The Weight Allowance¶
The 4:17 from Sector 7 didn't stop at Kestrel Platform. Hadn't in twelve years. The rails were welded shut, the schedule painted over in municipal grey. But Elias braked the shuttle fifty meters past the yellow line anyway, the tires hissing on frost-cracked asphalt.
Mrs. Varga stood under the broken canopy. Eighty-three, maybe eighty-four. Her coat was wool, pre-regulation, the collar turned up against a wind that carried rust and wet leaves. Beside her: two suitcases. Samsonite. Brown. The latches were brass, worn bright by decades of opening.
"Driver," she said. Not a question.
Elias killed the engine. The shuttle's heater ticked, cooling. He unlatched the cargo bay. The hydraulic whine was loud in the quiet.
He grabbed the nearest handle. His shoulder locked. The case didn't budge.
"Mrs. Varga." He adjusted his grip, boots planting on the gravel. "What's in these?"
"Same as always." She didn't move to help. Her hands stayed folded at her waist, knuckles thick as walnuts. "Winter things. Papers. The teacups."
"The teacups are porcelain. This feels like—"
"Drive, Elias. The 4:17 waits for no one."
He tried the second case. Same resistance. Metal biting into his palms. He crouched, breathing hard, and heaved the first onto the loading lip. The shuttle's suspension groaned, the chassis dropping three inches. The second followed. The tires flattened visibly.
The cargo bay door wouldn't close all the way. The latch caught on a protruding corner.
Elias climbed back into the cab. His hands were trembling. He checked the rearview: Mrs. Varga settling into the fold-down seat behind the bulkhead, suitcases wedged tight against the partition. She buckled the lap belt. Click.
"Sector 12," she said. "The usual drop."
The shuttle pulled away. Kestrel Platform vanished in the mirror, empty again, the welded rails catching the last light.
At the Sector 12 depot, the night supervisor waited. Clipboard. Fluorescent vest. "Elias. You're fourteen minutes late. And the cargo bay—"
"Mrs. Varga. Kestrel stop."
The supervisor's pen stopped. "Kestrel's condemned. No service since '31."
"She had luggage."
"Right." The supervisor nodded, writing. "Weight allowance?"
"Over. Way over."
"Log it as humanitarian. Code 9." He tore the sheet, handed it over. "Get the bags to her door. The elevator's been out since Tuesday."
Elias nodded. He unlatched the bay. The cases sat there, innocent, brown, impossible.
He lifted the first. His knees popped. He carried it to the lobby, set it down. Went back for the second.
Mrs. Varga waited in her doorway, key in hand. The hallway smelled of boiled cabbage and disinfectant. She inserted the key and turned it.
"Thank you, Elias."
He watched her drag the first case across the threshold. It scraped the floorboards. She didn't strain. The second followed, lighter in her hands than in his.
The door clicked shut.
Elias stood in the hall. His palms were raw, the skin split at the calluses. He flexed his fingers. The weight was gone, but the ghost of it remained in his shoulders, his spine, the soles of his feet.
He walked back to the shuttle. The night shift driver was already climbing in, checking the log.
"Varga run?" the new driver asked.
"Every Tuesday. Thursday. Saturday."
"Heavy?"
Elias looked at his hands. "Depends who's carrying."