Free The Beam: Season Two by Sean Platt, Johnny B. Truant

warehouse dome and felt like a train station mixed with a repair garage. The sounds were all sharp and too full of echo. Kate could hear the clatter of a luggage shuttle from a recently arrived and de-docked civilian transport all the way across the dome. She could hear a pinging noise — the sound of a hammer striking metal or Plasteel — somewhere that she couldn’t pinpoint. The buzz of conversation formed a soup overhead, seeming to assault Kate from everywhere as she made her way toward the main hub down a utilitarian strip of red carpet.  
    But before she could make the door, a blunt voice hit Kate like a bludgeon.  
    “Hey, hon,” it said. “You’re dragging your panties.”  
    Kate spun. Three elevator mechanics were leaning against an enormous rivet-driving rig, their faces and hands smudged with grease. All were smiling, and one was pointing. Kate followed his finger and saw that something had, indeed, sneaked its way mostly out of her bag, dangling onto the carpet beneath the bag’s built-in hovercart. Not panties, but a sweatshirt. She didn’t plan to stay for more than a few hours, but sometimes lunar environments (especially the poorly insulated ones used by her smuggling ilk) were chilly, and she’d learned to be prepared.  
    She reached down and tucked it in, then resumed walking.  
    “What, no thanks?”  
    Kate stopped then turned. The man was grinning like he had a coat hanger stuck in his mouth. Against his dirty face, his teeth seemed especially white.  
    “Thanks.”
    “Maybe she can show you her thanks,” said the man beside him, also grinning.
    Kate rolled her eyes and again began walking toward the door. The elevator was anchored in the middle of an absolutely titanic space. Plenty of people took hoverskippers or dedicated surface transports to reach the hub, where the hamster tubes converged, but Kate was her own woman, and hoverskippers were for tourists. The downside was this sort of thing — this inconvenience of fraternizing with locals. Looking as Kate did, this wasn’t the first time she’d been courted by garage Casanovas.  
    “Look at that,” said a new voice behind Kate’s back, apparently belonging to the third man in the group. “She’s not even thankful. She would’ve gotten her panties all dirty if not for you.”  
    A chorus of manly laughter chased the comment.  
    “Not nice!” the first man yelled.  
    Kate stopped again. They’d cease their catcalls soon enough. The elevator was used by all types, from scientists to miners to businesspeople to nuns to civilians who didn’t mind microgravity living as an alternative to Earth’s hurly-burly. Beam AI watched the entire garage, but it didn’t take AI to spot behavior unbecoming the Perseus Corporation and its contract to run the lunar elevator. If the workers kept running their mouths and the AI didn’t flag them (which it would), a supervisor would surely intervene. The workers knew how far they could push and where to stop, but they were still working Directorate guys and couldn’t resist getting their dicks out over a pretty lady.  
    Kate slid her bag to the side, tapped the handle to turn off the hovercart, and allowed it to settle onto the concrete before turning to approach the men. She’d been told often that she didn’t walk like a lady, but her appearance more than made up for it. She was over 180 centimeters tall, with large breasts that defied gravity even on the planet below. She had straight blonde hair that she usually wore in a ponytail because she wasn’t sure what the hell else to do with it. Her features were exotic and widely spaced, her blue eyes shaped like almonds. She had lips that always formed a somewhat come-hither pucker, and men really seemed to like it when she drank through straws — or, ideally, ate bananas.  
    The men acted predictably as she approached. They floundered a little because the gals they catcalled weren’t supposed to respond, and laughed among