Author : Zachary Whitten
Looking out the plexiglass window, he could see almost all the way across the station. In bed behind him, his Jane sighed and rolled over. She obviously wasn’t a Sardine, her body was too short, her muscles were too big and her skin had the fading remnants of a tan.
He was born and raised on the station. The low gravity and artificial light of the station meant that the people who lived here, half-mockingly called Sardines, grew long, lithe and pale.
It had become a fashionable thing for people of means to leave the brown hotness of Earth and come up to the stations for their vacations. Visiting a Sardine prostitute was a regular pastime for the Earthers. The stations were legal grey areas already, so the brothels fit right along with the plastic surgery clinics and gene-drug houses.
He didn’t mind the job, there wasn’t much else for Sardines his age. He liked this part the best, though. After they were done and she was sleeping. He’d stay awake, pretending that this finery was all his. Pretending he belonged here. After awhile, he’d take all the booze in the minibar and slip out, his Jane still sleeping.