by Trevor Gregg
Except there was no water, no surface nor depths. His head reeled as he struggled to orient himself. Looking around, he realized the scaffolding he had descended served an alternate purpose. It was a means to climb down when under influence of the planet’s gravity. But in zero-g, he saw the tubes and struts as handholds, providing a means of traversing the cabin.
The vertigo ended as he oriented himself along the lines of travel. He attempted to lean forward but the gel had stiffened and held him back. A voice crackled over the loudspeaker, informing the passengers that docking was commencing and to remain seated until instructed by crew.
A loud clunk sounded as the airlocks sealed, followed by a hiss as pressure equalized between the station and shuttle. The gel seat suddenly went soft and squishy again, releasing him. He climbed out of the grav couch and reached for the nearest handhold, then pulled himself hand over hand toward the shuttle exit.
Halfway there, he just couldn’t help himself. He flung himself past the line of passengers, giving himself a push with his leg, which sent him spinning. Twirling, he passed the queuing passengers and sailed through the airlock, into the station.
Laughing, he felt as if Athar were there, as if it were all okay. For just a moment, grim reality receded. He did it, he was in space.
8
The Station
As Kyren walked the corridors, he was reminded of Theta Block; clean, whitewashed, and sterile. There was a fair amount of pedestrian traffic but it was by no means crowded. But unlike Theta Block, Kyren spotted multiple alien beings.
He reached what was the station analog of a city plaza. The ceiling above was two to three stories up and lit brightly. The space was about a hundred yards square, ringed by storefronts. Sitting at the center was an oblong metal sculpture with what looked like steel wings attached. Someone’s idea of art, no doubt, he thought.
Looking around the plaza, he spotted what he suspected was a public network terminal. Trotting over to it, he pulled up a directory, then a map. He had always had a strong direction sense and was a natural at reading and remembering maps. After scanning the map for a minute he located the spacers lounge, an establishment called Willo’s. Setting up another search, he located a hotel on his route. Perfect, set up the residency requirement on the way to the club, he thought.
Arriving at the club, he put a mask of confidence over the trepidation he was feeling as he strode into Willo’s, the doors opening to a lively tune. The great hall had ceilings vaulted twenty feet high and a single massive window occupying one wall from floor to ceiling. The view of the planet Junoval through the window was breathtaking. He stopped and marveled at the sight, all else momentarily forgotten.
He could just barely make out the haze of the debris field ringing the planet, and the vindel drones flitting about. From this vantage he could also see several ships moored to docking gantries below. Reminded of his purpose, he wound his way through the neat rows of tables and across to the bar. A pixie of a woman in a green dress was stationed behind the bar. In fact, she was some sort of pixie, translucent wings draped down her back.
“Pardon me, I…,” he began, but was left speechless as she locked eyes with him.
Her eyes were emerald green, yet shone like neon. They burned into him as he stared, and a warm tingling feeling crept into his brain.
“I surmise…” she pursed her lips, “you came from Dust Quarter, somehow you managed enough for the ticket here, and now you are looking to become a spacer,” the sprightly woman said in a musical voice.
He felt a twinge of pain, a stab of regret, as he thought of Athar. His sadness and guilt must have crossed his face, because she then said “And you have lost a great deal getting here. You are leaving a loved one behind.”
Stunned, he just stared, eyes moistening.
“I am sorry, being an empath, I sense things about others. I did not mean to cause you pain. Let me pour you a drink, on the house,” she said while uncorking large white jug. She poured a bright green liquor into a shot glass. “That is my private reserve, I do hope you enjoy it.”
Wiping his eyes, he took a seat at the bar and eyed the green substance warily.
“I am Willo. And you are?” she asked.
“Kyren. And yes I’m from Dust Quarter. And yes, I just lost my brother,” he said before downing the shot bravely. Surprisingly it didn’t burn, just tingled a little. “And again yes, I am looking to join a ship’s crew.”
She smiled and pointed at a console with a large holopanel around which were clustered several aliens. “That terminal over there allows you to review postings and pass messages back and forth. You will want to seek the greenhorn position.”
He felt the alcohol beginning to take hold, warming him with optimism. “Thanks Willo, for the drink and the info.”
“Be well Kyren,” she said as she turned to the next patron at the bar.
As soon as the aliens were gone from the terminal, he stood in front of it. He swiped and tapped, excitedly maneuvering through the job postings. He sent several messages to captains advertising for greenhorns, then found a table and sat to wait.
Kyren knew he had to find a crew, and fast. He couldn’t afford more than one night on the station. They’d forcefully return him to the surface if he went without registered residence. But his messages had all come back bust. Position filled, position filled, position filled. The alcohol had worn off and he was beginning to feel despondent again.
To chase away the gnawing doubt, he went to check his messages again. And to his delight, there was a response, one that wasn’t titled position filled. Captain Cora of the Lighthawk was requesting a meeting with him at Willo’s two hours from now.
After hours of boredom and waiting, he watched a tall, lean woman in a black duster stride purposefully into the bar, an ornamented pistol hanging at her hip. Her blond hair was shorn short and her blue eyes were bright and alert. She went to the bar, spoke with Willo, and turned as Willo pointed him out.
She had reached the table before he had managed to stand up. She loomed over him and fixed him with a hard stare. “Stand when you meet your captain, greenhorn!” she bellowed.
Kyren jumped to comply. “You mean I’ve got the job?” he asked excitedly.
“The proper way to end the sentence, greenhorn, is Captain.”
“I’ve got the job, Captain?” he said tentatively.
“Yes, you’ll fit the bill. We depart at six o’clock first cycle. Docking bay six nineteen,” she said, turning on her heel and striding from the bar.
He left shortly after, knowing he would be too excited to sleep. He knew he had to try anyway. He trudged up the stairs to his room, swiping the key over the reader embedded in the door. He swung the door open and stepped inside the darkened room.
As the door swung shut, a voice sounded behind him. “Nosco sends his regards.”
Whirling to face the source, he caught a glimpse of a burly man, just before the fist exploded into his face. The blow drove Kyren’s head backward, pinching his brain stem and inducing unconsciousness.
9
Primary Interlude
He felt them. He actually felt them, the ships. His ships. They were as much an extension of him as his own limbs. His fleet comprised of several thousand craft, sleek black and triangular, each loaded with dozens of robotic warriors. He felt those, too, the legions of warriors.
The Epsilon Computer had shown him his future. Puzzling as much of it had seemed, he knew one thing. He would wipe the Consortium and Crevak both from the galaxy. He would punish soldier and bureaucrat alike, general to gentryman. The rage in his heart would become manifest.
He focused his will and the ships streamed through space, trailing from the planet’s orbit into formation before a massive and ancient ring floating in space, a warp gate pre-dating all others. It loomed large before him, not only in space but in his mind as well. He was connected to this gate, the same way as he was the rest. It was an extension of him also. He could f
eel the ancient machinery, the power it harnessed of a scale he could barely comprehend.
Activating the ancient machine, it reached out to the desired gate on the opposite end. The very space within the massive ring began to ripple and undulate as the wormhole was established. It winked into existence and he could see through the hole in space, into Consortium territory.
Ships were stacked up at the warp gate, awaiting their turn to pass through. Beyond them, he could see a massive space station in orbit around a green and blue planet. Parked around the station was a magnificent gleaming white Consortium fleet. Destroyers, frigates, battleships, and even a carrier floated just off the station in loose formation.
Sending his ships through with a thought, he kicked his own black triangular ship into motion and prepared to pass through the gate. The moment they were through, his forces began engaging any ship within range. Blue-white beams emanated from the tips of his triangular craft. The beams tore into the waiting ships, slicing many smaller ships completely in two. Reactor went nova, further damaging surrounding vessels, creating a near-chain-reaction of destruction.
His ships attacked relentlessly, destroying vessels with a cold and ruthless fury. He found that as he fought, he could anticipate any move his opponent made. With redoubled effort he drove his fleet on toward the battle station and awaiting Consortium fleet, which was now on alert and moving into battle formation. The carrier was already belching fighters.
Not feeling the slightest bit deterred, he sped on and engaged the awaiting forces. His craft dodged and juked, avoiding the fighters and weapons fire from the capital ships. He found his mental faculties beginning to strain, each individual stream from each ship began to overwhelm him.
He faltered and one of his ships took a hit from an enemy fighter. Not enough to take it out of the fight but enough, he felt, to be a threat if it were to happen again. Redoubling his efforts he struggled to maintain control of the battle. As he felt control slipping, the mechanical voice of the Epsilon Computer rang out in his head.
“Access my computational resources to ensure victory,” it said flatly.
He felt as if a gulf opened beneath him, and then he realized it was a vast and deep well of mental power, and let himself fall into it. He was suddenly able to simultaneously control each craft while maintaining perfect grasp of his future course.
His ships dodged inside the larger vessel’s fields of fire and attached to the sides. He directed his own craft toward the largest of the Consortium vessels, the carrier. He easily dodged the incoming flurry of defensive fire, sending beams of blue-white energy into the offending weapons turrets, quieting them.
Settling against the side of the carrier, his craft extended a tube. It sealed around the reinforced airlock door. He went to the boarding tube and watched as an automated apparatus rotated a heavy duty laser cutter in a circle around the locked airlock door.
In a blast of smoke and fire, the waiting deathbots blew the door open. They scrambled through the entrance and began to open fire, their weapons pods whining as they acquired and eliminated targets. He could see through each one’s eyes simultaneously, and could direct each one independently, thanks to the computer’s vast processing power.
Each deathbot dodged and weaved, evading fire and returning it with vicious ferocity. Consortium marines dropped like leaves from a tree, as if by slow motion. It was over in mere moments. Every defender in this sector was dead.
He quickly fanned his forces out, sending them to roam the decks and eliminate any signs of life. The two remaining deathbots flanked him as he strode for the bridge. Encountering more resistance, he summarily dispatched the soldiers and crew that opposed him, the deathbots dealing a hail of lethality.
With surprising glee he reached the bridge. He punched in the override code he had foreseen himself using and the doors slid open. His bots commenced firing a millisecond after, strafing the left and right sides of the room, felling crew and marine alike.
Standing from his chair, amidst the grisly slaughter, the captain reached for his pistol. He bounded forward and clamped his metallic hand down upon the Captain’s wrist. With a squeeze he felt the bones pop. Going limp, the man’s hand released the weapon and it clattered to the floor.
“Who the hell are you?” he asked defiantly.
“I’m your death,” he replied ominously, casting the man aside. He stooped and retrieved the fallen pistol.
He placed a metallic foot on the Captain’s chest, pinning him to the floor. Raising the pistol he aimed it at his face.
“I’m Tharox,” he said, pulling the trigger.
10
Searcher
The first thing Kyren was aware of as he drifted back to consciousness was that his hands were bound painfully behind his back. Then he heard the low conversation occurring just outside the small austere room he was lying in. He scanned the room for anything he could use to free himself, but besides the table, two chairs, and a small refrigerator, the room was empty.
Turning his attention to the conversation outside, he could just make out a man speaking, and the muted voice of the man on the other end of a comm call.
“Yes, we’ll get fifty-k in exchange for him,” the man spoke. “No, we don’t have to wait, they are leaving in an hour,” he replied to the muffled inquiry from the caller.
Walking back into the room, the brute spied Kyren looking up at him. “Back to sleep, runt!” he said while delivering a vicious kick to his head. And then all was black again.
He woke with a start, propping himself into a sitting position. He realized he was no longer bound. And then his head began to pound. He felt gingerly around and found the fried egg sized lump received from the thug’s boot. He touched his face, feeling the crusted blood from his split lip. As his head began to clear, he looked around, taking in his surroundings. Sitting against the wall next to him was a small end table. He used it to lever himself upright and immediately regretted it as the pounding in his head intensified.
He gritted his teeth and forced himself to analyze his situation. He was in a small six by ten room, one wall covered by three small bunks. It was then that he noticed the hum. It felt as if the deck were vibrating, a slight rumble from all directions. The rumble increased in volume, and he felt a slight jerk. Then Kyren experienced his first warp jump.
Ripping a hole in space, creating a bridge between two points, the warp gates allowed starships to travel great distances in the blink of an eye. A ship would enter the warp gate in one system, and instantly emerge from the gate’s twin in another system. This network of warp gates allowed for travel throughout a large portion of the galaxy.
Traveling through this hole in space was terribly disorienting for most of the races in the galaxy. And thanks to his splitting head, the effects were amplified. Kyren hit the metal deck beneath his feet like he had been rendered boneless. The world was spinning around him, and he couldn’t seem to get his body to respond in a way that was useful. As he was flopping around like a fish out of water, the door groaned open and a scruffy middle-aged man with salt and pepper hair stepped through. He was wearing a gray jumpsuit and looked a little bleary eyed as well.
“Whoa, easy there, just let it pass.” The man said comfortingly when he spotted Kyren’s distress, his voice gruff but his tone soft.
Kyren stopped trying to right himself and croaked, “What the hell just happened to me?”
“We just passed through a warp gate. That was your first time, I’m guessing?” he replied.
Kyren’s befuddled mind found it hard to grasp the man’s words. Warp gate? Why would Junoval station pass through a warp gate?
“But… how…” he questioned, finally feeling control coming back to his limbs. He struggled into a sitting position and the man hurried over, offering him a hand, helping him to stand.
The man laughed derisively and said “Simple, you get the ship up to critical velocity for the particular gate you are traveling through, and then pop! You
’re halfway across the damn galaxy.”
“Wait, we’re on a ship?” He asked confusedly. “Then how the hell did I get here?”
“Probably the same way as I did” The man shrugged. “Didn’t pay your debts, so your debtor sold you off.”
“So where am I? How can I get out of here?” He queried.
The man snorted. “Get out of here? Are you shittin’ me? The only place to go is the cold vacuum of space. And even if you did have somewhere to go, they won’t let you off the ship until your debt is paid. As for where you are, you’re aboard the Searcher. She’s a salvage vessel.” He explained. “We’re here to work the scrap fields of 88TL99. I’m Jon by the way.”
“I’m Kyren.” Was all he could manage, as despair set in.
11
The Captain
A shrill alarm rang out several times, a light above the door flashing blue. “What does that mean?” Kyren asked nervously.
“Lineup. C’mon, we don’t want to be the last to show,” Jon replied, the door groaning as he opened it.
Kyren noticed several colored stripes running along the wall down the corridor. “What are those stripes?”
“Each one leads you to a different section of the ship,” Jon explained.
They followed the yellow line, intermittent text indicating they were heading toward port cargo bay. Following Jon’s lead, he walked numbly down the corridor. Overpowered by a combination of grief and despair, he stopped and fell to his knees, tears streaking down his cheeks, the harsh metal deckplates grating into them.
