Key to the Cuffs

LOCATION: Windhuk Administrative Building Main Executive Office

The stylus felt heavy in the Duke’s hand.

Ephim Adams stood across the desk, waiting.

-The terms are finalized, sir, Adams said. The MTC assumes full operational management of the industrial and life-support sectors for the duration of the audit. Your office retains nominal sovereignty over civil disputes, provided they do not impact the aggregate output of the labor units.

The Duke looked at the digital display embedded in the desk.

-Units, the Duke muttered. We call them people here, Adams. Families, even. We are lucky.

Adams scoffed.

-That’s the sentiment that brought me here isn’t it? You can’t feed anyone on sentiment. Nothing runs on sentiment.

He tapped his data-slate, and a series of graphs bloomed in the air between them. They were sharp, colorful lines that represented the lifeblood of the station, but they felt utterly detached from the lived reality.

-My primary focus for the first thirty sols will be the loader yards, Adams continued. The Type-4 loaders are underperforming. I’ve identified several dozen hours of unauthorized downtime that your previous supervisors categorized as ‘meditative breaks.’

-The workers pray, Adams. It keeps them sane.

-Why don’t you let them smoke too? Adams scoffed. Our senior contractors have high-grade neural inhibitors.

The Duke sighed. He pressed the stylus to the screen.

-It’s done, the Duke said.

-Excellent. I have already drafted the initial productivity directives. We begin implementation at the start of the next shift.

The Duke stood up. He walked to the wide window that looked out over the main docking bay. Far below, a battered transport shuttle was being prepped for departure, its venting gases shimmering in the dim lights of the hangar.

-The QMA thinks it’s best if I’m not here while you ‘streamline’ my people, the Duke said, his reflection in the glass looking even older than he felt. They think I’ll interfere.

-A best practice, assuredly, Adams replied. You'll see.

They walked together down to the secondary docking ring, where the "Departure Protocol" was already in motion. A small crowd had gathered, mostly low-level admins and a few off-duty tech-hands who had heard the rumors.

The Duke made a show of it. He shook Adams' hand with a formal stiffness that suggested a transfer of immense responsibility. He addressed the small crowd, his voice projecting the weary confidence of a man being called back to Timbuktu, the capital of the Qaddafi Mars Authority, for time well-deserved outside a dome.

-The Auditor has my full confidence, the Duke announced, his eyes scanning the faces of his people. He is here to ensure we can all be here next year in Windhuk. Together again. Give him the same diligence you gave me. More, even.

He climbed the ramp of the shuttle, the heavy magnetic door shutting slowly behind him. He watched through the small porthole as the docking clamps released.

The Duke made his way to a small, cramped storage locker behind the passenger seating. There, tucked under a pile of discarded insulation blankets, was a set of stained, grease-slicked coveralls and a scavenger’s rosary that had seen better decades.

The shuttle would perform a wide, automated loop toward the Outflow Channels, then return to drop the Duke off on the other side of the dome.

He began to strip off his formal tunic. For now, he wasn’t going to be a duke anymore.