6. Stockyards

It was a lousy assignment on a lousy planetoid at the ass end of the outer rim. And if that wasn’t enough, the livestock count was off again for the third time this week. He’d chalked the last few times up as miscounts and fudged the numbers to cover, but this time Simpson was really going to chew his ass. He sighed and let the clipboard fall. It was a one of those cheap composite affairs that attached to the wall with a ball chain so no one could wander off with it. Not that anyone would ever want to all the way out here.

 On a clear night, he would have been able to see his breath hanging in the air. There were no clear nights on Acheron though. The weather only seemed to come in two varieties, gloomy and lousy. This particular evening was firmly in the lousy category. The wind was howling and the single weather barrier they’d spent months erecting didn’t do shit. The Company claimed the wind only blew from one direction so the one barrier was all they’d need, which was some cost saving horseshit if he’d ever heard it.

 “Fuck Simpson and his cows.”

 He fished around for the pack of cigarettes he kept in the front pocket of his coveralls before thinking better of it and checking his watch. 18:40. An emergency town hall meeting had been scheduled in twenty minutes. Normally he would skip something like this without a second thought and pick up the gossip at the Hooch. Rumors got around quickly on Acheron, and the bar was usually the prime marketplace for them. This one was unusual though in that attendance was mandatory under penalty of partial forfeiture of shares. I came all the way out to the ass end of space to argue about shares he thought to himself and laughed.

 “THE DREAM OF THE FRONTIER!” he shouted into the maelstrom.

 It did not reply.