"Look," Chuck said. "I do my job, above and beyond. I'm a good guy to work with and since I started the doubles my department has pushed at least 123 percent capacity every month!"
"Yes," the doctor started. "You are quite the hero around here. To be a man of action on an orbital power plant is something to be respected. In your case, revered. You're practically a legend among the men. How could you keep that up, though? I wonder if you've thought about that."
"Not really my style, doctor."
Willoughby nodded in a concerned manner. "Of course, but I know it keeps me up at night sometimes. You are the heart and soul of this ship. But even a heart can't beat forever. How does a legend take a break, or a vacation? You never really read about gods among men taking their five days of R and R. No, it's usually something a little more dramatic. A hero, cut down in his prime, publicly."
Chuck swallowed hard and spit the burning ember to the floor. The vent over the doctor started to rattle a little bit. "Yeah, OK. Hey, you get an AC unit for your office, Doc? Good thing. It can get pretty hot. So I hear."
"Something like an injury," the doctor continued absently. "Something specific, like losing a limb, or an eye, would make for a respectable out for someone like yourself. Of course, that requires a substantial amount of physical sacrifice. Now ... a brain injury! Hell, after something like that you could just bow out. Thought itself is a mystery to most of our employees. For someone to be taken out of the game by a neurological disease, well, that person might as well have been struck down by a wizard as far as the work force is concerned."
The rattling grew louder above Willoughby's head. Chuck was having problems remembering in which pocket he had put his cigarettes. Had he even brought them in with him? "I'm surprised your predecessors hadn't ever thought of it," Willoughby said. "It's actually quite ingenious, using the provided recreation devices to put you out of commission. Who could think of a better way to go?" The doctor smiled widely. He had too many teeth.
No, they were just all the same, perfect and flat.
Chuck tried to sit up and could only slide himself further down in the chair. "What's with the teeth, Willerbay? You got some falsies in there, or what?"
Willoughby smiled wider, straining his face. "These are just the ones I had when I woke up, Charles. Nothing special about them. Standard."
Chuck dropped his lighter to the floor and slumped over, feeling himself tip forward. "Standard? You mean like Standard Automation?"
"The same, my boy."
"Shit." Chuck collapsed to the floor, knocking his leather cap off of his head. He was unconscious before the rattling of the AC vent stopped.
Willoughby relaxed his face and stood up from his office chair. His notepad slid to the floor. "No one can afford a retired hero, Charles. I'm sure someone of your ingenious nature, can understand that."
The door to the office slid open with a cat's hiss. Two men in hazmat suits walked in and, without a word, began scooping Chuck onto a stretcher.
"The tests came back positive this morning. You have KPD. You're going home."
A third man entered dressed in the same coat and trousers as Willoughby. He took a cigarette from the pack Chuck had dropped and lit it with Chuck's lighter. "We'll fake his death in the morning. Reactor flares vaporize anything that isn't reinforced ceramic steel, so we don't even have to drag up a body from processing."
Willoughby smiled and started following the hovering stretcher down the hall toward the shuttle bay. "Maybe he'll be a sculptor. He looks like a sculptor, doesn't he, McGreggor?"
Stephen Failey is a freelance contributor to The Escapist.
