he said. "But you can think yourself lucky. Back when I started jumping they didn't ask for licences. There was no training. There were no safety checks. Literally anyone could wake up in the morning and decide to be a pilot. You just turned up at the depot and asked for a flight. If they had something going they'd strap you in and shoot you off into space. It took a long time before they started to realise that half of their pilots were turning up dead. Then a hell of a lot longer before they thought to do anything about it."

As Joe listened he began to feel that he had made a mistake. He didn't want to be put into cryogenic suspension. He wasn't sure any longer if he wanted to be a pilot. He wondered if it might be too late to change his mind. He looked over at his fellow learner, hoping to detect a similar change of heart, but the farm boy was looking appreciatively at the cryo machine and seemed entirely at ease with the prospect of entering it. Joe looked back at the instructor. The man was watching him closely, as if expecting him to speak. But Joe did not speak. The moment passed, and Joe felt himself sinking into a state of resignation.

After the instructor had prepared the machine, and after both of his pupils had swallowed a sedative, he bade them to enter their respective cryogenic chambers. Joe climbed into the chamber and settled down into the cot, stretching his limbs out as he had been taught to. As he lay in the position in which he would spend the next fifteen days his only thoughts were that his future had already been mapped, and that there was nothing in his power to change it.

* * *

Fifteen days later Joe felt his prone body rising through layers of dark mist. Beyond and above the mist was an incandescent sky. Then the sky paled and he found himself staring into an electric light. A man's face came into view.

"Welcome back," said the instructor. "Do you know where you are?"

Joe was not sure but the man's voice was familiar. He blinked and shuddered involuntarily.

"You're coming out of cryo," continued the man. "Your name is Joe. You are a trainee pilot."

Joe tried to speak but he did not seem capable of using his jaw. His throat burned and his tongue felt too big for his mouth. He made a frustrated sound.

The instructor laughed. "Don't worry," he said. "You'll be fine."

He placed his hand behind Joe's shoulder and gently coaxed him into a sitting position.

"Take your time," he said. "We all take a while to recuperate."

Joe watched the man walk away. He felt sick and empty. He moved his right leg. His muscles felt heavy and flaccid. He looked at his right hand and moved the fingers. He had a curious sensation that the hand was not his own.

The farm boy slouched into view. He was eating fruit from a metal can. He looked at Joe curiously.

"You look sick as a dog," said the boy.

Joe grunted.

"Didn't take to the cryo, I reckon."

Joe opened his mouth. Again he tried to speak but all he could do was wheeze and cough. A trail of saliva ran down his chin. He felt very dizzy. He collapsed back into his cot.

The farm boy watched him intently. "Can't claim to be all that affected, myself" he said. "Reckon I'm about ready for another go right now."

He finished eating his fruit. He drained the residual juice into his mouth and turned the can upside down as if to ensure that there were no contents left inside. Then he tossed the can in the air and sent it flying across the room with a well-aimed kick. The can bounced off the far wall and skidded along the floor. The boy watched the can's procedure with evident satisfaction. Then he turned and walked away.

When Joe arrived at back at his apartment that evening he was still feeling nauseous. But his initial disorientation had now given way to a calm elation. Any misgivings he might have held about his chosen career had now faded. He had passed his first test and he felt that his life thereafter would always be ratified. Furthermore he imagined that his psychology had somehow been altered by the time he had spent in cryo. He felt a loosening of the ties which had bound him to life in Desesseintes. The world he had known had lost its property of immediacy. He was thrilled by the notion that that world had been remade in his absence and that such a remaking had neglected to include him. He imagined himself as being granted a deeper perspective; that the true nature of things had now become apparent. This was surely a foretaste of the life of a pilot.

He spent a long time studying himself in a mirror. He hoped to discern some minor embellishment, some sign which would mark him as an initiate. He pictured himself as he might look in the future: tough-skinned and bearded, perhaps with a scar across his face. Such thoughts were still on his mind late in the night as he lay alone in his small bed. But once he had turned out his night light and closed his eyes he immediately fell into a deep and comfortable sleep.

On the last day of their training they were each given a sheet of printed paper.

"Here's what you're going to see in your final exam," said the instructor. "I've given you both a pass on your attendance and medical. All you have to do now is remember what you see on this sheet and use it to answer the questions in the exam."

"Can I take the sheet home with me?" said Joe.

"Sure you can," said the instructor. "Hell, you can take it to the exam if you want to. You wouldn't be the first to do it that way. It's not as though anyone's going to be watching."

Upon the course's completion the instructor invited his two students to his home for a celebratory meal. Joe said he would be honoured but the farmland boy was slow to respond and when he did it was with a sullen declination. Later that evening Joe also changed his mind and with no word to the instructor simply did not attend.

* * *

Ten days later Joe took the pilot's exam. The test was not difficult and consisted of fifty multiple choice questions. Joe achieved a passing grade of eighty percent.

After collecting his certificate Joe returned to the Argonaut bar to register with the pilot's union. As usual the bar was crowded. He picked his way among the thugs, drunks and whoremasters, trying his best not to be noticed.

He found Devil in the same location as before, at the head of a table with the blonde girl curled by his side. The pair held court over a debauched looking assortment of pilots, prostitutes and other unsavoury space-port inhabitants. Devil was well into his cups and the atmosphere was raucous.

"Hello Devil," said Joe. He brandished his certificate before him, in the manner of an adventurer returning with a fabled prize.

At first Devil appeared not to recognise him. He gaped at Joe in drunken incomprehension.

"Who're ye?" he said. He made a grab for Joe's certificate.

Joe snatched it away.

"I've come to register," he said. "For the pilot's union. I passed my exam."

The blonde girl studied him with a contemptuous smile. She whispered in Devil's ear, who steadied himself against the table, and seemed to struggle to focus his solitary eye.

"I know you," he said at last. He laughed and lifted his tankard in mock salute, splashing ale all over himself.

The rest of the table had fallen to silence and Joe became aware he was the centre of attention. He produced a form from the inside of his jacket.

"I've filled out my registration," he said. "You just have to sign it. I've got my certificate here."

"Is that so?" said Devil. He glowered at Joe. "Are ye telling me what I have to do, boy?"

"No sir," said Joe. "I just ... you said I was to ..."

"It ain't so simple as that, boy. It ain't just anyone who can get to be a pilot. Ain't that right mates?" There was a murmur of agreement from around the table.

"Ye got to prove yourself first, boy," Devil continued. "A pilot's got to be able to handle himself. Got to prove himself a man. Are you a man, boy? "

"Y-yes sir," said Joe, although all of a sudden he wasn't sure that he was. There were roars of approval from the company, which encouraged him somewhat. "W-what do you want me to do?"

"Har!" Devil slammed his hand against the table. "The boy is up for the challenge."

He turned to one of his drinking companions, a thin-faced man with greying hair and nervous eyes. "Get some ratjuice," he said. He pulled a note from his pocket and handed it to the man. "Bring a cup for the boy. We got to see what kind of drinker he makes."

Devil pushed a chair out from the table and motioned towards it. Joe took a seat. He could feel his heart beating. He felt sick with adrenaline.

"A pilot got to be a drinking man," said Devil. "Ye like a drink, don't ye, boy?"

"Yes sir," said Joe. He had shared bottles of beer with some other space-port labourers.

"Ye like to drink pure ratjuice, boy?"

"I haven't tried it," said Joe. "I like to drink though. Ratjuice sounds fine."

Devil moved his face close to Joe's and studied him. Joe could smell rotten meat on the man's breath. He noticed his teeth were broken and stained. The man's face was a mess of broken veins.

"Ain't a pilot in the cluster don't like a taste of ratjuice." There was a challenging note in his voice.

The grey-haired man returned. He carried a clear glass bottle, three quarters full with some kind of black liquid. He placed the bottle on the table before Devil, along with a small metal cup. Devil took the bottle and unscrewed the cap. He lifted the bottle to his nose and inhaled for a long time. The drinkers at the table watched him in silence. He closed his eyelids and touched his fingers to his forehead. For a moment he seemed lost in a fugue. When he put the bottle back down on the table he seemed subtly changed, as if affected by a sadness.

"That's the good stuff, my mates," he said. Then he fixed his eye on Joe. "Ye ready for a cup of ratjuice, boy?" he said.

"Yes sir," said Joe.

Devil took the metal cup and filled it with the liquid. He worked with care, as though he accorded the liquid a kind of reverence.

"This ain't no cityman's brew, boy. Ye won't see this get drunk outside of a space-port."

He put the cup on the table in front of Joe.

"Get it down ye," he said.

Joe examined the contents of the cup. The concoction was thick and oily, and looked a dubious sort of refreshment. As he raised the cup to his mouth he caught the scent of something rancid. His last thought before drinking was that he might be ingesting a poison.

He tipped the cup back and let some of the liquid pass his lips. He expected the worst, but nothing had prepared him for the drink's putrid taste, nor the cold burn in his mouth, nor the numbness left behind when he swallowed. He exhaled heavily, and would not have been surprised had his breath come in flames.

"Drink it all, boy," said Devil.

Joe held the cup out in front of him, and readied himself for a second mouthful. He could not feel his tongue. He seemed to have lost the capacity for oral sensation. He felt as though he were breathing through the base of his jaw; as though the liquid had been acid which had burned through his mouth. Already, the effects of the drink were working upon his mind.

"Drink it."

Joe tipped the contents of the cup into his mouth. This time there was no taste, but the burning intensified. Insensible as he was to the workings of his gullet, the liquid spilled down his throat. Joe felt his temperature soar. The noise of the bar seemed to swell. His vision juddered. People appeared to be moving at incommensurate speeds. The company around the table were laughing. They had taken on the aspect of a gallery of primitive monsters. Joe realised that Devil was talking to him. The man's words were incomprehensible, as if he were speaking a foreign tongue.

Joe placed the cup back on the table. The other drinkers were watching, hooting and jeering like demons in some ancient carving. Joe found he no longer cared for their opinions. He struggled to think of the purpose which had brought him to their company. He sank back into his chair and let his arms hang limply. He felt the cold fire spread through every muscle and tendon in his body. As the drink's shock began to wane, his nerves came alive in a way he had never experienced. He felt simultaneously conscious of every part of himself, as if he were possessed of an exquisite sensitivity. He looked at the tips of his fingers. They seemed to crackle with energy, as though passing electric current. He turned to look at the rest of the table. His eyes felt bold. His jaw was rigid.

"Ye drank it! Ye mad bastard!" Devil was rasping and wheezing with laughter.

"I did," said Joe. His voice seemed to be coming from somewhere above him.

"And how do ye feel?"

"I feel good," said Joe, surprised to hear himself speak.

Devil took the cup and refilled it from the bottle. He looked around the table.

"Who's next?" he said.

There was a general deferment amongst his companions. Heads were shaken, and palms were raised.

"Band of cravens. The boy's got more steel than the lot of you."

Devil lifted the cup and studied it. He was smiling unpleasantly. "Looks to be me, then," he said.

The blonde girl tried to take the cup away from him. "No more," she said. "Not tonight."

Devil pushed her away with a snarl.

"Boy can't drink on his own," he said. He raised the cup to his lips and swallowed its contents in one. The table watched him in silence. The blonde looked away, sullen and tired.

Devil slammed the cup back down. He looked directly at Joe.

"Another?" he said, reaching for the bottle.

Joe considered the proposition. His mind was still reeling from the first cup, but the effect was not unpleasant. He decided he should conclude his business before drinking more.

"First you have to sign my registration," he said. "That's what I came for."

Devil looked at him. "So ye did," he said.

"Sign the form. Then we can drink."

"The boy grows brave," said Devil. "Ye ain't proven yet though. There's a few more tests to come."

"What else?"

"Next ye got to prove you ain't a eunuch. Ain't a eunuch, are ye boy?"

"No," said Joe.

"Right then. Time you met our friend Sylvie."

Devil hooked his arm around the blonde girl's waist and drew her towards him. She resisted stiffly. He put his mouth close to her ear and murmured some secret suggestion. The girl's lips pursed in distaste. She arched away from the man and gave him a look of disgust.

"You can go to hell," she said.

"Ye'll do it," said Devil. "Ye have no choice. Ye do what I say."

He reached inside his pocket and produced a small bag of powder. He held the bag between his thumb and forefinger, and dangled it just beyond her reach.

"Ye do what I say," he repeated.

The girl frowned. A crease appeared in her forehead. She extricated herself from Devil's arm. She rose to her feet. She seemed unsteady, and uncertain. She walked towards Joe in the manner of a sleepwalker. Joe moved his chair back from the table, and the girl sat deftly upon his thigh. She slipped her arm around him. She moved her lips up to his face. Her breath came softly. She smelt of delicate spices.

Joe kissed her hard. Her lips parted. Her mouth was hot and inviting. They kissed for a long time. The rest of the tavern seemed to lose all relevance. She pushed herself against him and he felt the shape of her body. Excited, he moved his hand across her, caressing the skin beneath her loose silk clothing. As he began to lose inhibitions he felt strong hands take hold of his shoulders. He was pulled away from the girl and dragged off his chair.

Devil lifted Joe to his feet and faced him. The man was breathing hard. His lips were retracted in a savage expression. He looked furious.

"Cheeky boy," he said. "Don't ever touch my girl. Nobody touches Sylvie."

"But you told me …" started Joe.

Devil ignored him. He shoved Joe in the direction of one of the pilots. "Hold him," he said. "Boy needs to learn."

The pilot grabbed Joe's wrists and twisted them behind his back. The pilot was grinning maliciously.

"Let go of me," said Joe, but his voice sounded pathetic.

Devil stood before him. He made a fist and drew back his arm.

"This ain't entirely a part of the test," he said. He slammed his fist into Joe's stomach, propelling him backwards into the pilot. Joe lost his footing and stumbled. The pilot's grip on Joe's wrists was all that prevented him from falling.

Devil clamped his hands beneath Joe's armpits and hoisted him to his feet.

"How did ye like that?" he said.

Joe tried to speak, but his breath had been knocked out of him. He let out a wounded groan.

Devil stood aside, and there in his place, was Sylvie. Her eyes conveyed pure vitriol.

"Pervert," she said. She slapped him hard across the face.

The men around the table erupted with laughter and banged their tankards together. Sylvie turned and walked back to her seat. Joe could feel that his face had turned crimson.

The pilot released Joe's wrists, and put a hand on his shoulder.

"You done well, lad," he said. "Sit yerself down and have a drink,"

"Aye," called another voice. "We'll make a pilot of him yet."

Devil steered Joe back to his seat, and made him sit down. Then he went back to his place next to Sylvie. Joe could feel the blonde girl's glare. He could not bring himself to look in her direction.

Devil took the bottle and refilled the cup with ratjuice. He pushed the drink over towards Joe.

"Ye can drink a cup," he said. "Ye can kiss a pretty girl and take a punch. Next ye got to show how to throw one."

Joe stared down at the cup.

"This is the last test," Devil continued. "Do this and I sign the form. Now, do ye see that fellow sat by the bar?"

He reached over the table and physically turned Joe's head.

"That fellow there dressed like a dandy. I want you to walk up to that fellow and punch him in the mouth. I want you to knock his teeth out."

Joe was looking at a man in a loud yellow shirt. The man was thin. He had a narrow face. Joe turned back to the table. Devil's face was intense. The pilots were laughing. Sylvie looked at him coldly.

Joe picked up his drink and knocked it back in one go. He felt the burn inside of him, and this time he welcomed the sensation.

"Off ye go then," said Devil.

Joe rose to his feet. He turned towards the thin man and began to approach him. The noise in the bar seemed very far away. He felt as though he might have been dreaming.

As Joe came near, the man noticed him. He put down his drink. "What is it?" he said.

Joe swung his fist at the man's head. The punch was clumsy but the man was surprised and failed to evade it. He was knocked back against the bar but remained standing. Then he seized Joe by the ears and pulled him violently off of his feet. He dragged him towards a concrete pillar and drove his forehead against it. Joe's vision turned yellow, then red. His face felt cold and he tasted blood. The man threw Joe to the floor and kicked him hard. Joe vomited. He tried to crawl away but the man picked him up again. This time he threw him against the wall and Joe sagged to the ground.

The patrons at the bar were laughing. "You nearly 'ad 'im," shouted one of them. "Get back up and finish 'im off."

Joe tried to stand, but his legs gave out beneath him, and he collapsed in his own vomit. The man muttered some obscenity, and turned back to the bar. The last thing Joe saw, before he slipped into unconsciousness, was Devil standing over him, with a signed registration.

* * *

Four weeks later Joe took his first assignment. A thirty year voyage, transporting pharmaceuticals to an orbital warehouse, as advertised in the glass storefront of the Pilot's Bureau.

Joe entered the bureau and made his inquires.

"I'm interested in the job in the window. The thirty-year run to Gehinnom Eight."

There was a quaver in his voice which betrayed his anxiety. He expected to be asked some difficult questions. He thought his lack of experience might disqualify him from the position. He imagined the agent might laugh at his temerity, and perhaps some small part of him even hoped that this might be the case. Instead the agent barely looked up from his terminal.

"You got current papers?"

"Yes sir."

Joe handed over the sheaf of documents. The agent looked them through with a vacant expression before jabbing aggressively at the keyboard in front of him.

"You're booked," he said. He scribbled on a piece of paper and tore it from the pad.

"This is your ship," he said thrusting the paper before Joe's face. "Leaves in eight days. Twenty-four hours to cancel. You know the routine."

"Yes," said Joe.

For a moment the agent caught his eye, then turned back to his terminal with a wave of his hand.

* * *

In the days before he was to leave Desesseintes, Joe spent much time in contemplation of his future career. He wondered what new sights were awaiting him. Would all his destinations be as vast as Desesseintes? What strange new people was he going to meet?

He also reflected on his time in the space-port. The time he had lived there had served as an education. He felt sentimental at the thought of his departure. He could recall many mornings sat alone on the ramparts, watching various spacecraft descending on tractors to be swallowed like morsels by the cavernous bays. He had spent hours meandering the streets of the city, happily anonymous amid the multitudinous peoples and myriad tongues that he found there.

He decided to make a last tour of Desesseintes. He took a circling walk around the shipyards and depots. He peered over fences and through cracks in the sidings. He saw cargo maneuvered by mechanical stevedores. He saw alien vehicles unloaded from haulage, and he marvelled at the manifold varieties of form. There were spherical designs in which a person stood upright, whilst a transparent shell revolved freely about him. There were hovering contraptions which moved about silently. Some were driven with fans, some were punted with poles. They seemed to need no propellant to effect levitation, as if built of a substance immune to attractors. There were large floating platforms bearing improbable weight.

He slipped past a dozing security guard and into a labyrinthine breaker's yard, where decommissioned spacecraft were disassembled for scrap. He picked his way amongst mountains of electrical detritus and through mazes of rusting debris. He stepped over shimmering pools of unidentified fluids, and past towering piles of huge metal panels which creaked and shifted in an endless act of balancing.

At the far side of the yard was a collection of ancient hulls which stood like vast monoliths, sunk into the ground and surrounded by shallow moats. They were tall enough to block out the sunlight and had cast their surroundings with perpetual dusk. Some of the hulls were mangled beyond recognition. Some were complete but had been splintered on impact. Some retained form but were violently twisted, perhaps victims of a gravitational miscalculation. Many bore marks of ballistic assault. Some had their whole sides removed as if in an exploded diagram. Some were no more than burnt shells. Some had sections ripped out of them, with colourful wiring splayed at the edges like so many severed arteries. Joe fancied he might have been walking amongst the remnants of an epic battle between mechanised beasts.

He left the scrapyard and continued his wanderings, eventually reaching more salubrious districts. He entered the gates of Desesseintes City Gardens, and followed neatly paved routes amongst flower beds and lakes. He walked by hedgerows and pruned bushes. He passed strange stone sculptures of questionable import. The season was cold and gardens were empty, save a hand holding couple who were taking a picnic, a few visiting merchants out strolling with courtesans, and the odd lone figure with no seeming warrant, perhaps as aimless and uneasy as Joe felt himself.

He exited by the south gate of the gardens and entered an older part of the city. The buildings here were a mixture of houses and apartment blocks. Many, if not all, were in a state of poor repair. Joe knew this to be an area in which less affluent visitors to the space-port would find temporary accommodation. He saw many hostels which looked less than inviting, with uncared-for facades and forecourts strewn with rubbish. They bore names such as Spicer's Hole and The Black Freighter Roadhouse. Outside of each hostel was a sign displaying prices, along with the currency accepted and languages known. Some would also give a listing of uncatered-for residents: "No Drunkards; No Cyborgs; No Persons wanted by Trans-cluster Law." Joe saw one guesthouse which debarred sleeper-pilots. He felt a little proud to be a part of such infamous company and for a while affected a slight swagger to his walk.

Among the apartments and flop-houses were a good many services which seemed distinctly tailored to a transient population. Joe saw taverns, liquor-shops, dice-rooms and strip-clubs. He smelt the aroma of eateries selling alien food. There were a number of buildings with blacked out windows and signs on the doorways offering pleasures within.

Outside one such location three men were sharing a bottle. They were dressed in the manner of vagrants. As Joe approached, one of them stepped out before him.

"What do you want?" said the man.

"Nothing," said Joe. He tried to walk around the man, but the man moved with him.

"What do you want?" said the man. "Are you looking for customers?"

One of the other men laughed.

"Got any money?" said the third man. "Buy us a drink."

"Fight me," said the first man.

Joe turned around and started walking back the way he came.

"Where are you going?" shouted the man. "Fight me."

"Come back," another man shouted. "Come back and fight."

A woman leaned out of a third storey window.

"Where are you going?" she shouted. "Don't you want to fight?"

Joe was walking away as fast as he could. He could hear the men shouting after him. He did not look around but he thought they were following him.

"Where are you going?" they called. "Come back and fight."

Another man emerged from a doorway. He was bare-chested and covered in tattoos. His face was red and he was breathing heavily.

"Who wants a fight?" he demanded. "I'll have one. Who wants it?"

Joe looked directly ahead and kept walking. He felt as though he could not move fast enough. Behind him he could hear sounds of confrontation. In front of him and to his left there was an alleyway which ran between blocks of apartments. Joe risked a quick look back and saw that the tattooed man was now arguing with the three drunks. He turned down the alleyway, hoping he had not been noticed.

The alleyway ran the length of the apartment block, and opened out to give entrance to a one story building. The building was constructed of grey stone. It had a flat roof and large double doors, one of which was open. There was a plaque above the doors which read 'Wayfarer's Chapel'.

Joe had little knowledge of such things, but at that moment in time the building looked like sanctuary. He headed through the open door without hesitation.

The chapel was small and the furnishings were modest. There were rows of benches arranged in two blocks. At one end was a platform with a tapestry suspended above it. Sunlight beamed through narrow windows, glancing off walls and deepening shadows.

Joe walked between the benches, his eyes fixed on the tapestry: a large and intricate brocade, the like of which was rarely seen outside of a museum. This particular artefact had been poorly preserved, with the dyes long faded to a mere suggestion of a former brilliance. The stitching was loosened and frayed, with some unravelled patches. The entire artwork was torn at the edges and eaten by moths.

The illustration depicted some fabular hero. He had angular features and beatific eyes. He was seated on top of a red and gold chariot. He harnessed beasts which looked made out of fire. He was surrounded by a range of incongruous objects. There were boots, clocks, feathers and cutlasses; all seemed to be caught in a great swirling whirlwind, so haphazardly arranged as to suggest no design.

Joe heard a noise behind him. He turned and saw a white-haired man standing at an open doorway which led into the rear of the chapel.

"Hello there," said the man, walking towards him. He was small and elderly. He wore thick spectacles. A white scar ran the side of his face. "May I help you?"

"I was just looking," said Joe. He hesitated. "There was some trouble outside. Was it okay to come in?"

"Yes, yes," said the man. "I quite understand. You are very welcome."

The man sat down on one of the benches. He removed his spectacles and rubbed them against his shirt. He peered at Joe. The man's eyes were pale blue beneath thick white brows.

"I won't disturb you," he said. "I was warming some bread. I can share some. If you are hungry."

Joe did feel hungry and he assented readily.

"Wonderful!" The man rose to his feet and replaced his spectacles. "This way, lad," he said, and headed out through the door he had emerged from.

Joe followed his new acquaintance into a lobby. There was an archway which led to a kitchen, and another which led to a small room. The man ushered Joe through the second archway. The room smelled of damp. Paint was peeling from the walls. There was a table set against the wall with two straight-backed chairs. The table was almost entirely covered with books. There were overladen bookshelves at the end of the room. Every spare surface was crammed with battered-looking books.

The man came through from the kitchen. He held a plate in each hand. On each plate there was a piece of very dark bread. He put the plates on the table. He began to pick up the books and pile them neatly in the corner.

"You like to read," said Joe.

"An old habit of mine," said the man. He looked thoughtful. He pulled out a chair. "Take a seat, young man. I'll see if I can't find a little wine for us to take."

Joe sat at the table and the man disappeared through the archway. He came back holding a jug and two glasses. He sat down at the table and poured a glass for each of them.

They sat in silence for a while. They chewed on the dry bread. The wine was very strong. The man finished his glass and poured himself another. He looked at Joe curiously.

"Are you a local boy?" he said.

"I live in the north of the city," said Joe.

"Ah. Very nice. Must have a trade then."

"I am a pilot."

"A pilot eh?"

"Yes, sir. Well. I've just qualified."

"Heh. Very good. I made a few journeys myself in my day. Not for profiteering, you understand. We thought of ourselves as missionaries. Spreading the word to those places as might have mislaid their sense of provenance."

"You're a priest."

"Heh. Been many years since anyone called me that. Been some time since there was any call for those kind of services. You might call me a relic, lad."

"A relic?"

"Yes. A relic of the old frontier."

"But you have been a priest. You were once."

"Yes. Yes I was."

"Why did you quit? Don't you believe any more?"

The man smiled sadly.

"Priest or ex-priest, what difference would it make? You're speaking with an atavism, lad. A keeper of obsolete memories."

Joe was silent. He picked at the bread which he found quite inedible. But his host seemed determined to speak.

"A few of us came here forty years ago. Set up this church. Never saw more than a half-dozen out there on the benches. My partners gave up, moved on. Very disappointed. The world had changed, lad. Fell under the spell of techne. Traded meaning for knowledge. Happened so slowly that nobody saw it. Nobody knows what was lost. Only sleepers remember."

The priest pressed his lips tightly together, as if he were trying to contain some words behind them. But at last he began to speak:

"Was a time when the world seemed very different. Not just for me. Not just for those who believe, as you put it. For all people. All of us. There was a faith amongst people, although few would have recognised it as such. Nobody knew that we had it, and I doubt anyone knew when we lost it. I wasn't there in the last days, but I surely knew they were coming."

Joe put his glass on the table and looked at his host. He wondered if the old man's invitation to eat had concealed an agenda.

"Where were you when the end came?"

"I had already jumped, lad. Made my first journey. Me and a few thousand like me."

"What? You carried freight? Were you all pilots?"

"No. Not pilots. We were a church. There was some politics involved. Some powers whose interests and ours coincided. They didn't want us around, and we didn't want to be there. We got funding for a haulage ship fitted with nuclear engines and cryo space for everyone. Thought we could start over again somewhere else."

Joe chewed at his bread.

The man refilled both their glasses. His hands were trembling. His eyes darted about the room.

"So you were colonists," said Joe. "Religious settlers. Pilgrims."

"Yes, we were pilgrims. Utopians. An old dream, I know. We were bound for the Aio system. The nearest inhabitable rock. A long journey back in those times. Sleep duration of four hundred years. You'd make it in a fraction of that time now. Back then we travelled at two percent of light-speed."

The man looked at Joe quickly, and faltered. Then he continued to speak, his eyes now fixed on the middle distance.

"Most of us thought two per cent was the limit. Turned out they'd designed new thrusters even before we lost contact. Within one hundred years of our departure there were ships that could travel at sixty percent. Colonisation exploded. By the time we got to Aio they'd got there before us. We expected to be living on a frontier outpost. No laws of men or flesh-made masters. We wanted only to live by the rule of God. But man had got there first. There were shops and commercials. Gambling and robbery. We lost a third of our congregation before our first year was up. A man is not built to withstand certain provocations."

He gulped at his wine, and continued.

"There was drink and powders and whores. All that we were escaping had followed us. Overtaken us. Was waiting for us. So we made another jump. And another. Always it was the same. Vice and iniquity. Always there were some who stayed behind. Some who lost faith in the mission. And finally it was me. I stayed in Desesseintes with my books and my memories."

"You must have seen many interesting places," said Joe. "Those are good memories to have."

"Yes, lad. Many places and people. Many objects. Much phenomena."

He looked around the room at the piles of books which surrounded them.

"I don't care for those types of memories," he said. "I remember mystery. I remember the meaning of sanctity. Desire. You wouldn't understand. You have no context. Technology entails a flattening out of such concepts. "

He took a mouthful of wine. His face flushed pink and he took a slow, deliberate breath. Then he continued. He spoke quickly, in a low voice.

"Every seeker of knowledge seeks also an end to enquiry. The satisfaction of desire is also its negation. What comes when no secrets are hidden? What comes after virtue? After interrelationships? After self? Whence then comes agency? Where accountability?"

The priest had lifted his hand to his head and was twisting a clump of white hair as he spoke. Now he began to tear at it violently. He rose from his chair and began to pace around the room. Then he stopped before Joe and stared at him, as if surprised by his presence.

"Nothing is given," he said. "There is always a sacrifice."

He moved his head close to Joe. His eyes were bulging and his lips were flecked with white spittle. His voice had a quality that was both desperate and incantatory. "We pried into the secrets of heaven but what we found were stern guards and flaming fires."

Joe pushed his chair back and rose to his feet in one movement. He stepped away from the table and out of reach of the priest. The priest turned away, as if chastened. He sat down and bowed his head. He seemed spent of his prior intensity.

"I'm sorry lad," he said. "I didn't mean to frighten you."

Joe remained standing. "What was that you said? Was it a poem?"

"It was a prophecy. A warning." The priest shook his head. "It doesn't matter any more."

"I'd better go," said Joe.

"Please stay," said the priest. "Finish your wine at least. I so rarely have visitors."

"I'm sorry," said Joe. "I have to go."

Joe turned and walked out of the little room. He crossed through the chapel and stepped out through the double doors.

* * *

On the day he was due to depart Desesseintes Joe arrived at the emigration desk an hour earlier than expected.

"Joe Kzunponu," he said. "I'm taking the Narses to a Gehinnom orbital."

The official examined Joe's papers and nodded.

"Narses is loaded and waiting at gate forty-eight," he said. He opened a drawer and took out a plastic card. He handed it to Joe. Joe saw that the card had his name on it.

"This is your exit card," he said. "The card is linked to your citizenship record. You use it once and it voids your status. Understand?"

"Yes," said Joe.

"When you get to the barrier, put the card in the slot and move through. On the other side of the barrier you are no longer a citizen of Desesseintes. If you have anything you need to say before you leave, you'd better say it now. Once you're through the barrier you don't come back. If you attempt to do so, you're dead."

The official patted the firearm which was strapped to his waist.

"Okay?" he said.

Joe nodded. He turned towards the barrier. He felt lightheaded. The distance to the barrier was not far. There were a few more officials standing by it. They were watching him closely.

"Well?" said the man at the desk. "Are you going or not?"

Joe looked around the small foyer. Although he had informed nobody of his departure he still harboured notions that some person might yet come to stand witness. Perhaps Devil. Perhaps Sylvie. Perhaps his erstwhile employer. But there was nobody. The last people to see him alive in that century would be a collection of unfriendly guards.

* * *

The freighter travelled through space for thirty light-years, before finally docking with the Gehinnom orbital F641G.

* * *

A pilot was typically granted twenty hours to recuperate from cryo before disembarking from a freighter. When Joe thawed out on board the Narses he spent his first fourteen hours face down in his cot, shivering violently. He did not know who he was or what he was doing. His bones ached and his ears whistled. He could feel the thud of his heart and the movement of blood through his veins.

Eventually he stumbled from the cot and collapsed onto the rubberised floor. He vomited a stream of acid bile which burned his throat. He crawled to one corner of the habitat and curled up there, with his face pushed against the wall, trying to shield himself from the light.

He was still in that position six hours later when the doors opened. Joe looked timidly at two men in caps and khaki overalls.

"Wake up scabber," one of them said. "Job's over."

"Look at that," said the other. "He puked on the floor. Dirty scab."

"Dirty scab. Weren't you going to clean that up?"

The first man lifted Joe to his feet and forced him to make eye contact.

"Hello?" he said. "Are you awake yet?"

Joe tried to speak but all he could emit was an unpleasant rasping noise.

"What the hell kind of language is that?" said the man to his colleague.

He slapped Joe's face. "Do. You. Understand. What. I'm. Saying?"

Joe's took the slaps numbly. His mouth fell open. Saliva drooled from his lower jaw.

"Better get him into the tank," said the other man.

"Hey scab? We're going to take you somewhere you can wake up, okay?"

Joe nodded. His vision kept going in and out of focus.

"Where's your ID? We gotta get some confirmation from you. Think you can write your name?"

"There's some papers here," said the other man. "Guy's not even twenty-one years old."

"Jeez. That's such a shame. What a waste."

"Guess he had his reasons. Every scab's got a backstory."

"This your first trip? Huh?"

Joe made a low moaning sound.

"I reckon that's a yes," said the man.

"I signed for him," said the other man. "Let's get him out of here."

The man took Joe's papers from his colleague, folded them carefully and put them into Joe's hand.

"Don't you let go of these now. You hear me?"

Joe made a noise so as to signal he understood.

"Come on," said the other man. "Let's move it."

As the men dragged Joe away from the freighter he felt himself slipping gratefully back into unconsciousness.

* * *

When Joe awoke he was seated in a comfortable chair. He was very aware of his breathing. His throat felt very dry. He thought he was alone, although he could not be sure. The only light came from a glowing violet bar set high above him. Somewhere a fan was humming. He stayed in the chair for a long time. At some point his memory began to return. He remembered Desesseintes and his dreams of becoming a pilot. He remembered awaking in the Narses. He had some recollection of the mental paralysis which had followed. Although he could not account for his present location he felt sure that the knowledge was not irretrievable. He thought that nothing in his life had ever truly been forgotten, as if his memories had simply wandered out of sight.

At length he rose from the chair. The muscles in his back were tight. As he stood he felt his legs take the balance of his torso. He extended his arms and moved his fingers. His body felt unnatural and cumbersome. His bones seemed to grind against each other, as if some rusted and seized machinery was being forced back into use.

The room was so poorly lit that he could not see the perimeter, but there was a dark rectangle at one end which he took to be a doorway. He stumbled towards it, unbalanced and groggy, sometimes holding his arms before him in the manner of a blind man.

Beyond the rectangular doorway he found himself in a dark corridor. There were regular entrances to rooms identical to the one in which he had awakened, each one lit with a single violet light. As he passed the entranceways he could sometimes discern evidence of life within the rooms. In one room he could make out several bodies prostrate on the ground. From another he could hear the sound of a man sobbing. From a third there came an aggressive grunting. Whether the noise carried meaning Joe could not be certain. If the source was human or animal he dared not conjecture.

As he continued to follow the corridor the grunting followed him. Joe turned around to face the noise. He could see no shapes in the darkness, but the grunting ceased. He turned back and continued on his way, faster now, holding to the walls to keep balance. The grunting continued, but did not gain on him, and eventually fell out of earshot.

The corridor took several right turns and eventually ended in a door with a lit window. There was a button to one side of it. Joe pressed the button and stepped a little way back, unsure of what to expect.

After a short time the door slid open. On the other side there was a man in khaki uniform. He studied Joe for a moment. The man's eyes did not look friendly.

"So you're alive," he said.

"Yes sir." Joe's voice came in a croak.

"Got your papers?"

Joe looked confused. He checked his pockets but they were empty.

"No you don't got your papers," said the man. "That's because I took them off you already. Lucky for you that I did. There's people in there would rob you of anything. Strip you of the very clothes you're wearing. Believe me, I seen it happen."

The man held up a sheaf of papers and looked at them.

"Joseph Kzunponu? That you?"

Joe nodded.

"You want these back, huh? Otherwise you don't get paid. Am I right?"

"Yes sir."

"Well, my new friend. I am afraid you will have to earn them."

There was a noise on the far side of the door. Then a woman's voice.

"Hey, who are you talking to there?"

The uniformed man's demeanour changed abruptly.

"One of the pilots," he said.

"The young one?"

"Yes."

"Don't mess around. Send him through."

The man looked at Joe with a strange expression. Then he handed him the papers.

"Your lucky day," he said.

He stepped back and allowed Joe to pass through the doorway.

* * *

Joe entered a lobby. A woman was sitting behind a curved desk. She looked at Joe with distaste.

"Papers," she said.

Joe gave her the papers. She looked them over.

"Joseph Kzunponu" she said. "Delivery of s-b type freighter name of Narses. Route 23a from Desesseintes. Eight hundred credits. Subtract fifty for four days in the tank. Subtract seventy-five for not cleaning your habitat. That's six seventy-five." She caught his eye. "You want notes or orbital currency?"

"I don't know," said Joe. "Which is best?"

"How should I know?" she said. "Come on. Make a decision."

"Notes," said Joe.

"Subtract seventy-five for conversion. That's six hundred. Wait here and I'll sign you off."

She started pressing buttons on a console. Joe leant against the desk, trying to affect an insouciant posture. His throat was very painful. He wondered if he might ask the clerk for a drink, but he said nothing. He wondered where he might next be able to have one. He wondered what sort of place might await him when he was finally able to leave.

To the rear of the lobby a young man was slouched on a bench. He wore a jacket made of brightly coloured patches. His hair was crudely cut and seemed to shoot off in all different directions. He was mumbling vaguely. Whether he spoke to himself or for the benefit of others it was difficult to tell. His head hung low and he seemed disorientated but his dark eyes were alert beneath heavy red lids.

"Ex-ile. My brother in ex-ile." He spoke in musical tones as if beginning a song.

"Ignore him," said the clerk. "He's been drunk for three days."

"Ex-ile." The young man raised his voice. "How're you brother? Always a fine day to meet another exile."

Joe turned to look at the stranger. "What do you mean?" he said.

"Ignore him," the clerk repeated.

The young man rose unsteadily to his feet. A clear glass bottle dangled from his left hand. He took a few steps towards Joe.

"I know you," he said. "You got the mark. We're brothers."

"Don't talk to him," the clerk said. "Let's get this over with. Then you can take your business outside."

She handed over a wad of notes. As Joe went to take them she glanced at the man with the bottle.

"Don't spend any on him," she said.

Joe pocketed the notes and headed for the exit. The drunken man stepped alongside him. Joe looked ahead, as if he hadn't noticed.

* * *

Joe emerged from the terminal building to find himself on a balcony. There were steps to his right which lead down to a concourse, and beyond that a collection of storefronts, each one identical and embedded in a façade of polished black metal.

He stepped to the edge of the balcony and placed his hands on the railings. He looked out onto an elaborate network of catwalks and platforms, which seemed to extend in every direction. He saw illuminated elevators rising and falling. There were electric trains on various circuits. There were walkways and bridges which carried pedestrians. Everything was constructed of the same black metal, which shimmered with the reflection of blue and white lights. Behind it all was an aphotic void. Joe felt as though he were enclosed within a vast and intricate mechanism.

"What d'you say, brother?"

The drunken man had followed him out to the balcony. He was stood with his back against the railings. He unscrewed the lid of his bottle and took a long draught of its contents.

"It-it's … there's so much," said Joe. Stunned by the orbital's complexity, he had temporarily forgotten his aches and his thirst, not to mention the clerk's injunction against talking to the stranger.

"Take a drink," said the man, offering Joe the bottle.

Joe could smell that the bottle contained a powerful liquor.

"No thank you," he said. "I need water."

"My drink not good enough?" said the man. "Or maybe my company."

Joe turned away and walked down the steps. The man followed him.

"Where you going now, brother? You want water? Lodgings? A woman?"

Joe ignored him. He turned onto the concourse. There were a number of people gathered in front of the stores. Joe started towards them.

"They won't help you, brother. You keep to your own."

Some of the people had noticed him. They looked hostile. Joe turned away and carried on along the concourse. He crossed a bridge between platforms, and followed a catwalk up to the next level. He didn't know where he was going. He felt a rising panic.

The man trailed him through the orbital.

"I want to talk with you," he called out. "Why won't you talk? Aren't you my brother?"

Joe kept his head down. His hands were clammy. He had broken out in a sweat.

"I saw you in the tank, brother. You were in there a time."

Joe stopped abruptly. He turned around to face the man.

"What do you mean? When did you see me?"

The man pulled a face.

"In the tank. I fed you, brother. You owe me."

"I don't remember."

"You were in there four days. How you think you survived? I came by every day and poured soup into your mouth with a funnel."

"Why? Why did you do that?"

"Because I see you, brother. You got the mark. You're an exile, like me. I saw them throw you in the tank and I said to myself that I am going to help that man, because I've been where he is and it's a bad, lonely place to be."

"I don't know what you're talking about. I don't remember anything. I slept in some place when I landed. Then I woke up and got paid. What is the tank?"

"Where they put those they don't know what to do with. There's no prison here. No hospitals. They look after their own. Nobody else. Why should they? All sorts wash up at an orbital. Lot of sick people. Addicts. Psychos. Sleepers that don't come out of cryo. Most don't have insurance. Can't just kill us, can they? They throw us in the tank."

"I only want to do my job," said Joe. "I thank you for your help, whatever it was that you did for me. Now I would like to find somewhere to eat and sleep. I would like it if you left me alone."

"What else are you thinking, brother? You thinking on going somewhere further? You planning on meeting with some people?"

"I don't know. Why not?"

"There's nobody else here, brother. Nobody else going to help you."

"There are people all around. Just look."

"Not them," said the man. "We don't touch their lives. They don't want us. And they can see. They know. We can't be among them. We got the mark on us, brother."

"What mark? Where? I don't have any mark on me." Joe was confused.

"You got the mark when you made your first jump. You got exiled."

"I don't understand. Exiled from where?"

"From them. From the humans," he said the word as though it were a curse. "We're ghosts, brother. We live in the void. The places between worlds. Ports. Orbitals. Cryo. The transitional spaces. Negative hours. You're not one of them now, brother. You're a sleeper."

"I don't want to talk to you," said Joe. "You're drunk, or crazy. Or I don't know what. You're not my brother. I've nothing in common with you."

Joe turned from the drunken man and began to walk away. The man cackled, and stumbled after him.

"You'll see," he shouted, as Joe quickened his pace. "You can't go back now, brother. You can't ever go back."

Eventually the man seemed to lose interest. Either he was too drunk to continue his haranguing, or he had tired of Joe's repeated rejections. He sat down in the corner of a platform and held his bottle. He looked set to be spending some time in that position.

Joe left him as he was and tried to retrace his path from the terminal, but he could not remember how many levels he had ascended. The orbital seemed to have been designed like a labyrinth. There were no waypoints or distinctions by which to anchor his location. Every platform could have been any platform. Every walkway looked the same and there was no telling as to its bearing. The only knowable axis was vertical, but he could find no scale by which to determine gradation.

A few times Joe approached strangers for directions, but every attempt was ignored or met with threats. The denizens of the orbital looked a desperate assortment. Many were drunk, or else were on their way to being so. There were wild-eyed men who veered across the walkways, knocking people aside as if they might have been dummies. There were others so thin and with faces so empty that they gave the impression of being hastily-drawn sketches which could perhaps be erased at any moment. Slumped in every corner there were huddled groups of derelicts. They had sick yellow skin and the reek of decay. They were swaddled in dirty blankets and called out to Joe as he passed, holding out trembling hands as if in supplication.

He saw a badly beaten man who was covered with bruises. The man's face was purple and yellow. His hands were a patchwork of raw flesh and broken tissue. He walked very slowly, as if he did not trust his footing. He kept his eyes to the ground, as if he wished to be invisible. There was a man dressed in rags who stood at the edge of a platform, staring out at the darkness and crying imprecations. There was a blob of a man who had lost his lower body. He rolled on a trolley and his flesh draped over the sides. He had a tray of food before him and he ate as he trundled. He seemed as happy a creature as Joe had ever seen.

Joe walked among these people, and many others like them. He began to feel less of an oddity. There were far stranger specimens to be seen than himself. He followed the smell of cooked food and entered what looked to be some sort of hostelry. A small man greeted him and ushered him to a table before producing a menu.

"Welcome, welcome," the man said. "What is your pleasure today? We have biscuit and vatworm. We have a thick cellular fluid. We have a stew which is composed of four types of meat."

Joe ordered a jug of water and a bowl of meat stew. He leaned back in his chair and looked about his surroundings.

The lower walls of the restaurant were covered with silvered plates, which bore etchings of foliage and strange-looking animals. Large mirrors had been fitted at head height, enabling the diners to spy on their fellow customers. There were white stone pillars around which had been placed artificial plants with broad green leaves. The furnishings might have conveyed an impression of opulence had not the plates been tarnished and hung untrue to the wall, had not the plants been coated in dust, had not the mirrors been grease smeared, and had the clientele not been of the sort to countermand any notions of exclusivity.

At a table across from him sat a grey-skinned man with shaggy yellow hair. He held a long-handled spoon with which he stirred a metal bowl. He looked slyly at Joe in the mirror. Then he raised the spoon to his mouth, spilling brown gruel over the table as he did so. He supped at the round of the spoon spilling yet more gruel which ran down the side of his face. Joe looked away.

In time a server bought his food on a tray. She was a waifish girl with light brown hair. She had candid eyes and a delicate face. She smiled shyly at Joe as she placed the tray before him.

"Thank you," said Joe.

"You are welcome," said the girl. "May I fetch you anything else?"

"I was hoping you could give me directions. I am trying to find the freight terminal."

"What's wrong with your navigator?" she said.

"I'm sorry?"

"Your navigation program. Isn't it working?"

"I don't have one," said Joe. "I don't know what you mean."

"Oh …"

The girl looked at him curiously. Then she put her hand in front of her mouth. Joe could see a shocked expression in her eyes. She looked around nervously, then leaned close to him.

"Have you come a long distance?" she whispered.

"Yes I have," said Joe. "Thirty light years."

Her hand went before her face again as she tried to suppress a giggle.

"You're a sleeper," she said.

"Yes."

She shook her head in amazement. "What are you doing here? You shouldn't have come so far from the terminal."

"Why not?"

"There's nothing for you here. You need to eat your food as fast as you can and get out."

She closed her eyes for a second, as if performing a calculation.

"The terminal is three levels down. Take the elevator directly outside of here, then follow the walkway to the right. The terminal is a ten minute walk. There are places that will serve you in that area. Don't come back here again. It's not safe for you."

"But why?"

"Just eat," she said. "And go."

Joe finished his food and exited the building.

* * *

He followed the girl's directions and relocated the terminal. He stood at the foot of the terminal stairway and contemplated returning to the lobby. Then he crossed over to the concourse and walked past the storefront windows, stopping at each one to examine the artefacts on display.

At the end of the concourse was a very large building which ran the width of the platform. There were several sets of large double doors which might have been designed to allow entrance to transport. The doors had been sealed with a clumsy weld, but fastened to one of them was an illuminated sign which advertised alcohol and food. There was a narrower doorway to the right of the sign. Music drifted from within. Two men were standing outside, staring vacantly at nothing in particular. They were long-haired and bearded and had sallow complexions. They bore the unmistakable look of sleeper-pilots. Joe judged the establishment to be an undiscriminating place and stepped through the doorway.

The interior of the building was dim and sparsely populated. It looked to have been converted from a warehouse or some other industrial space. There were tables and chairs set amongst drilled metal struts which ran to a high vaulted ceiling. The stone floor had been scored with a swirling pattern of wheel marks and spoke of overloaded trolleys ferrying who knew what goods to who could say where. There was a smell of sour alcohol and stale smoke. A few people turned to look as Joe entered, but they quickly turned back to their drinks. There was a stage on which a woman was seated in a haze of blue footlights. She held a curved instrument to her lips and played sonorous music. The notes seemed to adhere to no certain melody, carrying only the suggestion of an iterative pattern. They rose and fell in pitch and intensity, as if perpetually failing to achieve some promised crescendo.

Joe walked to the bar and bought a tankard of spiced ale. He carried his drink to a nearby table and sat upon a cushioned chair. He looked at the tankard for a long time before raising the cup to his lips and swallowing a mouthful. He found the drink to be much to his liking, a rich and soothing blend. He drank slowly and considered his situation. He reckoned himself to be regaining his fortitude. The time in the tank had shocked him. He hadn't been prepared for the effects of the jump he had made. No doubt that was a natural reaction for all novice pilots. As he drank the ale he felt his nerves begin to steady. He had made his first journey. He was a novice no longer. The future was ahead of him, and who could say what wonders might await.

He realised that another man had been watching him. The man was sat at the bar, not far from Joe's corner. He had thick eyebrows. He had the rubberised skin of a long-distance traveller. He looked neither friendly nor unfriendly, neither a victim nor a threat.

Joe decided to seek the man's counsel. He rose from his chair and approached the bar. The man continued to watch him. Joe took a stool next to the man.

"Hello," said Joe. "My name is Joe."

The man's gaze did not waver. He took a long draught from his tankard and his nostrils flared as he swallowed.

"Hello," he said, at last.

"I was hoping you could help me," said Joe. "I am looking for the pilot's union. I need to register my arrival and find somewhere to sleep."

The man swallowed again. He looked thoughtful.

"Sleep," he said. "Pilot's union."

"That's right," said Joe. "Can you tell me where it is?"

"No union on this floater," he said. "This is drop-off only. Might find one on the surface. I don't know."

"But if there's no union how can I pick up my next job?"

"Next job," repeated the man. "Might be one on the surface. Don't know."

The man drained the rest of his drink and placed the tankard on the bar. Then he lifted the tankard and banged it down heavily. A barman appeared and refilled it with ale. The man fumbled some coins from his pocket.

"Boy needs sleep," he said, as he handed the money to the barman.

The barman looked at the man. Then he looked at Joe. He pursed his lips.

"Got a room out back," he said. "Ten credits an hour. Money upfront. How long you want it?"

"Eight hours. Maybe ten," said Joe. He suddenly felt very tired. He almost wished he was going back into cryo.

"You ready now?" said the man.

Joe nodded.

"Follow me, then."

"Wait," said Joe. He turned to the man at the bar. "One more question. How do I get to the surface?"

The man looked surprised. He inclined his head towards the door of the bar, in the direction of the freight terminal.

"Shuttle to Gehinnom," he said. "Five hourly. Two hundred credits."

As Joe rose to follow the barman, the man did not stop watching him. Joe felt the man's gaze on his back as he stepped through the doorway to the rear of the building.

* * *

Joe awoke with a bright light shining in his face. The light withdrew and he saw a large woman looming over him. She held a torch in her hand and she was shining it in his face.

"Time's up," she said. "Get out. I got more people coming."

Joe got to his feet. His sleeping conditions had been far from adequate and the muscles in his lower back were painful. He dressed while the woman stood watching.

"Hurry it up," she said. "Do you want me to charge you for another hour?"

Before Joe had even finished putting on his jacket, the woman was shooing him out through the door into the bar.

The barman was still standing there, as if he had not moved from his duties during the time Joe had been asleep. He saw Joe and grinned. He took a tankard from the wall and held it up before him.

"Ale?" the barman said.

Joe did feel thirsty.

"Yes, Why not?" He took a note from his pocket. Then he heard a voice behind him.

"Good to see you, brother. Buy me a drink,"

Joe turned. It was the man in the multi-coloured jacket

"You owe me brother," he said. "Buy me a drink."

The barman looked at Joe questioningly. Joe assented with a weary wave of his hand.

"One drink only," he said.

The barman filled two tankards and put them on the bar. Joe took a seat and the man in the multi-coloured jacket sidled up to him.

"What're you plans for today, brother?"

"I don't know," said Joe. "I need to find a new contract."

"Don't we all?" The man gave a sardonic laugh. "Could be here a time yet."

The man looked towards the barman and gave him a collusive wink. The barman remained impassive, pretending not to notice.

"How long have you been on this orbital?" said Joe.

The man shrugged. "Long enough, brother."

"I was going to take a shuttle to the surface. Have you been there?"

"I have not," he said.

"I heard there might be work for pilots on the surface. What do you think?"

The man studied Joe for a moment. "Could be," he said.

"I want to see the surface, anyway."

"Shuttle costs money."

"Yes."

"I could show you a better investment. Many things we could do with that money."

"I don't think so."

"Don't you trust me, brother?"

"Why should I?"

"Who else is there? I can help you brother. You need to share."

"Please, just leave me alone. I don't want to be your friend."

"You owe me," the man said.

Joe finished his drink and stood up to leave. His persistent companion did likewise. As Joe walked in the direction of the exit the man kept up with him, hovering by his side with a smirk on his lips.

"Are you going to follow me all day?" said Joe.

"Yes, I am. Why shouldn't I? You owe me, brother."

"How much do you want?" said Joe. "I'll pay you. Just leave me alone."

The man's eyes narrowed. "I want half," he said. "I want half of what you got."

Joe shook his head. "I'll give you fifty," he said. "You can sit in this bar and drink for the rest of the day."

"I want more than that. I know what they paid you. I was there, remember."

Joe took two notes from his pocket. "One hundred credits," he said. "Leave me alone. Please."

The man hesitated for only a moment. Then he snatched the notes from Joe's hand. Joe made to speak, but the man turned away and headed towards the bar. Evidently their acquaintanceship had ended.

* * *

The shuttle to the surface of Gehinnom was a cylindrical vessel. The passengers were seated in opposing rows. They were strapped to their seats by a uniformed attendant. Most of the passengers were dressed in formal attire. They seemed bored, listless. A few made desultory comments regarding topics which Joe found wholly obscure. As the shuttle undocked from the orbital and began to descend, Joe closed his eyes and sunk into his seat, gratefully drowning his thoughts in the hum of the thrusters.

The shuttle reached its destination and the passengers were allowed to disembark. They stepped out into daylight. The air was cold and thick with moisture. The sky was a tableau of monstrous dark clouds. Joe thought he could smell something rotten.

He followed the other passengers through a maze of panelled fencing, which led out of the terminal. A security guard stood at the exit, counting them off as they passed.

They entered a large circular area which was paved with stones and enclosed by cliffs and muddy slopes. A wire mesh fence divided the area in two. There was a gate in the centre of the fence and two watchtowers were positioned equidistant from the gate.

Set along the base of the cliffs there was a collection of makeshift shelters. The shelters were constructed with metal poles, rusted metal plates and broken pieces of wood. Tarpaulins and blankets were thrown over the frames of the shelters and tied down with ropes and cables. A cold wind buffeted around the encampment. The edges of the coverings snapped against their ties. Refuse was strewn about the area, scraps of which lifted in the wind and whirled helplessly in the air, marking the contours of the savage currents which manipulated them.

There were various groups of people sitting in front of the shelters. Others were standing or moving about. The people looked gaunt and unhealthy. They were dressed universally in torn and filthy garments. Joe judged them to be the source of the miasma which he had noticed when he exited the shuttle. He judged them to be victims of some sort of crisis.

A crowd of people stood before the gate. They were similarly attired and looked similarly ravaged. Some of them seemed agitated, pushing and jostling to get closer to the gate. Some were just on the outskirts of the crowd. All of the people were looking in the direction of the gate.

Joe followed his fellow passengers towards the crowd. Uniformed guards from the terminal walked ahead of them. When they came to the crowd the guards started shouting. One of them produced a weapon and raised it in the air. The crowd divided in two, allowing a passageway which led to the gate.

"Back further!" shouted one of the guards. "Move, you bloody scum."

A member of the crowd said something in reply and the guard made as if to hit him across the face with the weapon. The man shrank back. The crowd parted further. Some of the people began to wander off. Some of them kept their eyes to the floor. Some of them backed away from the guards but would not stop looking at them.

The passengers from the shuttle began to form a line before the gate. One of the guards walked along the line counting heads. Another guard was talking to a man at the gate. Eventually the gate opened and people began to be admitted beyond the fence.

There were two border guards at the gate who were searching and questioning every person who passed through. Sometimes a person would be taken away to a small building by one of the guards. The other guard would lock the gate until they returned. He would stand rigid with his hand on a holstered gun, staring at the people who were waiting for admission. The queue moved very slowly.

Eventually Joe arrived at the gate.

"Identification," said the guard.

Joe produced his sheaf of papers and handed them over.

The guard looked through the papers. He looked at his colleague with raised eyebrows. His colleague took the papers and looked only at the top page. He shook his head.

"Is this all you've got?" he said.

"Yes," said Joe.

"What are you expecting?"

Joe looked beyond the gate. "I want to go through," he said.

The guard laughed.

"You're a pilot," he said. "You can't come through here. This is for citizens only."

"Go away," said the other guard.

The first guard pushed the papers back into Joe's hand. He pointed him back in the direction of the terminal.

"Go on," he said. "Get lost."

Joe felt the blood rising to his face. He turned around and walked back past the queue of people. He knew they were watching him.

"Vermin," said one of the people

"I'd have them all in camps," said another.

Joe looked back towards the terminal, towards the rickety shelters and the malodourous rabble. He imagined their expressions as they saw him return. Perhaps they would think him a new addition to their number. Perhaps, indeed, that was what he might become.

He chose not to return to the terminal. Instead he walked away from the crowds, following the line of fencing which separated the interior from those seeking admission. The fence was formed of a wire lattice with holes no wider than that through which a man could fit a finger. The fence ran into the ground, and was topped with sharp edges. Beyond the fence there was a trench, and beyond the trench another fence. Guards patrolled the area between the two fences. One of the guards stared at Joe as he passed.

Joe followed the fence until the stone surface he walked on gave way to wet mud. The fence ran on, following the contours of the land, which ran steeply uphill before levelling out to a plateau. A few patches of tormented-looking grass grew close to the fence. Joe crouched and picked a handful of the grass. He held it to his face and inhaled. The grass smelt rich and sharp, just as he remembered from his childhood. He took a small piece of mud and rubbed it between his fingers. The mud was sticky and claylike, leaving a pinkish residue on his fingertips.

Joe felt a light rain on his face. He looked back towards the shuttle terminal. He did not want to return to the crowds. He did not yet want to think about taking another shuttle to some other place. All he could think was that he wanted to find somewhere comfortable to sleep. He would investigate the higher ground.

He negotiated the incline, sometimes holding on to the fence for support. When he reached the plateau he stopped. He saw a sodden terrain of mud and water, which spread out to the horizon. There was a small dark building in the middle distance. The fence ran in a straight line as far as Joe could see.

He looked back in the direction he had come from. From his position he overlooked the gate where he had been denied entry. He could see the crowd before it, which seemed to swell and dissipate in accordance with some oscillating rhythm. He could see the terminal at which the shuttle had docked. He looked up at the sky, where the setting sun had coloured the rainclouds a deep shade of red. The fact that he had journeyed such a distance from his origin was not lost on him, although in his heart he could not truly believe it.

He continued across the plateau, his route now diverging from the fence and heading in the direction of the building. The walking was not easy. The mud sucked at his feet. The ground was pitted and had filled with rainwater to form a miniature landscape of reservoirs, gullies and tiny archipelagos. The air was colder than it had been by the terminal. The wind whipped around him, stinging his eyes and his lips. The rain became heavier, soaking his hair and dripping from his face.

As he approached the building he saw lines of fence posts at regular intervals. The posts might once have served to demarcate crops, but if the ground he walked on had once nurtured plant life those days had long since passed into history.

The building was squat and slant-roofed. It had been built of weathered grey stone which was marked and blackened by fire. Water cascaded from a series of gutters into a shallow black cylinder. There was a large doorless entrance to the building, such as might have been used to admit machinery or animals. A blanket had been strung across the entrance. The blanket was red and black. It was heavy with rainwater and moved stiffly in the wind.

Joe stopped some distance from the entrance. He knew that he had to shelter from the weather. He wondered if the building was occupied. As he stood watching he saw the blanket drawn aside. A face looked out from behind the blanket. Then a figure stepped out. It was a small hunched man. A man so thin and scrawny as to look like some new breed of human.

The man approached cautiously. As he walked he moved his head from side to side. He clutched his hands together in front of him. His lips moved constantly, as though he were reciting a mantra.

The man's pate was hairless but sparse patches of grey hair grew from the sides of his head. He had a straggly, uncared-for beard. His face was bulged and misshapen. His ears jutted out at right angles from his head. A line of spittle hung from his ever-moving mouth. His entire physiognomy looked half-formed and discarded, as if some careless god had been distracted in its making.

Joe raised a hand in greeting. The man froze in his movements. His forehead knotted and his eyebrows drew together. He stared at Joe with intense concentration. He had the look of a man performing an immense calculation.

"Hello," said Joe.

The man made a dry noise, the antithesis of speech. Then he spun around, and with surprising agility dashed back towards the building from which he had emerged. When he reached the entrance he paused briefly. He turned to look at Joe again, as if perhaps assuring himself of the stranger's continued existence, before ducking his head beneath the blanket and disappearing from view.

Joe thought that the man had been more afraid than hostile. He decided to follow him into the building. He walked to the blanket and slipped inside, glad to be out of the rain.

The interior of the building was a single room. A low wall ran the width of the room, effectively creating two separate areas. There were two people huddled in the far corner: the thin, hunchbacked man and a similarly emaciated woman. She held a guttering candle.

The air was stagnant and smelt of the urine of rodents. Cobwebs fell like nets from the ceiling. One corner of the room was submerged under water. A thick scum had settled on top of the water and the bones of small animals floated on top of the scum. The walls were mottled with green and white mould, thick flakes of which drifted through the air. The light was infused with an emerald glow. Joe had the impression of having entered an undersea grotto.

Joe walked towards the two strangers. He held up his hands with the palms faced outward in what he hoped was a non-threatening gesture.

"I wish you no harm," he said, elucidating his words carefully. "I am seeking shelter from the storm."

The man cringed and gibbered. He put his head in his hands and began to sob. The woman just stared. Her hair was thick with grease. Her face was pockmarked and etched with suffering. Her eyes were huge and black. Her expression was more of hatred than fear.

As Joe approached she held the candle before her and used it to follow his movements. She seemed to believe that the candle was an amulet which might offer her protection. When he drew near she jabbed it at him. She bared her teeth and hissed.

"Can you speak?" said Joe. "Do you understand what I am saying?"

The woman hissed and spat. She jabbed again with the candle. The man's sobbing became hysterical.

Communication was impossible. Joe dropped his hands. He backed away from the couple until he reached the low wall. He stepped over the wall and walked to the far side of the building. Then he sat down against it. He could hear the rain beating on the ground outside. He would stay where he was for the duration of the storm. The woman had not moved from her position. He could see her in the candlelight. He did not believe her to threaten him. Or perhaps he did not care. His clothes were wet and he felt very tired. He leant back against the wall and closed his eyes for a few seconds. When he opened them the woman was still there, still watching, still holding her stub of a candle. He closed his eyes again and gratefully sunk into sleep.

When he awoke he was curled in the foetal position. He unfurled himself and got to his feet. At the other side of the room he could see that the man was now lying on his back. The woman sat by the man's head with her knees drawn up before her. She had lit another candle which was planted by her feet. She was still watching Joe with the same intense expression.

Joe walked to the entrance and pulled aside the blanket. Outside the rain had stopped. There was a dim light in the sky but his surroundings were obscured by ropes of thick fog. He looked back at the man and the woman and exited the building.

After he had walked a short distance he stopped and turned back towards the place where he had spent the night, but the building had already vanished in the fog. Joe had the sensation that the place had only ever been a figment. Who could have said he was wrong?

He located the fence posts and followed them until he reached the crest of the slope. The ground that he walked on was yet more waterlogged than it had been the previous day. He descended the slope, picking his way amongst rivers of mud water which flowed rapidly downhill.

When he reached the stone surface around the terminal he found it no less crowded than before, although now the space was filled with sleeping bodies, some under improvised shelters built with scrap metal and plastic sheeting, some prone on the ground and covered with waterproof material. Puddles had collected in various places, some so large as to resemble small lakes. They were fed by streams of drainage which ran from an overflowing ditch.

Several inhabitants of the encampment had already risen and were congregated around the entrance to a tented structure. A steady procession of people emerged from the rear of the structure. As one person exited another would enter, their bodies silhouetted against the fabric of the structure as if they were shadow-puppets in a child's theatre.

Joe could smell cooking food. He had not eaten since leaving the orbital. He joined the queue of people. They looked at him silently, and then looked at each other as though an unspoken communication was passing between them.

When he entered the structure Joe saw that it was a small kitchen. There was an oven and a worktop where a man folded pastries. There was a generator which chugged in a mad jerky rhythm, spewing black smoke which collected against the underside of the tarpaulin before moving towards the exit and dispersing into the morning air.

There was a long-haired man standing at a counter. He was doling out pastries to the people in the queue. Person by person they filed towards him. The man would place a pastry in their hands and the recipient would give a small bow before moving on.

Joe was struck by the server's appearance. The man seemed exceptionally wizened. His skin was worn and leathered. His hands were like gnarled wood. The creases in his face were so crusted with sweat and grime that they looked like black lines painted on with a brush.

When Joe's turn came before the counter he put out his hands like a supplicant, but the server looked past him as if he were invisible. Joe pushed his hands forward. He looked at the man with what he hoped was an imploring expression. The server gave no trace of acknowledgement. Then a woman pushed Joe aside with her elbow and gratefully took a pastry. Joe turned away and sloped off in the direction of the terminal.

* * *

He spent the last of his credits on a shuttle to another orbital. He made contact with a representative from the pilot's union. He took a contract to take cargo to the planet of Tarshish.

When he had thawed out of cryo and collected his wages he went directly to a traveller's hotel. He paid for the cheapest room they had. There were no windows in the room. There was a washbasin, a table, and a narrow bed. Joe locked the door behind him and crawled into the bed. He closed his eyes and pulled the covers tightly over his head, as he used to do when he was a child.

He slept for twenty-four hours. When he awoke he left the hotel in a daze. He aimlessly wandered the space-port. The streets felt deserted and hostile. The few inhabitants he saw looked malnourished and unhappy. They hurried past him, their eyes fixed to the ground, as if in refusal to acknowledge his presence.

He followed the sound of music and shouting. In the backstreets he came to a low-roofed bar. Outside a man and a woman were arguing. As Joe approached they fell to silence and watched him. Joe did not look at them. He continued walking past the entrance, without looking around, as if he had some place to be and he was in a hurry to get there. The man called something after him and the couple began to laugh, their previous argument now seemingly forgotten.

He followed the boundary of the space-port until he came to the entrance to Tarshish City itself. Again he found himself denied admission. He found his status as a pilot had confined him to the space-port. He remembered the words of the man on the Gehinnom orbital. He wondered about transitional spaces. He thought about the meaning of negative time. He thought about the lives of the people in Tarshish City. He wondered how they might differ from the life he had known in Desesseintes. He wondered if perhaps the greater contrast in the cluster was neither temporal nor geographical but between those whose circumstances were dictated by toil and those who dictated the terms of that toil. Between those who dwelt in the interior cities and those who did not. But he would not be permitted to see the truth of such speculations. He would never see the interior again.

* * *

From Tarshish he took a twenty year journey to El Topo, transporting minerals required for weapons production. From El Topo he piloted a hauler of artefacts to the Repository for Imperial Culture at Bonn.

In Bonn he visited the Pilot's Bureau. He saw a job taking hardware to Desesseintes City Space-Port. When he read the words on the bulletin board he felt his heartbeat quicken. He immediately knew that he would apply for the contract.

He reckoned some thousand years must have passed in Desesseintes since he had made his first voyage out. What changes might have occurred in the meantime? Would it still be a welcoming place for a man in his profession?

His mind filled with memories of the times of his youth. He thought of his life at the communal farm. He thought of days spent labouring on freighters. He thought of his walks through the city, of the Argonaut Tavern, of the Wayfarer's Chapel, of Sylvie, of Devil.

He tried to fight the idea that by returning to the city he might be granted a chance to revert to his previous life, as if perhaps nothing might have changed and he could take up his old job at the shipyard. He knew that such a thing was not possible. But the thought would not die easily.

* * *

After a journey of twenty light years the Tenebrae came in to dock at the port of Desesseintes. The ship's habitat flickered into yellow light. The ventilation began to hum. The cryogenic animation system began the process of shutting down.

Once Joe had thawed out he exited the freighter and followed a path to the terminal's arrivals desk. He did know yet know his location, and could not quite recall his identity or purpose, but he did not feel concerned by the situation. The amnesia had started to take on its own kind of familiarity.

He handed his papers to the clerk at the desk who filled out the required paperwork. The clerk then handed him an envelope filled with notes. Joe took the envelope dumbly. He remained standing before the desk with the envelope in his hand. The clerk came around to the front of the desk. He took hold of Joe's hand and helped him to guide the envelope into his pocket.

"You take care of that," he said. "I reckon you're gonna need it."

He took Joe's arm and walked him slowly towards the terminal exit.

"Do you know where you are?"

Joe did not know. Only one word came to mind. "Home?"

The clerk laughed. "You should hope not," he said. "Welcome to Desesseintes. City of dust and ashes."

He opened the door and indicated that Joe should walk through.

Joe stepped outside of the terminal into dry heat and reddening skies. He was facing an expanse of concrete which was bounded by a colonnade. The colonnade was half in ruins. Crumbled slabs of roofing lay at the feet of pillars which had been shorn to jagged ends. Cylindrical sections of pillars were littered amongst the slabs. Beyond the colonnade there was a crater with spidery cracks running out in all directions. To one side of the crater there was a block of apartments with a chunk taken out of the side, as though bitten by some gargantuan predator. Floorboards jutted out into space, along with broken pipes and twisted steel girders which hung precariously over a pile of rubble.

He wandered further into the city and found similar devastation. He saw burnt out buildings and buildings collapsed in on themselves. He saw shells of vehicles which had been stripped of components. The pavements were broken. The streets were littered with piles of furniture. Refuse lay everywhere and dust smothered everything. Raggedy tatterdemalions loitered in doorways, watching as he passed as if sizing him up as a potential target.

A few landmarks remained which could prompt recognition. As he walked the streets of his youth memories seeped back in to his consciousness. He began to reconstruct the city as he remembered it, as if the spectacle of damnation presented to his senses concealed a palimpsest structure, a secret geography.

He walked the length of the main drag. Many places he had known were now derelict, some covered with boarding, some left to disrepair. A few shipyards still showed signs of activity. He saw spacecraft in various states of assembly. He caught the odour of fuel from a fortified warehouse. He heard the sounds of machine tools, the abrading of metal.

He arrived at his old place of employment. The signage had changed but the usage of the place appeared to have been constant. A trio of men stood on the forecourt. They were dressed in blue overalls. One of them held a wrench in his hand. He tapped the wrench rhythmically against his thigh. The men stared at Joe as he walked by. One of them made a sound, or said a word, which Joe could not decipher.

He cut southwards towards the commercial district. He saw more empty buildings, more deserted office blocks. Dusk was falling rapidly. The sky was red and streaked with ochre, the last glimmerings of sunlight receding before his eyes. The devastated cityscape stood stark and black against the glowering backdrop.

He bought a bottle of ratjuice from a man in a canvas shelter. He pulled out the cork and drank with abandon. The burn of the drink was a welcome stimulation, cutting through the vestiges of his cryogenic slumber.

At length he arrived at his destination. The Argonaut Tavern remained as it ever had. He peered through the windows as he had in times past. The interior seemed unchanged since his absence. He saw the usual collection of scurrilous figures. They looked like pirates, fighters, grifters and thieves. For a moment he glimpsed, at the head of a table, a man with one eye and tattoos on his face. But it could have been anyone. Such a visage would hardly be uncommon among the dissolute characters who drank there.

He stuffed the bottle of ratjuice inside his jacket and approached the entrance. He was confronted by a man with very large arms. Joe produced the envelope from his pocket and took out some credits. The man shook his head. Then the man stepped forward and pushed Joe back into the street. Joe lost his footing and stumbled, grabbing hold of the bottle to keep it from breaking when he fell. The doorman stood looking at Joe where he lay, still shaking his head. Then he turned around and re-entered the tavern.

Joe got to his feet. He walked on. Columns of smoke were rising in the distance and the air was tainted with sulphur. The skies had grown redder and darker. The whole city seemed cast in various hues of redness, as if the very essence of matter had been infused with the colour.

He entered the place which he had known as Desesseintes City Gardens. The shrubbery had vanished, as had the sculptures. All that remained was an area of dirt. He took the south exit and entered a complex of narrow streets. He swigged from his bottle, believing himself impervious to the effects of the liquid, although now his route was uncertain and he walked in irregular directions. He stumbled at random and tripped over kerbstones, sometimes having to support himself by holding on to walls.

At times he would pause and look about in amazement. Were these truly the same streets he had walked those thousand years ago? He entertained the notion that he might have arrived at a fractured facsimile, an imperfect replica. Where would lie the difference if he had? How could a world be anything other than a reconstruction? Had he arrived one hundred years hence would the same city still stand, or some other? He wondered how the passage of time could differ from that of distance. How to account for plurality? How to account for sameness?

Such questions simmered in his mind as he staggered the backstreets, until, at last, he arrived at the Wayfarer's Chapel. He had not planned to arrive there, or at least he had not been aware of such planning, but he did not feel surprised when he realised where he was.

The building had not been well cared for. The stonework was cracked. The windows were broken. The doors had been removed from their hinges. Joe walked through the entrance and looked about. The interior was similarly ruined. The benches had vanished. The platform was smashed to pieces. The wall where the brocade had hung was scorched black. The floor was deep with ashes. The roof had fallen through and showed the red sky above. The whole scene was illuminated with a rubicund glow.

Joe passed through the lobby and entered the small room. There was no sign of the table where he had eaten. There was ash everywhere. Remains of the bookshelves still held to the wall but all that was left to show of the books were some scraps of leather covers and some pieces of paper, half crumbled and desiccated beyond recognition. He rooted through the remnants and found one intact volume, somehow preserved in defiance of entropy. For a strange moment Joe felt as though the book had been awaiting his witness, protected through the centuries against the world's machinations. He reached out to turn the cover but at the touch of his fingers the entire form disintegrated, as if released at last from the binding of a glamour.

In the kitchen he found a collection of empty bottles. He found the sweat-stained blanket of some absent vagrant. He took the blanket and returned to the chapel. He wrapped himself in the blanket and sat down against the charred wall. He drank deeply from the bottle of ratjuice and wiped his face with a corner of the blanket. He stared up through the broken roof. He saw the hostile stars in the blood-coloured sky, and he knew that there was no place for him amongst them.

He closed his eyes and let the bottle fall from his hand. Before long he passed into an uncomfortable sleep; a sleep which was haunted by delirious visions, bepopulate with monsters, characterised by grotesqueness. He saw carnival figures with the faces of demons. He saw barbarous landscapes and labyrinthine prisons. He writhed in his blanket and moaned in his anguish, grinding his teeth while sweat poured from his body.

Three times he awoke to believe himself back in the tank on the Gehinnom orbital. He heard again the grunting thing in the darkness. The noise followed him still as he slipped between feverish dreams. He dreamt himself to be lost in strange cities, to be adrift on dark oceans, to be a stranger at a feast. Joe saw himself excluded from a firelit ceremony: stoop-shouldered and bitter he stalked the perimeter of a circular gathering like a man denied sacrament, an exile from warmth. His dreamscapes coalesced to a geometrical pattern, as if time had adopted some material property, as if temporal succession had been but an illusion and simultaneity revealed as a cast-iron law. Observing it all was the spectre of Devil, with his cracked red skin and his solitary eye. He was drunkenly laughing and clutching a tankard, surrounded as ever by sycophants and whores.

At last Joe awoke and the fever had ended. Sunlight streamed through the window. The bottle lay beside him, the contents spilled out in a black oily puddle. He rose unsteadily to his feet and discarded his blanket. He walked forwards and stood in the beam of sunlight. Then he knelt in the ashes. Then he lay prostrate and buried his face in the grey and white flakes. When he arose he was caked in ash. His face was a silvery mask. Tears ran from his eyes, cutting rivulets through the ash on his face and falling onto the ashes below.

* * *

Joe worked as a pilot for two thousand light years. He made sixty-five journeys. He lived on freighters and in space-ports. What life he can be said to have had was punctuated by intervals of cryogenic sleep.

He read sometimes, if a port had a library. He enjoyed the old stories of space exploration. It seemed a time of great hope, as if continuous improvement was thought a fundamental constant. He developed a theory of history. He thought that as the cluster was mapped the rate of progress had slowed. The early years of colonisation were analogous to the growth spurts of youth. As interplanetary traffic became stretched to its limit the advance of human knowledge had reached a plateau. For a great length of time it had languished in decadence, unable to transcend the sluggish equilibrium into which it was mired.

He once tried to expound his theory to another pilot in a bar. The pilot mocked him for a fool and threatened him with violence. As Joe walked back to his lodgings the pilot appeared out of nowhere. He set about him with a metal bar and left Joe bleeding in a gutter. As he lay semi-conscious some drunkards approached him and urinated on his head. Joe never spoke of his theory again.

This was the way of life in the space-ports. It was the same in every place that he visited, in the length of the cluster for the span of his career.

* * *

He soon took to drinking and found it a comfort. The world seemed intelligible through the haze of liquor. His hair grew long and his skin became rubbery. He saw many places and had some adventures. He sold arms to insurgents in the revolution at Threbos. He sold aristocrats to a slaveship ten light years away. In Somar he walked by the oceans of fire. He saw the fleet of Meinong. He ran Gibbon's blockade. In Mirbeau he visited the infamous gardens. He saw manacled convicts held in black iron cages. He saw them eaten alive by gigantic cats. He had his face slashed by a whore when he was too drunk to screw her. He tried to leave without paying and she attacked him with a blade.

In Ahasver he killed a man in a gambling house and was sentenced to six years detention. The other prisoners shunned him. One day a man spat in his soup and Joe smashed the soup bowl over the man's head. The guards restrained him and he served the rest of his time in solitary.

In the Dolce system he was captured by pirates. They held him to ransom but his employers did not respond. The pirates were not cruel men and after eight weeks captivity they deposited him at a space-port.

His life seemed comprised of disconnected episodes. As if the time he spent frozen had severed causation. Sometimes he wondered if his memories were valid. What relation could he have to a man whose existence was only contingent on those things which had been in the faraway past?

He became less inclined to associate with his fellow pilots. When he stayed in a port he took to drinking at a table on his own. There seemed little point in talking to strangers. They had nothing in common but a dislocated life. The encounters he had were depressing and vapid. Why bother speaking? Once he saw a man he thought he recognised. He approached him in a bar but the man pulled a knife and told him to leave.

He often thought about ways to change his profession, but the plans which he formed never came to fruition. At length he decided the idea was impossible. He felt entirely divorced from common experience. He began to hate the gaps between journeys. He would spend his time at space-ports insensibly drunk. He felt as if sleep had become his primary objective. As if his consciousness resurfaced at arbitrary moments before he received a new contract and sunk back into cryogenic tranquillity.

* * *

One day, towards the end of his career, Joe was between contracts at a space-port in the Krakus system. He was seated in the corner of a bar. It was morning and the people around him were having breakfast. A waiter approached him.

"Excuse me sir," said the waiter. "Are you the man who came in with the Heathen?"

Joe looked at him in confusion. "The heathen?"

"The freighter, sir. It landed just yesterday."

"Ah. That was my ship. Yes."

"It's an honour to meet you, sir. We don't see many distance freighters around here."

"Well. You're welcome, son." Joe stared into his drink.

The waiter continued. He seemed slightly embarrassed.

"I collect ship registrations, sir. It's a hobby of mine."

"What? You collect registrations?"

"I mean ... I write them down. Whenever I see a new ship."

"Oh."

"The Heathen is a classic, sir. It's been in operation for centuries."

"Well, son. That's good you've got a hobby."

The waiter hesitated, then: "I'm training to be a freighter pilot, sir." He blurted it out, like a confession. "I take my exam next month."

Joe was silent for a while. When he spoke he spoke slowly and as if he were addressing his drink and not the waiter.

"It's a hard life, son."

"I don't mind. I want to see things. I want to learn."

"Son, this is the worst way to live. Being a pilot is what you do when you can't do anything else. You've got no home, no family. Nobody knows you exist. I never had a friend in my life and I never knew a pilot who did."

"But you must have seen …"

Joe cut him short. "There's nothing out there. I've been to every part of the cluster and it's all the same. What you are looking for is not what you will find. A pilot lives on the surface. All you will see is ugliness and uselessness and vanity. The more you see, the further you are from what's real. Experience blinds you and makes you weak. Finally, what you have seen is all that will constitute you. Sleep is your only relief."

But the kid didn't listen. He took his exam and signed on for an eighty year trip.

* * *

Joe's career came to an end part way through an eighty year journey. The result of a freak combination of circumstances. There was an electrical fire on the ship he was piloting. The safety system failed to activate. The freighter was loaded with an explosive cargo. The vessel was blown to a cloud of cosmic dust. The cloud billowed and drifted, and caught in the breath of a solar wind. The particles moved to the pull of fields and attractors, separating and dispersing across thousands of light years, before settling at last in diverse places where no concept of their origin would ever exist.

Freight carriers were required to submit details of worker fatalities. The time of Joe's death was recorded as being simultaneous with the explosion.

Bio: Simon Smith is an engineer from the South of England. He has been published elsewhere online in Bewildering Stories and Chrome Baby.

E-mail: Simon Smith

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