Bored in deep space - Novelisation -
Chapter 24 - Emerald Sky Marauders (3)
The interior of the familiar SV-Eclipse I was a grim symphony. As I stepped through the primary airlock door, a wave of nostalgia hit me. The scent hit me first -- not a bad smell, but a specific one. It was the stale aroma of recirculated air, mingled with the faint, electric tang of overheated conduits and whisper of ozone from the atmospheric scrubbers. It was the smell of my home, the one that was quickly replacing the blurry memories I had of the city apartment which always smelled of coffee.
I walked through the corridors. The passageways were a predictable utilitarian design: gunmetal grey bulkheads boxed us in, exposed conduit bundles snakes along the joints between panels, and the strip lighting above flickered with the rhythm of a system that was pretending to be old and weary. Even the added details of one of the lights flickering on and off was emulated perfectly.
Tama remained respectfully silent as she walked a few paces behind me. The presence of Doctor Shirley had fallen away, replaced by the attentive form of the living ship itself, a being of immense power comfortably inhabiting the shell of a Gynoid bodyguard. Within the confines of the Eclipse, she was allowed to be her true, obsidian gargoyle self.
The bridge door slid open with its customary, reassuringly heavy sigh. The familiar layout greeted me: the command chair, the helm and the navigation consoles, the main engineering station and of course, the aging primary holographic projector at the centre of the deck. I sank into the worn seat of the command chair, letting the familiar, slightly lumpy cushioning mould to my form. A sigh escaped my lips, a long exhalation of the tension that had been coiling in my gut since stepping onto that Way-Station. Here, in this seat, I wasn't Noah Lee, the long-lost nephew returning from the dead.
I was just me.
"Alright, Tama," I said. "Let's see it. Bring up the footage from Fenris."
"Understood, Captain," her calm alto responded. The central hologram projector shimmered to life, projecting a semi-transparent rectangle of light into the air before me. The image materialised, showing a timestamp in the corner. STC 22:48 - STARDATE 887.3. Port Geranium, Cantina Sector B-3.
The quality was predictably awful. The image was grainy, the resolution poor, and there was a constant, slightly skewed perspective, suggesting a hidden, cheap security lens. The colour was washed-out, and the audio was a soup of distant clinking glasses, and indistinct, overlapping conversations. I could just make out a deserted-looking corner of the bar. A single drunk was slumped over the counter, his head resting on his folded arms.
"Behold the future," I rolled my eyes. "Even with all this advanced tech, security footage remains a shitty mess."
Then the original Noah, my spiritual predecessor, walked into the frame. He looked… exactly like me. Not the 'me' now, but the 21st century Noah Lee. He was still wearing the same black suit and white tie combo I'd now adopted as my formal uniform. I saw myself move with an unfamiliar set of memories and motivations -- like watching yourself sleepwalk. He approached the bartender, who was wiping down a greasy section of the counter. "Whiskey," he said, the audio faint but audible. "Top shelf."
The bartender, a burly-looking man with a scar across his neck running down from his chin, wordlessly placed a short glass on the counter. Noah paid, and then took a stool near the corner of the bar. I watched as the ghost me took a slow sip. His gaze drifted upwards, towards a holoscreen mounted high on the far wall, where a news anchor was gesturing frantically at a stock ticker displaying mining shares for the Orion Guild.
"He's just a normal guy," I commented. In fact, he's a corporate stooge. Not really that different from me.
The minutes ticked by, the timestamp in the corner creeping forward. The ghost Noah finished half of his drink, staring into the glass as if trying to find the answer to the universe in its amber depths.
After a short bit, two figures swaggered into frame, their movements heavy with a drunken, aggressive confidence. They were big, rough-looking men, dressed in mismatched scavenged armour plating worn over dirty, utilitarian jumpsuits. One of them, a hulking brute with a shaved head and a crude, coiled snake tattoo on his neck, made a point of bumping into Noah's stool as he passed.
On the screen, the ghost Noah didn't so much as flinch. He simply slid the glass a little further away from the edge and resumed drinking, pointedly ignoring the two men.
"He didn't say a word," I muttered. "And they look like they're waiting for something…"
"They took offense to your non-reaction, Captain," Tama observed calmly.
"Just for that?" I scoffed, shaking my head.
The audio wasn't very good to decipher words, but their body language and aggressive features made it clear they were trying to provoke a response. Their tone was mocking, aggressive. From what I could piece together, they were accusing him of being an uppity corporate lapdog.
Noah, the ghost me, still didn't rise to the bait. He finally raised a hand in a dismissive, shooting gesture, and turned back to his drink. That seemed to be the trigger. The bald one's face contorted with an angry sneer, and he lunged, grabbing Noah by the shoulder. But then the footage surprised me. Noah erupted into motion. It was a blur of controlled, economical violence. He twisted out of the man's grasp, jabbing an elbow sharply into the brute's ribcage. The other ruffian, a lanky man with a tangled mess of hair and a patch over one eye, swung a wild, roundhouse punch. Noah ducked under it, surged forward, and drove his knuckles into the man's sternum. The lanky pirate stumbled back with a choked gasp, clutching at his chest as the wind was knocked out of him.
I was thoroughly impressed. For a corporate stooge, ghost Noah could handle himself. He had more fighting spirit than the me that survived the horrors of Astellion.
Before he could press the advantage, the bald brute recovered. He slammed a fist into the side of Noah's head with a heavy, sickening thud. Noah staggered, looking like his vision was momentarily swimming. The bald one reared back for another punch, and the lanky pirate was already recovering.
And that's when the security guards arrived.
Three figures in dark blue uniforms stormed into the frame, their faces set in grim expressions. One of them raised a stun baton or something that looked like it. It crackled with energy. "Break it up!" the guard's harsh voice cut through the tavern's din. The two pirate gangsters were immediately overwhelmed, but even Noah was rushed by one of the guards before he had a chance to speak. "And you're coming with us too, corporate scum!"
The footage jerked violently as Noah was dragged away, the image swinging wildly for a few seconds before cutting to black. The file ended. I sagged back in my chair. "Well that was… not too helpful. A standard bar brawl that got out of hand," I summarised. "Just like Uncle Tib said."
I stared at the blank holographic display. Ghost Noah held his own, but in the end, it was a messy, pointless fight. The security officers didn't even seem to care about the circumstances.
"The identities of the two aggressors are not present in the station's official arrest log for that cycle," Tama stated. "Their records were either deleted, classified, or never filed. Standard operating procedure for organised crime with local enforcement on the payroll. However, their faces are now part of my memory."
"Figures," I sighed. Leaning forward in my chair, I gripped the armrests, my gaze fixed on the blank space where the image of my spiritual predecessor's struggle had just been. "Tama," I said. "Contact the Way-Station traffic control. Clear our departure and tell them we're resuming our old delivery schedule, bound for the Outer Rim." I paused, letting the cover story settle before I added the real destination. "And once we're clear, plot a course. To Port Geranium."
Her response was immediate and without question. "Course to Port Geranium laid in. Standard non-Fold trajectory from our current position to the Cygnus Rift will require approximately forty-nine hours, or two standard cycles, of travel."
"The first step, right?" I mused.
"It can be the only step, if you so choose," Tama offered, her smooth tone infused with the infinite potential of the ship we commanded. "As you are aware, Captain, we are not bound by the same galactic logistics. The Eclipse is not subject to the limitations of conventional Fold Drives. We can 'Blink' directly to the station's orbital perimeter."
Blink. The word still felt like a secret, divine cheat code. A Fold Jump was a brutal, reality-bending wrench of cosmic forces, forcibly 'folding' two points together to subvert physical distance. Blinking was… more like a thought. It was an intention. The ship simply ceased to be in one place and was, in the same instant, in another. Not only that, we weren't bound by a minimum distance like conventional space folding was, we could go anywhere in space with no limitations.
"Not yet," I said. "We slip away the old-fashioned way. No point in showing our hand until there's no one around to see the cards. Once we're out of the system, away from prying eyes and long-range sensors, then we Blink."
"Understood. Disengaging from docking clamps. Transmitting departure clearance confirmation to station control now," Tama confirmed.
Through the forward viewport, the scene began its slow, graceful transformation. A gentle shudder ran through the deck as the magnetic moorings released their hold on our hull. With methodical, robotic precision, the large, metal docking arms began to retract, unfolding from the Eclipse's grey skin like the legs of some colossal, metallic spider. The station's external lighting bathed our bow in a cascade of pale blue and stark white.
The twenty minutes it took to maneuver through the station's busy departure lanes felt simultaneously like an eternity and a mere heartbeat. I watched from the command chair as Tama executed a perfect textbook departure, communication with traffic control was professional and by the book. We were just another tired old freighter leaving port, a ghost in the machine, completely unremarkable. Other vessels passed by us -- sleek courier yachts, bulbous cargo haulers, the patrolling interceptors of a minor noble house -- each a universe of their own, oblivious to the god-machine that glided anonymously in their midst. And then, with a final, silent bow from the massive orbital framework, we were clear. The station, a city in the stars, began to shrink in the viewport, its intricate spires and glowing ports slowly resolving into a single, brilliant jewel against the velvet black. Then, even that sight eventually vanished into the infinite, star-dusted dark.
The forward viewport now showed nothing but the void.
I felt a jolt of something else. A deep, resonant peace. A wave of potent nostalgia hit me. This… was the feeling. The vast, empty freedom. For all that time deep beneath the superstructure of Astellion, I dreamt of this view. Of escaping that terrestrial prison and returning to the infinite, anonymous highways of the void alongside Calliope. It was all I could think about back then. The only thing that drove me forward like the madman I was. This was my first home. It was where I was reborn. And sitting in this chair, with Tama at my side and an entire galaxy of secrets to unravel, I finally, truly felt like I was back.
With a low groan, I pushed myself out of the command chair, my back protesting with a series of satisfying cracks. All the tension of the meeting and reuniting finally left my body. I ran a hand through my hair and took a moment to stretch, the familiar motion feeling cathartic after the long stretch of stillness in that tiny restaurant's private room. "Let's keep the old girl looking like a rust bucket for now, Tama," I said, sauntering towards the vast forward viewport and pressing my forehead against the cool, transparent crystalline plating. "We're going to have to dock at Port Geranium anyway, and I'd rather not announce to the entire Marauder gang that we're flying in a ghost ship straight out of a legend."
"As you wish. The illusion will be maintained," she confirmed smoothly. "We are now clear of The First Step's sensor envelope. Preparing to Blink."
I brace myself, not physically -- I'd learned there was no jolt or sensation of movement at all -- but mentally. One moment, the viewport was filled with the serene, infinite black of deep space, the distant sun of Tau Ceti a brilliant, receding pinprick. The next, without a flicker, a sound, or even the faintest perception of transition, it was simply gone.
In its place was a new reality.
A colossal space station hung before us, a brutalist chunk of metal and lights floating in an empty, starless patch of void. Unlike The First Step, a beautiful space city orbiting a lively, bustling blue planet, Port Geranium was a true anomaly, a standalone station with no planetary or stellar anchor. It was exactly what the name suggested: a port, nothing more, a transient hive of commerce and crime. The structure itself was smaller than The First Step, a roughly cylindrical, tumbling block of grey composite metal studded with countless docking clamps, hangar bays, and arrays of navigation lights. But if the station was smaller, its traffic was not. A chaotic swarm of vessels -- sleek blockade runners, battered cargo haulers, jagged-looking pirate cutters, and hulking freighters -- surged towards its gaping entrances like moths to a flame. The scene radiated a raw, desperate energy. There wasn't anything artful or civilised about it. This was a working port, a dirty, dangerous crossroads where deals were made and lives were lost with equal indifference.
"Secure us a dock, Tama," I commanded, my eyes sweeping over the chaotic tableau beyond the viewport. "Find us a quiet corner if you can. Let's try to avoid parking under a spotlight." It was quite frankly a little jarring to give that order despite it only being around two or three minutes since we just left another station. Such was the convenience of fast travel -- blinking.
"Acknowledged, Captain," she replied smoothly. "Initiating uplink with Port Geranium traffic control. Signal is unencrypted; their security protocols are extremely rudimentary."
A moment later, the bridge speakers crackled to life, filling the previously quiet space with a harsh, grating buzz of stating and overlapping channel chatter.. "—egeranium Control, this is the Vagrant's Prayer requesting permission to hold at marker seven, over—" "—egative, Control. My transponder is working fine, your landing beacon is on the fritz again, you overpriced—"
"Port Geranium Traffic Control, this is the independent freighter SV-Eclipse, requesting docking permission for a standard ten-cycle layover, over," Tama transmitted, her calm, professional tone cutting cleanly through the cacophony like a scalpel through rust.
There was a beat of pure, white noise. Then, a bored, disinterested voice slurred through the speaker. "SV-Eclipse, stand by." Another long pause, punctuated by a sneeze that sounded like it had torn the speaker's throat out. "Eclipse, yeah, we see you. All civilian shipping docks are filled. You're either going to be in a public queue for… I don't know, a hundred and twenty ships… or you take the industrial lot at Gamma-14. Your credit's good, I see it. Gamma-14's expensive, but it's the only slot I've got. Your call."
It wasn't even a question or an offer; it was a dismissal. Buy your way through the line or stay out there indefinitely.
"We'll take Gamma-14," Tama replied without missing a beat. "Transmitting docking credentials and payment authorisation now. Eclipse out."
The channel cut dead, the sudden silence a palpable relief.
"We need to figure out our money situation," I said.
Tama looked at me like I was having a stroke. "Generating infinite amounts of untraceable Imperial Credits is a more efficient solution."
"Yeah, but that's like… counterfeiting money. Not that I'm worried about the legal ramifications, but…" I paused. Honestly, it was more a matter of my 21st century-rooted mindset. I was constantly reinforced with the idea that committing crime was bad, despite knowing every CEO and politician was stealing money out of our pockets. "We can discuss that later." If there was one, personal, objection about generating infinite money, it would be that, as a gamer, it felt cheap and unearned. There was a certain thrill in 4X games seeing your economy organically grow.
I coughed to change the topic. "Anyway, they're not very welcoming."
"Their infrastructure is suffering from chronic under-investment and a complete absence of standardised automated routing," Tama analysed. "The docking procedure will take approximately thirty-two minutes. An inefficient use of temporal resources when compared to The First Step's ninety-six percent automated system. A place like this is a breeding ground for opportunism and institutional corruption."
"Or," I countered, a humourless smile touching my lips, "they're just all incredibly busy and miserable. Let's go with that."
Thirty-seven minutes later, after a series of grudging, poorly-worded vectored instructions, the Eclipse settled into its berth with a solid, slightly jarring final thud that spoke of poorly maintained docking clamps. The industrial dock was exactly what I expected from the name: a cavernous, echoing bay smelling of lubricants and scorched metal. Massive cargo haulers sat on all sides like sleeping leviathans, their hulls stained and patchwork. The lighting was poor, leaving deep pools of shadow between the monstrous ships, and the air was thick with the distant shouts of dock workers and the grating shriek of heavy machinery. Thankfully, the silver clip I still had from Aurora mitigated a lot of the inconveniences. Loud sounds and shouting was dampened to a point it didn't hurt my ears, and the fume and smog of the station was filtered, leaving me with a pleasant scent.
Tama already vacated the bridge to make her final transformation. When the inner airlock door slid open with a hiss, Doctor Marissa Shirley stood there. As on the station, she was the perfect, uncanny double of the spectral entity Aurora. We stepped out of the Eclipse together and onto the docking platform.
The difference from The First Step was immediate and visceral. Where that station's promenade was wide and spacious, and elegantly designed, the docks of Geranium were a claustrophobic maze. A constant, oppressive weight of noise pressed in from all sides. Dock workers -- grizzled men and women in stained orange jumpsuits -- swarmed around us, shouting instructions to one another, their faces set in permanent scowls of concentration. Armed security guards, clad in mismatched blue and black armour, leaned against the steel pillars, their eyes tracking every movement with a predatory laziness.
Among them were the Raccar. I'd seen one before, the imposing, armoured security office on The First Step, but here, there were dozens. They weren't just guards. I saw a hulking Raccar covered in soot from head to toe, expertly welding a ruptured fuel line on a bulk carrier with a plasma torch. Another one, its scales a deep, sandy brown and its horns swept back like a bull's, directed a clumsy-looking load mech.
My gaze lingered on a pair of Raccar guards posted by a gangplank leading to a particularly ugly, dagger-shaped vessel bristling with extra weaponry. They stood completely still, their imposing silhouettes an immovable wall. They were the epitome of stoic professionalism, their reptilian faces impassive.
Tama, walking a half-pace behind me, noticed my focused observation. She matched my steps and waltzed smoothly up to walk beside me, our shoulders almost touching. Her stride was measured and fluid. The small, almost imperceptible change in her proximity was a subtle act of positioning -- a bodyguard assuming station.
"Your observation of the Raccar personnel is not unwarranted, Captain," she stated, her voice a low, private murmur that only I could hear over the chaos. "A cross-analysis of galactic crime statistics across four-thousand-and-twelve inhabited sectors indicates a strong positive correlation between a high concentration of Raccar hires and an elevated rate of violent and non-violent crime. Not, it should be noted, because of an inherent Raccar criminality. Their cultural honour code makes such activity rare among their own kind. The correlation exists because their reputation as unparalleled warriors and incorruptible sentinels makes them the species of choice for security contracts in environments such as this." She continued. "In fact, there is a cultural tradition among the more conservative clans of the Raccar; a pilgrimage of strength, for a young Raccar to be considered a worthy adult, they must earn their reputation through service in dangerous territory."
She paused, her own gaze sweeping past a towering Raccar engineer meticulously calibrating a cargo crane. "In essence, Captain, you will find very few Raccar in a pleasant resort world. You will find many on a space station teeming with criminals. Their very presence is an impartial barometer of danger."
She adjusted her professional white coat, a simple, efficient gesture, but the underlying intent was clear. "Our proximity is therefore a logical precaution," she said as she drew closer. Her arms linking with my own, an emulation of lovers. For a robot she was… considerably soft and warm. Once again, I marvelled at the Silent Architects' Photon Solidification technology. "Port Geranium is, statistically speaking, approximately seventeen-point-four percent more dangerous than The First Step's promenade. My primary directive is to ensure your survival. Remaining within optimal response distance is the most efficient method of accomplishing that."
"Uh… ha," I responded with a look of doubt but let it go. Honestly, why not? It felt good and she smelled nice.
We pressed through a massive, reinforced security checkpoint into the station's internal thoroughfare. The narrow corridor was an assault on the senses. The ceiling was low and cluttered with tangled conduits, the walls layered with flickering holographic advertisements offering everything from illegal power converters to seedy companionship services. The crowd was a roiling, chaotic river of grifters, prospectors, off-duty security, and hard-faced spacers of a dozen different nationalities, all of them moving with a hurried, impatient purpose.
"Alright," I said. "We're looking for that cantina from the footage. Sector B-3." I scanned the signs, it was a mix of poorly translated alien script and confusing holographic overlays. "Which way?"
Instead of gesturing down the corridor, Tama turned into a different passage, one illuminated by slightly less frantic, more atmospheric lighting. I was under the assumption she knew a more direct and convenient passage. We left the industrial grit of the commercial zones behind, entering a habitation block where the scent of ozone was replaced by something vaguely like frying spices and stale caffeine. The crowds thinned, their aggressive determination softening into a weary, domestic shuffle.
"This isn't the way to Sector B-3," I said, stating the obvious. "The commercial ring is two levels down. That's what the B stands for. Basement."
"Correct," Tama affirmed, her posture unwavering as we walked. "Our next destination is not the cantina."
I stopped dead, forcing her to halt as well. I turned to face her, a frown creasing my brow. "Tama, the entire reason we're here, the only clue we have, is that bar. We need to see it. We need to talk to the bartender, check the surroundings—"
"All of which I have already accomplished from orbit," she interrupted. "I have a complete, high-resolution, multi-spectrum analysis of Sector B-3's cantina and its surrounding infrastructure. I have identified seventeen points of ingress and egress, catalogued all available surveillance equipment -- including two dummy feeds no one else would know are there -- and cross-referenced the employee manifests with several local and criminal databases. We will gain more pertinent information by ordering coffee in a quiet environment than by breathing recycled air in a dive bar."
"What? Then why are we here?" I asked, exasperated. "Why did we bother docking at all and wasting credits on an industrial slip? You could have Blinked us into the exact coordinates we needed, perform your magical analysis, and been gone without a single person seeing us."
"Our presence here is critically important, Captain," she countered, and the way she used my title felt different now, less formal and more like a lecturer correcting a slow student. "A ground-level investigation is not merely about data acquisition; it's about contextual absorption. Subtle social dynamics, the unspoken tensions of a place, the ambient conversations. These are sensory inputs that can illuminate new avenues of thought, patterns that a passive scan of structural blueprints cannot reveal. The cantina is an endpoint. We are here to explore the environment that led to it."
Her explanation seemed logical. It was the sound reasoning of a superintelligence who had just justified a detour. I stared at her, at the perfect, impassive face of Doctor Marissa Shirley, at the warm orange light that burned with an alien fire in her eyes. A suspicion, both absurd and entirely plausible, bloomed in my mind. I crossed my arms, slightly leaning against a nearby wall.
My eyes narrowed. "Is it, Tama?" I asked, my voice dropping to an accusing murmur. "Or is all that just a very elaborate excuse for a date?"
Tama's head tilted by a fraction of a degree, her orange eyes glowing with placid intensity. The deadpan neutrality of her face was an impenetrable wall. "I would never dream of compromising the integrity of our mission with such a frivolous, illogical deviation, Captain."
I blinked.
That was it. That was her answer. She didn't say: 'no, Captain, I am not tricking you into going on a date with me'. Not a denial, and not a refutation of the frivolous deviation itself.
Satisfied, she gave a slight tug, pulling me forward. "Now, if you'll come with me. There is an establishment that will serve our purposes far better than a dingy cantina."
Bemused and feeling a strange mixture of exasperation and a reluctant, confusing flicker of warmth, I allowed myself to be led. Honestly, between pirate conspiracies and the ancient machinations of the old machines, having a cup of coffee in peace didn't sound like a bad detour. The grimy service corridors gave way to a more, but still industrial, habitation zone. Then we stepped through a wide archway, and the world changed entirely.
The cacophony and the claustrophobia of the docks vanished, replaced by a space that was almost tranquil. A long, crystalline aquarium filled the walls on one side, a slow-moving kaleidoscope of bioluminescent fish from some alien sea cast a shifting, serene light over the polished obsidian floor. She turned, her stride resuming as if the conversation had never happened, and guided me towards a set of brush-metal double doors. As they hissed open, the cacophony of the station was replaced by the gentle murmur of low conversation and soft, inviting chime of futuristic, self-operating espresso machines.
This was not a utilitarian cafeteria. It was a cafe.
The floor was polished dark stone. Soft, recessed lighting glowed from beneath a long counter of polished obsidian. Patrons -- station officials in crisp uniforms, sleek-looking corporate executives, and elegantly dressed courtesans on break -- lounged in plush, comfortable chairs, sipping from delicate and logo-printed ceramic cups. The very air felt curated, thick with the rich, complex aroma of freshly ground coffee beans from a world I'd never heard of. It was a trendy, sophisticated oasis. The kind of place a girlfriend would bring her new boyfriend to, a display of taste and culture.
I felt out of place. Tama, of course, looked as if she owned the place. She selected a small, semi-private booth in the corner, offering a discreet view of the entire room, and sat with the innate grace of a queen taking her throne.
A lit android server walked over to our table. Her eyes were… similar to Tama's. Obsidian black sclera and warm orange irises. She presented a thin, transparent panel. When I received it, it shimmered to life revealing a holographic menu.
Androids, it turns out, have a slightly uniform look to them in this world.