Chapter 22: Upstream
Day 117 – 05:40 station time
Haven-3 population: 125 souls
Air smells of wet soil and tomato vine
Karl stood barefoot in the dome, dew forming on leaf-tips under artificial dawn. One hundred twenty small plaques—scrap aluminum cut by Rios—now circled the basil bed, each etched with a first name. The garden had become a census you could walk through. Ayla moved between rows, watering seedlings, counting silently. She no longer stopped at forty-three; she stopped when she ran out of plants to tend.
Factor Voss sat nearby under guard—wrists cuffed to a deck ring, ankles tethered, eyes tracking every leaf as if they might accuse him. Miguel stood over him, silent, rifle slung but finger loose. Justice here was not a bullet—it was air scented with basil while you watched the lives you tried to sell grow taller than you.
Day 117 – 09:00
War council, mess table welded long
The crew sat five again; Voss occupied a sixth chair, shackled. Between them lay a starchart projected from Jun's pad—three upstream hubs glowing red: Hub Nyx, Hub Polyphemus, Hub Ascending. Voss spoke, voice hoarse but useful—coordinates, guard counts, buyer specialties. Each word bought him another minute alive.
Selene tapped Nyx. "Child-auction, monthly, 600 lots max. Next auction: Day 125. That's eight days."
Tala's jaw tightened. "600 children in one sitting?"
Voss shrugged. "Demand is high. Cores go first, kids after."
Karl's count ticked—forty-three—but he kept his voice flat. "We need a ticket in. You still have codes?"
Voss nodded. "Entry cipher, delivery vessel, buyer badge. But you'll need cargo to show."
Miguel smiled cold. "We have cargo—four dummy cores, twelve dummy pods. Same bait, bigger hook."
Voss studied the table, realized he was recommending his own method turned against him, and laughed once—short, bitter. "Market eats itself. Fine. I'll give you the keys."
Day 117 – 14:30
Forge the bait
They stripped four real reactor casings from Haven's surplus, filled them with scrap tungsten and remote detonators. Weight matched original to the gram. Selene welded fresh serials—corporate codes Voss provided. Each core received a name painted on the flank: Nyx, Polyphemus, Ascending—targets labeled for death.
The dummy pods were harder—needed to look like children under frost-glass. Tala sculpted mannequins from medical foam, added heart-beat simulators, thermal packs. When complete they breathed fake frost, chests rising, falling—ghosts ready for sale.
Ayla watched the process, eyes steady. She placed a basil leaf inside each pod—green against white, promise under ice. No one asked her to; no one stopped her.
Day 117 – 19:00
The deal
Voss provided cipher keys, buyer badge chip, delivery schedule. In exchange they guaranteed him life and a cell with a viewport facing the garden. He would watch leaves grow while leaves elsewhere burned. Justice measured in chlorophyll.
Karl recorded the transaction on paper, signed it, pressed the foil star into Voss's palm—not as gift, as promise: behave, or this becomes your tombstone.
Day 118 – 03:00
Departure prep
Population tally: 125 souls on station, 5 leaving, 120 staying. Rios assigned full-time gardener and guard. Children formed councils—elected speakers, drafted rules. Democracy sprouted faster than tomatoes.
Tala stockpiled med-kits: burn packs, sedative, nutrient concentrate. She taught older kids IV insertion—skills they might need if adults did not return.
Selene stripped Hearth-Hammer again—another 42 kg gone. Delta-v margin: 7 m/s. She wrote 7 on the hull beside the basil leaf and circled it. Enough.
Day 118 – 06:00
Burn toward Nyx
Karl stood bridge, visor up, suit on. Behind him the crew in new colors: matte-black with single jade leaf on shoulder. Voss remained shackled in station brig—viewer showing green leaves, not stars.
He keyed the mic. "All stations, this is Hammer. Mission: infiltrate Nyx, free 600, burn the auction block. We fly in quiet, come out loud. Count with me."
He counted aloud—one, two… forty-three… one hundred twenty… six hundred—then pushed the throttle. Drives woke, 0.12 g pushing them into couches. Haven-3 dwindled, garden lights becoming fireflies.
Day 118 – 14:00
Coast, dark, planning
They drilled roles:
- Karl – buyer persona, cargo lead, lance fire control
- Miguel – engineer persona, core handler, demo expert
- Selene – security persona, pod escort, breach lead
- Jun – data persona, auction hack, comm jam
- Tala – medic persona, child handler, triage lead
They rehearsed voices, signatures, cover stories. They practiced silence under acceleration, speech under stress. They failed often, improved fast.
Between drills they wrote wills—voice logs, paper notes, garden instructions. If they died the station would keep breathing, children would keep planting, basil would keep growing.
Day 119 – 00:00
Midnight in the void
Karl floated alone in blister, optics on Nyx—now a bright wheel with auction banners projected on hull: "Premium Bio-Cargo & Core Exchange – Day 125 – Register Early." The words rotated slow, obscene.
He touched the foil star in pocket—now heavier: basil leaf, nutrient square, toy star, and a new addition—Ayla's hair ribbon, green silk. He whispered to the dark, "Six hundred more heartbeats coming home."
Day 119 – 08:30
The promise spoken
He gathered crew in galley, spoke quiet: "We enter as merchants, leave as liberators. We take no profit, only people. We leave no structure standing. We count every child, every core, every name. When we depart Nyx will be a tombstone in space, and the market will learn fear from leaves and steel."
They answered in unison, voice low: "Steel remembers."
Day 119 – 18:45
Final approach, dark coast
Drives cold, radiators out, heat dumped. Nyx grew from wheel to city, docking arms like spider legs. They slid toward berth Charlie-Three, transponder spoofed, cargo lethal.
Karl counted final seconds—forty-three—then keyed the log:
Day 119 – Nyx ahead, personas locked, wills recorded, margin 7 m/s, hearts infinite. Tomorrow we walk into the auction wearing smiles and carrying cages that bite. Six hundred heartbeats wait. We come quiet, leave loud. – Karl
Outside, the auction banners grew larger, obscene against starlight. Inside, five hearts and six hundred phantom beats counted forward—one, two, three—toward the day the market learned that basil leaves could burn hotter than plasma and memory cut deeper than any lance.
Forward, forward—until every auction bell is melted into a garden bell, and every cage becomes soil for names to grow.