Before the Parade Passes By

The warning placard outside Shaft 19-B read:

Caution: Pulsar Exposure May Cause

Cataracts  ·  Blood crystallization  ·  Involuntary honesty  ·  Spontaneous gambling  ·  Mild humming.

Barnaby Williams leaned on his plasma drill and stared at the sign.

"You know," he said, "I think the humming one's real."

Andrew Sternkern was twenty feet away, standing motionless in the violet dust of Yonkers, staring directly into the middle distance with the unsettling serenity of a man whose brain had just slipped a gear.

The pulsar beam swept over the horizon every eleven seconds. The mining suits clicked and hissed to compensate. Somewhere deep underground, ancient machinery coughed like a dying walrus.

Andrew spread his arms.

"Barnaby…"

"Oh no."

Andrew inhaled deeply through the respirator.

"Out there…"

Barnaby shut his eyes. "Andrew, don't."

"There's a world outside of Yonkers…"

A few nearby miners slowed their drilling. Nobody stopped outright. Stopping outright cost money.

"Way out there beyond this hick town, Barnaby…"

"This is not a town," Barnaby muttered. "It's an OSHA violation orbiting a neutron star."

"There's a slick town, Barnaby—"

"There are no slick towns. There's a cafeteria with wet noodles and a vending machine that steals dental records."

Andrew ignored him completely. He took a dramatic step onto a crate of isotope canisters.

"Out there…"

"Please get down from the radioactive barrel."

"Full of shine and full of sparkle…"

"That's the radiation burns."

"Close your eyes and see it glisten, Barnaby—"

"I literally cannot close my eyes. The suit requires retinal tracking."

"Listen, Barnaby!"

A miner in the next trench whispered, "Is this from something?" Another whispered back, "I think he's snapped."

Andrew pointed grandly toward the stars no one could safely look at.

"Put on your Sunday clothes—"

Barnaby threw up both hands.

"My Sunday clothes is my everyday clothes, it's this freakin' space suit, otherwise I would disintegrate in this radiation!"

Andrew nodded solemnly, as though this were simply part of the choreography.

"There's lots of world out there—"

"There's also lots of cancer out there!"

"Take a train to—"

"There are no trains!"

"—somewhere far from Yonkers!"

"Everything is far from Yonkers! That's the problem!"

Andrew hopped down from the crate and grabbed Barnaby by the shoulders.

"We could leave someday."

"With what money?"

"We have company credits."

Barnaby stared at him.

"Andrew. Last week you traded seventy company credits for a sandwich described as 'probably beef.'"

"It was beef."

"It was purple."

"That doesn't prove anything."

The pulsar beam swept overhead again.

All their suit alarms chirped at once. Andrew began softly kicking dust in rhythm.

"Before the parade passes by…"

Barnaby looked around nervously. "You're attracting attention."

"Before it passes by…"

"Andrew…"

Two security crawlers appeared over the ridge with all the warmth and charm of armored refrigerators. The company logo — HELIX EXTRACTIVE SOLUTIONS — gleamed on the side beside the slogan:

YOUR LUNGS BELONG TO THE FUTURE

The crawlers stopped. Three security officers climbed out in matte-black radiation armor. The lead guard looked at a datapad.

"Worker Andrew Sternkern."

Andrew immediately stopped dancing.

"Yes, sir."

"We have reports of erratic behavior."

Andrew glanced at Barnaby, then at the guards.

"No sir. Morale event."

"Morale events require Form 88-C."

"I was unaware singing needed authorization."

The guard tilted his helmet slightly.

"Unstructured emotional expression during extraction hours can escalate into labor instability."

Barnaby quietly mouthed: labor instability?

Andrew straightened.

"Sir, respectfully, I was just having a little fun."

"Fun is permitted during Quarter Recreation Cycle."

"That's seven minutes every February."

The second guard rested a hand on his shock baton.

"Worker Sternkern, are you resisting productivity alignment?"

Andrew's smile vanished instantly.

"No sir."

"You understand that disruptive optimism can negatively affect team output."

"Yes sir."

"Resume drilling."

Andrew lowered his head.

"Yes sir."

The guards lingered another moment, disappointed there would be no excuse for a beating today, then climbed back into the crawlers and rolled off through the dust.

Silence returned. The miners resumed drilling.

Barnaby looked sideways at Andrew. Andrew quietly picked up his plasma drill. For a while neither spoke.

Then Andrew muttered, almost embarrassed, "Still think I should do something fun sometime."

Barnaby snorted. "You just did."

Andrew shrugged and started cutting into the rock wall. The glow from the drill lit the side of his helmet blue.

Barnaby watched him for a moment.

For maybe thirty seconds back there, Andrew had forgotten Yonkers existed. Forgotten the quotas. Forgotten the debt. Forgotten the company.

He'd looked insane.

But also — happy.

Barnaby looked down at his own drill. Then, very quietly so the suit microphones wouldn't catch it, he muttered:

"Before the parade passes by…"

Andrew's helmet snapped toward him.

Barnaby immediately pointed the drill at the wall.

"Don't look at me."