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“Thus ends your orientation tour, please report to the canteen for your room and work assignments.”
The man at the front – an Officer Lange, according to the badge on his breast pocket – lowers his clipboard and glares at them. The orientation tour, as he called it, was delivered in a monotonous drawl that must somehow have been deliberate. Even the most boring human would hit a second note by accident once in a while.
Nick stares down at the notebook he’s holding, where he’d been attempting to scribble things down as his little group of recruits were ushered around the ship. All he seems to have recorded, inexplicably, are the words Wednesday: potatoes? and second floor, third cubicle – sprays.
Presumably, at some point, his brain will catch up and he’ll remember the context for these useful tidbits.
For now, he pockets the notebook and follows the other new recruits – hopefully towards the canteen. At the very least, maybe he can work out the potato mystery before he finds his new quarters.
Out of habit, he checks his phone as they shuffle down the corridor. He’s greeted by the same message that’s been on the screen since they left Earth’s atmosphere.
Out of service. Please switch to an interstellar provider.
He’ll get the WiFi password eventually, but then again that seems to defeat the point of a fresh start. His mum and Tara have a direct line to the ship as his emergency contacts, his dad won’t even notice that he’s gone, and Imogen… well… she made it pretty clear that she didn’t want to hear from him again when she dumped him.
Darcy says that running away to join an interplanetary mission on some clunky mining ship is no way to get over a breakup. Which is the main reason that he didn’t list them on his emergency contacts. If he dies in some random solar storm, or gets crushed by a crane on a distant moon, there’s no way he’s giving Darcy the chance to say I told him so to whatever poor git is responsible for breaking the news.
Someone knocks into him as they make their way through the double doors to the canteen. The impact sends his phone careening from his hand before it smashes on the floor.
He kicks it to the side. There’s a cleaning-bot approaching – its little side-sweeper brushes it up in one gulp and then his old life is gone.
There’s a screen on the far side of the canteen; lists of names and numbers blinking and cycling on and off on the display. It takes a few rounds – like an information board at a train station that has too many pages of details – but Nick manages to catch his room number just as people start filtering away. Just his job assignment to catch now, if only he could pay enough attention. There are too many people milling about to be able to concentrate properly, and they’re all chatting excitedly and grabbing their assigned clothes. Some of them are carrying dark-coloured overalls, while others have picked up slightly smarter uniforms. Nick presumes, with his background in rugby, that he’ll be designated one of the more menial roles on the ship. Something mindless but tiring. It’s just what he needs. His name flashed up in the list again and this time he spots it.
Nicholas Nelson – air vent maintenance team. Green.
He heads towards the green sign, above a table with dark green overalls. Not exactly his colour, but it’s not like he’s looking to impress anyone on this ship. There’s a pile of three with his name on, along with a little pouch of regulation toiletries and a fob that he presumes will open his new bedroom.
An arm flings around his neck. The fob clatters back onto the table.
“Maaate,” a voice leers in his ear. “They proper shafted you with your uniform, didn’t they?”
Nick shrugs them off and glares. It’s the guy who bumped into him earlier. Harry Greene, according to his badge. Somehow, he’s found gel since they were all marched into decontamination showers earlier; his hair is greasily pushed back from his face.
“It’s a job,” Nick snaps, grabbing his meager belongings and marching off towards the residential corridor.
“Only a bit of banter, mate! Fu—”
Whatever he says next, it’s cut off by the swish of the automatic doors sliding closed.
An arrow blinks at the end of the corridor, pointing to the right as if there’s any other direction to go. Nick follows it, his eyes skimming over the little displays next to the door numbers which name the current residents. Eventually, he makes it to his new home: Room 62.
His fob lets him in with a chirpy beep. Nick glances at the display as he opens the door; the single name of the current resident – Charles Spring – shrinks slightly to accommodate Nick’s name too. He has a new roommate, apparently.
A very tidy roommate, if the state of the place is anything to go by. Two neat bunks line one wall, while an open wardrobe is half-full of the smart uniform Nick saw people carrying earlier. Charles is an officer, apparently. The stack of physics books on the bedside table makes Nick feel inferior before they’ve even met. Maybe talking about things he doesn’t understand will distract him from being depressed about Imogen.
There’s a beep from behind, and Nick whips around.
A slim man is standing in the doorway; bright blue eyes wide underneath dark curls. Two things strike Nick at once.
One: his new roommate is really pretty.
Two: he’s forgotten how to form all words.
“H-hi,” Nick stammers.
“Hi?”
The man leans back and frowns at the display by the door, before his face softens. It’s a very nice face. Nick wants to touch it.
“Nicholas, I’m assuming?”
“Nick. I— er— Just Nick.”
The man holds out his hand.
“Just Charlie,” he winks. Nick feels hot. “Nice to meet you.”