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Today’s story is narrated by Cameron Daxon, a writer and voice actor living in LA.
Please note, this story has no quotation marks.
Long Haulers
I once knew a guy named Pierce who was sharp as his name. Have you ever known someone like that?
It wasn’t clear who Mustache was talking to, but at this time of night, and with that many mugs stacked up next to him, he’d have likely talked to himself. Hands, the android bartender, ignored the drunk and put a whiskey down for Baldy, another human.
Mustache continued: I mean this guy welded endosteel perfectly the first time. He could guess which planet or settlement you came from after hearing one sentence. He nailed mine, he went: You’re from Earth—Connecticut, ain’t ya? He knew exactly what to say whenever you were feeling blue. He paused, the mug hovering over the bar but not yet to his lips. And I loved him, he said.
You what? Baldy asked.
I owed him, Mustache said. He finished his beer, flagged down Hands for another.
Only if you give me your ship access key, Hands said, wiping a glass clean. Its voice crackled within its mouth, the speaker long past its prime. Its face still had synthetic skin over it, but the rest of its body was bare metal, dings and scrapes, some painted and epoxied over with a sloppy hand.
Fine, Mustache said with a toss. Hands caught it in the polished cup, then set it on the shelf next to the liquor.
It can do tricks, Baldy said. He swiveled to face Mustache and found a near reflection of himself; both wore the heavy half-zipped flight suits of long haul pilots, perfect for protecting their fragile bodies while they worked in vacuum, awash in radiation or when freezing over for cryo sleep. So you loved this guy, Pierce?
That’s not what I said, Mustache said. Would you drop it?
Baldy replied, I just wanna know what you mean. I loved someone too, you know. Still do.
A hauler on an acceleration program shot by the long row of bulbous windows opposite the bar. The two men and Hands were covered in the shadow of its body, the light-flash of its reactor, then the baby blue light of Neptune.
Mustache bit his lip. Then he drank. He sighed and said: Yeah, okay, I loved Pierce. I loved the way he walked, lifted cargo, scanned for contraband, talked plainly—he had this unabashed, unafraid way of being.
To Pierce, Baldy said, raising his glass.
To Pierce, Mustache echoed. Hands raised a glass, too, downed the synth-Mylk inside.
Who said you could drink to that? Baldy said to Hands. What do androids know about love?
Plenty. It’s like drinking: the more of it you have the worse you humans feel. Want another? Last call.
Yeah. And one for lover-boy here. Mustache bristled for a moment, then noticed Baldy’s smile.
Hands raised its four arms in false praise. Whiskey all around.
Baldy shifted over next to Mustache. Did you tell Pierce you loved him? Mustache set his beer aside and frowned into the whiskey. His synthetic eye produced a ruby light, bloodying his reflection. Inside his glass, he looked like a well of red wanting. His head was full of waterfalls.
I never said it out loud.
Baldy clicked his tongue. People don’t get it until you say it. He drained his whiskey and coughed up a bit of fire.
Love is giving what you do not have to someone who doesn’t want it, Hands said.
What the fuck, Baldy said.
I’ve observed it. Humans put everything into chasing after someone or something. When they get it, they don’t want it anymore. When they try to fix what’s broken, they can’t. Humans can’t be broken. Only flawed.
You’re preaching, Baldy warned.
Why shouldn’t I? I’ve lived four of your lifetimes. I remember everything perfectly. Hands turned back to Mustache. And you, why don’t you call Pierce? The solar system isn’t that big.
Mustache said, He’s been dead a few decades now. Time disease.
Ah. The gift and curse of hauling: The faster you go, the longer you live, the more you lose, Hands said.
But even before that Pierce flew home to his family on Mars and their ranch. Mustache licked his lips. He invited me to go.
And you didn’t, Hands said. It found another glass to clean, its hand whirling a towel round and round.
Obviously, Mustache said then burped up something sour. A cloying density filled his mind. He traced his emptiness across a broken chain of relationships, from Pierce to a dozen other men, all the things he’d left unsaid and undone. He looked at the bartender, who wasn’t moved by his sad story. Its face, though covered in something like skin, was less expressive than a wrench. He looked at Baldy’s eyes. They were worse.
Mustache said, Your turn. What about this person you love? Why are you running from them?
I’m not running, Baldy said, I know for a fact Grace is waiting for me.
Where is she? Hands said.
Cryo-storage.
Mustache nodded. How long?
Baldy looked up to calculate. Two hundred seventeen years thirty days four hours twenty one minutes.
Just go back to her, Hands said. Why put it off?
Another drink and I’ll tell you.
Hands paused, its subroutines calculating various outcomes. How much was this story worth? Losing its position? It wouldn’t go back to the trash plant. But, then again, this was such delicious human drama, and on this backwater station, the administrators didn’t care so much about productivity.
Baldy raised his glass and said, So bots do have hearts. Or maybe you’re the only one. He sipped. Truth is if I go back to her I have to be with her. I never liked being in one place.
You’d rather be drinking yourself blind with strangers and androids, Hands said. Can’t imagine why you’d want anything else.
Shut it. Baldy glowered at Hands. So smug. So right. So sardonic.
Is there another reason? Mustache asked, sipping his whiskey. He wondered if he saw Pierce in Baldy. No. Not at all. In the same token, he wasn’t unattractive.
Grace and I fought, before I left. She wanted to come with me and I told her no cause of the cost and the close quarters and the responsibility…I only know how to look after myself.
You humans, Hands said as he polished the other end of the bar, so easily torn up inside. So driven by what you might lose. You don’t need enemies to destroy you: you devour yourselves. Hands paused its cleaning. Yet, I understand. My perfect memory comes at a cost. New things never seem worth it, even when it might objectively produce positive outcomes.
Baldy laughed over his glass. Now you’re making sense.
Mustache stood, chair tipping backward. He pointed a finger in Baldy’s face. You’re scared to love. You’re incapable of it. Hands knew the signs of a fight brewing. Mustache was drunk enough and sad enough to fight over spilled beer.
Get your finger out of my face, Baldy said, slapping it away. They watched each other. Baldy looked away first. The darkness of another hauler passed over his face. Then the reactor flare. Then the planet’s blue.
Mustache kissed him. Baldy’s eyes went wide. And then he kissed back. It tasted like ale and cheap whiskey and sweat. They kissed gently, like they were handling crystalline microchips where even the slightest misstep might trigger a system collapse.
Hands watched. It highlighted this night shift for easy retrieval. It wanted to watch this again and again, until its circuits overheated. A dozen priority tasks clamored for attention in its mind. It delayed, silenced, ignored all of them. Mustache pulled away to get a breath, fingers around Baldy’s neck. Baldy came back to himself, shied away from Mustache. He walked over to the bar and swiped his hand over the payment module, avoiding the eyes of man and machine.
Wherever you go, Mustache said, you’ll still need someone.
Baldy said, I have Grace. He looked at his wrist computer. His ship was fueled up and ready to launch.
You don’t have her. You keep her. Like a specimen. And for what? Mustache stood close. What’s the harm in delaying launch for a few hours?
They stopped at the airlock. Baldy said, I gotta to clean the place up a bit.
You want me to wait outside? Baldy nodded, waited.
What’s wrong? Mustache put his hands on the shorter man’s shoulders, squeezing them.
I’m a coward. I haven’t gone back to end things. She’s just there, frozen inside a cylinder inside a warehouse full of frozen people. And I can’t go back.
I understand, Mustache said. Maybe we were meant to meet like this.
Baldy went inside, and closed the airlock. He stood there, head whirling, hand against the door. He looked at Mustache on the security screen, smile still plastered on his face. All he’d done was kiss him back. His racing heart didn’t mean love. It didn’t mean anything. What an idiot. What an idiot!
Ninety seconds later, he detached his hauler from the station.
A micro-tremor went through the floor and up into Mustache; all the life went out of him like someone had popped the hard shell of his ship. The airlock screen showed a growing gap in space, the void interminably filling in. He swayed, wanting Baldy to change his mind and choose him back. He waited at the airlock until the station’s logo—a smiling robot hitching a ride on an asteroid—flickered onto the screen. Mustache quivered. He wondered: How could he have known how exquisitely rare it was to be loved back? As rare as finding an Earth among the stars?
Baldy removed his suit and showered in the hottest water possible. He wanted to scald himself to muscle, to bone, until he dissolved. Then, naked, feet cold on the metal floor, he stood before his cryo pod. His flight suit lay deflated and empty on the ground. Getting in while so drunk meant he’d be sick for a week on the other end. He rubbed his lips. Had anyone ever kissed him like that? Had Grace? Would anyone again? He put on the suit and slid into the pod. Best to let everything slink away with the artificial coma. Maybe on the other side of the universe, where the galaxies were completely different, he’d forget what being longed for tasted like.
Hands leaned on the bar. Any more polishing and there’d be holes in the titanium. All that was left to do was wait. Another few hours and another group of hauler pilots would saunter in to eat, drink, and be lonely. Invariably, a few stragglers would remain, Hands serving them and making dry jokes at their expense. A ship soared past the windows, its reactor bright and burning heavy to use the gas giant’s gravity as a slingshot, gathering momentum for its long trod across the ink.
If only more of them would kiss, Hands thought. If only these humans could realize that everything they were running from was exactly what they needed to lock lips with.
Thank you for reading and listening.
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And now, a few questions for you…
What do you think of Hands’ interpretation of love?
Which character do you resonate with?
Would you work as a long-haul space trucker?
