This is the 30th installment of a 100-day challenge to write a new vignette every morning.
It didn’t take long for Gary to detect the robbers were amateurs. They struggled with juggling their guns and bags. They stood in an uncertain formation, each moving forward and back as if the group hadn’t decided who would lead the enterprise. Their voices wavered, just a little, when they told him he would die if he tried anything.
Most telling of all: They used his name when addressing him. Thieves had called him many things over the years—but never his name. He didn’t recognize their voices, so he assumed they’d read it off his name tag.
They’d spray painted the glass shields on the front of their helmets except for tiny eyeholes. Gary watched their eyes dart back and forth. He reached for the ship’s autopilot switch, and each trembling gun advanced on him.
“Relax,” Gary said. “You want me to take you to the cargo bay, right? Well, unless you also want to die, I’ve gotta put this baby on autopilot.” The guns lowered.
He led them to the cargo bay as promised and watched them loot the bins. He eyed the airlock. He knew, from experience, that he could make it to the airlock before they trained their guns, and he could flush them out before they even knew what happened. The cargo would be fine. The company strapped it down for a reason.
But they’d called him Gary.
“Y’all in some kind of trouble?” he ventured. The big one started to talk, but the littlest one—a young woman, judging by her voice—whirled to shut him up.
“We’re fine,” she said, moving on to the next bin. Gary grimaced as she began to tear through the freeze-dried vegetables.
“Leave the food,” he said. “It’s for the lunar colony, and this is the last supply run for months. People will die without it.”
The robbers said nothing, but they left the food.
Miles Away 