A Fair Compromise

8:02.

Late.

It didn’t matter. No one said anything. They usually don’t.

Every worker lined up for their morning stretches, neat rows of hi-vis and steel-toes. Head rolls, shoulder twists, lunges. The usual.

Q3 reports, heading into a Q4 productivity meeting.

The supervisor had bags under his eyes again. He was a bit more jittery today, more than usual at least. His eyes wandered everywhere, and he had a bit of a fidget in his fingers.

HR wished them a happy season. Through their super, of course.

Production was slow today. Several trucks to load, but none of them were being taken before lunch. The drivers had mostly abandoned their trailers for breakfast, though a few still sat waiting, engines off. Sleeping, probably.

He worked, dutiful as always. Rather get it over with than have to deal with it later. He continued working, even as his compatriots fell away around him.

A couple guys went for a smoke. A handful sat around talking. Several buried themselves in their phones.

“What are they saving for, retirement?”

The man had asked with a kind of sincere incredulity that could only be laughed at.

He understood why. Management was having them load more and more onto the trucks lately. The weight restrictions had become easier to handle in recent months, and as always, that meant production must go up. Production always went up.

Compensation did not.

Age old story.

He decided to take his own break. Finally.

25 minutes in the restroom’s only stall. Signal kept cutting out, but no more than expected. The satellites were as dependable as usual.

As he adjusted himself in the mirror, he stopped.

Disheveled. Ragged clothes, affixed at every angle except down. Puffy eyes, streaked with pink, and blue veins against his thinning throat.

Motes of dust hung in the air without motion. They never seemed to fall these days.

A flash of white as he steadied himself against the flimsy sink.

Back to it.

The fluorescent lighting, incessant beep of the forklifts, and endless rumble of the conveyors lulled him into a trance as he worked. This is how he gets through most days.

Box after box he scanned, red laser burning a hole in his eyes as he crossed into the hundreds. Thousands. Lots of addresses labeled that probably won’t receive their order. Oh well.

Lunch time.

Processed ham and American singles on rye. He hates processed meat, but it’s easy, and cheap.

The real nutrition today is the news.

70 days.

Finally time.

He watched as the TV mounted in the corner showed clips from all over the world. The others didn’t seem to care, or at least didn’t look.

Spacecraft. Beautiful spacecraft.

All of humanity’s best and brightest minds, coming together with every idea they have. Manned missions to Mars, Venus, the Moon, even some moon of Jupiter. Some self-governing thing they call an O’Neill Craft. It’s astounding how innovative the human mind can be.

They aren’t the first, but they are the latest. When they found out 70 years ago—

Hm.

He wondered if that’s why they picked today to do it. Necessity, or nostalgia?

Anyway, the launches were beginning.

Massive tides of oranges and yellows streamed behind a Russian ship. Gray smoke billowed out from behind the Americans. Even Greece participated, a horde of minuscule resource drones taking off in unison, a cloud of locust soaring out into the universe.

The anchors looked awake for the first time in weeks, genuine enthusiasm showing in their faces as man’s engineering prowess reared its head to the heavens.

And just as quickly, they began to fail.

He figured as much. Not the first time. Probably another rushed project.

Venus blew up. Mars’ thrusters failed, and turned right back around. O’Neill’s several crafts never left the atmosphere. The others never left the ground.

You would think they’d know by now, right? They oughta all pool the resources and send one out to the next star over. Alpha Centauri, he thought he remembered. Even if they were successful here, you’d think the gravity would—

The work bell rang, and back to work he went.

The pallets flowed a bit more now, though the workers never seemed to make eye contact.

He noticed a full shipment, 24 whole pallets worth. The paperwork was clear.

PERISHABLE—STORE IN COOL, DRY AREA

Stamped for Bosnia, and dated for 120 days out. Some route across the Atlantic, with a lot of customs checks and holdups.

A tinge of resentment.

He loaded the truck as usual and clocked out.

When he got home, he let Violet out.

Violet is an adorable 3 pound chihuahua with a fascination for chewing hard things and eating soft ones.

As he took her leash off again, he noticed she’d chewed the ends of all of his brushes. He’d expected as much. It doesn’t matter, as long as she’s happy.

He gave her a treat, and a soft chuckle escaped him as he watched her ear flop back, running to bury herself and her prize in his couch.

He retrieved the spare brushes he’d bought for just this circumstance and went into his office.

Calling it an office would be a stretch. It would be a dining room in any normal home, but he had no money for a dining table, and no inclination to search for one. Instead, he had an easel, and a single cabinet filled with canvas and oil.

Nothing more.

As he set the fresh canvas down, he stared.

Several minutes passed, the lines in the canvas churning against each other, imprinting something he couldn’t quite discern.

Violet knocked a cup to the floor. Empty, luckily.

Still, he stared.

The land he wished to paint slowly made itself clear before him. The shades, the patterns, the angles.

Maybe this was the one.

With a soft exhale, he made his first strokes.