Short Stories From Fading Worlds

A Bar Called Kuiper: The Chemical Worker

"So then, a chemical worker?"

"Right in one, bartender. What gave it away?"

The bartender gestured towards the man with a glass wrapped in cloth in his hands.
"Two things: you've got a Jupiterian accent for a start, though I'll be damned if I can tell exactly which station or moon you're from."

"Cyclades-13, about ten-thousand miles from Io. What was the second thing that gave me away?"

The bartender rubbed the front of his own neck, indicating that the man should do the same.

"That looks to me like a caustic burn on the front of your neck, sir. Jupiter's famous for its chemical works, and those works in turn are famous for poor workplace safety."

The man at the bar shrugged a little, smiling widely as he did so.
"Ah, what can you do? Not like there's any way of changing things now, is there? That's why I'm out to the colonies tomorrow, where things are better."

The bartender nodded, not at all surprised that the man was heading to the colonies. That was just about the only reason anyone ever came here at all, so really he was more surprised that the man had been so forwards about it. Most of his patrons tended to keep their emigration to themselves until the conversation got flowing a little more, after all, such happenings in life are often difficult to swallow and as such aren't exactly what most people want to discuss openly with a stranger, but this man seemed not to care much about it at all.

"I see. Do you require any advice about moving out to the colonies, or do you already have things set up?"

The man made a so-so motion with his hands.
"I made sure to be pretty well prepared. I sent the wife on with the kids a few months ago while I stayed on to get a little more money together while I finished my contract, so she's already got a little place for us to stay and sorted the kids out with their new school and the like. It's just a matter of getting work on one of the plants aboard this new station."

The bartender smiled, pleasantly surprised. It wasn't often someone had everything well-organised and planned while moving out.

"I'm happy to hear that, sir. I speak with many people moving on to the colonies, and very few of them have a plan beyond 'find work and hope for the best'. Which station are you moving to, if it's not too personal a question for me to ask?"

The man waved away the bartender's concern.
"Nah, you're fine to ask away. It's a bit of a larger station around a gas giant in Alpha-Centauri. Hyperion-22 is its name, third largest of the Hyperion stations behind only Hyperion-7 and Hyperion-1. There's plenty of work there for someone like me."

The bartender quickly took out his notebook and jotted down the information. Who knew, maybe another chemical worker would pass through here one day and need direction to find work in the colonies. Hyperion stations, chemical plants. It was a succinct note, but it would tell him all he needed to know in the future.

"You give advice to many people then?"

The bartender looked back up at the chemical worker, who had a slightly puzzled look on his face, then nodded.
"I do indeed. Like I said, not many have everything planned out and prepared like you have. Most people who come through here... well, most of the time they haven't any other choice. For one reason or another they need to leave Sol, no matter how little they all want to. After all, there's something to be said for home, and for humanity our home will always be Sol, no matter how far away we go."

The chemical worker nodded, raising his pint a little.
"Aye, and that's the truth. Still, if the bad begins to outweigh the good then emigration starts looking like a nicer and nicer idea, I guess. That would put me in the minority who are leaving just for an improvement to their life and not just because I absolutely have to, I would guess?"