Crime Fiction by Hillary Lyon
Nicky leaned over Roscoe’s glass pod to tap the area covering his fellow passenger’s face. “Don’t sleep too long. Your family back home is making money on all sorts of product endorsements in your name.” He leaned back to press a green button on the pod’s rim.
“You’d better wake up.”
The glass clouded, and Nicky heard a loud hiss. As the lid lifted, white vapor escaped into the designated dormancy room. The dorm room, Nicky called it. He coughed and waved the thick acrid vapor away from his face. The glass lid slid aside. Now awake, Roscoe blinked rapidly, stretching as much as he could inside the pod.
“Are we there yet? How long did it take?” Roscoe said groggily. “How long have I been out? Any word from home?” He sat up. “Is everyone else out already? Who woke you? Where’s the—”
“Whoa there, buck-o,” Nicky half-laughed. “Slow down. First things first. Get yourself out of this pod and,” Nicky sniffed, “clean yourself up.” He helped Roscoe climb out. “Get a cup of coffee. Then we’ll talk and I’ll tell you everything.”
***
Nicky was waiting by himself in the mess hall. Roscoe stumbled in, still foggy after his long sleep, despite his cold shower. He plopped down on the bench across the table from Nicky.
“Where is everybody?” In answer Nicky handed him a mug of steaming coffee. Roscoe inhaled deeply and smiled. He took a sip.
Nicky sipped his own cooling coffee. “Everyone else is still dreaming,” he began slowly. “I woke you because your clan back home is making big money hawking anything and everything—”
“That’s great!” Roscoe interrupted. He slurped his still-hot coffee. “What’s the problem?”
“The problem is they’re using your name,” Nicky finished. “Unlicensed, without administrative permission.”
Roscoe shrugged. “So? Why would they need permission to—”
“This goes against every contract, every NDA you signed.” Nicky motioned to the empty mess hall. “You wouldn’t be here on this glorious adventure, in this shiny new ship, if you hadn’t agreed to wait until the trek ended before you started selling out your name, and telling your story. Remember?”
Nicky set his mug down. “No,” he sighed, a bit confused. “Did I sign a contract like that?” He shook his head, slinging away the last bits of sleep muddling his mind. “I don’t recall—but if I did, then that’s gonna give me trouble.”
“Damn straight it is,” Nicky scoffed, rising from the table. “This isn’t only about you. You need to stop them now. Before their greed endangers this whole endeavor.” He grabbed Roscoe by the arm, and dragged him toward the communications room.
***
Roscoe’s hand hovered above the black call button on the console. “They must have their reasons,” he rationalized. “A medical calamity, a natural catastrophe, a financial crisis…”
“I hardly think your sister Matilda buying her third home—this one in Malibu!—qualifies as any of that,” Nicky sniped. “She’s been hitting all the talk shows, and giving interviews to every social media influencer imaginable.” Nicky snatched Roscoe’s hand, squeezing hard. “How does she know the details of this program?”
Roscoe grimaced. “I may have told her.” Nicky roughly pulled Roscoe away from the communications console.
“I really didn’t think it would matter,” Roscoe whined.
“You’ve endangered the future fortunes of us all.” Nicky raged, pushing him down a dimly lit hallway.
Roscoe’s eyes grew wide.“Where are we going?”
“To the only place where you can make amends,” Nicky snarled. He angrily shoved Roscoe into the air lock. He slapped the closure button, sealing Roscoe into the small chamber.
“No no no no no no!” Roscoe yelled, his voice muffled by the thick glass of the airlock’s small window. Watching him through the glass, Nicky was reminded of viewing old programs on his great-grandmother’s archaic television set. This experience is museum quality, he decided. He’d be sure to put that observation in his memoir.
“And since you asked,” Nicky said softly, knowing good and well Roscoe could hardly hear him, “no one woke me up.” He laughed. “I don’t sleep. Don’t need it.” He took a small bottle from his uniform’s pants’ pocket, held it up to the window. “Got these little buggers to keep me going.”
Nicky popped the cap off, then tilted the bottle into his mouth. Several tiny green metallic bugs scampered a down his throat. He swallowed hard and closed his eyes. “Mmmm, black market stimulants from Arcturus. Those little buggers will keep me going for weeks.”
He placed his finger on the airlock’s ‘open’ switch as Roscoe impotently banged his fists on the reinforced door.
“Your family back home, they haven’t been naughty,” Nicky giggled. “They don’t even know where we are, exactly. They’re just like everyone else back on Earth, breathlessly waiting for news that we have—at last!—reached that newfound solar system, where a promising, unspoiled home world awaits.”
He stroked his chin thoughtfully. “The ratings for this episode are going to be off the charts!”
“Nick, this isn’t a reality show! We’re actually on a manned mission to—” But Nicky ignored Roscoe’s muted, pleading shouts.
“Now, with you out of the running,” Nicky grinned, “I only have two more competitors to eliminate.” He clapped his hands with glee. “Then I’ll be the sole survivor. The last man standing. The king of the hill.” He tripped the switch. “I’ll win it all.”
The was a great whoosh and Nicky watched as Roscoe, in a flash, was sucked out of the chamber. Ever growing distance made Roscoe’s body appear smaller and smaller, until it shrank into absolute nothingness.
“And in answer to your question, ‘Are we there yet?’ ” Nicky said dreamily as he watched Roscoe disappear. “We arrived a long, long time ago.”
Bio: With a Masters in English Lit, Hillary Lyon founded and for 20 years acted as senior editor for the independent poetry publisher, Subsynchronous Press. Her speculative fiction and crime short stories, drabbles, and poems have appeared in numerous print and online publications. She’s an SFPA Rhysling Award nominated poet. Hillary is also the Art Director for Black Petals. You can find her at her website. HERE
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