My legs were suddenly heavy, my self was suddenly weighed down. It was as if I was so tired I could barely move, as if I had just eaten five times my daily portion. She caught up with my easily, I was still on the docking platform where I stood, weighted to the ground.

"How's gravity for ya?" She asked, grinning.

"Is it always like this?" I asked. Of all the problems I had imagined us encountering, gravity was not one of them.

"Not always," she replied, "actually, Earth's is even stronger than this."

I eyed her, looking for a note of sarcasm. The thing was, her tone was always slightly sarcastic. As unlikely was it seemed, though, I believed she knew this from experience. She had a way about her, of moving and speaking, that implied she had been places. Not Old Earth specifically, more like everywhere.

"You'll get used to it, station-born," she told me, with a slap on the back, then started off with light steps. I followed as best I could, either lifting my heavy feet too much and high-stepping like a horse or not enough and dragging my feet like a reluctant teenager on a family vacation. Until then I had only ever experienced 'artificial' gravity, which as learned, is a sorry substitute for the real thing.

The docking platform's walls were made of glass on all sides, but artificial lights were still necessary to light our way. Outside was pure forest, thick and dark, blotting out any light from the sun. The leaves were huge, the size of my hand, and grew close together. I almost tripped, looking out the window. She stopped. "Beautiful, isn't it?" She asked, her eyes on the forest.

"Gorgeous," I replied, "do they harvest it?"

"Illegal. They only mine," she informed me, then continued walking. I managed an "Oh," and hurried to catch up. She had all the time in the world, but she was always on the move.

"Pub," she said after a few minutes of walking.

"What?" I asked.

"A pub. We've got to find a pub, that's always where you get the best information. Plus, I could use a drink," she said with a laugh.

We went through a doorway and entered Darbour's marketplace. It was one open room, probably larger than my entire space-station. There were rows and rows of tiny shops, with make-shift parks or places to sit and eat spaced intermittently. People milled about everywhere, bartering, laughing and fighting. It was loud and everything was covered in a thin layer of dark soot. It immediately filled my lungs and coated, I'm sure, every single one of my internal organs. I'm sure some of it's still in there to this day. "Who's in charge of dusting here? Because I think they should be fired," I said between hacks. She just laughed and marched right into the swirl of people, boots clicking on the floor and head held high. "Hazards of a mining planet," she told me when I caught up with her. "Yes, well, they should invest in a vacuum."

"What can I getcha?" The bartender was a large man, with more than one chin but only one arm. His hair was graying and shaggy, his face unshaven. I wasn't sure where the wrinkles ended and the scars began.

"House special, please" she told him, sliding onto a bar stool.

"And for your...friend?" he asked.

"Oh, my pet? Found him wandering in space. You wouldn't happen to know his owner, would you?" She began.

"Anything to get this dust out of my windpipe, please," I cut her off before she could rattle anymore and sat down next to her. The bartender laughed, "You'll get used to the dust, kid." Then he turned to make our drinks. I looked at her as she calmly waited. "What are we doing here?" I asked. "Hm? Oh, rescuing," she replied, glancing around at the other costumers in the bar. She had this way of letting her eyes wander, even while you were talking to her. It gave the impression that she was always on the look-out for something, or someone, better. As if you had to fill the lull in the conversation or risk her boredom. And you jumped at the chance to do it. "Rescuing who? No, wait," I paused, thinking of a better question, what's your name?" She finally looked back to me, surprised. "We forgot introductions!" She exclaimed, sticking out her hand. "Constant. Nice to meet you. And you are, worker 1823? That surely can't be your real name," she asked. It took me two seconds too long to answer her, my mind tripping over her question. "Sam," I finally answered, grabbing her hand. It was dainty, the fingers were slim and tiny, but it was calloused. We shook vigorously and she laughed, but my mind was now preoccupied. Why had it taken so long to remember my name? Had I been worker 1823 for too long?

The bartender set our drinks down, interrupting my thoughts. Constant leaned towards him, elbows resting on the dusty bar. What a strange name, I thought, watching her. "What do you think of your president?" she asked him, sipping her pink drink through a straw. What a strange question to ask. My head swum with mining dust and names. I took a sip and the ice-cold liquid melted down my throat, soothing it.

"Our president?" The bartender repeated, apparently agreeing that the question was strange.

"Yeah," she reiterated, "the Prez. Do you like him? What's up with him?"

"Well, he's been kidnapped, so obviously someone don't like him," the bartender replied, chuckling. I pushed my hands through my hair. It was already full of soot.

"Wait, is that who we're rescuing? The president?" I asked. Instantly, her elbow shot out and connected with my ribs. I glared, but kept my mouth shut. The bartender eyed us, finally noticing something wasn't quite right. Took him long enough.

"Where are you two from, anyway?" he asked.

"News Station 23. We're doing a story on the kidnapping, looking to get some opinions from the locals," Constant answered quickly. He seemed slightly satisfied with her answer, as if they got news people often.

"Alright, well what exactly do you want to know?"

"Anything."

"Well, he's been made to be our president, so I suppose there ain't anything too disagreeable about him."

"Been made?" I butted in, instinctively flinching away from her, lest the elbow come again. It didn't.

"Where'd you say you found him?" the bartender asked Constant, gesturing towards me with his arm. She, of course, laughed.

"Oh, just floating around deep space. He's a bit misinformed, but he's my transmitter. Wouldn't get the news back to the station if it weren't for him."

"Obviously he don't read what ya send. The whole worlds knows about the president, it's been fillin' the news."

"Reading wasn't in the job description," I replied.

He decided to humor me. "Our new president's been made just for Darbour. Made him in the finest labs, they did. Just to suit our needs, fight for our agenda and be extremely personable."

"They made your president?"

"Aye. Saves the hassle of an election. Not that it did 'em much good. Cost a year's worth of mining and now he's just been stolen."

"Kidnapped," she corrected.

"If ya wanna call it that," he shrugged. "That's what they say in the news. I don't much care either way, but a lot of people down here aren't sure if he's something to be kidnapped or something to be stolen."

"A person or a thing?" I clarified.

"He ain't too bright, your pet, is he?" The bartender asked Constant.