Just two weeks ago, we’d taken a gamble at striking it rich with our lives on the line. We had done months and months of menial portside jobs before that fateful meeting with Ramon. He’s... not around anymore, of course, but his eyes will doubtlessly enjoy many more years without its owner, taking in the sights around the galaxy. Or at least the Empyrean Sector. It was a miracle that our eyes escaped the same fate, with the price being our foreheads.
Before Ramon, before we dived into this uncharted system 170 light-years away as a clueless bait to a leviathan and the hunter of said leviathan, we’d forklifted cargo, scrubbed stains outta corpo millionaires’ toilet bowls, walked two-headed genemodded crocodiles for eccentric spacers, and used our tissue-box shuttle to haul minimum wage factory workers from the assemblies to their beds. You name it – we’ve done it. Or at least, whatever and whichever job you could find on a metropolis in the black, ‘cause that’s where all the money gathered. Even then, we’d only managed to gather 46 credits to both of our names. We counted our account balance not in terms of credits, but in terms of chips, 1/100th of a credit. That way, it sounded impressive:
‘Hey, Maine, what’s your haul today?’
‘Oh, I brought in 30 chips (0.3 credits) delivering food while dodging gunshots.’
‘Let me guess, the neighborhood that doesn’t tip?’
‘Yup.’
And every time we were on the cusp of something great, or about to hit a saving milestone, our shuttle would break down, our holopads would break, you know the drill. Money came in trickles, but poured out like waterfalls to goodness knows where.
I think I’ve mentioned this back then, but 5,000 credits – the payout for the job we took from Ramon – would have landed us 250 months of real food. Real, as in grown planetside on lush, habitable worlds and prepared with chefs with white pristine aprons, and not excreted out in vague-looking blocks and rice lookalikes by a nutrient machine from remains of factory-farmed grubs on a barren piece of rock, the latter which many mouths of the sector had to endure on a daily basis. So you could say that the greatest comfort and luxury, perhaps our only source of warmth that inured us against the infinite black and cold of space, was the prospect of affording good food. That, and our burning dream of adventure, wealth, and riches untold.
Of course, 5,000 creds could buy you more than just food. It could afford you a decent apartment on an inconspicuous midworld near the rim, and if you were unenterprising enough, you could choose to retire and live a quiet, boring life. Given the state of the Empyrean Sector, that was totally understandable. 5,000 credits was also the price of an entire mudskipper shuttle like ours, although we, uh, had nabbed it from planetside authorities when we were escaping our old worlds. We don’t really talk about that.
But now, we had 127,000 credits in our hand.
5,000 credits, times twenty-freaking-five. To put that in perspective, it could afford you a lifetime of food – actually, it was a number so big and unfathomable to us freshers that it threw a wrench into our imaginations. We could only dream of dreaming.
A new ship. Good food. An unbroken kopi machine for once, hah. That’d be just the start.
But like everything good, there was a catch.
We would actually need to sell these drake crystals to get our 127,000 creds. And we were just basing this off from the offhand comment from Voltaire, that six-eyed freak – that each kilogram was worth 10,000 credits. We may have done various jobs, but we were complete amateurs when it came to trade.
Where could we sell this?
We had no idea.
Why did they command so much money?
We had no idea.
How could we keep ourselves from being jumped by wannabe pirates or grayhat patrols?
We had absolutely no idea – not to mention that the bottom half of our ship probably looked like a sieve, and half of our Witchdrive teetered on the edge of rapid unscheduled disassembly.
But boy, oh boy, were we gonna get our money’s worth no matter what.
Back to our scheduled scene.
“Hey Maine,” I remarked over the comms, my visor fogging up rather uncomfortably, “drive core status?”
“Red... oh wait, green – red again – it’s flickering, give some time for the air to woosh –” Maine crackled through the static.
“Bottom’s sealed?”
“Bottom’s sealed.”
“Whew,” I sighed, fogging up my visor even further, “about damn time.” Droplets of sweat coalesced and floated off in front of my brow. I blew it away and splattered it onto the visor.
This was my second-ever spacewalk – the first was when I’d clung on by the side of the ship when we were trying to jury-rig the thruster on our escape a couple years back. It was exhilarating to float out into the endless field of stars, but if you had to go out the ship with an intent to fix something, it was a whole level of nasty. At least, it was nasty with the paper-thin astrosuit we had. But despite its flimsy construction, it did provide decent atmospheric pressure so that, you know, you won’t explode – this ironically made it harder to bend or move in the suit, because the pressure inside kept it stiff like a full balloon. And archons forbid the grip-strength necessary to fight the pressure and hold onto the external handrails, lest you become an orphan of space.
“...Hana? Hana? You there? You okay?”
Maine’s worried voice hurtled through the intercom.
“What – What?” I replied back, “ – what’s wrong?”
“Thank goodness,” he commented, breathing a throaty sigh of relief, “thought I lost you, holy shit. Spacing out again?”
I smacked my helmet. “My bad.”
“Any idea on the thrusters?”
After five straight hours of cold-welding a hundred blasted holes on the bottom of the hull, I was pretty sure all the muscles in my arm called it quits.
“Screw ‘em,” I sighed, grappling the handrails with my legs and freeing my arms for a stretch. “One engine’s still working, ain’t it?”
“Yeah, one’s no problem. We’re almost outta duct tape anyway,” said Maine. “I’ll prep the airlock for you and some nutrient paste.”
“What I’d kill for a cup of kopi right now,” I half-chuckled, half laughed, as I floated there in the grand majesty of the abyss, my knee hooked between the railing and the hull.
Stars studded the night like jewels. Someday, Maine and I will get to visit them – not on a shady job pressed for time, but just because. On a new, better ship. The 127,000 credits – our soon-to-be – would be our first step to riches grander still.
Thinking of that took the aches off my joints.
The airlock some ways above opened with a whoosh and a muted silence – I sat-up and twisted my legs free, letting my momentum float me up towards the open airlock.
***
“So, we head for Vanaheim?”
“That’s our best bet. Lots of corpos come together. The only problem,” Maine continued, tapping the starmap, “is the distance. I reckon we don’t have enough fuel to get there in one go.”
“Right...” I nodded, thinking. Vanaheim was part of the core worlds, meaning it was a stretch of at least 8 days at full burn in Witchspace. With the three fuelshells we recovered, we had just enough fuelshells for 5 days of burn, so we had to top-up somewhere. But the more systems we visited, the more we took idle time, the more likely it was for pirates and mercs to come across our ship and blow it to smithereens. One scan of the cargo hold and it’d be over for us. We had to be quick, stealthy, and discriminating with our choices of destination.
Unfortunately, the basic starmap package only came with detailed information on the core worlds. Information on anything outside of that little sphere of a few light years was intentionally held from us because we couldn’t afford a more detailed starmap. In the sector, everything was about money. Information itself was a commodity worth its weight in gold, and those who couldn’t pay were barred from it. Ah, gotta love the freaking corpos for putting locks on literally everything that existed.
“Well, what choice do we have, right?” I jested half-heartedly, steering the ship the opposite way to slow our approach.
It had been 7 and a half days since our encounter with the legendary drake and our run-in with Voltaire. We were on the border of the jump point that once took us into this system – now, it’ll take us out and into Witchspace again.
Maine strode away to check the navigation closet for any strange readings. A brief flutter of breeze lifted his shirt; underneath, long webs of stitches lined his muscled belly, ripped and torn from shrapnel during our getaway.
I personally put those stitches in, after a careful but brief ritual of disinfection that I prayed would work, and Maine took those stitches like a champ. They must’ve hurt enough for one to see hallucinations, especially because the only anesthesia we had onboard was copious quantities of alcohol. Ah, yes, medical products from bandages and disinfectant aside were also gated behind credits and insurance payments.
After what we had gone through, both of our faces looked gaunt like hollowed-out pumpkins. The scars that looked like someone played tic-tac-toe on our foreheads graced us as a cherry on top. Oh, add another thing to the shopping list. Tissue restoration surgery to get rid of this.
“Jump point reads fine...” Maine said, craning his muscled neck into the panel, clutching his belly. “Drive core is a bit meh, a bit unstable for my taste, but I think we won’t get turned inside out. Hopefully.”
I nodded in mute silence in a thousand yard stare of the sights we’ve seen. “Just another day in the life of a spacer, eh?”
“Beats having dirt kicked in your face and dumpster diving, hah! Ah – shite –” Maine sputtered, clutching his sides. “Goddamn, breathing still hurts.”
“Thank the archons there ain’t an infection, at least,” I sighed, kicking my feet up. “This far from the core worlds, I wouldn’t know what to do...”
“Aw come on, have a little more spirit,” cheered Maine, slapping my back and throwing me into the console with a bleurgh. “127,000 creds! We came for 5,000 and landed ourselves a windfall that’ll make Voltaire cry!”
“Not until we sell it!”
“We don’t have to sell it all in one go, you know. We can keep it a secret.”
“Doodley-doodle-doo. Fat chance,” I remarked.
A loud ping cut our banter in two.
‘Ship has entered the vicinity of a jump point. Please check all diagnostics before –’ “Yeah, yeah, check diagnostics, check nav panel, confirm hull seal, already did,” I droned, banging the announcer button off. Why did the designers of the mudskipper have to incorporate every single thing that happened into a voiced announcement? To not get sued by customers with attention spans of goldfish? Come to think of it, that... actually... made sense.
“Alright, Maine, strap yourself in,” I gestured, pulling the seatbelt on.
“Mmmhmm,” he answered, taking the copilot’s seat next to me. “Don’t want to die before we get 127,000 credits.”
“Feels like forever since we jumped, en’t it?”
“Right?”
“Okay, readied up.”
I pulled the crank that freed the Witchdrive lever from its repose, and laid my hand upon the dull steel handle. The cockpit lights grew dim; the only glimmers upon the canopy the reflection of the crystal trove we set on the corridor behind.
‘Ready to engage.’
We looked at each other’s face in that dim light, reminiscence in tow.
“Archons guide us.”
“And the Witch have mercy.”
“Jumping in five – four – three...”
The light of stars ahead began to sizzle and twist into sinuous lines.
“Two....”
Space began to warp and roil in tendrils of black smoke.
“...One.”
At the finishing push of the throttle, and an ear-splitting bang, our mudskipper cleaved spacetime and ascended to a dimension above our own.
The light from the jump was so bright we couldn’t see two feet in front of us, only our hands and fingers – and when it faded again, we found the world outside our little cockpit canopy roiling, entwining, dancing in a nebulae of gold and black, red and green, tendrils of dust and gas spread as far as the human eye could reasonably interpret.
Billions of stars were studded upon the backbone of night, glimmering, rotating, folding into each other like sheets of baking paper; brilliant structures and webs of distant galaxies, whole clusters of galaxies, sketched themselves into being, waved at us, and disappeared again like branches from golden trees. Argent starlight from stellar nurseries flashed past us like spears and arrows; hues of distant supernovae splattered upon the nebulous and smoky black that enveloped our ship, declaring its unfathomable powers even in a dimension above its residence.
This was Witchspace.
A place, a dimension above our own. The Witchdoctor at our last port of call – the sustainer of Witchdrives and related material – told us that it is a place where human understanding goes to die. Just as a flat square wouldn’t comprehend its surroundings if it is whisked away from flatland and above into our three-dimensions of space, we three-dimensional beings wouldn’t understand being thrown into a brane of existence where up, down, left, right, forward, and backward aren’t the only places to go. In Witchspace, one could traverse the trillions of miles that was the gap between the stars in a fraction of time that light would take; the many pockets of three dimensional space intersected, rolled, combined into one and split into many at the junctures of a grand cosmic fabric. We humans, the Witchdoctor said, should be grateful that such a world is open for our traversal, and that we could read it with our navigation panels, albeit hilariously primitive.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
Of course, I myself scarcely had any idea what all of that meant, but it didn’t mean my head wasn’t exploding with questions. Sometimes, I saw my old family in the nebulous dust. They would form into faces of those I knew, long-dead, and some would form into sights I saw at my old farm, back in my dirtworld. Maine saw different things. He saw cars, hovercycles, many broken branches of technologies and buildings which he once used to tinker – he told me he heard the vrooms and tinkles of clockwork and gear. They called out to him. Others, say the Witchdoctor, see spirits, ghosts, animals, of ocean waves, grand ideas, and memories of the future. All of it pointed to a realm that defied our understanding – a realm where the term magic – used in the mythical land of Old Terra – was made real. Hence they called it ‘Witch’space.
Why a ‘Witch’ and not a ‘Wizard’? I don’t know. I heard from bedtime stories of my dirtworld that witches were mostly female and wizards mostly male. Maybe they were more afraid of magic used by women than by men, or maybe they didn’t understand magic that comes from women and therefore had a reason to venerate it. When I was a little girl growing up, I found this prospect mildly amusing, since it was an inversion of the power held by crownworld kings. Maybe the further you went off the planet, the more you lived in space, the less useful physical strength became. Ingenuity and opportunistic pragmatism, regardless of your origin or identity of birth, were what made one rich and successful. A part of me that wanted to escape the constriction of a life bound in invisible chains was what made me run away. Sounds fair, right?
Anyway, to wrap the point, Witchspace was something that presented a hair-raising possibility of danger. Calculate incorrectly, or try to jump while your Witchdrive was malfunctioning, and pieces of you might be scattered across goodness knows where. A part of you here in the Empyrean Sector, a part of you there in Andromeda, stuff like that. Not very pleasant to think about. So every time people jumped, they would make a little prayer to the Witch that resided in this domain to help them along. We did the same. We had no idea if it worked or not, because destiny is a fickle god, but we knew every spacer that existed braved the same dangers in search of money and fame.
Our little mudskipper shuddered and hummed along its voyage cleaving the uncharted away. It trembled minutely as it caught a snag in space, but would let go just as abruptly with no demand. Our shuttle was small, and that was very favorable – the speed at which one could travel in Witchspace was inversely related to mass, so the lighter your ship was, the faster you could travel, and less trouble you would have. Cruisers and battleships, unless fitted with higher-grade Witchdrives, would normally take a calendar month to travel what our shuttle could do in under a week.
Staring at the mesmerizing colors too long messes with your brain, so Maine and I normally took shifts to monitor the drive status and comms. It was about three days in when I was going off to sleep that I noticed Maine wasn’t rising out of his bed.
“Hey Maine, time for your shift,” I said, rubbing my eye.
No response.
“Hey, dude – what’s up? The nutrient paste got to you?” I cajoled, shaking him briefly.
He was burning to the touch.
“What the –”
I pulled the sheets off, and found his abdomen and entire length of belly red and inflamed. Viscous pus and trickles of violet blood oozed out of the stitches we’d made more than a week ago. Numerous spiderweb-like lines etched across his torso.
“Oh... oh shit...”
I tried to shake Maine awake.
“Maine, Maine, how long has this been going for? How long?”
He sluggishly opened his eyes and let out a pained reply. “Since... yesterday morn...,” he coughed, bloodied phlegm running down his chin.
“Why didn’t you let me know right away?” I hurriedly asked, wiping the blood away with the sheet.
“...I thought... I could sleep it off...”
“You don’t sleep off a damn infection! Oh, the archons forbid!” I cried out in exasperation, racing out our cramped quarters and checking the nav closet. We were still less than halfway to the core worlds. We were still in the middle rim of the Empyrean Sector.
“Maine, Maine,” I hollered, racing back, “We’ve gotta get you to a hospital. Like right now!”
“...No!” He sputtered, “no... not yet, closer to the core – the money –”
“Fuck the creds. All this will be for nothing if you die, you hear me? Hey!” I shook him. No response.
“Hey!”
Maine’s head lolled to the side.
“Wait wait wait wait wait, no no no no no!”
I laid my head on his chest. His heart was still pumping.
But now, what I thought was a leisurely sojourn back to sell our crystals had become a race against ticking time. I pushed him on his side with a pillow to wedge his back, and raced back to the nav closet, tripping twice on the wires, cutting my jacket on the crystal chunk in the corridor.
The nav panel read that we were approaching an unknown star system in the mid-rim of the Empyrean. There was no other system nearby, at least not for at least several more hours in Witchspace.
I charted the buttons towards the jump point of this nameless star system, praying that it was inhabited. Inhabited so that I could bring Maine to immediate care.
//Confirm order?
“Confirm, goddamn it! Confirm it faster!”
//Confirmed. Laying course for System EMPY-3KD-546.
//Estimated Time to Destination: 7 minutes.
I swiveled myself into the cockpit seat and buckled tight. The dance of nebulae and clouds of gas around the ship seemed to slow bit by bit, until the vision of Witchspace diminished to that of a faint, glimmery vision of the jump point. A bright orange star some way off flickered through the dissipating smoke.
//Exit Jump ready.
It had to be inhabited. It just had to be.
I pulled the Witchdrive lever, and with a blinding light and resounding bang, the mudskipper fell through the crack in the weave to normal space again, tumbling out.
The single functioning thruster roared back to life as the comm console began spitting out a bunch of letters on the CRT screen.
//Receiving system cartography...
//Registry ID received from comm link.
//System Name: Pluton, EMPY-3kD-546.
//Star Type: K3V.
//Planets: 5. 1 Metal-rich, 3 Cryovolcanic, 1 Gas Giant.
//Human presence: Positive.
“HELL YES!” I exclaimed, pumping my fist. By a miraculous stroke of luck, the system was inhabited. But no, all of it would be meaningless if the inhabited station, planet, whatever, was days away from the jump point. I clutched my heart with bated breath and waited the nav panel to spit out the inhabitation signatures.
//2 stations broadcasting public presences.
//Estimating signal source strength...
//Station 1 – location – Gas Giant – Hades – Moon – Elysion – Orbitals – 37,500km.
//Station 2 – location – Gas Giant – Hades – Moon – Persephone – Orbitals – 11,280km.
“Compute distance to gas giant,” I enunciated, pressing the buttons as speedily as I could.
//Querying distance...
//Cleaning parameters...
//Distance to Hades – 1,183,090 km.
//Estimated time at full burn – 48 minutes.
“Compute closest moon.”
Nothing.
“I said COMPUTE CLOSEST MOON!” I bellowed, almost punching the buttons out with the retyped query.
//Querying closest moon of Hades...
//Closest Moon to current coordinates – Elysion.
“CHART AUTOCOURSE FOR ELYSION STATION!”
//Charting course.
//Course confirmed.
The single functioning thruster roared to maximum burn as the mudskipper rattled and screeched in complaint, and with my furious pull of the joystick, angled itself into the highway to Hades.
Please, oh please by the archons, bear with me.
It was the slowest 48-minutes of my life. Had it not been for the fact that Maine was in a coma from a life-threatening infection and needed immediate medical care, the sight through the cockpit canopy would have mesmerized the both of us. Numerous swirls of cream and plum danced along eddies of blue and milky-white on the surface of the giant; its many concentric rings stretched out for probably half a million miles, too worthy to be called a mere crown. Numerous aurorae shimmered in the polar dark, but I paid no notice to it as I saw a little blue-green marble emerge from within a thin band in the rings, painted by wispy white clouds.
The little CRT screen spit out a string.
//Ending autocharted course towards Moon – Elysion.
It was doubtlessly a habitable world. Maine could get help here, and he needed it now.
‘Approaching Elysion centrodome,’ the console announced. Just a few days ago, I’d complained of its need to announce anything and everything. But now, I was grateful to hear it.
Just as I was about to spy the orbital station’s many plasma-locked hangars however, the console announced the last line I wanted to hear at that moment.
‘Ship scan detected.’
A loud ping blared on the comms.
‘Hana Makoto Reiss – your ship is being hailed.’
What for, I gulped, as I confirmed the request and an image of a stern woman with an officer’s cap thrust itself into the floating comm-holo ahead.
“This centrodome is under Palatinate jurisdiction. State your business.”
“Medical care,” I replied as curtly as possible.
She responded as dispassionately as possible. “Our ship scan reveals you have cargo of an unidentified variety in your central corridor. State your paperwork and business.”
“I said medical care,” I replied, more forcefully this time. “And what’s in my corridor is none of your business.”
“It’s my business alright. Without receiving your paperwork, I can’t let you dock. Produce it.”
“Fine,” I said, jumbling over the buttons on the console as I uploaded the paperwork that Ramon gave us nearly a month ago, sweat forming on my brow. Every second counted for Maine. The customs officer watched me without blinking an eye.
“The paperwork declares goods of liquid nature. Our scans find a solid substance. Produce the correct paperwork or bugger off.”
This stuck-up piece of shit! I lidded my boiling anger and pleaded as fast as I possibly could.
“Look, I’ve got a passenger who’s in medical emergency. I’ve been looking all over for an archondamned station that would reel him in, alright? You know how it feels? I – this cargo – I just – even I don’t know what it fucking is, I just picked it up while on an exploration mission, wanted to get it appraised. It sure as hell ain’t narcotics or shady shit that would require you slapping your tariffs, so can you let your pedestal down and help out a sister for once? Please? PLEASE?”
My expression and plea must have caught her off guard, because whatever façade of sternness she had cracked for a moment. She sighed and clutched her forehead.
“Look, I know you are not lying. I am not a bad person either. But I have cameras watching me, alright? I am just trying to keep my job. I’ve got a son and daughter to feed back home. I will get fired if I let you in without paperwork, so just – just do not make this difficult for yourself. I do not want to call the patrols or tell the batteries to open fire. I cannot help you if you cannot help me.”
It was no use.
I stared at her forlorn for what felt like an eternity. But I knew every second counted.
I shut off the comm-holo and veered the mudskipper away from the station.
“Chart course for Moon – Persephone,” I recited, punching the buttons in the nav closet as furiously as I could.
//Time remaining to destination: 9 minutes.
Thank the archons.
I must have spaced out racing possible scenarios through my head as to what I should do once I landed, so I didn’t notice the cold, icy moon rise out of the canopy.
‘Hana Makoto Reiss – your ship is being –”
I banged the button to let the comm-holo through, only to meet static. A lone, smooth, and serpentine voice slithered through the channel.
“Welcome to Persephone centrodome. Any reason you’ve got your transponder off?”
Shite. “I forgot.”
“...That’s no problem, though according to the rules, you should keep it on next time.”
The comms console blared with another line of ‘Ship scan detected.’
I didn’t say anything, but the comm channel still remained open. They weren’t going to tell me to produce paperwork, were they? Because if they did, please, by the archons –
“...Well?” the shady voice quizzed.
“Well... what?” I asked, my legs restless in the cockpit seat.
“Got any goods to declare?”
“None.”
“Well that’s unfortunate, because I’m the signer, and I’m not sure you are correct in your declaration. I’ve got the big guns to back it up,” it continued. From away, barrels of large ballistic batteries on the station swiveled to meet my gaze.
“But, ah! What’s this?” the voice exclaimed, “it says here that our cargo scanner beam has been experiencing an issue with faulty readings as of late.”
“...What do you want?” I asked, narrowing my eyes, although there was no face to witness over the frizzled static, only a voice to hear.
“Well, for a small price of 500 chips, I could ensure that our faulty cargo scan antennae gets fixed and calibrated. What’d you say for a kind donation?”
500 chips was 5 credits. They’re asking for 5 credits? For what?
And then the reality hit me.
“Where to?” I asked, buckling the chipscreen onto my forearm. My balance – our balance, because we shared the same account – read 21 credits.
“To this address,” the voice explained, pumping out a string of alphanumeric characters.
5 credits just to dock. Nearly half a month of minimum wage work, about to go down the drain.
But Maine was more important to me than some paltry credits. I punched the address clean without hesitation and careened the 500 chips away into the destination of want.
“Persephone station is grateful for your patronage,” the voice slithered. The gun barrels trained upon the mudskipper swiveled away into their neutral repose. “Welcome to the station, miss. We hope you enjoy your stay. By your next visit, we’ll be sure to get our cargo scanner fixed. Can’t have too many faulty readings that disturb everyone’s visit now, can we?”
The comm-holo shut off without further celebration.
Just wow, I swore under my breath. A masterclass in extortion.
Yet, I could spare no time to waste. I practically tumbled into the dock, only slowing myself at the last minute, and set the mudskipper down onto a free hanger compartment. Ripping myself free from my cockpit seat, I raced into our quarters to see Maine.
He was in an even worse condition than an hour ago. His body felt like it was on fire; heaving breathes punctuated by unconscious hiccups. He only had mere hours. How in the hell and why in the hells didn’t he tell me earlier? We’re in this together! UGH!
I buckled the chipscreen tighter on my forearm, but the poverty of my balance gave me pause. Even if I could find a hospital to reel Maine in, how the hell was I going to pay for it? I had only – wait, I calculated, witnessing the priceless crystal chunk sitting dead weight in the corridor.
I ripped off a crowbar from the tool compartment and hit the crystal chunk hard.
Nothing.
I hit it harder this time.
Still nothing.
I threw all my weight into it, almost throwing out my back.
Out knocked a football-sized piece of crystal. I cut my finger flinging it into a sack on my shoulder.
“I’ll be right back, I promise,” I whispered to Maine, hugging him close and racing out the hatch ladder to the hangar below, smashing it close.
It was 10:52am.
***
The place was like an archondamned maze. Twice I lost my way, wasting precious minutes. The damn intern at the infodesk must’ve given me the wrong direction. I raced through the hallways and atriums of this station, some parts dilapidated, many parts pristine, down an elevator and then up several floors into an observation dome that looked out into space with alus-glass, until my eyes caught a big, bright neon sign that read ‘MedCenter Consortium’ with a red shield and a white snake skewered on a stick. Ferns and moss grew out of the cracks in the pavement.
Armed guards with plasma rifles stood like titans in front of the reception; its interiors were painted a bright and spotless white, patients and clerks alike dressed in garbs of sky-blue, a stark contrast to the destitute décor outside. I flicked a glance at my chipscreen that read 11:37am, 16 credits in the balance.
I strode towards the reception as the guards gazed warily at my sack, adjusting their grip upon the rifles.
An exhausted-looking receptionist greeted me with a standard opener.
“Hello, how may we help you tod –”
“Medical emergency. Sepsis. Could you dispatch team to Hangar 72?” I raced, words hurtling out of my mouth so fast that it could drive a poet to tears.
“Pardon me, please come again?”
“My friend needs emergency medical care right now at Hangar 72. Cause is sepsis.”
“Right away,” replied the receptionist, keying in a flurry of numbers on her holopads, left hand about to pick up the dialer. “Method of payment?”
“Chipscreen.”
“Understood,” she continued. I breathed a sigh of utmost relief.
“That will be 615 credits.”
“Six-hundred-and – SIX HUNDRED?” I exclaimed, startling the awaiting patients. It felt like someone swung a bat into my gut. “Listen, please, can you dispatch the team first? I haven’t got the balance now, but I will top-up soon enough.”
“Oh, I’m sorry...” remarked the receptionist, moving her hand away from the dialer. “Our policy only accepts pre-payment.”
“Pre-payment? Pre-payment of SIX HUNDRED CREDITS for a medical pickup?” I yelled, trying to lid my roiling anger. “Sorry – sorry – I get the price. Okay. Okay. Sepsis. All that. Okay. But pre-payment – who the hell has six hundred credits ready to go?”
“Oh, oh, oh! Please, miss, it’s because you said you’d pay by chipscreen. We can also take the patient immediately if you have a valid insurance.”
“Insurance?” I fumbled, trying to reach my memory.
We had none.
“Uh, mmm, we uh – shit – damn it – we’ve no insurance,” I pleaded, opening my palms. “I – we – I – come on, I promise I’ll pay. Is there any other way?”
“I’m so sorry Miss, but... our policy dictates that –”
11:52am. 1 hour since I’ve left the shuttle. Maine was alone.
“Nonono – wait – wait – I’ve – I’ve got these. I’ve got these,” I stuttered, swinging my sack and opening it to reveal what could have well been diamonds. The guards glanced over their shoulder coldly. “I’ll pay with these. Drake crystals, whatever their name is. Worth 10,000 credits per kilo. More than enough. I’ll pay with these. Take them, please – take them, dispatch the team, Hangar 72!” I begged.
“I’m sorry Miss, we don’t engage in payment in the form of barter. It is credits from a chipscreen, or a direct line from any of our insurance partners in our coverage network –”
I grabbed her hand, making her recoil in her seat. “Listen, please, from one sister to another. From one fellow human being to another. I absolutely promise that these are worth the money,” I pleaded, tears pooling in my eyes, enunciating every syllable. “If you can’t take these, mark my account as under debt of 600 credits. I swear upon the archons I will pay. I absolutely swear. I absolutely –”
One of the guards put his hands on my wrist and pulled it off from the receptionists’ own.
“I’m terribly sorry Miss, but we can’t break our policy. We cannot engage in medical services without provision of prepayment or the guarantee of insurers. We cannot help you,” the receptionist replied, grimacing.
“Most hospitals take the patient and treat them first, even if they saddle them in debt later! Why – what makes your policy this differ –”
“Miss, it’s time for you to leave,” warned a second guard, stepping in between the receptionist and my pleading hands.
I tried to pick up the dialer myself, to holler whatever string of sentence was possible, so Maine could live. But the guards slapped it down and pulled me away.
“I SWEAR I’LL PAY! I AM NOT LYING! I – AM – GOING – TO – PAY!” I hollered, screaming, as the guards threw me out into the station boulevard.
12:08pm.
Witnessing the murdered remains of my family back home, I thought I’d seen and lived through hell. No, it wasn’t close.
Because this was hell.
I fumbled around and put the sack on my back again, wiping away my tears, preparing to race away to somewhere, anywhere that would take Maine. I was up an elevator and a different street down when someone tapped me on the shoulder.
A corpo man in a suit of navy blue stood there, grinning.
“I heard you in there at the hospital, and saw your bag,” he said, pointing to my sack of priceless crystals. “I want to make a deal.”