Year: MG1507
The nightmare again. Always the same. The engineers and technicians in their jumpsuits pointing and laughing. Their laughter echoing throughout the massive hangar bay. Everyone’s Transit Shuttle is in formation in rows and columns gleaming silver and metallic except her’s—Noa’s ship is misaligned, out of order, and crudely organic. It pulses with a meaty tremble and drips wet with wave after wave of frothing, seething, blood thick blood. Blood by the wave-full, tidal falls of it—from every direction, washing everything away. Filling her whole world. Drowning her—
Noa woke in a cold sweat, scratched her eyes open, scanned the room for dangerous and then held her wrist terminal a little too close to her face to check the time. She groaned, “Stupid dream,” rolled out of bed and five minutes later was clothed, packed, and standing in front of the exit door ready for the next job but somehow lacking the will to just lift-off. So, Noa does what she does when this happens—
Noa freezes—her eyes closed. Leaning forward, balanced somewhere between the door and that last step. Her right hand, open mid-reach, hovered three millimeters from the keypad. She exhaled one last time, breathing the word f-u-c-k softly; forcing the word from her belly, pushing it up and out of her throat. She expels it. For half a minute, Noa becomes serenity. A thirty-second reverie. She re-centers herself. Sees the empty barrier before her and pierces it as a blinding white sliver of light. Mantra. Noa opens her eyes and tapped the Open Button on the keypad. The exit door slid open.
Tarka City exploded through Noa’s open apartment door. The heat-stink hit like a gravity boot on a deck plate. Hard and permanent. Swamp gas, excrement, piss, and all the death and decay of humanity wafted in the humidity. Noa winced, stepping from her door into the searchlight of a passing patrol vehicle. The cops and military, forever on the prowl, a constant reminder that no one was safe. Even the big families get rousted, disappeared. Best to stay unseen. Keep a low profile.
Noa looked at her wristwatch and cursed. “Fifty-two seconds off.” She shakes her head and locked the door behind her, listening for the sound of the deadbolt and the five-point lock to seal and lock into place. Shouldering her rucksack, she checked her weapon one last time, and made for the transit station at an easy but deliberate pace.
Leochares, low on the horizon, painted the sky in violet washes of gaseous light as it rises in the west. Heat from the sun stirred-up warm burps from the planet’s swampy core, seeping through cracks in the layers of concrete. Noa wrinkled her nose and checks the time again, then adjusted her pace accordingly. Never pays to be late.
At 0500 on the dot, the Tarka City Transit Express shuttle hovered to a stop at the corner station. Its hydraulic ramp hissed as it lowered, docking clamps locking-in with a magnetic click. Noa stepped onto the ramp and waited for the doors to slide open.
“Morning, Noa,” croaked the driver from behind his clear safety barrier and full-faced helmet.
Once, in another life, this had been Noa’s route. Her transit shuttle. Her flight path. Her responsibility. Now it was just a convenient and reasonably inconspicuous way to get to the Margin Industrial Zone.
Noa tucked herself into the empty spot behind the pilot, laced her left hand through a safety loop. The pilot—what was his name—Milas, or maybe Micak, made eye contact with her in the rearview mirror. “Hey Noa, uh, by the way, Feitor says you’re always welcome back, you know.”
Milazar, that was it, Milazar. “Thanks,” said Noa, then turned and stared out the window. “I’ll keep it in mind.” Why was it always so hard to be firm without being disrespectful?
It was only after leaving the job that Noa realized just how much of a syndicate Tarka City Transit Express really was. What had Feitor said the day she’d quit? Everyone needs a family. That had made Noa laugh all the way out the door. And had kept her grinning like a maniac, ear to ear, all the way back to her tiny apartment where she’d locked the door, turned off the lights, and bawled her eyes out sobbing and sobbing until everything she’d ever felt was on the floor in front of her, ridiculing and threatening—the image of the man she’d hit, his blood sprayed across the front of her transit shuttle, playing over and over in her head. Coworkers shuffling by as if nothing had happened while this stranger’s brain matter and bits of bone dripped like ruined ice cream from her shuttle.
Everyone needs a family. The dumb irony of Feitor’s sentiment had landed like an indictment. It hadn’t helped that he’d gone on to explain how cheap life was. How one man never really mattered more than any other because we’re all the same. And the inevitable wrap-up, “Look on the bright side, kid, at least it wasn’t you. At least you’re still walking.” She’d wanted to scream, unload right there in Feitor’s stuffy little office straight into his fat cajoling face. It had been her. She’d hit a man. It was obvious. Everyone could see that she had smashed him like an insect on a windshield. Killed him dead and hadn’t even noticed until the end of her shift when she landed back at the shuttle bay.
After that, flying was just a job. A set of routines that her body and mind expertly performed but that her heart no longer loved, because, what was the point if we could all end up anonymously obliterated on the front of a transit shuttle? She’d keep flying—Noa had promised herself that. But the joy of it, like the man’s face she’d never know, was gone. Yeah, life was cheap in Malin Galaxy, but the tax on her conscience was due daily.
Noa stared out the window as the Express shuttle gained elevation as it rocketed to the other side of Tarka. It took thirty-seven minutes to travel four hundred and fifty kilometers with fifty-three passengers. Everyone busied themselves with wrist terminals, holo-tabs or holo-glasses, and earbuds. No one spoke. This early morning shuttle was a quiet reprieve in a universe of constant noise. Every passenger respected it. Quiet was good. Safe. Comforting. Whatever chaos the day held for everyone, this brief moment of calm was theirs. None violated its sanctity.
The shuttle arced effortlessly across the sky while far below Tarka went about its early morning business. Ships of all sizes maneuvered and took their places in line to fuel or defuel. Vapor clouds formed and dispersed, betraying the location of pockets of swamp gas somewhere beneath the endless levels of buildings. Freight shuttles, cargo runners, and personnel transports chained orbiting mega-freighters to the surface. And far in the distance, escaping fumes ignited, flaring against the violet-turning-orange streaked horizon. Noa watched it all, seeing none of it. Her empty face, inches from the window, reflected at her with an ethereal opacity. A stoic ghost embedded in glass, emoting her inner thoughts. Just another day. Just another job. Just keep going. Just gotta keep going.
The shuttle decelerated and smoothly came to a stop. When the docking clamps engaged with a slight bump, Noa untangled her hand from the safety loop and took her place in the jumbled queue waiting for the doors to unseal. From here she needed to push through the exiting crowd, shove her way into a packed lift and descended from the transit platform to the living streets Margin below.
Margin was an industrial no-man’s-land. It bordered the City of Tarka and Caldeira Flats, a nasty little manufacturing hub of the sprawling metropolis of Balayang. A thousand square kilometers of warehouses, factories, scrap yards, smoldering waste pits, reclamation centers and encampments that reached the mud seas. Down here, smoke blotted the sky out and the air reeked of sulfur, swamp gas, and spent fuel.
Noa picked her way through the morning masses, eventually turning down a well-lit alley that opened onto the broad concrete loading plaza on the Northside of Warehouse Balayang Delta, a structure a city block wide and three-hundred stories tall. Her small stature and feminine frame stood out against the ballet of biomechanically enhanced laborers who appeared, at least physically, more machine than man. If anyone noticed Noa, no one signaled it.
When she reached the side entrance to the warehouse, a retina scanner verified her identity and produced a keypad from a hidden panel where she typed her company issued passcode. The key panel accepted her password with a perfunctory tritone and the door opened with a rush of air.
The security team acknowledged Noa with a nod as she crossed directly to the lift that she knew would carry her to the executive floor for her briefing. Alone in the elevator but still aware of the cameras, Noa allowed herself to relax half a notch. Who’s briefing today? She wondered. Please, not Reis.
Reis was endlessly annoying with his meaningless anecdotes, offhand criticisms, and weaselly scheming eyes. Reis was a family man, a fact he wore on his sleeve like some sort of respectability badge. But something about his presence made Noa feel uncomfortable. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but there was something unmistakably unreliable about Reis. Maybe I’ll get lucky. She thought. Maybe it’s Amans today. Noa liked Amans. Sure, he was a bit rough around the edges and maybe a little too loud, but he was always straightforward. No stories. No hype. No posturing. No extra gotchas. Just business.
The elevator doors opened directly into the meeting room. Noa frowned. Reis was standing behind a table at the far side of the room, flipping through something on his holo-tab. He looked concerned, distracted. Noa stifled a groan, exited the lift, and crossed the distance to the table, coming to a stop directly opposite Reis.
Reis spoke without looking up from his device. “Good. You’re on time. Your pick up is on Ubume—the main station.”
“No stories today?” Noa asked, shoving her hands into her jacket pockets. She couldn’t resist.
With a drooping tired expression, Reis looked up at Noa and stared for a moment too long before saying, “Your regular supplies are already in your locker on the lunar station. Codes and all. Everything’s there. Ship’s fueled and ready.” Then he went back to frowning and poking at his holo-tab.
That’s it, huh? Thought Noa, and pushed. “Something up?” A heads-up was always a welcome advantage.
Reis raised an eyebrow and again stared at Noa for a moment too long until finally—“The number crunchers aren’t happy. We lost money on Hinny’s last run. A lot of money. The product was—well, let’s just say—spoiled.” Reis’s long, thin lips spread into an empty smile. “We expect you back in four weeks. Don’t dally. It’s a simple round trip.”
Reis came around the table and patted Noa’s shoulder.
“Stay safe, Noa,” he said and then turned away, walked to the lift, and disappeared behind gleaming metal doors that Noa, even at this distance, could see herself reflected in. Noa shivered reflexively, then forced a yawn to mask the shiver. You never know who’s watching. Better to play it safe.
Hinny wasn’t thorough. He played the game fast and loose. That’s all it was. Everyone knew it. He’d made mistakes before. It was probably just catching up to him. Get sloppy and your luck turns sour. Stay sloppy and your luck runs out. Simple as that. It was only a matter of time. Doesn’t matter, Noa told herself. Nothing she could do. And even if there was—Not my problem. For a brief moment, she heard her father’s voice drift up from the past to bolster her conscience. That’s right, kid. You keep your head down and just keep moving. That’s how we do, little girl, that’s how we do!
Noa was a delivery-boy. She picked up the goods and delivered them. No questions asked. Never once had she failed a Jump Gate security scan. It was a point of pride for Noa that her license and papers were impeccable, beyond reproach. Her record: boring. Nothing to look at. Nothing to scrutinize. She wasn’t a ghost. She wasn’t selling stealth. She was a cog. A visible gear interfacing with the galactic machinery of markets and supply chain. And she performed her function reliably, without question, and in a consistent and deliberate manner that inspired confidence and trust. Like that old Master Chief back in flight school was fond of saying—Noa, you’re a good piece of gear!
Still—though, Noa thought to herself, sounds like Hinny’s retiring the hard way. So much for member’s benefits and retirement plans—. She gasped, visualizing Hinny’s face, slack-jawed in repose. Not my problem. Gotta keep moving.
The shuttle to Ubume was a bumpy four-hour flight. This time, the gravity drive failed only twice. Both incidences, the crew had it up and running in a few minutes. Nothing lasts for long in the big black and every captain and corporation running hard vacuum prioritized fuel and ammunition over comfort items like gravity generators and backup life-support systems. Life is simple when you no longer feel the pressure of needing to matter. Or so the saying goes—a stoic seed for the kind of reckless bravado required to fuel working lives.
Ubume Station was an overcrowded cesspool of rust-bucket freighters, broken-down defense shuttles, tent cities, corporate offices, warehouse hangers, and holo-bazaars. A junkyard gray-market pit-stop. An entire universe inside a snow globe, or at least that’s what it always felt like to Noa.
The massive jetway door slid open and Ubume’s noise hit first. A cacophony of competing pop and indigenous music—every station had its unique catalog—mixed with merchants calling their wares, advertisements blaring from holo-displays of every conceivable size that covered every available surface. People talking, bartering, catching up, enforcing, and somewhere above it all the dry amplified voice of official station notifications announcing imminent docking, departures, and inspection requirements.
Noa slipped her earbuds in and wrinkled her nose as she stepped from the jetway. The greasy smoke of cart vendor vat meats mixed freely with off-gassing fuels, lubricants, and cleaning solvents, which in turn commingled with resident body odor, urine, and excrement. The reek of the place was pervasive. Gonna have to burn my clothes after this run, thought Noa as she pushed through the station’s crowds on her way to the pilot’s lounge to retrieve the drop-bag that Reis’ people would’ve stashed there in a locker for her. But the crowds were antagonistic, like trying to navigate a sticky, slow-motion explosion. Noa slowed her pace to match the station’s pedestrian traffic. No reason to fight it and best not to stay too long on the stations. Another rule. Get what the job needed and get going. Don’t get distracted.
Noa retrieved the drop-bag from the secure locker in the Pilot’s lounge and rifled through its contents. Everything she needed was there, plus a little extra: a jumpsuit, food, water, condensed oxygen canisters, ammunition and a stack of hard credit chits—she’d have to remember receipts if she used any of it. Drop-bag secured, Noa went looking for the ship.
As her dossier said, she found her on sub-level C, bay nineteen. A fast hauler, Trau Class, named Phung Hung. Trau were known for their reinforced hulls, solid gravity drives, and minimal crew needs. This Trau sported a full fire-blazing phoenix, painted in vivid color and depth, erupting from the exterior cargo bay doors.
Noa boarded the Phung Hoang via a maintenance jetway to the bridge. Locking the exterior door behind her, she situated herself and glanced at the exterior hull monitors as they cycled, showing different perspectives of the hull. “Cool. Very nice.” Noa said, noticing the Phoenix on the cargo bay doors.
Noa dumped the drop-bag at her feet, pulled out the Phung Hoang embroidered jumpsuit, and changed into it. A little extra camouflage never hurt, and it doubled as a soft EVA suit. Add helmet and gloves and Noa was vacuum ready. Another rule. Always be vacuum ready. A pea-sized piece of space junk could ruin a run real fast. Always better to be prepared.
Noa zipped up her jumpsuit, then secured her rucksack and drop-bag in a bulkhead locker near the rear of the flight deck. Everything in its place. Sitting in the pilot’s chair, she brought up the controls and keyed the pre-flight commands into the console. The engines clicked their thousand count then roared and whirred into life, humming contently. Noa double-checked the air recycler, backup life-support, lighting, comms, and hatch seals. Everything green but no surprise there; Reis would’ve made sure the ship was run-ready. In her element, Noa smiled to herself and whispered, “Time to fly.”
That whole outside world was gone now, melted away. All the shit and stank of it banished to the other side of the hull. The manipulations, the mind-games, the money-games—all the meanness of the world was now hermetically locked-out, effectively secured and out of reach where it couldn’t get to her. Only Noa, the ship, and that wide-open void remained. “All right—” said Noa out loud. “Let’s go to Temple-Palisade Station.”
The decoupling arm released the Phung Hoang. Noa eased the ship backward with maneuvering thrusters and the ship glided away from the dock. Smooth as clockwork. When she reached a safe distance from the lunar station, Noa fired the secondary engines and took off. The ride to the Jump Gate queue was smooth and boring, perfect. A chime altered Noa to the Jump Gate Authority’s transponder log. Seconds later, the message to proceed to the final queue for the Gate flashed on her display.
Now close enough to feel dwarfed by the gargantuan structure, Noa allowed a sliver of her old joy of flying in. They might as well be magic, she thought as she guided the Phung Hoang through the bright swirling veil that bridged the spacetime between the stars.
—
The approaching ship was too fast. Warning lights were already flashing by the time Noa noticed it on the scopes. And then it was on her.
“Oh, fuck me. Who the hell is this?”
Noa attempted to scan the pursuing vessel, but the Phung Hoang wasn’t equipped with much of a sensor package. Her attempts to raise comms with the aggressor went unanswered. Then the shooting started.
A volley of energy beams struck the Phung Hoang in a circular pattern on her vulnerable port quarter. Noa frowned, shaking her head, “Engine shots. Trying to board us.” Orange and magenta control lights indicating warnings blinked and flashed.
Another volley, smaller this time, three pulse-beams of intense energy impacted consecutively, again pummeling the port quarter—BAM-DA!—DAM!—DAM!—A concussive wave rocked the Phung Hoang violently throwing Noa against the seat’s restraining harness, momentarily crushing the wind from her chest. Time slowed. Noa gasped for air, a fish out of water, fighting to kick start her breathing.
Objects flew past Noa’s head in every direction and speed: a water-bottle, a pen, a penlight, something that sort of looked like an insect but was moving too fast to tell—then the zero-g whiplash, and everything slowly paused again as the shockwave passed through. Then another savage thrashing in the safety harness and a choir of alarms sounded from engineering and then above it all—above all the chaos and crashing and thrashing a piercing screech-ring on the shortwave while comms locked and synced. And across came the ultimatum: Surrender the cargo. Prepare to be boarded.
“There goes my record—” Noa said. “What am I hauling?” She called-up and opened the manifest file: Perishable foodstuffs, 12 units. Synthetic Copper Gaskets, 50 units.—while she brought up the cargo bay camera, which showed twelve over-sized rectangular boxes that gave the appearance of refrigeration units.
Noa stared at the flickering image from the cargo bay camera, the rectangular boxes lined-up back-to-back in two columns of six. Did you set me up, Reis?
Noa disengaged her harness and made for the cargo bay. “Foodstuffs, my happy ass. Let’s see what I’m dying for.”
The cargo bay door whooshed open before her, moving too slow for her boiling anger. “Setup. Reis—ugh!” Locking eyes on the nearest container, she closed the distance and knew immediately what she was actually looking at.
“Oh, you bastards—look at this!” The containers were obviously suspension chambers. Class A cryopods. No effort to conceal the fact had been made.
The front of each crate had a clear panel with a metal plaque with an inscription. Noa frowned. The language on the container was unfamiliar. Exasperated, she scanned it with her wrist terminal. A small projection above the device read: Hayashi Corporation, Soldier Guardian: 1V4Y10. Human Cybernetic Hybrid. Status: Suspended.
“Unbelievable!” Stolen military hardware. Noa opened the chamber’s view-display to get a look at the suspended face inside. It was a man of indeterminable age. Neither old nor young. Sharp features. Dark skin. Lean. Silver hair and the unmistakable translucent edgings of cybernetic enhancements. He was the real deal. “From shit to worse,” Noa said softly.
The Phuong Hoang trembled again from another direct hit. Noa closed her eyes while the ship quaked around her, then clenched her teeth and said, “Fukit.”
She grabbed the molded inset handle on the side of the chamber and pulled it hard. Air hissed out as the chamber opened. Noa stepped out of the way of the chamber’s lid as it raised, held aloft by four hydraulic arms.
Gas and atmosphere spilled from the capsule and Guardian, 1V4Y10, opened his eyes. Noa immediately started talking. “I am your transport pilot. We are being attacked and boarded. I need you to defend the ship so I can deliver you safely. Do you understand?”
Guardian: 1V4Y10 blinked once, “I understand.”
“I’m Noa.”
“Are you injured, Noa?”
“No.”
“Are you armed?”
Noa sighed and handed the soldier her weapon. “Yeah, here.”
The Guardian disconnected himself from the chamber’s wires and tubing while he spoke. “I’m enumerating assets. Please holster your weapon.” and then pulled himself free and scanned the cargo hold. His nakedness was a minor, if not palpable, distraction. It’s not like I’ve never seen a naked man. Said Noa to herself. Her body responding with the hormonal equivalent of yeah, but it’s been a while since we were this close to our favorite flavor.
Noa faced away, whispering as she shoved both her hands into her jumpsuit pockets, “Focus.”
“This is a Trau hauler, yes?”
“Yeah.” Noa looked back and the Guardian was clothed in tight-fitting matte black armor. It absorbed and reflected light, creating its own shadows, blending indistinguishably with existing natural shades.
“They’ll come through the secondary airlock. Traus are a valuable salvage. Destroying the ship would be a waste.” The Guardian looked from Noa’s holstered side-arm back to Noa and then surveyed the cargo bay. “Your ammunition will be ineffective against their armor. Aim for vulnerable areas. Faceplates, joints, fuel cells—Who is attacking us?”
Noa shrugged, “I assume Hayashi corpo pros but I don’t know. They’re fast and hard to see and this ship’s sensors are kinda blind so—” Noa nodded at the other suspension chambers. “I think they’re here for you and your friends.”
The Guardian stared at Noa, calculating. “There is no other cargo?”
Noa shook her head, “No. Just you guys, me—I’m the pilot and the ship.”
The Guardian seemed satisfied, nodding his affirmative, “Yes, we are more valuable than you and your ship together.”
Noa frowned, “Thanks for reminding me, jack—”
Another massive energy pulse-beam slammed into Phung Hoang, wiping out the remaining subsystems. The main flood and panel lights went dark, causing a momentary blackout ship-wide before the emergency green safety LEDs and small amber flashing strobes above exits sputtered into life.
The Guardian turned away. “Conceal yourself. They are here.”
—
Seven minutes forty-three seconds and so much noise and gore later that Noa thought she might just puke from the sheer sensory overload of it all and then the Guardian stood up from out of nowhere and floated in from the shadows dragging two corpses with him which he stacked in the airlock with the rest.
“Are you injured?” he asked. He tapped his helmet, and it disappeared, disassembling into tiny blocks into the collar of his armored suit.
Noa pulled her helmet as well, tucking it under her arm. “No, I’m fine. We better go to the cabin. I need some water and something to eat before I mop up all the—blood. Do you eat?”
“Yes. A hose.”
“Excuse me?”
The Guardian looked back at the carnage strewn cargo bay. “A hose will be more effective than a mop.”
“Sure.” Noa nodded wide-eyed, “But food first. Hose later.” Noa tapped-open the compartment door and the Guardian followed close behind, a looming, intimidating presence.
“Okay, here’s the cabin. The galley is behind this bulkhead here.” Noa opened a panel revealing a compact galley with a coffeemaker, freezer for foodstuffs, and cabinets of prepackaged zero-g safe food. “I’ll show you how to use anything you need. The head is at the end of the hall to the left. There’s a sign above the door. There are two bunks behind the door next to the head. I sleep up here. I don’t feel comfortable being too far from the controls when I’m solo. The seats lay flat, so that’s a sleeping option too.” She tapped her chin while thinking, “Don’t touch the controls. I don’t care if you’re a pilot—Don’t touch this ship. There’s probably more, but we’ll start there, okay?”
The Guardian went to the galley and withdrew a pouch of liquid from a cupboard. Drinking the contents in a few thirsty gulps, he tossed the bag into the recycler, familiar, like he had already spent months aboard the Phung Hoang.
“I get it. Old hat, huh?” Noa plopped down in the pilot’s seat as the adrenaline drained, leaving her exhausted. “Do you have a name?”
“My alpha-numeric designation is—1V4Y10,” he replied, taking a seat in the co-pilot’s seat across from Noa.
Noa frowned. “Yeah, okay. I’m gonna call you—Ivaylo. It’s easier—” Noa smiled. “—and prettier. Ivaylo—say it with me, EE-vay-low. ”
“Ivaylo. Another gift, thank you.” Ivaylo bowed solemnly. “If the Hayashi Security Forces had succeeded in their aspirations, they likely would have disabled and jettisoned all of our cryopods.”
“I thought they were after lost property?” Asked Noa as she walked crossed the cabin to the galley wall to pull two trays out of the freezer. “Noodles with tofu and peanut-lime sauce—Sound good?”
Ivaylo shrugged and scanned the compartment. “This ship is designed for a single conscious person. I don’t want to jeopardize your supplies. I can return to the stasis chamber I came in.” He rose to his feet, preparing to exit.
“No. Wait.” Noa let out a long breath. “We’re stocked for three people adrift for a year. Company policy. You saved my life. The least I can do is feed you. Sit down. Relax. For the next few days, you’re my guest. As far as I’m concerned, you’ve earned your keep.” Noa unwrapped the seals from the trays of food and stuffed them into the warmer. “You haven’t asked where we’re going yet?”
Ivaylo replied, “I assumed the highest bidder. To a master who will not waste my skills or training.”
“You okay with that?” Noa snickered. “You’re a slave being taken to Temple-Palisade Station, where they’re going to sell you to the first warlord or wannabe-asshole who can afford you.”
“That is how it has always been.”
“Seems brutal.”
“Our world is one of terrifying beauty.”
“You seem pretty calm about it.”
“I don’t have memories of my life before my training. My hardware gives my master the ability to erase my short-term memory. At Hayashi we are wiped every three months. This prevents us from forming unnecessary bonds. I fought for my position and status. I have no delusions of what I am. Once I was small and hungry and afraid. Now I am capable and skilled. This is a favorable position compared to where I originated.”
Noa stared at Ivaylo. “Well… that got heavy pretty fast.”The warmer chirped, alerting their food was ready. Noa transferred the contents of one tray into a bowl and handed it to Ivaylo and they consumed their meal without the cushion of conversation. Only the low volume of the news ticker padded the silence. The display showing the majestic starlit black-within-gone of space.
—
The next morning, Noa awoke to a gravity-safe container of coffee steaming in the beverage holder in the arm of her seat. Noa managed a morning smile, rubbed sleep from her eyes and sat up. “Thanks.” Noa sipped the beverage, savoring the dark, tannin bitter flavor.
Ivaylo asked, “Do you always have nightmares?”
Noa threw an incredulous look at him. “Really? Just right into it, huh? Yeah, okay—I have this one nightmare—same one every time—where I kill a man. I’m a shuttle pilot for Tarka City Transit in Balayang, Meshall. I have an accident and hit a guy. I didn’t see him. Don’t even know I’ve hit someone until after I return to the Transit station where everyone just laughs it off like it’s normal—”
“So you punish yourself by operating as a pilot for a smuggling syndicate?” said Ivaylo, sipping his coffee casually.
“Nothing gets past you, huh?—yeah, it’s quiet out here. Nothing bothers me on a run,” Noa said to herself before scowling at Ivaylo. “—until now. Never had to wake the cargo up before.” Noa frowned. “Gonna have a few choice words with Reis if I ever see him again.”
A moment of silence fell between them as Ivaylo considered Noa’s words. “I cannot count the number of deaths I’ve caused. Hundreds, perhaps thousands.”
Noa almost spat out her coffee. “Everything is heavy with you, isn’t it—why does this matter?”
Ivaylo looked Noa in the eyes. “I would like to sleep.”
Noa nodded at the compartment door. “There’s always your cryopod.”
“I would rather not—”
“Yeah, I bet—harder to antagonize people from stasis.”
“—I have acknowledged and accepted my emancipation. This is my reality now.”
Noa cocked her head, again incredulous. “Oh—and you what?—you wanna return the favor?”
Ivaylo bowed. “In my experience, the finite gives definition to the infinite.”
Noa stuck a thumb at the ship’s hull. “The Infinite is right outside, man.”
Ivaylo sighed and shook his head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you—but what is your suffering for? How are your beliefs aiding the meaning of your life? A convergence of events resulted in a man dying—this is the only truth. It is common for people to find malice—or responsibility—where there is none.”
The air grew heavy between them. Noa felt that familiar black fear swell within herself, anger pushing hard behind it, but then—she snorted and said, “That bad, huh?—loud when I dream?”
Ivaylo smiled for the first time. “Yes! Deafening and also violent. I considered restraining you.”
“Great.” Noa rolled her eyes. “Please don’t. Ever.”
Ivaylo offered an olive branch. “Once there were ancient human cultures which honored those who they defeated. They did not hate their enemies. They celebrated them. After battle, they believed it was the victor’s duty to live and live well to exalt those they defeated. My memory protocols afford me long-term retention of all combat I engage in. This is so I will continue to learn and improve my war-fighting skills. The memories of those I’ve fought are the only persistent memories I carry.” Ivaylo paused before continuing, “I’m only suggesting there can be more—if you want it. Your emotional distress is all your own making.”
Noa looked past Ivaylo into shadows beyond—can I just let it all go? A beatific smile slowly graced Noa’s face and then a flash of determination as she suddenly adjusted her seat to an upright position, ran her fingers through her short-cropped greasy hair, and keyed a set of commands into the console. A moment of blue static and then a flash on the display while Noa called up the information for Gratton Wyvner—known leader of one of the five factions in control of Temple-Palisade Station, primo fence extraordinaire and sometimes sympathetic collaborator.
Wyvner’ aged meaty face appeared on the display in front of Noa. “M. Kawurn, fancy hearing from you. Taking my offer of employment finally?”
Noa grinned and shook her head. “No. Sorry to disappoint.”
“Well then, what can I do for you?” Wyvner’ mouth spread in a wide, slightly predatory toothy grin replete with silver and gold teeth.
“I’m heading your way on a special delivery from Reis to his contact on the station—Kailor, and because of extraneous, very out of my control circumstances, I lost one item. I need a doctored manifest on my end, and in exchange, I have some muscle you can hire when I dock.”
Wyvner squinted at the screen. “I don’t have time for games, Kawurn. This doesn’t sound tasty enough.”
“Reis set me up and sent me on my way with, I don’t know—” Noa glanced at Ivaylo for confirmation. “—a squad of frozen mercs—” Ivaylo nodded.
Wyvner leaned further into the camera, interrupting Noa, “—Are you telling me Kailor is breaking the Convention? If he’s dealing in slaves—that’s a complete breach.” Wyvner turned his head and spit off camera. “The Five Clans don’t deal in people. It’s a founding principle. What is it? Girls? Children? Hack-jobs? Specifics, Noa.”
“I’ve got a squad of Hayashi Corporation Soldier-Guardians.” She glanced at Ivaylo. “They’re legit. You’ll have to trust me—one is conscious the rest are on ice. The walking one needs a job. His name is Ivaylo. The rest can go wherever.”
Wyvner’s eyes widened. “You are fucking with me.”
She shook her head. “No—no I am not.”
Wyvner’s tough guy act broke into a beaming grin. “Well then. You just made my year. Sure, yeah, I could use Ivaylo. I’ll get your updated manifest to you shortly. Deliver the rest to Kailor. It’s time for a power shuffle on the station, and proof of him breaking the Convention is the leverage indeed—What do I always say about you?”
“Sunshine and rainbows?” Noa smiled.
“You always bring the goods.” Corrected Wyvner.
“I’m five days out. I’ll make contact when I dock.”
“Sure, fine. I’ll meet you at the docks. Your boy will stick out. Can’t let Kailor see him. Use my quadrant, then we’ll move you to Kailor’s.” Wyvner clapped his hands together.
“Sounds like a plan. See you on the station, Wyvner.” Noa pressed her palms together in prayer and bowed her head. Wyvner did the same. Then Noa ended the call.
“Did you sell me to this man Wyvner?” Ivaylo asked.
“What? No. I got you a job. A position you can quit. They pay you money for your services when you work. You’ll have some autonomy. Don’t worry about it. You’ll figure it out.” Noa leaned back in her seat, satisfied.
One hundred-twenty-seven hours later, Noa docked at Temple-Palisade Station. Ivaylo stepped off the Phung Hoang into a new life. Noa gave Ivaylo her drop-bag. She figured he’d need it more than she would. Ivaylo bowed, thanked Noa for her generosity and silently walked away in search of Wyvner. Noa watched as Ivaylo disappeared into the crowd. She almost waved. Just keep on going. Noa’s father echoing up from inside her. Safer that way.
—
Noa was prepping to depart Temple-Palisade Station, where Ivaylo caught her just outside the jetway to the ship. He came up behind her as she emerged from a crowd of multicolored coverall-clad engineers and technicians moving en masse between work routines and hangar bays.
“I came to say thank you and—” Ivaylo visually scanned Noa and smiled. “—and say goodbye. You seem—prepared.”
Noa smiled and nodded. “Yeah, I registered the Phung Hoang destroyed in transit. It wasn’t hard.” She shrugged. “You know how it is—just another ship out of millions. I’ve got new docs and credentials and renamed the ship to Simurgh.”
Ivaylo bowed slightly. “Simurgh—the Phoenix. Appropriate.”
Noa grinned. “I thought you might appreciate it. I figure the galaxy is big enough to disappear into. Plenty of work out there. Thought I might start flying for myself—again.”
Ivaylo smiled and bowed, presenting a small box with a tiny bow in his outstretched hands to Noa.
“What’s this?”
“A token. I purchased this for you—from work.”
Noa took the box and opened it. Inside a small round enamel white pendant with brilliantly detailed wings worked in silver, surrounded a silver inscription which read: Time to fly. For a moment, tears threatened the corners of Noa’s eyes, but she blinked most of them back as she looked up into Ivaylo’s dark, lean face. “You are just a wrecking ball, aren’tcha?”
Then they hugged, both losing themselves in the thirty-second reverie before going their separate ways, finite against the infinite.