Page 125 of Homebound
Gemma couldn't decide if she should be flattered or offended for being looked upon like someone who could handle the job.
The tram zoomed along the walled perimeter of the docks with astonishing speed and no safety precautions. You grabbed what you could get a hold of, and you held on. Likewise, protection from the elements had never entered the minds of tram engineers, and cold air blasted Gemma in the face, threatening to rip her hat right off her head as they flew terrifyingly close to heavy machinery in full operation.
A stainless steel insulated jar that Simon had flattened with a hammer to resemble a flask was tied by a string to her neck. It rested against her midriff, molded to her torso, its bulk easily concealed by her winter clothes.
The tram stopped with a jerk, causing one man to fall and curse. Calculating that she’d reached her destination, Gemma got off just before the tram shot away from the stop like demons of hell were chasing it. She looked around for an attendant who was supposed to equip her with the hand-held magnet.
No one made an appearance.
The area was devoid of activity, making the ever-present background noise of heavy engines so much more overwhelming in the complete stillness. It was like swimming in pure noise.
She started walking along a row of hangars. The wind blew in strong gusts between the structures, bringing with it the smell of burning fuel. Turning the corner, Gemma came to an area jumbled with multi-sized cranes and gantries, some of them moving, hauling loads. There were workers there, busy and focused on their tasks.
And beyond the courtyard, she could see a launch pad at the edge of glistening water of the bay. A small shuttle was sitting in position, attached to its holding tower. Gemma stared at it, imagining Butan poised to fly off like this. If there were passengers in that little shuttle, where were they going? They must have a destination. They would arrive at some place.
Where would she and Simon arrive at?
“Hey, what are you doing here?” Someone grabbed her by the arm.
Startled, she whirled around assuming a defensive stance and came face-to-face with a young man. His cheeks were red from the cold, and his eyes were red from some unknown substance. Weed probably, based on Gemma’s limited experience with users at the prison.
“I am here to work. But they never told me where to go.”
“Are you the metal debris collector?”
“Yes! That’s me, alright.”
“Where’s your slip?” He extended a hand, inpatient.
“I don’t have any. Do I have to have it?”
The young man’s bloodshot eyes rolled up, and he heaved a long-suffering sigh. “Yes, you need an authorization slip. Now, what am I supposed to do about you?”
“Well, you can put me to work now and worry about the slip later.”
The young man brightened at such an easy solution. “Good idea. You may not get paid without a slip, but hey, not my problem. Follow me.”
He led her back past the hangars and by what looked like a small factory.
“What is this?” Gemma asked, pointing at the factory.
“The power plant.”
“The docks have a designated power plant?”
The man gave her a droll stare. “Of course.”
She hadn’t known. Uncle Drexel, her only acquaintance from the docks, hadn’t talked much about the place at the dinner table.
“Is it nuclear?” she tried to draw information out of the man.
“What else?” he didn’t sound keen on maintaining a conversation.
“Well, as far as I know, it could be any kind of fuel. Diesel. Natural gas. Or liquid nitrogen.” He was walking fast, and Gemma, with her bad ankle, struggled to keep up.
Her blabbering earned her another contemptuous look from the red eyes.
“Diesel? Not for power plants.”
