If the Stakes Don't Seem High, It's Probably Because They Aren't Yours
Andrew Marinus
Olive sat down with phone in hand, just in case the closed door became a locked door. Nearly every horizontal surface in the office was littered with e-paper forms, the carefree mess of a room soon to be abandoned. The man behind the desk had darkness under his eyes and pills on the desk. The wall display behind him counted down from T-03:27:45.
“Miss Vasquez,” the man said, “before you say anything, I’ll have you know I resent having to re-explain what Attendant Maslow has already told you. The same strict size and weight limits for personal effects apply to everyone. If you want to bring your item up, you’ll have to first decrease its size.”
“First off, the weight difference was just a few grams over the limit-”
“Which is still: over the limit.”
“Secondly, there’s no question of me being over the limit now - my friend Anyastoya signed the form to transfer her unused allotment to mine. Maslow refused to acknowledge this, for reasons I’m fairly sure weren’t duty-related.”
“I’ve known him longer than you have, and can vouch for his professionalism. If there was a conflict between the two of you, you might consider whether your own behaviour was responsible.”
An errant strand of hair had fallen across Olive’s face. She blew it away with clenched teeth, imagining flames. “I have fulfilled the requirements to bring both items up. Tell me why Maslow has obstructed me from doing so.”
“There’s the matter of the frivolous nature of the item.”
“I don’t recognize your right to declare my possessions frivolous or not.”
“The shuttles are ours, as are by extension the rules necessary to launch them.”
“Frivolous items will not stop you from launching them.”
“Every useless gram counts.”
“Then you’ve got a lot of ‘useless’ grams to cut before you get to mine! There’s people out there taking up World’s Greatest Dad mugs and signed baseballs.”
“Those items have clear sentimental value!”
“So does mine.”
He looked affronted. “Don’t try to compare those things with a-” he hesitated.
Olive looked at him like he was a child. “Say it.”
“With a... personal massager.”
“Just call it a vibrator. Or a dildo - we’re short on time, so the fewer syllables the better.”
“I’m quite aware how little-”
“To reiterate: I’m not over my extended weight allowance, and you and Maslow’s twitchiness around a dildo does not make that dildo swell up past the weight limit. Just ‘cause you got a problem with it, doesn’t mean you get to veto it.”
Heine was silent for a few beats, then said, “At a certain point we have to enforce an extra-regulatory meaning-to-mass ratio. We aren’t saying you can’t bring a... dildo. But your specific dildo is prohibitively large, volume-wise and mass-wise with batteries included, for the small function it serves.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“You can accomplish the same task with something much lighter.”
“Not as well.”
“You can get whatever shape you want built with a 3D printer once we’re on our station!”
“Won’t be the right texture, and won’t have the same memories attached. You mentioned the importance of sentimental value...”
His hands on the desk clenched into fists. “Miss Vasquez, need I remind you we’re in the midst of a planetary exodus! The last thing we need is to sit here arguing about the unimportance of a sex toy!”
“And yet you haven’t stopped arguing.”
“Why do you need a sex toy up there?” While speaking, Heine noticed his clenched fists and rather than relaxing them, chose to begin cracking his knuckles. “You’ll have plenty of crewmates and plenty of time; if you become overwhelmed by lust, it would be more beneficial for yourself and your station to act on it with someone else aboard!” His hands working away at each other sounded to Olive like necks being snapped.
“Maybe I’ve got better odds of getting the job done with my Plastic-Fantastic than a flesh substitute. Maybe I want a toy sometimes and a tool at other times.”
“Your lone pleasure doesn’t do anyone else any goo-”
“Maybe I don’t like being dependent for orgasms on whatever pricks I happen to be stuck with.” Olive drummed her fingers against her phone without breaking eye contact. “Maybe you should admit you’ve exceeded your authority and step aside, because if you don’t I’m going to whoever’s over your head, or HR. Probably both.”
Heine floundered trying to come up with words. Rather than sitting in silence, Olive took out of her bag the gracefully-curved vibrator in question, glossy red save for the pink of its ‘Settings’ switch, the legend ‘MADE IN CANADA!’, and the cartoon beaver set along one cylinder face. The words and beaver-face were slightly raised, to provide a little more stimulation on the deepest of strokes.
Olive flipped the switch to the lowest setting (the highest would have likely intimidated the bureaucrat more than would be useful) and set it on Heine’s desk. He watched with dismay as it rumbled across the galvanized steel surface. Olive watched his face cycle through different emotions before settling on an icy, face-saving front.
Heine looked up at her. “Take it and get out of here. I have other things to do.”
“Wonderful.” She reached to turn off the vibrator and accidentally flicked the switch the wrong way, to the maximum setting. For some seconds there was a roar like rocket thrusters punching a hole in the sky, before she got it off again.
Heine looked aghast. Olive grinned at his prudishness, before a horrid alternate explanation for his stubbornness occurred to her.
“You’re going to be on my station,” she squinted, “aren’t you?”
The gaze that met hers was sulky and silent.
Olive shook her head while exiting, vibe in hand. “It’s gonna be a long trip to Europa.”
Andrew Marinus was born and raised in British Columbia, and has had twelve short stories published by various outlets, mostly science fiction, horror, and comedy.