Pluto's Heart

The first thing Brian noticed was the foul taste in his dry mouth, as if a dog has emptied his bowels in it. He smacked his lips and sucked in air to get rid of the vile sensation. He realized he was lying down and tried to sit up, but his body responded sluggishly.

What?

After a few seconds of struggling, he managed to get his arms to move and raise his shoulders, but his forehead bumped against a hard surface.

“Ow! What the hell?” Brian muttered in a hoarse voice. He tried to see what he hit but his eyelids felt as if they were glued shut. “Why can’t I open my eyes?”

He fell back onto the soft cushions beneath him and rubbed his eyes with his lethargic hands. When he managed to peel them open, he peered up at a Plexiglas pane inches from his nose.

As if sensing him staring and straining to rise, it swung upward with an electronic hum. Lifting his head, Brian looked around in confusion for a second until recognition set in.

“Shit,” he mumbled and flopped back.

“Hello, Mr. Beauchamp,” a computer-generated voice said.

“Fuck you.”

“We will arrive at Pluto in forty-seven hours, forty-five minutes,” the computer continued. “That provides you sufficient time to recover from the effects of your suspended animation.”

“How long have I been asleep?”

“Four months, four days, six hours and thirty-five minutes.”

Brian sat up again and scanned his surroundings. Every centimeter of the small spacecraft was crammed with electronic systems and mechanical apparatus, all designed to transport a single passenger across the solar system.

Preferably delivering him alive in and in one piece.

“Do you require liquid refreshment?” the computer asked.

“Beer. Burger. Fries.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Beauchamp. There are no alcoholic beverages available on board and solid food is not permitted for the first twenty-four hours after regaining consciousness.”

Brian sighed in surrender and then realized he could smell his rank breath.

“Orange juice,” he said. Anything to get the taste out of his mouth.

A second later, a half-liter aluminum can popped out of a panel in the wall next to him. Brian opened it and guzzled the cold tangy liquid in quick gulps.

“Another one, please.” He had not realized the extent of his thirst. Did I just say please to the computer?

The cramped area of the spacecraft looked as if it was only three square meters with the pathway just wide enough for him to walk from one side to the other. Monitors displayed the status of the ship.

“So, what am I supposed to do for the next two days in this walk-in closet?” Brian had not expected an answer but the computer responded, startling him.

“The Company requires you to exercise to regain your strength.”

Brian noticed a stationary bike in a gap in the machinery with restraints to keep him from floating away in zero gravity. He groaned and began removing the straps around his waist that kept him in the sleeping bay. Free of the fetters, Brian drifted away from the cushions and pulled himself across the small capsule, grasping handrails to move about the ship.

He remembered he was naked, since clothing was not allowed for hibernation sleep.

Oh, well. No one’s here to see this.

He made it to a computer terminal and activated it.

“As if I need to be reminded of the reason I’ve been sent to the edge of the solar system,” he mumbled. “Sent? More like exiled.”

He read through the instructions the Company had given him concerning the terraforming plans for Pluto. The pay was outstanding, considering the distance and the perils of working on a small planet with little gravity and mostly nitrogen ice. Although deemed a dwarf planet by the scientific community in the early twenty-first century, Pluto, considered the underdog of the solar system, was adored by everyone else on Earth, who lovingly referred to it as the ninth planet.

Why is the Company trying to make that ice ball into something other than a subject for scientific research and a jumping-off place for deep space probes?Brian believed it futile and outrageously expensive to put a permanently-manned outpost on Pluto.

But it’s their dime, not mine.

The planet had a lone occupant. Zack Kirkland, for the past three years. The Company sent him out here with the sole purpose of establishing a Company presence on Pluto and, in a sense, staking a claim to it, by commencing terraforming operations.

What was it like to be alone for three years? Is he still mad at me? He knows I’m coming, so how will he react when he sees me?

It would take years before the Company could legally own any land on Pluto, but for the time being, no one else had the money and resources to consider establishing an outpost.