Racers of the Night: Science Fiction Stories by Brad R. Torgersen by Brad R. Torgersen

compactor. With Eta Cassiopeiae setting, we each took turns at the single outhouse, and finally stumbled into bed—EC5’s three small moons beginning to rise over the eastern hills. Though, calling them moons was probably a bit too generous. They were captured asteroids: one trailing behind the other, which trailed behind the other again. I imagined the miners and engineers working all day and all night—all planetary year long—turning those moons into way stations for the big colonial ships that would eventually bring more people from Earth; once EC5’s biosphere had been sufficiently beefed up. Two, maybe three more human generations.
    Some day EC5 would be a garden. But not yet.
    With night fully upon us, Ivarsen activated the electric fence which cordoned off the prisoner hooches from the guard hooch. Like most nights, I found the familiar hum from the fence’s transformer to be oddly soothing. I also wondered if tonight I’d be awakened by yet another horrified scream.
    “Don’t bite off more than you can chew, kid,” I said quietly, and laughed.
    Smiling in spite of myself, I faded into oblivion.
    • • •
    Morning came, and Godfrey was undamaged. In fact, we had to go kick him out of his cot an hour after sunrise. The activities of the day before had thoroughly exhausted him, despite his youth and size. Grousing and giving us the finger, Godfrey hastily pulled on his jumper and work boots. We ate a microwaved breakfast, used the outhouse again, then took the dumper back into the crater.
    This time the kiln was sufficiently cool. Needle in the green.
    Lisa used the dumper’s claw arm to lever the kiln’s huge door out of the way—like the angel rolling aside the stone at the crypt of Jesus—and we all walked in to inspect our work. Even Ivarsen, who seemed to take genuine pleasure in seeing the finished bricks, all lined neatly on their stacked ceramic pallets, ready to be sent north and laid into homes, shops, offices, apartments, and everything else that needed building.
    Lisa and I showed Godfrey how to check for cracks and damaged bricks, which we’d separate from the rest when we used a shovel—now modified with a fork on its arm—to lift each pallet from the kiln and place it carefully near the dumper.
    The kid just grunted, saying, “Whatever,” and began examining the kiln’s contents. He did it with the enthusiasm of a six year old being made to eat asparagus.
    Lisa followed me out of the kiln while I went to get my canteen. Constant hydration was an ever-present necessity this far south.
    “Lee,” Lisa said as she leaned close to me, “I’m so sick of getting stuck with these morons.”
    “Yeah. Must be slim pickings these days. Pretty soon Corrections might have to start drafting civilians for the brick brigades.”
    Ivarsen, who had been getting out of the dumper’s cab, laughed mightily. “That’ll be the day! Imagine how much they’d have to pay union workers to come out here and do what you guys do for free.”
    “You’re union,” I said, with sarcasm.
    “Damn right,” Ivarsen replied, thumping his chest with a fist.
    We shared a smile between the three of us. Then came a sudden yelp from the kiln, followed by the sound of a pallet collapsing and bricks tumbling.
    “Lord,” Lisa said, rolling her eyes.
    We hurried back through the kiln entrance to find Godfrey hopping up and down on one leg while he held the other foot. Obscenities peeled from his lips.
    Lisa, Ivarsen and I almost fell over, it was so funny.
    “Stop laughing,” Godfrey fumed.
    “Kid,” I said, “One man’s pain is another man’s pleasure.”
    Godfrey’s mouth grimaced sourly as he prepared to give me a four-lettered broadside, but then he stopped.
    All the pallets were rattling violently.
    “What the—?”
    The booming rumble shuddered through the floor of the kiln.
    “Quake!” Ivarsen yelled.
    Really? I’d not been through one of those since I’d been a boy.
    What happened next was a