Bored in deep space - Novelisation -
Chapter 23 - Emerald Sky Marauders (2)
Tiberius leaned back, the old cushion sighing under his weight. "The Emerald Sky Marauders, kid. They're the top dogs in this whole goddamn sector. They're not just some hyenas with a scraped-together ship; they're an organisation. They have a presence on more colonies than some Guilds do, and they're as much of a fact on Tau Ceti Prime as the space elevators." He paused, tapping a finger against the dark wood table. "Coming in, did you see the ship parked in the security dock? The big one."
I nodded, the image of the colossal, angular warship still burned in my mind. "The battlecruiser? The Gilded Wasp, was it?"
"Exactly," Tiberius confirmed, a dismissive scoff curling his lip. "The Gilded Wasp. Some noble boy playing soldier. But with that behemoth parked on our doorstep, the Marauders are playing things real quiet. They lay low when the Convocation's watching, sticking to their ground game -- protection rackets, smuggling, kidnapping, the occasional disappearance of a rival. Unfortunately, that ship isn't staying here forever; when it packs up and moves on to bully some other poor system? The Marauders will go right back to what they do best."
The room's temperature felt as if it dropped by a few degrees. The calm gravity of Tiberius's declaration settled over us. On the station's bustling promenade, they might've been just another name on a list of criminal syndicates, but here, in this room with the planet looming outside the window, the Emerald Sky Marauders felt like an immediate, tangible threat.
"And that, 'what they do best'," he continued. "Is where the gloves really come off. Out in the deep black, they're monsters. Straight-up piracy. They don't demand cargo; they take whole ships. They'll board a freighter, vent half the crew into space, and press the rest into service on their own rotten fleet. They're the reason independent haulers like you have been vanishing from this sector for years now."
Elaina's hand flew to her mouth, her face pale at the grim picture Tiberius was painting. "But… some of them aren't just nameless spacers," she said. "They have an office on the station. Don't the authorities…?"
"They've got friends in high places," Tiberius replied with a weary cynicism. "My investigator, a man named Fenris -- he's former Guild security, one of the best -- he confirmed it for me. The Marauder's leader, a so-called Red pirate warlord by the name of Emerald Snake, has deep pockets. He's paying off a councilor on the Middle-Rim trade board, and he's got dirt on the Prefect of this very station."
The name hung in the air. Emerald Snake. It sounded less like a fearsome pirate name and more like a joke from a cheap video game series, which somehow made it even more unnerving. What caught my attention was the term 'Red' warlord. It evoked some vivid imaginations of a bloody pirate on the high seas, but that's probably different to the reality. "A Red Warlord? What exactly does that mean?"
I hadn't expected an answer, but before my uncle could even try to explain, Marissa spoke up. Her demeanour was that of a professor delivering a prepared lecture, her glimmering orange eyes scanning my family members as if to ensure they were all paying attention. "In galactic criminology, the spectrum of piracy is not monolithic," she explained. Her calm, clinical tone cut through the emotional tension. "The label 'Red' refers to a specific behavioural and moral category within the pirate hierarchy. A 'Red' pirate, like the one your uncle mentions, operates without any semblance of a code or honour. Their methodology is defined by excessive violence and a business model built on pure terror. They routinely massacre crews, engage heavily in the slave trade, and derive pleasure from cruelty."
"A monster," Patricia said suddenly, looking up from her datapad. "Reds are just butchers. They do it all. Rape, slavery, taking colonies just to glass them for fun. No rules, no point, just a whole lot of screaming and then silence."
"In stark contrast," Marissa continued smoothly, her explanation shifting to an almost academic tone, "there exists a classification known as 'Black' pirates. These warlords, while still engaging in illegal activities, adhere to a strict personal code, similar to the honour systems of the ancient Raccar clans. They might board a ship and seize its cargo, but they will typically take the crew captive and offer them a choice: join their crew or be left in escape pods with sufficient supplies to survive. They actively disdain the slave trade and are known, in some cases, to protect weaker settlements from the predation of Red pirates and other threats. Such pirates have often been romanticised and there are several movie series about their tales."
Patricia continued, "basically, a Red pirate, like this loser, 'Emerald Snake' or whatever, isn't just a thief. He's a force of pure chaos and cruelty." She sneered then returned to tapping on her datapad.
I looked back at my uncle, the pieces of a new, even more confusing puzzle clicking into place. "Uncle Tib, you think the Marauders did this? That they specifically targeted me?"
Tiberius sat back, the frustration evident in the tense set of his shoulders. He picked up a small, unused ceramic cup from the table, turning it over and over in his hands. "That's the question that's been eating at me for three years, Noah. I don't know. The official report from the Guild is 'inconclusive'. They labelled it a catastrophic Fold failure due to an unforeseen gravitational anomaly. Open and shut." He set the cup down with a sharp click. "The security footage from Port Geranium, Fenris managed to get a copy. It shows a scuffle. You, getting loud with a couple of rough-looking characters. They shove you, you shove back. It gets broken up by station enforcers. On the surface? A standard barroom brawl between a cargo hauler and a few grunts." He shook his head, a wry, bitter smile touching his lips. "But Fenris… he's been in the game a long time. He thinks it was a performance. A setup. He said it's a classic Marauder tactic. Start a low-level beef so that if something does happen to you later, there's a known, plausible motive. Simple revenge for a barfight. It throws investigators off the scent of anything bigger."
He leaned forward again, his hands planted flat on the table as he braced himself to deliver the real problem. "But even that doesn't make sense. To use a… I think Fenris called it a 'Fold Drive Jammer', to throw a ship into the dark… tech like that isn't cheap. That's hundreds-of-thousands of credit, military-grade, black-market hardware. You don't deploy that kind of asset to get back at a man for a bloody nose. That's like swatting a fly with a sledge hammer."
The silence that followed was heavy with unspoken implications. He was right. It didn't add up.
"So if it wasn't revenge over a fight," Elaina whispered. "Then why? What could they possibly have wanted?"
My mind raced, casting back into the old, paranoid theories. I'd concocted on my way to that dead planet. The ship's secret cargo. Myself. The ship. My investigations back then had proved all of that wrong. The cargo was useless. The ship was just a mundane freighter. Of course, it turned out to be the insane machinations of some long dead, hyper-advanced machine race. That's probably not the case this time. I don't think anything else that happens could ever outdo that revelation.
"That's the damnedest part. Fenris and I ran every angle we could think of. Was it the ship? It was just a standard-model 'Hyperion-B442 freighter', nothing special, fully paid off, with a clean transponder and Guild registration. Was it the cargo?" He let out a short, humourless laugh. "You were hauling Titan ore and farming supplies. We could have tracked that ore to the refinery, and no one would pay a ransom for a shipment of emergency rations." His tired eyes settled on me. "There was nothing about your ship that stood out. You were a ghost ship on a standard route. As far as we could tell, there was nothing of note about you, the ship, or the cargo. And yet… someone used that kind of prototype blackmarket tech to flick you off the map. It makes no damn sense."
A beat of silence hung in the private room. I believed this was just going to be a simple family reunion. A nice dinner. But it was so much more. This was a prequel I didn't know existed. Noah, the previous Noah, was probably involved with something that neither I, nor his family, knew about.
"Uncle Tib," I said, my voice steady and clear, cutting through the haze of melancholy. "I need to see it."
Tiberius looked up. "See what, son?"
"The footage. From Port Geranium," I clarified. "A copy. I need to see it."
He recoiled slightly, as if my request physically hurt him. "No," he said instantly. "Absolutely not. What good could possibly come from that? Fenris gave me the overview. All you'll see is you losing your temper with a bunch of thugs. It's nothing but bad memories and old ghosts."
"I know," I insisted, leaning forward, trying to impress upon him the sincerity of my need. It wasn't a want; it was a necessity. "My memories of… before… they're gone. A void that Tama… I mean, Dr. Shirley, tells me that might be permanent. But this isn't just a memory, is it? It's data. It's proof." I slipped up and called Tama by her actual name, but the emotional intensity of this moment quickly washed over my verbal slippage.
He shook his head. "It's poison, Noah. Those people are poison. You were lucky to get away with your life. Looking at it now is like volunteering to get bitten again by the snakes that nearly killed you."
"It's not that," I said, shaking my own head slowly. I kept my tone level, trying to appeal not to emotion but to logic, the language he would understand as a career spacer and businessman operating his own scrapyard company. "You said it yourself, that Fenris thinks it was a performance. There's a reason you told me all this. A reason you hired an investigator and hunted for three years. Because you knew it wasn't just a random mechanical failure." My eyes met his, and I let the last piece of my motivation fall onto the table. "And maybe… maybe seeing their faces will be the only way I can finally close that door for good. I close my eyes and it's all shadows; a faceless fear follows you forever. A face you saw? You can forget."
I saw the conflict war across his face. His paternal instinct to shield me from all further harm was wrestling with the pragmatic core of his being. He was a man who dealt in evidence, in data, in shipping manifests and cargo weights. He understood the need for facts and clarity. He looked at my determined expression, then glanced at Marissa, who offered nothing but a muted, neutral presence. He looked to his wife, whose eyes pleaded with him to just let it go. Finally, he let out a long, slow breath, the fight draining out of him.
He reached into the back trouser pockets and pulled out a slim, personal datapad. His thumb moved across the surface with a weary familiarity. "Fine," he grumbled, not looking at me. "I'll have Fenris forward the uncorrupted source file to your ship's comms buffer. Encrypted, of course." He finally raised his eyes, and they were filled with a stark warning. "You watch it, Noah. You get your closure, or whatever the hell it is you're looking for. And then you let it go. You hear me? You're not to get involved. Not one step. You get your head straight, you rest, and you leave these monsters to the Guild and… whoever else deals with them. These aren't the kinds of people you cross a second time."
"Yeah, I understand," I nodded. But we both knew deep down, I didn't. Not really. He was talking about space pirates and corporate sabotage. I was thinking about the divide between two lives and a need for personal identity. If this was some kind of mess the previous Noah left behind, then it was up to me to fix it. Not out of a duty, no. I just didn't like the feeling of loose threads dangling from me without my knowledge. "I just need to see it. For me."
It was Elaina who gently steered the conversation away from the precipice, her maternal instincts a warm and protective current in the room's chill. She leaned forward, her eyes soft as they tried to smooth over the worry etched into every line of her husband's face. "Enough about… about that," she said. "That's all in the past, Noah. You're here now. That's all that matters. The question is… what are you going to do now? Now that you're back."
Before I could even begin to formulate a thought, let alone an answer, Tiberius cut in. "He's not going to do anything, Elaina," he stated flatly, his tone leaving absolutely no room for negotiation. He tapped a single, authoritative finger against the dark wood table. He turned to me. "You're going to rest. For a while. And when you're ready, you're coming to work with me. At the yard."
I blinked. "The… the scrapyard?"
"That's right," he affirmed. "You're done with cargo hauling. Finished. Over. This isn't up for debate, son. The galaxy took a shot at you with a cannon, and I'm not putting you back on the firing line. The work at the yard is steady. It's safe. And frankly," he added with a wry smirk, "it pays more than the loose change you get from the Guild running yourself ragged. You learn the business, spend a few years as foreman, and then… the place is yours. You're my only family, Noah. I always planned for you to take it over one day."
It was so sudden. All the chaotic freedom of the galaxy I had been thrust into -- Astellion, the old machines, Silent Architects -- was suddenly being replaced with a future of sorting scrap metal and managing inventory logs. I felt myself perk up, a jolt of the old corporate drone's frustration sparking within me. "Whoa, hold on, Uncle Tib," I protested. "That's… I never agreed to that. I appreciate the offer, I really do, but I can't just—"
"Can't just what?" Tiberius leaned forward. "You don't get a vote in this. You spent over a thousand cycles of your life being a castaway on a rock in the middle of nowhere, presumed dead by everyone. A ship, a career that very nearly got you killed for no goddamn reason. And you think I'm going to stand back and wave goodbye as you climb back into the driver's seat of another freighter? Not a chance."
At that moment the ghost of the 21st century crept up on me. He was right; I would be saying the exact same thing as he was right now if my own nephew just went through what I told them. I'd lock him up in the safest room I could find and throw away the keys.
I sighed.
"You're right," I said, the calm in my own voice surprising even Tiberius. A flicker of triumph appeared in his eyes, which was my cue to shift the goalposts. "You're absolutely right. The idea of getting back into the cockpit… it's not there. Honestly, the thought of it makes me a little uneasy." I met his gaze, letting him see the weariness, the vulnerability. "But that's not what I meant. I wasn't protesting the idea of working with you, of helping out at the yard. The opposite, actually. The idea of a steady, sane life… it's a relief."
I paused, choosing my next words with the precision of a bomb disposal expert. "It's just… too fast. I need to find my bearings, Uncle Tib. Truly. These last few weeks, since I was found… it's been a whirlwind of medical checks and long-haul jumps. I need to stop for a bit. Get my head on straight. Figure out who I am right now, because I'm not the same kid who walked into Port Geranium three years ago. I just need a little time. Then, after that… then we can talk about the future. Whatever that may be."
The room was silent. Tiberius studied me, his shrewd eyes scanning my face for any signs of evasion or manipulation. He wasn't a fool. He knew language and he knew business. He could recognise a sales pitch when he heard one. But this sales pitch was built on a foundation of irrefutable truth. Who could argue against a traumatised survivor needing a moment to breathe? He looked from me to Marissa, who offered a tiny, confirmatory nod, a silent, professional validation of my psychological state.
Finally, he let out a long sigh. "Alright," he grumbled, the word an unhappy concession. "Alright. You want a break to get your bearings, you take a break. I can… I can get that." He raised a cautionary finger. "But it's not a free pass, kid. I'm holding you to that. You take your time. And then we talk. For real."
I gave a single, grateful nod. "Deal."
A fragile truce had settled over the table, the tension of the pirates and the future replaced by a softer, more domestic uncertainty. Elaina, sensing the momentary safety, reached out and gently placed her hand over mine on the table. Her touch was warm. "We can figure out the work stuff later," she said. "But what about now, honey? Where will you stay? We have a room for you. Your old room, of course. At our house, planetside." A genuine, maternal smile bloomed over her face. "We cleaned it the second we got the message you were alive. It's got a big window that looks over the western ocean. It's yours, ready when you are. We can have your things sent down right away."
The image was so potent it felt like a memory I didn't have: a window, the salty spray of an alien sea, the feel of a real home. But it was a stranger's home. My home, the only one I ever knew was a small, city apartment smelling of coffee. Aside from that, my current home was on an impossibly advanced ship that masqueraded as a freighter. The only 'room' that felt safe was the one that had a non-Euclidean geometry.
I… grateful for that, Auntie. Really," I said, carefully pulling my hand away, trying not to make the gesture a rejection. "More than you know. But I think… I think I'd like to stay on the Eclipse for a bit."
The room went cold again. Tiberius frowned. Before he could speak, Patricia snorted, her derision sharp and sudden. "Are you serious?" she asked, her golden eyes pinning me. "You'd rather sleep on a cramped cot in some dusty old cargo hauler than have a proper room with a real bed? That's… stupid." She gestured vaguely. "Mom spent a whole morning vacuuming and making sure the sheets had that softener smell you like."
It was an accusation that held a strange, painful power. The fact she remembered something so simple, so specific, about me was a staggering reminder of the connection I was supposed to have. For them, it was a cherished memory. For me, it was data from a life I hadn't lived. It made sense; Noah's biological parents were killed during some terrorist attack when he was eight-years-old, meaning he must've lived with his uncle's family until he went independent.
I didn't know how to refute them. Marissa, however, spoke before I could flounder for a reply. She placed her own elegant hand flat on the table, a gesture of calm authority. "If I may," she interjected, her professional, clinical tone once again reframing the entire dynamic. "It might seem counterintuitive from a standpoint of pure physical comfort. However, for individuals who have undergone prolonged periods of intense psychological trauma, particularly in isolation, the most vital commodity is often not physical luxury, but a predictable environment. A routine."
She turned her gaze from the now-attentive Patricia to the anxious, questioning faces of my aunt and uncle. "The SV-Eclipse, while perhaps lacking certain amenities, represents the one constant in Captain Lee's life for the last thousand cycles. Every console, bulkhead, and sound of the ship is a structure that his consciousness has adapted to. To remove him from that familiarity right now would be to introduce another variable of stress, however well-intentioned." She offered a reassuring, professional smile. "The greatest comfort for him, in this delicate phase of recovery, will be the mental comfort of the familiar."
Her expression softened further as she addressed my family directly, her tone shifting from lecturer to compassionate healer. "Of course," she added, bridging the gap between her diagnosis and their hopes, "a long-term goal of integrating back into a stable, familial environment is paramount to a full and healthy recovery. That remains the objective. But in the initial few weeks, establishing him in a space where he feels fundamentally secure is the most important precursor to that eventual transition. We should view this not as a rejection, but as the first step towards coming home."
Marissa's words hung in the air. They were medical fact, expert opinion, absolving me of appearing ungrateful and reframing my choice as a necessary step in my healing process.
My aunt and uncle -- Elaina and Tiberius -- exchanged a long, worried look. The raw, desperate hope in their eyes was warring against the newfound medical advice of an expert. In this battle, a doctor's reasoned logic was an unstoppable force against a parent's emotion. Tiberius let out a weary sigh, nodding slowly. "Alright," he conceded. "If the doctor says it's for the best."
Elaina's shoulders slumped, a brief flicker of disappointment crossing her face, but it was quickly replaced by understanding. "We understand," she whispered. "Just… don't be a stranger, Noah? Please? The door is always unlocked."
.
.
.
The door to the private room slid shut with a soft, definitive hiss, the ambient noise of the promenade swelling to fill the silence left by my family's departure. A few weeks. That was the timeframe of my freedom that I had no intention of keeping.
I stood before the expansive viewport, my hands resting on the cool, sterile guardrail. Before me, Tau Ceti Prime dominated the view. A swirling canvas of deep blue, viridian green, and chalk-white clouds. The oceans seemed to breathe, the continents rose up like sleeping giants under a thin veil of atmosphere. It was a whole world, a single, living rock suspended in a cosmic sea. So incredibly, painfully alive. I realised then I'd never seen a living planet this close in my life. Astellion came close, but that was a literal dead rock. "I think… living with uncle down there might not be all that bad…"
Beside me, Marissa Shirley stood with her perfect posture. The gentle light of the planet's reflection caught in the warm orange in her eyes. "A retirement surrounded by the rusted-out hulls of forgotten starships, Captain Noah Lee?" Tama's voice was a murmur, calm and devoid of judgement, the corporate persona of Doctor Shirley melting away with the absence of an audience. "A life of sorting scrap and negotiating salvage rights. It is a quantifiable existence. Predictable. Safe." She turned her head, her gaze fixing on my profile. "I would, of course, join you. The administrative duties of a sprawling scrapyard operation presents a fascinating logistical challenge. I estimate we could increase profitability by at least thirty-four percent within the first fiscal year through a complete overhaul of the inventory and sorting protocols."
I let out a short, weary sigh, the corners of my mouth twitching into a wry smile. "It was a lie, Tama. A little one. A necessary one." I pushed myself off the railing and turned to face her. "It's easier to beg for forgiveness than it is to ask for permission. I'll let Uncle Tib cool down, send him a nice message apologising that I have to leave again on a journey of self-discovery in a couple of days, and promise to check in often, then I won't have to face him for a long while until he's forced to either accept my decision, or have to accept the fact he might never see me again. My life is too crazy for all this, no offense to him of course."
I stared back at the planet, to the mesmerising swirl of its atmosphere. "But all that's for later. Right now, my mind is still on Port Geranium. On those bar-brawling grunts from the Emerald Sky Marauders. The pieces don't fit, Tama, no matter how you try to jam them together. That attack on my ship was a surgical strike. And the fight sounds like a sloppy back alley scuffle. There has to be more. Did my uncle send the footage?"
"The data packet arrived moments ago," Tama confirmed. "It was sent via encrypted three-hop relay, originating from a dead-drop account registered on a commerce moon in the Cygnus Rift. The sender signed the metadata with the alias 'Fenris'."
I shook my head. "You already know that really is, don't you?"
"The alias is a common affectation for ex-military and intelligence operatives. A little too on-the-nose," she said. "A biometric cross-reference on the routing protocols combined with an analysis of the compression algorithm used on the footage points to a former lieutenant in the Convocation's 8th Fleet. Lieutenant Royland Jacobs. Dishonourable discharge for insubordination ten years ago. Since then, he's cycled through several occupations: freelance contract work, high-risk corporate security, contract security for the Orion Guild, Guild investigation on the Frontier, and a two-year stint as Head of Planetary Security on a small agricultural colony in the Hesperus system. He's good. He's very good at not being found. That just makes it more fun to find."
My smirk vanished. The terrifying scale of her omniscience was something I still hadn't fully acclimated to. "You are, without a doubt, the single most terrifying and useful being I have ever met," I said, my voice quiet with genuine awe. "Alright, Tama," I said, dropping the pretence of the fake alias of Marissa Shirley. "Do it. Run the files through your analysis protocols. Scrub it, enhance it, cross-reference every face that appears on screen, no matter how blurry or out of focus. Find out who that Noah was fighting with. And if you can find out who the hell Emerald Snake is while you're at it, all the better. Let's find some ghosts."