Chapter One: The Runaway Titan

The room is uncomfortably bright and daunting. I shift in my seat, causing the leather cushion to squeal under my body. What was I thinking? Dispensation was not the answer, and yet here I am indulging my curiosity. My angst heightens as footsteps echo from the hallway and come to a silent halt outside the door. A moment later, Odeza enters the room.

She glances my way and grimaces. “I thought we had gone through this once before,” she says, studying the room’s intricate details. “Although, last time, you weren’t so committed to the illusion.”

I nod my head. “All I need is some clarity,” I state, leaning forward and summoning a red oak desk with a cherry finish in front of her.

She bows her head in gratitude and promptly sits across from me. “First, let’s start with the room. It’s uncomfortable. Tell me why?”

“I guess I’m feeling overwhelmed, maybe a little anxious,” I respond hesitantly.

Odeza leans forward, propping her elbows on the table. “And me, why did you make me into this?”

A feeling of frustration comes over me. “Can’t you just play along?” Odeza scowls, pushing me to explain. “Ok, I feel more comfortable talking to—”

“An attractive woman?” she interrupts. “Or is it the need for human contact?”

“Neither,” I say flatly. “It was your name.”

Odeza gives me a curious look. “Explain,” she demands.

“I imagine you looking like this because it fits your name,” I say, recalling my original image of Odeza. Almost everything had naturally fallen into place, from the dark brown of her skin to the curly poof of black glossy hair. Even the fitted gray business skirt and white button-up shirt accentuated every curve. Everything perfectly complemented her name, except for her eyes. Those damned emerald eyes didn’t belong to her, and they never will.

Odeza stands and circles the desk, then leans against the front of it. “So you associate my name with this form? Intriguing.”

“You’re actually impressed?” I ask in a tone of disbelief.

“I digress,” she quickly responds, pressing her hands along the front of her skirt and frowning. “Let’s get back to why we’re here.” Odeza folds her arms in front of her. “How far would you like to go back this time?” Her tone was practically caustic with accents of irritation.

I pause, preparing myself for rebuttal. “All the way.”

Odeza glares at me. “All the way!?” she growls. “John, you know we can’t keep doing this. You can’t change anything. The decision has been made!”

“I of all people understand that Odeza! I just—I need to remember!” I argue.

She scoffs. “For what? We took the memories for a reason. There was too much pain and suffering for you to do what you had to do!”

I jump to my feet, causing the room the tremor from my frustration. “I know what I have to do!” The room shudders more violently, causing the lights to flicker.

Odeza makes a smug look, waiting for me to calm down. “You know I’ll have to talk with the Board about this,” she says frankly, “But understand one thing, John. If they grant this Dispensation, it’ll be the last time. No more of this clarity nonsense.”

I cross my arms. “If you must.” I didn’t try to hide the disdain in my voice.

She shrugs. “Alright, give me a moment.” She walks into an open area of the room and extends her arms, lifting her head up toward the ceiling. The room begins to shake, and the lights become brighter until I can hardly make out Odeza’s silhouette. A few seconds later, everything returns to normal, with Odeza looking at me, lips pursed into a tight smile. “Dispensation has been granted. Please take a seat.”

I drop into the leather chair, making it creak. “They said yes, to everything?”

Odeza sits down at the desk. “Yes, John, but like I said, this is the last time. Now sit back and close your eyes.”

I lean back into the leather chair and stare up at the ceiling. “Odeza,” I say in a stern voice.

There are a few seconds of silence before she responds, “What is it, John?”

“Please don’t take them away again.” My tone boasted a little more desperation than I would have wished, but what’s said is said.

The silence that follows is unnerving; some things should be left unspoken. No matter how much I wished, Odeza was not my friend. Finally, she clears her throat. “You know I don’t have the power to make that decision.”

“Yeah,” I respond. “Thought it was worth a try.” I let out a sigh. “Ok, I’m ready,” I say, closing my eyes.

A few more seconds of silence pass before Odeza finally speaks. “Alright, John, start by telling me everything you see.”

*****

It’s the same as always. I’m floating, weightless in space surrounded by unimaginable vastness dotted with the light of a billion stars. And I feel as though I’m at peace as if my spirit has left my body to explore the endless space between all things. It’s freeing, really, knowing that I can escape the ravages of reality by embracing the absolution of sleep. I’ll be honest, though, it’s a boring dream, but it is so real to me nonetheless.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

After a while, I find myself in the white room that is split in half by a glossy black wall that shimmers like a dark sea. I can see my reflection in the smooth wall— undoubtedly me, but there is something different, something—off. And just like the countless times before, I begin walking toward the wall. My shadowed reflection becomes more and more clear the closer I get, but no matter how long I walk or run, I can never reach the surface of the glistening darkness.

As I get closer, I feel a pressure beginning in my abdomen, at first nothing more than a nuisance but then growing in discomfort. I hunch over, still making my way toward the wall. But now, the pressure has built to the point that I can barely breathe, causing my sight to diminish. I drag my body closer to the wall with my reflection copying my every move. I extend my arm as if to grab my reflection’s hand as the last bits of air are forced out of my lungs. A dreadfully-cold feeling begins running through my body as I lose consciousness.

"Wake up!" A dull sting courses through my right cheek. I jerk awake, coughing and gasping for air, realizing that the unbearable pressure on my chest wasn't from my dream but rather a drug addict named Tumbler kneeling on my sternum. He slaps me again, ensuring he has my undivided attention. "Where the hell is the Zeeklor!?" he yells, pressing the cold carbonized steel knife against my throat.

"I—don't know!" I shout, trying to catch my breath.

His eyes fill with fury, pressing the blade hard against my throat; I feel the sting of the knife cutting into my flesh. "I'm not playing with you boy, I’ll kill you!" he bears his teeth with drug-fueled malice.

Tumbler wasn’t a very intimidating man, no more than sixty-eight kilograms. Pale skin covered with cold sweat, probably due to withdrawal. His eyes were dark and sunken, his teeth yellow and neglected; he looked more like a skeleton with skin stretched over it. I could tell he was weak but desperate and willing to do anything for another hit of Zeek. I know better than to mess with people like Tumbler. But in my current situation, I have little option otherwise.

I can sense Tumbler’s growing impatience coursing from his hand into the blade. I comb the apartment with my eyes, catching sight of the cabinet just to the right of him. He notices my fixated stare and turns his attention to the cupboard, pushing himself upright, then stumbling to the door and ripping it open as if life depended on it.

I slowly force myself to my feet, eyeing the apartment door just past Tumbler, who was sifting through whole handfuls of junk at a time. The distraction isn't going to last long, and there is no way I can get to the door without him noticing. I search the cluttered mess on the floor, looking for something suitable to arm myself with. I grab a half-empty bottle and smash it against the coffee table, freeing a series of jagged glass edges.

"Where is it!?" Tumbler’s shout makes me jump. Before I could respond, his eyes shifted to the broken bottle in my hand. “You have a death wish, boy?” he says with a sinister smile, lifting the knife in response.

I can feel my heart stutter as his eyes narrow like a predator’s before attacking its prey. Tumbler was ready to kill, and he didn’t make an effort to hide it. I tighten my grasp around the bottle as he begins his advance, arm and blade outstretched, ready to end me.

SNAP! The sound of a pulse revolver fills the small apartment. Tumbler freezes in mid-step, his face contorting in pain as he collapses to the ground with an echoing thud. Blood was gushing from a smoldering fist-sized hole just under his right shoulder blade. I look up at Jurin’s smiling face and his revolver still trained on Tumbler.

"You alright, John?" he asks.

"Yeah, I'm good—thanks," I respond while Tumbler's corpse twitches on the ground in front of me.

"Good—" Jurin says, unloading three more pulse rounds into Tumbler, causing his flesh to split open like a bloody canyon. "Such a shame, you know," he adds, grabbing a duffle bag and stuffing it with his personal effects.

"What is?" I ask, attempting to imagine a single person who would miss Tumbler.

Jurin stops stuffing the bag long enough to catch my attention. I look up, noticing his twisted smile. “He was one of my best customers,” he says with a laugh, “and I really liked this apartment."

Figures. Only Jurin would make a joke out of killing someone, but I can't fault him for saving me. He’s strong, tall, and cynical like me, but his complexion is lighter; in fact, everything about Jurin is the opposite of me. He has intimidating grey eyes, whereas I have plain brown ones. He meticulously trims and combs his light blonde hair when I could care less about the brown mess that resides on my dome. There was always something different about him even when we were growing up, perhaps confidence I lacked. Whatever it may be, Jurin commands respect in all things, except for when it comes to people he cared about, and for that, I‘m thankful.

I take another long look at Tumbler’s ravaged body. The unfortunate truth is no one will care that he’s dead. Here on Saturn’s largest moon, Titan, commoners find ourselves conveniently misplaced from the rest of the Frontier and, like most things, we’re out of sight and therefore out of mind. Left to squander under the rule of drug lords, corrupt mega-corporations, and overbearing militarized police. I wonder if there was a time when Tumbler was a normal man. He maybe had a family or kids. The thought of him having a whole life before he was Tumbler brought a significant level of sadness to me, useless emotions that’ll get me killed. Besides, it wasn’t any easier for orphans like Jurin and me. At the age of eighteen, we age out, essentially ejected and left to our own devices. From there, we become fresh pickings for Drafters who recruit people for various organizations against their wills.

It’s hard to believe things weren’t always like this. I glance out a window at the rest of New Horizon, the largest and last colony established on Titan. There was a time of prosperity once long before Jurin, or I even existed. The Golden Age, as the etexts call it, was an entire era when humanity focused on common goals like expanding and colonizing when we forfeited our differences for the common good and did things not because we could, but because we couldn't.

Of course, that’s all history now, thanks to the 110-year Great Civil War between the inner and outer solar system that never truly ended but rather reached a stalemate just about twenty-five years ago. Since then, everybody’s been trying to heal or forget the war ever happened. While places like New Horizon continue to suffer under the rule of outlaws, like the ancient Wild West. We were so foolish to believe that we had changed.

"John!" Jurin's voice whips me out of my head. "Hey, get your stuff. We have to go."

I looked around for anything that I hold valuable, but nothing really stood out. Then it occurs to me, and I fumble through my pockets, ensuring the only important thing I possess is still there. I nod, stepping over Tumbler’s smoking corpse, and follow Jurin out of the apartment.

Tumbler won’t be found for a while, probably only after the smell starts to spread, and by then, I’ll be gone one way or another. Though, it’s not like we’re worried about the authorities, other than the local slum lords, who couldn’t give a crap about a lone drug addict. The Coalition Fleet doesn’t meddle with locals unless their people are directly involved. For the most part, we all live and die by the wills of the wicked, just a population of expendable, lost souls. And luckily for me, Jurin is close to the king of these wicked people.