Strange Climate

     Lowell was very tired. He had eight hours left and that meant another five or six trips. For years the blue collar workforce had been divided evenly. Those with excess credits could buy ships equipped to shrink eight hours into four. Lowell and the rest were lucky to fit their eight in a twenty hour day. Administration's greatest achievement had been dividing the middle class in order to weaken it. Lower had been successfully eliminated they said, successfully redefined to be a part of the middle. 

     Another desirable and expensive invention would steer his ship for him. Though the weakening hands in front of him were all he had at this pay grade. It wasn't his fault or even the mechanic responsible for his ship when the strut retainer failed. Shit happens. Lowell's spent claws slipped and the yoke shook violently as his ship plunged helplessly into the pull of a foreign mass. He should've quit then and strapped in for the ride but a swift strike from the wheel saw to it he would go quietly all the way to the surface. 

     The administration discontinued the term planet decades ago when definitions ranged from the traditional natural mass orbiting a star to a space station with at least 65 zip codes. This caused frequent problems for shippers like Lowell who were often given instructions vague enough to strand them a thousand miles from their actual destination. Lowell was an old pro though so he was sure this was not the correct target. 

     He awoke of thirst eleven hours after being knocked unconscious before tumbling to the dark golden body. It's belt was so thick the stars were no longer visible and he too was undoubtably obscured from sight of the shipping lanes. Angry to find out how long he'd been out he wondered why he couldn't have stayed asleep just one hour more. In fifty minutes his oxygen would be spent and had he stayed asleep he would have passed peacefully. Now he felt compelled to attempt survival, a burden he knew all too well coming from the south wing of station eight. 

     He'd heard stories of shippers stranded for years on rocks with suitable atmosphere though none of them were catalogued. It was to the point where any civilized Naut could only trust an artificially produced climate. In forty minutes Lowell would have little choice but to try his luck in this untested atmosphere. Another helpful gadget could identify atmospheric makeup outside the ship but who could afford the monthly payments? 

     Lowell recorded a transmission to be repeated over the radio waves as long as his battery could sustain it: "My name is Lowell Dillon, a human aboard Gen5. I've run aground some mass at approximately 4.1256.0008. You're listening to the words of a dead man so listen carefully. The administration is 95 percent alien. They cannot charge you for knowing but you must discover a plan to reclaim control of our race as I have failed to do so myself. Please remember me as part of the resistance."