Mariset was
finished with Hellems Station. She was finished with it physically,
emotionally, and, she decided, spiritually. Finished with the rough and
uncompleted walls, the rusting pipes and metal grates, the dim lighting and
long, jagged corridors. Finished with the men and women on the lower decks,
whose accents were like ice in her ears, and whose demeanors always left her
feeling unwelcome. Finished with the atmosphere of the place, something that
coalesced into a physical pressure boring into her mind. It was a creeping
empathy with those who had lost their purpose, and the dread that somehow by
proximity she would lose her own; the silent screaming of people who know
they’re headed nowhere, but are unable to change course.
Or, perhaps, it
was just the years of failure, a failure she had begun to project onto others.
Three, long years of a search for something that no one, not even those who
originated her orders, expected her to find. While she slept, she had dreams that
she’d find the object of her search in unlikely places. She’d draw a bath in
her room, though her room had no tub, and when she turned around she’d find a
microdrive submerged in the water. She’d walk around a blind corner in the
station, and a meteor would crash through the ceiling and lay smoldering in the
metal grating at her feet, and when she looked closer, the meteor would be that
remnant of ancient Peshmaria she sought for so long.
How many scouts,
including herself? Thirty five? And how many stations had they collectively
floundered through, only to leave, empty-handed? She couldn’t remember them
all. The stations had begun to merge in her memory. Three years asking herself
the same question, each day her discontentment growing stronger. Why? Why do I
persist? But always the answer. The answer that drove them all, though for each
of them any hope of success had long since faded to a dull ache, like the
early-morning remembrance of a lost first love. They promised us peace, still
promise it, if only we can find a Peshmarian microdrive.
Mariset’s brief
excitement soured over the past week. Zenfried called her secure line from
Triad Station eight days ago. Not that a day had any real meaning on the
stations. Well, that’s not true, Mariset thought. Radioactive decay has
meaning, but it’s not the same as seeing the Sun. She knew which method of time
keeping she preferred.
Mariset had been
preparing for another day in Greg’s salvage shop when her phone lit up, and
Zenfried’s face slid across the screen. She answered the call.
“Another day,
another scavenge drone, eh Z?”
“It’s nice to see
you too, Mariset.”
“I’m tired. I’m so
tired of this.”
“I know...I know
it so well my toenails ache. But an end to the violence, dare you imagine it?
True peace! To be able to stop pretending...”
“I’ve imagined it
ceaselessly for three years. It’s pretty peaceful here you know. I mean,
relatively speaking. There was a murder yesterday. On the lower decks. But it’s
not a suppressed warzone. It’s not like home.”
“I know you hate
Hellems station. You despise each one more than the last. Triad’s not any
better, believe me. But it’s worth it.”
“I don’t know,
Zenfried, do you still trust them? The Skippers? Haven’t you wondered if they
aren’t stalling? What if it’s all a distraction?”
Zenfried was
momentarily silent, and Mariset could see him on the tiny screen, chewing his
lip. She watched as Zenfried glanced around, almost furtively, though he was
clearly alone in his compartment. Then, he bent close to his camera, and
quietly said, “This is going to end soon.” He took a breath, and seemed to have
difficultly picking his next words. “You’re okay, right? You haven’t seen, I
mean, you haven’t skipped town?”
Off guard and
slightly confused, not quite daring to hope, Mariset said, “Yes, of course, and
you know exactly where I am, I ... are you trying to tell me something?
Zenfried, have you found -”
At that moment,
the door to Zenfried’s compartment banged open. He gave an involuntary jump,
mastered himself, loudly proclaimed that watermelon was too expensive on Triad
Station, and then said, “Sorry Sweetness, but I gotta run. Check-in again in a
few weeks.” Mariset’s last view before the feed terminated was Zenfried turning
to give someone named “Dayve” a firm handshake and a pat on the shoulder. A
flurry of motion. A blank screen. She wasn’t sure if she was supposed to call
him back in a few weeks, or vice versa.
At the time,
Mariset imagined the words “this is going to end soon” could only mean that
Zenfried, against overwhelming odds, had found an authentic Peshmarian
microdrive. The search might be over. She was elated beyond all reason. The
morning after, having slept on it for a night, she worried that Zenfried may
have meant something else entirely. Unable to withstand the suspense, Mariset
finally tried reaching Zenfried a few days later, but his old connection
protocol was no longer active. Her thoughts automatically snapped to the
Shrouded Fellowship, though she couldn’t imagine why they might be involved.
A nightmare from
childhood, the Fellowship supposedly employed alien races for assassination and
subterfuge. Their motives were opaque and indecipherable. Regional governments
blamed the Fellowship for every catastrophe, no matter the size. Parents warned
children against misbehaving by invoking their name. By now it was nearly
reflex to assume that the Shrouded Fellowship was behind everything from
interstellar cruiser collisions and high profile fatalities to a piece of burnt
toast.
As Mariset
continued to work in Greg’s salvage shop on Hellems Station, and The Skipper’s
secure channel relayed only silence after her call with Zenfried, Mariset was
forced to assume he hadn’t found a microdrive after all. She would have heard
by now. All scouts would have been recalled. There would have been a
celebration.
Instead, Mariset
sat on her cot, in a tiny compartment on the inner ring of Hellems Station. A
single room, her compartment included a sink, toilet, and stove that all folded
with a jarring clang into the wall. The cot was little more than a slab of
smooth, cold metal, suspended by two chains coming down at an angle from iron
rings. A thin and threadbare green cushion laid over the top. Initially she
wondered why The Skippers couldn’t have sprung for nicer quarters, but then she
saw her room was more or less standard for Hellems. Five more weeks and The
Skippers would move her to another system, another station, and she would start
the process anew. She prayed her next assignment would be closer to the core,
on a station that didn’t seem like it was cobbled together from whatever pieces
of space trash that happened to float by.
A chime sounded on
Mariset’s work permit, signifying the start of her shift. She made her way out
of the residential blocks, and walked down the corridor to one of the station’s
central elevators. The elevator’s glass cylinder provided an unobstructed view
of the station’s inner workings, which Mariset found disconcerting. Unfinished
spaces filled with industrial machinery stretched into the background, giving
her the impression that the station was ultimately still open to vacuum.
It was a
ten-minute ride to Hellems’ outer shell, to the docks and their corresponding
salvage yards. The outer shell was also home to the Human Integration
Authority, which explained why a man with a birdcage nearly as tall as the
elevator itself got on halfway through the ride, and stayed in the elevator
until they reached the end of the line. Flying mammalian creatures flitted from
one wall of the cage to the other, periodically making tiny squawking noises.
“Vespions!”
Mariset exclaimed, recognizing the creatures in the cage, which were roughly
twice the size of squirrels. “I’ve always loved these!”
The man raised an
eyebrow. “You’ve always loved Vespions? Ever since their discovery, oh,” here
the man pretended to check a watch, “five months ago?”
“It’s just a
figure of speech.”
“Looking for a
pet?” His tone was condescending. “Think they’re cute? Hey, I wouldn’t do
that!” he said suddenly, as Mariset reached towards the cage.
Mariset drew back
with her hands on her hips. “No, I think they look tasty. I was hoping to make
sandwich. Would probably beat the stuff in the food court, though that’s hardly
a challenge, eh?”
The man with the
Vespions did not find this funny. He clearly thought Mariset an ignorant
tourist. “Listen, ma’am. The Human Integration Authority classified Vespions as
teshen: alien race of uncertain capabilities, and possessed of uncertain
motives. They are neither to be kept as pets nor served as food. These three,”
he indicated the cage, “will serve as ambassadors to their species in a hearing
this afternoon.”
“I was only joking
about...never mind.” Mariset eyed the cage. A Vespion stared back, clinging to
the cage wall. It had six legs. She could not picture the creature sitting in a
courtroom for questioning. “How will they, uh, testify?”
“Vespions are
smarter than they look.” As if Mariset should have known. The elevator reached
its destination. “Decades of dealing with aliens, not to mention the Himsi crisis,
and people still underestimate.” The man rolled the cage out of the elevator,
and to Mariset’s relief, turned in the direction opposite the salvage shop.
“The Himsi had
spaceships and beam weapons!” Mariset called after his back. “Sounds a bit more
advanced than oversized flying squirrels!” The man did not bother to
acknowledge this, but Mariset could hear the Vespions chittering loudly in
their cage.
Floor-to-ceiling
windows lined the corridors here, at the outer edge of the station.
Interstellar vessels, too large to dock with the station directly, hovered some
distance away. A steady stream of shuttles transferred personnel and materials
between Hellems and the constellation of ships. She could make out the standard
shapes of military corvettes and their larger cruiser counterparts, the
unwieldy bulk of mining frigates, sleeker trading freighters, and even a
handful of enormous private yachts. Private yachts...she couldn’t imagine why
anyone would want to come to Hellems station for anything other than business
or government matters. Perhaps for them Hellems was a pit stop on the way to
more exotic locales.
Mariset watched
the traffic as she strolled towards what she thought of as Salvage Shop D, her
fourth shop in about as many months. The way she jumped from shop to shop might
look suspicious to anyone looking closely at her history. Either no one had
noticed, or, more likely, no one cared. Turnover in the salvage shops was so
high that no one questioned the arrival or departure of a shop hand.
Mariset arrived to
find the Overseer waiting for her. The Overseer was a short, round man. He
arrived every morning wearing suspenders over a white tank top, which was
always stained with grease and sweat though the day had yet to start. A welding
mask continually hid his face, regardless of any actual welding taking place.
His full name was Gregory Middlun, but his ego required that the shop hands
address him either as Overseer, or, in an eccentric bit of hierarchical
nostalgia, Your Eminence. Mariset knew of no one in the shop who addressed Greg
by the latter.
Greg liked to
watch the salvage drones deposit the morning hauls, and Mariset found herself
agreeing to accompany him to the viewing port. Metal shavings crunched beneath
their feet as the two threaded through the bulky shop equipment. Mariset’s
thoughts drifted back to Zenfried.
“...do you?
Mariset?”
“I’m sorry,
Overseer. Pardon?”
“I said, you don’t
much like the work here, do you?”
“I like it well
enough. You do what you have to, yeah? I mean, you could always replace me with
a Himsi.”
The Overseer
laughed, loud and deep. “As like to chop me in half as cut metal, all the same
to the crabs. Shouldn’t even be on the station, you ask me. A revan species
like the Himsi don’t belong here. No question. Nor do the teshen. Honestly, I
don’t like them pacha neither, when it comes to it, though they’re supposed to
be safe. They don’t really know. How can they know?”
“That’s every
alien classification there is. Revan, teshen, and pacha. Hostile, undetermined,
and friendly. You just don’t like aliens.”
“No, I reckon I
don’t. Can’t know what they’re thinkin. Can’t really understand ‘em. Not
really. Not ever.”
Mariset recalled
the Vespions, a teshen race, and pictured the one from the elevator, staring
her in the eyes. What had it been thinking? Was Greg right? That cage, had it
been for her sake or for the Vespions’? She wondered.
The shop, which was about 200
yards deep, terminated in a viewing window above the salvage bay. Mariset
rested her hands on the metal railing beneath the window, and peered into the
rubble. Greg stood next to her, watching the sorter sift through the rusted
detritus, a mixture of space debris from interstellar battles, and ruined
material from the surface of that region’s colonies.
This pull like was
any other: a pile of wrecked metal, valuable only once melted down and its
impurities removed. Why was she still here? Right. Peace. But there would be no
peace in this salvage pull, nor the next, nor the one after that. Greg droned
on about spot market prices for recycled salvage metal. Mariset wasn’t
listening. She was doomed. Doomed to skip from shop to shop, never finding what
she needed.
Then, Mariset’s
stomach dropped out. A perfect Peshmarian microdrive, sitting in the middle of
the rubble.
Greg saw it too,
but obviously did not know what he was looking at, because he said the same
thing he always said whenever Peshmarian artifacts appeared in his cache. “Ooh,
that’s a juicy one! See if there’s a core! If it still works, it goes in the
usual place.” Mariset struggled to hide her disbelief as a mixture of emotions
coursed through her.
The Shrouded
Fellowship offered a small fortune for certain Peshmarian artifacts, and the
markings on the microdrive’s casing identified it as obviously Peshmarian.
Intricate patterns inlaid with exotic red and blue minerals traced a
latticework of vines and other foliage across the outer shell. No one knew
whether the decorations held any deeper meaning, but they did cause Peshmarian
salvage to stand out from the rest of the salvage, and the detailing also
usually indicated the presence of a meridian core.
Mariset knew The
Overseer intended to sell the core on the lower decks, assuming its sheathing
wasn’t cracked. Trading Peshmarian cores on the black market instead of
declaring and turning them over to the Colonization Bureau wasn’t exactly
legal, but Station Security had enough to worry about without chasing down
every shady deal the salvage shops made. Meridian cores were relatively rare,
but there was just too much salvage to follow every piece of ancient Peshmaria
coming onto the station. Besides, core-bearing artifacts almost never appeared
in salvage pulls. The chances that a microdrive would appear in the salvage
pull was astronomically small. By the core, how did it get there?
She descended the steps leading
to the salvage bay, turned off the sorter, and climbed the pile. She picked out
the microdrive, which was shockingly light, and carried it like a baby back
into the shop. Greg clapped her on the back and said, “Glad we saw it before
the bureau did, huh? Best part is, everyone’ll get a cut. Now if you’ll excuse
me, I have a call to make.” Greg sauntered to his office.
Mariset carried
the microdrive to her bench in a state of shock. Not only was she holding
something whose value was several times greater than that of Hellems Station
itself, but Greg, who ran with a certain kind of crowd, somehow hadn’t
recognized the microdrive for what it was. Not that there were many people on
the station who would know a Peshmarian microdrive from a Peshmarian toaster.
Her brain was still trying to process what this meant. She was done. She was
DONE! Right now, right here, in this stupid salvage shop, this moment marked
the end of the search! What will the others say? What will The Skippers say?
She wanted to tear
around the shop, laughing and crying and hugging the other shop hands and
whoever else came within arms reach. Instead, she stood over her bench, trying
not to hyperventilate. If Greg knew what this was, no, if anyone found out...
She’d imagined this moment for three years. Time to do what she had to do to
protect it. Act like everything was normal. What if the Colonization Bureau saw
it? Would they see just another Peshmarian curiosity? How would she get the
microdrive out of the shop without Greg noticing, and then out of the station
without the Colonization Bureau noticing?
When she accepted
The Skippers’ proposal three years ago, she imagined this moment ceaselessly.
She would dream up complicated escape sequences, usually picturing herself
tearing through a space station with the microdrive held snug under her arm.
Sometimes she’d pelt into a shuttle set up in advance, laser fire and
explosions from Colonization Bureau weaponry missing her by inches in her
desperate bid to escape. Or perhaps she’d pack the microdrive into her luggage,
and book a fake ticket for a vacation on a distant planet, only to stow away on
a smuggling vessel in an effort to throw her imagined pursuers off her tail. But
Mariset’s experiences had shown her that real life was nothing like the vids.
None of this would really happen. In all likelihood, the Colonization Bureau
would get wind of her find, and confiscate it. She couldn’t let that happen.
Mariset should have had a plan already in place. The truth was she had
given up hope of ever finding a microdrive in the first place. But here it was.
The Skippers needed it, and now it fell to Mariset to figure out how to get it
to them. The first step would be to remove the meridian core to distract Greg.
Actually, no. The first step was to calm down and get some lunch.
