“Aliens and humans co-mingling is a mistake. It’s bad enough we’ve started mixing with OHs. God, I can’t wait to hear about the first cross-species birth. :puke: :puke: I don’t care if I get banned, tired of you llamas and sigma betas.”
Unknown user.
ICG colony designated B11—or Bubba One-One—was a medium-sized colony just outside the outer rim of what most people call “The Bubble.” The Bubble was the most significant cluster of humanity’s colonized worlds, space stations, and orbital platforms (planetary weather permitting). Bubba was situated on the moon of planet Grayson. Grayson was a hothouse of a planet that vaporized anything organic that so much as whispered at its surface. Its moon was officially designated BB-253, but everyone just called it Bubba once the colony had been built.
The colony was made of 8 pre-fab domes organized into two vertical lines of four, each running parallel to the other on the surface. Connecting the domes were people mover tubes that silently slid colonists between them. Bubba was one of the few human colonies with local aliens sharing the same space with humans. Joint ventures between them and the local species calling any particular sector of the Milky Way home were few and far between.
Some were successful, like this one. Others not so much, like Drusula, the infamous site of the death of Captain Steel.
Bubba’s population topped out at about 2 million, made up of 80 % humans and 20% other species such as the Tomie, a mostly artificial race of humanoid bubbleheads who were the majority-minority on the colony. They were already on the moon before humanity got here, and it's been primarily smooth going for the last 20 or so years. Encased underneath every glass dome that is their head were several microchips embedded on top of what could be described as a CPU, dubbed by them “logic centers” in basic human English.
They “spoke” only electronically via binary, and any human with even the oldest AUG model installed could understand them easily. Of course, such things were only available to those who could afford them, but when has that ever stopped the march of progress?
Bubba, as a whole, specialized as a final stop before the greater expanse out toward the galactic edge. Very few, if any, signs of life existed out in the voluminous void, but they existed if you cared to look. Most humans were too self-absorbed to do so and would instead take myths and legends at face value which was—to be honest—not surprising in the least.
Bubba had the most significant gift shop of human crap within 5k light-years of the nearest habitable star system, but the real money was in the secondary market. In place of credits, most citizens trade in stuff to get slightly less—but mostly—newer stuff in return. All of this was perfectly on the up and up and pretty much baked into the local economy cake.
Outside, the glass domes shimmered in cool and clean purple. The tiny main star of the system, OGG-19-51—Oggey to the locals—played peekaboo just off the horizon and cast rounded shadows that looked like rivets punched into steel. On the inside, it sometimes smelled not so great. Apartments were small, and people tended to crowd on the people mover, a foot-high series of stasis fields that moved on a track and essentially “grabbed” people one at a time.
With a gift and secondary market-based economy, shipments of junk from nearby planets, colonies, and even Izanami (the most valuable of them all) were commonplace and expected. As you can imagine, one of the more critical positions on Bubba would be Orbital Traffic Control. The tower was the tallest structure on the surface, at the center standing between two people mover tunnels, and not just anyone was allowed to do it.
Unless you know a guy who also knows a guy, and they tell you that they’ve got a transport ship filled with contraband that was on its way—totally easy money. Sanno was the kind of guy who knew guys; he needed money or goods yesterday if he was going to avoid losing his apartment cube. Word spread across the grapevine until it reached him, and he found himself temporarily assigned here because “someone” got “sick.” He set up to get plugged into the tower's red and black ergonomic chair and could feel himself sweat a little.
He got an AUG implanted for this, paid for by whoever made this happen, so it was a win-win for him. Having an AUG installed just meant more opportunity, which meant more money. The job was super simple: Just guide in the ship carrying the contraband, ignore that it’s not on the manifest, and yes, get paid.
Before him sat a hefty 500-key keyboard set into a curve wrapped around the chair. The room itself was spacious, if not a little short, but it had enough room for two more stations, both of which sat empty. A slithering silicone cord jutted out from the headrest and made its way to the newly surgically installed connection port at the base of his neck that fed to the freshly installed AUG.
Sanno blinked once, acknowledging the connection. He had thick orange hair, ashen skin, bushy, unkempt eyebrows, and a pointy chin. With encryption software pre-installed on his mental OS, it spoofed his identification. It tricked the system into believing he had the proper credentials and skills to control traffic entering the thin atmosphere.
Today he was Jon Smith, originally from Millerton Bay, Izanami. Sanno sniffed hard and settled in because it would be a while. One hour in, and he was already feeling sleepy. Suddenly, the room flashed red on/off in 2-second intervals, followed by a static-filled screech that passed for an alarm around here. It was a warning.
A ship was too close. Yet, nothing was out there.
Confused, Sanno began to search for a diagnostic program or override mentally, but the screeching was like a jackhammer; it messed his senses up.
“There’s nothing there!” He screamed.
Space above him warped; he wondered if the sound had made him go mad. Stars twisted and rippled like a pulled sheet of cotton. A white ball of light at the apex expanded, pulsated, and grew until it affected the nearby relative space around it. Somehow—impossibly perhaps—the energy ball pinched at its center and forced a pulse of electromagnetic radiation that violently traveled toward the moon.
Toward Bubba. Toward the domes.
The peanut-shaped anomaly pulsated again when, at its center—where it is at its thinnest—half of a ship appeared. Radiation pounded at the surface, and the bubbles shook for all inside. The ground under two gave way some, bringing the foundation down 10 meters from the surface.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
In retrospect, they were lucky.
The Orbital Traffic Control tower had been crushed, flattened by tremendous gravimetric energy.
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Less than a mile from work—South Saint Century and north of Junktown—Roxanne deconstructed her uniform atom by atom until she was wearing blue jean shorts cut above her thigh, a black wide-neck shirt, and a twice-her-frame green and black flannel shirt. She cut her altitude by a half second before finally landing gently between a pair of junky buildings that were fit to be condemned.
Roxanne worked at a shop called Lucha Pawn. It specialized in selling and collecting ancient Earth tech. The store filled a more than decent niche in the market and was considered successful by most metrics. Set up in the so-called slums of Saint Century added to its allure to big rich and white influencers who wanted to keep up with trends. That being said, the only Old Earth thing that interested Roxanne was music; the rest was mostly trash.
She emerged from the alley and lightly jogged across the small street while deftly dodging little electric taxi carts and untethered kids. Above, an elevated mag train screamed by—an express ride to the north that ignored this area. The legs holding up the tracks shuddered with a sound that spread to every lamppost, wall, and door within earshot. The storefront was unassuming. A large window with items sold inside was prominent, as was the mechanism just above it that slammed down security shudders if necessary.
Roxanne peered in the window and held a hand to her chest. More old music players; her cheeks flushed as she beamed seeing them displayed. She could have the music on it exported easily if they still worked, of course. That was always a gamble. On her left was the glass door, plain as well. The handle was rectangular and only required the slightest push. A Luchador mask decal adorned the front of the glass and was always at eye level whenever she walked in.
A small bell rang once she pushed the door open and went inside. 6 foot high shelves dotted the center of the store, backed with different labeled bins: Toys, books, gadgets, and so on. Against the walls were more containers carrying things like clothing, physical media, and the like. In the back corner was an elevated counter that only reached via a small ten-step stair that looked like it had haphazardly been bolted on. Customers had to lift their purchases to the counter like they were giving an offering to God.
At the register, helping a customer check out, was the owner/manager of Lucha Pawn, Christine “Chris” Morris. They were relatively tall and somewhat thin, with skin the color of toasted bread. Their hair was a black curly mop that faded to nothing at the sides while a decent-sized chunk of their mane hung over their right brow. Chris had perfectly symmetrical eyebrows, a round face, and—Roxanne thought so—perfect skin and amazing hips. Roxanne eyed Chris smirking at a customer's words and felt very light in her heart.
“Well, well, well, look who’s back!” Chris said, just as they swiped the credit chip and confirmed the transaction.
“Sure am,” She said, trying her best to be cool.
“Love the hair.”
“Why, thank you.” Don’t blush, she told herself.
“Did you have a good time?” Chris handed the customer's bag over and leaned against the counter to get a better look at Roxanne. They wore a red graphic tee with a logo of the store on it and skinny white jeans tucked into green boots. “You with us for a bit?” Roxanne looked up, smiled, and slowly twisted her torso back and forth while shrugging.
“Well,” She replied. “Ya never know these days, but,” Roxanne made a casual thumbs up and made her way to the stairs. She stopped at the bottom of them and looked up at Chris, who waited for her at the top. Their eyes catch one another for a second; Roxanne doesn’t want to blush. She really doesn’t. She held firm on that front and walked up the steps. Roxanne took a seat at one of the two stools back there, and Chris joined her on the other.
“I wanna hear all about it.” They said.
“What?”
“What you did out there.”
“Serious?” Roxanne was surprised. Before she left, they typically operated on a don’t ask, don’t tell policy, mainly to protect the store from liability. Still, who Roxanne was wasn’t exactly a secret. Anybody who just cared to look knew she was Solar Flare. But Chris had never outright asked before; Roxanne was suspicious.
“…Why?” She asked, chin tilted upward.
“I’m making small talk,” they said. “It's been really boring without you around, Rox.”
The words themselves made her stomach jump. Chris was only two years older than Roxanne and could forge their own way without being tethered to the corporate teat. Roxanne was wholly smitten, obviously, and admired them; Chris was the dream. She also knew that such thoughts weren’t helpful or intelligent. They have a weird power dynamic here, and the smart thing was to keep things purely professional.
But damn, feelings were feelings; she found it challenging.
“Uh—well,” she began, trying to choose her words carefully. She didn’t really want to get into it, honestly. Ever since she broke The Balance 4 years ago, she has been getting nasty vibes from the universe, and the deeper she got into interstellar space, the weirder it got. There was a not-so-small feeling in the pit of her stomach that the universe was trying to tell her something, but she’d really—really—like that not to be the case. Finding a sun-eating monster that, as far as she knew, was extinct—and she knew a lot thanks to shared memory with her predecessors—damn near put the fear of Gresh into her.
Instead, she told some stories about her easing tensions between a human colony and an alien civ less than 50 light-years away. She then moved on to the time she got into a, in hindsight, really stupid fistfight with a particularly belligerent ship captain who wasn’t her biggest fan. Even in deep space, egos were out of control.
“So what was his problem?” Chris asked as another customer approached the register.
“He thought I was bossy,” she replied with an imperceptible shrug. “I mean, I was, but I could have been a touch more diplomatic, I guess.”
“Did you win?” Chris scanned in the merchandise and said, “12 creds.” Roxanne rolled her gaze toward Chris’ direction.
“Bro, I’m literally the greatest fighter in the Verse.” She deadpanned.
“Oh, how could I forget?”
“I beat Lady Steel in a fight once, true story.”
“Sure, Jan.”
Roxanne rolled her eyes at this; this was an old song and dance the two of them did. Her fight with Lady Steel 4 years ago wasn’t broadcast—other, crazier things were happening that night—and most of Corina’s actions were whitewashed and retroactively blamed on Wes Gibson. She hated being part of a cover-up like that, but people didn’t need reasons to dislike Corina. Plus, she knew the truth so big old whatever to that as far as she was concerned. Regardless, because she said it once in public, offhandedly, I Beat Lady Steel In A Fight Once has become a meme. So much so that she just leaned into it at this point.
Still, Roxanne found it endearing that the two had their own “thing” already. She’d only been working there, what? Less than a year? Roxanne nodded at the conversation she was having with herself.
“You alright?”
“Hm?” Roxanne snapped out of it and blushed immediately, having not realized what she had been doing. “Hey, what are you doing tonight?” She asked suddenly, utterly unable to stop the words from leaving her mouth. Numbness crept across her arms and legs while her cheeks grew flush and she felt compelled to rub the back of her neck. Chris was her boss; was she seriously about to ask this person out?
“Nothing, I don’t think?” Chris replied. “Why?”
“Corina’s birthday party, do you…want to come?” Yes, yes, she was asking her boss out. Chris stared at her for a moment, and they lightly cocked their head to the side.
“Are you….” Chris started, and Roxanne had to hold her breath. “…inviting me to Lady Steel’s birthday party??” Roxanne breathed again.
“Well, I mean, she’s my best friend as well, " Roxanne replied. “But, yeah, I am. What do you say?” Any answer from Chris was delayed by them finally finishing the transaction and handing over the goods to the person on the other side of the counter. Chris turned in place, faced Roxanne, and said:
“Do I need to dress up?”