Does it Really Matter?

Cycles Go ‘Round [Chapter 2]

You know, time doesn’t really mean anything. I mean, everyone— at least those in this dimension— is restrained by it, but if you do any sort of inter-spacial travel, you’ll find yourself jet-lagged and even warp-lagged to a point you don’t know when you are. Time is relative. It was some guy a long time ago that said that, you know. A member of my own species even. How proud I was to learn that. I mean, at the time that guy was around, the rest of the universe had already figured that out, back when my species was just living on a nasty little blue planet that is barely inhabited anymore.

You know, that little boring blue planet that turned to crap? Some say that was the inspiration for companies like ours, Cycles Go ’Round. We even began offering long-term packages that covered self-inflicted extinctions for little baby civilizations that tend to pop up in corners of the galaxy. There was a free trial period of several millenniums, of course, as not everyone made it that far, but the few who did go longer ended up cashing in for us quite nicely.

Speaking of time once more, I’m fully of the thought that if time really means nothing, then it shouldn’t even matter, like during the times when I wish I could have a few more me-hours. Unfortunately, my time to get a full night of beauty sleep seems to mean nothing to my employers.

Now this might seem like what a xenophobe might say, but things were a lot easier when everyone lived on their own planets. I mean, in terms of keeping track of time. Folks kept track of how fast or slow things were going by the rotation of their planet or the number of times it had gone around their home star. But then you realize now that there are settlements in binary star systems, or in erratically moving asteroid belts, or even on permanent deep-space installations. So most reasonable and time-sensitive species rely on the galactic cycle.

Unfortunately for me, the timing of a cycle was a good deal off from the circadian rhythm that had been evolutionarily programmed into my body by my ancestors way back on their long-overstayed planet. Now, if my company were part of a union, they would have to abide by the cyclical needs of their employees, but alas they were not. What can you do when there is a shortage of unautomated jobs but take on one desperate for the sentient touch?

The ship’s alarm awoke me from my half a hexturn of sleep. The odor of my chlorine-vapor-soaked suit still clung to the air. Despite the smell, I forced some nutrition bars and syntheine (synthetic caffeine) into my body before the station’s flight controllers would call upon me to pilot myself into the commercial slip. At last, with the chemical refreshment sustaining me, I was able to step out of the cramped ship and onto the platform.

I had been to Zexa station several times before, the first time being the beginning of my field training. My instructor, a veteran of Cycles Go ’Round, was nice and had a roomy ship, but he also smelled of bread-and-butter pickles, a natural aspect of his kind. I’d say I learned plenty from him, but my experience with the Slug back on the moon made me realize that I perhaps was lacking elsewhere. As I wandered through the collections of listless people on the station and rode the lift up to the upper levels, I couldn’t help but wonder what assignment lay in wait for me.

CGR had its own little leased storefront deep within the station, a right narrow space tucked between a real estate agent and a sign-making company. Several light-years away in the location I had interviewed, there was a full set of agents on staff, but all anyone could hope to get here was a sole remote terminal to talk with one in some far-off locale.

As I walked up to the entrance to the space, I couldn’t help but notice a wide, red-tinted individual, tugging on the straps of his overalls with two sets of tentacle appendages. He arduously stood up from the bench seat and waddled in my direction. Intent on making my appointed time, I gave him no more attention than I thought he needed.

The terminal inside accepted my employee ID and it changed from a dark screen-saver to the call window with my dispatch. “Anna,” Grep said, his voice creating a wavy readout on screen. “You made good time.”

“Hey!” A loud call came from behind me.

I tensed my neck and turned back. The tentacled man was at the door, all angles of his vast body unable to fit through the doorway. “I’m sorry sir, I’ll be with you in a moment.”

“This is unacceptable! You ought to be fined for not upholding the Shapes and Sizes Act!”

I waved my hand up and down at him. “I shall… let my superiors know. It should be but a moment, sir, and I can see to helping you.”

He let out a humph and shuffled out while I turned back to the terminal. “Everything alright there, Anna?”

“Uh, sure, nothing I can’t handle. Maybe. Depends on what you have for me.”

Grep let out a hum. “Well, lucky for you, this shouldn’t be too long. Nothing crazy, either. We have a client there enrolling under a commercial spacecraft policy. Put your tablet up to the terminal, and I’ll send you the form you need to fill out while checking out the ship. Make sure the date of registration and fabrication all match up to what was filled out on the application.”

I watched as my work tablet took on the document I needed. “Got it here. Thank you, Grep. And who is the client? They had an appointment?”

“Ah yes. A Takoan. Uh, they are quite the big sort, red skin, tentacles. The name is Ignan.”

“I see…” I nodded, turning back. The client was just outside the door, his appendages down behind his back with foot tapping away. “I think I see him right now. I’ll, uh, get this done, Grep.”

With a brush of my hair and a slap to my cheeks, I turned back around to face the towering client waiting outside the too-small doors. I presented myself before his impatient mass with long, even strides. “I apologize greatly for the incompeten— inconvenience, today, sir. Luckily, it seems your appointment is in my hands. My name is Anna, serving you as a representative of Cycles Go ’Round. Ignan, I presume?”

“You do not need to presume,” he said with a low, plotting voice. “I am Ignan, yes. My ship needs your insurance, or I cannot fly cargo.”

I nodded and looked down at my tablet, making sure of the details, but mostly to distract myself from the tentacles that served as his arms. “Of course. Then your ship is down on the landing dock?”

“Yes.” He stood, standing in place.

I looked either way, trying to remember the fastest way back down. Ignan stood in place looking over my head. “Is there… anything you need before we head down there? Something I can offer you to drink?”

“No.”

I nodded slowly, deciding to take the first step in the direction I had decided upon. Only once I was a few steps away, I looked back to make sure he was, indeed, following. Ignan remained a few plodding steps behind, but the wait for the lift to reach our level allowed him to thankfully catch up. The handful of passengers inside when the doors opened attempted to step out and pass around me and the client. Whether it was on purpose, or just the fact that he hadn’t seen them beneath his line of sight, I did not know, but there was no choice for any of us but to ride all together, regardless of anyone’s destinations.

I forced a smile back at the other passengers, displaced, but the best I got back was a pair of narrow eyes. Ignan had somehow shuffled himself about to face the door, awaiting the lift to descend once more to the lower levels. The long moments of the other riders breathing down my neck continued, but finally, the doors opened, allowing the both of us out. I worked up the courage to urge Ignan forward with an open hand, and by some work of chance, he accepted.

As we moved on in what was hopefully the direction of his craft, I attempted another round of talk— not by choice, but to hopefully eke out a good business rapport. “Have you been in this system long?”

“No,” he said in a way that I assumed to mean ‘stop talking’.

One of the slips further up was occupied by a craft that was undoubtedly belonging to Ignan, a commercial hauling craft in fresh, red paint, with a front set of windows that could have been on the penthouse at the top of a reasonably uncheap hotel.

Ignan stepped up beside it and dragged his tentacles against the smooth paint, finally rapping them against the hollow-sounding metal surface. “It is a… byoot?”

“It is… a, ah, a beauty?” I said, my mind catching up. “Yes, I could certainly say that.”

The red creature shuffled back, digging in the pockets of overalls before tentacling me a clasp of cards. “What I was told was needed.”

I took them from his appendage and scanned them. “Ah, perfect. So you had them with you this whole time. Even… better. Yes, these all match.”

With them offered back to Ignan, I fumbled with the tablet to ready it for the next step. “Well, to finalize things, I will have to give it a visual inspection, make sure it looks space ready and safe. Although, it looks completely new, doesn’t it?”

“It is new. A byoot. Expensive.”

“Indeed,” I nodded along with his proud gyrations. In what felt like a half-marathon, I made my way around the red rocket in the slip, taking in every angle I could. Ignan was in the same place I left him by the driver’s port, admiring his reflection, or at least the paint job.

“Ohkayyy….” I hummed to grab his attention. “Uh, the last thing is… just to look at the cargo hold to make sure it has all the necessary fixtures.”

Ignan nodded and began shuffling toward the back. At the rear, he offered me a look inside the massive double doors. I allowed myself inside, activating a motion-sensitive light. I held my breath, faced with a quite vacuous collection of cages, all big enough to certainly hold me and bigger. The craft shifted under my feet, and I found the large fellow coming in after, not an inch to move elsewhere.

“I, uh…”

“You remind me.” He muttered.

“Of what… exactly?”

“Are you the… milking type?”

I nearly dropped my tablet in a reflexive motion to cover my chest with my arm. I had never been accused of being gifted in any sense of the word, but similarly, I had never heard the term ‘milking’ for any sort of function any species possessed. “I… uh… it is possible, but… uh… only under certain… very specific… conditions.”

“Mammal!” Ignan slapped at his forehead with a free tentacle. “Mammal is the word. When you ask me if I wanted to drink, I remembered my question!”

His mumbling continued as he turned back, stepping back out of the cargo hold. With eyes daring to look around him for an escape path or a possible savior, I followed. “My species is… mammalian, yes.”

Ignan nodded furiously and turned back. “Mammals are not in my system. Do they always need milk?”

“After they grow up… they don’t need it really. And there are plenty of other things that could be a substitute, especially these days.”

Ignan clapped a pair of tentacles together. “Perfect. That would have been tough to make. But not needed. I want to open a pet business of mammals.”

“A… pet business?”

“A dog. A cat. A squelka. My people love seeing them in far-off television broadcasts. They are so nice to see. And to pet. I want to pet a cat. I want to bring them to my system and let people have pets. They nice.”

“Pets… are nice, indeed.”

Ignan finally turned back. “Can my ship do it? Is it good enough for insurance and business?”

“Well, I don’t see why not,” I said, sighing a breath of relief. “I shall… head back up and get this processing. You will be contacted about your status in… at least one hemicycle.”

The fellow bowed to me the best he could. “Thank you very much, Cycles Go ’Round girl. I wish you luck with your milk, as well.”

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