The Gangway: A True Story

They won't let me in my spaceship. Two in the morning, my alarm's wail still ricocheting off the inside of my skull, and they won't open the hanger doors. Database malfunction and they're working on it. Bullshit. The port techie wouldn't be out here explaining the problem to me if it was. He'd be half buried in wires, talking to every data cluster in the system and sweating like an unplugged ICE runner.

Damn it's cold! The port techie says repairs to the database should be done soon but his polyfiber coat, authentic fur hat, temp-reg boots, and heavy mittens say otherwise. He's staying put. For a while. All I brought was my sweat towel; normally reserved for close encounters with neuron stars and sudden solar flares that over task my ship's temp-reg system. Wrapping it around my shoulders and neck doesn't do much but it's better nothing.

Wouldn't be so bad if the cold was natural. Icy winds and winter are nice when you're standing on real earth. But drafts in stations freeze every part of a man. The metallic echo of winds slashing around corners numbs ears and its processed bite could kill. I think I chipped a tooth. Jaws won't stop chattering. The port techie could hear them if his fur hat wasn't pulled down over his ears.

If I could get in the hanger everything would be alright. Ports strictly control hanger climates. With repairs going on and dismantled ships about, if the climate rises too much nav-chips begin to fry, pilots sue, and ports lose money. Too low a climate and pilots take their business elsewhere, so every hanger's temperature is fixed: nice, comfortable, and profitable.

But they won't let me in my spaceship. Can't be a grudge. I haven't stopped here enough. A mechanical problem, I guess. The port techie hands me a neural chip programmed to signal me when the problem is solved and suggests I find a warmer pasture to wait in. While I appreciate his begrudged honesty, I haven't seen a pasture in decades.