Ginny

GINNY

T he elevator rattles as it descends. It's one more thing I should be reporting to ship maintenance, although the chances of them doing anything about the rickety nature of the thing keeping me alive are slim to none.

"Yeah, love. We'll put it on the list."

That's what the big fat foreman with the stains down his uniform said to me last time I reported a maintenance issue. The entire space cruiser is falling apart—it's just one more thing they'll never get around to fixing.

Star Cruiser Britannia is a rust bucket in space. The mere fact it hasn't had a catastrophic atmosphere leak is sheer blind luck. But one can only assume it's going to happen sooner or later.

The elevator doors open. Not all the way—I have to force myself through the gap, dragging my bag with me, wriggling it out before they snap shut and the death trap ascends.

In the dimly lit corridor, moisture runs down the walls. This is the very bowels of the huge space ship, the one which contains most of what's left of the United Kingdom after Earth became uninhabitable. Or, should I say, this is the one which contains most of England. I've heard the Scottish, Welsh, and Irish ships are in a much better state, which hardly surprises me.

I make my way down the passage to where it opens out into a void before I check my wrist-mounted comm for my assignment today.

I'm what they call a "mud lark." It's a humorous term used to describe those of us who are expected to clean the uncleanable. The filters which scrub the oxygen on the ship, without which we'd all die.

You'd have thought this would be a prestigious assignment, given how important it is.

It isn't.

I've seen vids of the S.C. Britannia when she was launched, to great fanfare and pontificating how she, and her sister ship S.C. Albion , would be the saviors of our country.

Spoiler alert…They weren't.

Instead it's up to people like me, who no one cares about, to do the things no one else wants to do. Apparently mud larking used to be something quite fun done at the side of a flowing river with sun and wind and rain. I can confirm categorically, my job is not fun.

Although, I have heard rumors about one of the US ships, where someone has to clean up after a brain in a vial and a single tentacle. It makes my skin ripple with a shiver. I know all about aliens—I've seen the vids after all, even if my level isn't allowed to fraternize with any which might come aboard. Even so a brain in a vial ? Ugh.

The mapping device shows me I need to traverse a void ahead, the filters I'm looking for are on the other side. I look at the narrow bridge which has stains of rust and spots of what looks like metal fatigue.

"Bollocks," I mutter under my breath.

I steel myself to the job ahead of me. Tying my long dark hair back into a tight bun, I do my level best not to think of anything other than the foul stench of the filters as I mask up and cover every part of my suit which has a gap with tape.

I don't want or need to relive my past. I get more than enough of that when I close my eyes at night, watching the other ship break apart. The Albion , which contained my family. The one I should have been on…

Shoving the essentials only into my bag and leaving the rest in a heap, I step onto the rickety bridge with far more force than I intended. The thing creaks alarmingly. I should care, but I've decided today, I do not, instead stomping my way to the other side to find the filters. They are, predictably, disgusting.

I offer silent thanks for my mask, the one thing on this decrepit ship which does work, as I get out my cleaning kit and set to work. If I don't do my job, people die and I don't get my rations. There are plenty on this ship who get more than they are due, but then that's how the United Kingdom always was, before the planet burned and we all had to leave.

Why would those in charge of a system change what worked for them, even once we ended up in space and found there were plenty of other species out there?

Anyway, I'm still reasonably curvy, even if my ribs show far too much these days. Such is the life of an orphan on a ship this size. No matter who my family were, they're gone and I'm on my own.

I finish up on the filters and make my way back to the elevator. It creaks its way back up to the lower living areas. The noise and smell of many humans in an enclosed environment hits me. Fortunately, given what I've been doing, even the great unwashed of Britannia give me a wide berth as I head for the sonic showers in the Ops section.

"Hey, ," one of the other mud larks, Terence, a wiry lad of around seventeen, greets me. "Where were you today?"

"Quadrant P-42." I grimace. "Not been cleaned out for a while."

"Grim," Terence agrees. "And more bad news. Boss wants to see you." He gives me a supportive smile.

"Fucking hell, as if today couldn't get any worse," I grumble.

"He might be giving you a raise," Terence says enthusiastically.

I stare at him.

"Okay, okay." He holds up his hands and shakes his head. "At least you know he won't fire you."

Yep, I really do have the one job on the ship which it is impossible to get fired from.

"Better get it over with, I suppose." I hitch up my bag and, with a longing look at the showers, I make my way through the grimy corridors to the boss's office.

An office which is completely empty.

"Bollocks," I mutter under my breath, throwing myself into the one other chair, not caring what I get on it.

I drum my fingers on his desk but soon stop after they stick to the surface. Checking my wrist comm, I decide to give him another five minutes, then I'll go get cleaned up. Kevin Valance is an unpleasant man to deal with at the best of times. Six feet tall, he loves to use his height to intimidate anyone smaller, including me. With a pathetic excuse for a mustache and wispy sandy hair along with watery blue eyes, he thinks he's god's gift to womankind.

Not my kind, though. I detest him with the force of a thousand suns, and he knows it, and because I'm the only female mud lark on the team, he thinks I should be licking his boots. As I am not, he hates me too.

Five minutes gone and I get to my feet when the door bursts open and Kevin backs in, holding up his hands and gibbering to something large outside. With an element of self-preservation I didn't realize I had, I dive behind his desk, peering out from behind the large block of metal. All I can see are legs. His, in his brown-grey uniform, and another set. Green and muscular.

"I want what I paid for," a voice growls, metallic through a universal translator. "If I don't get it, I will take your head."

A very large battle axe, the kind carried by a horrible space troll race called the Habosu, hits the metal floor of Kevin's office.