A gigantic asteroid filled the view of our cockpit canopy to the brim, stretching as far as the eye could see. Numerous lines and geometric grids crisscrossed its beige-gray surface, bristling with spires of weaponry at intersections. The rays of this system’s orange sun scattered along its outlines, casting an eerie and artificial shadow onto the surrounding dust.

It must have been at least 10 miles wide on each side, slightly longer than it was wider – at least from our point of view – and upon the axis of rotation, the surface was marked with a single colossal entryway into the interior in the shape of a giant pentagon. Faint crimson lights and outlines of buildings shimmered through the keyhole of the asteroid. People, spacers, the desperate many – must have made a home in this asteroid by carving out its contents.

When I entered this system 4 hours ago, the nav panel had only read 2 inhabitation signatures. I hadn’t expected there to be a third, well, a whole new world waiting for our arrival!

Maine could get help here.

And he needed it very, very fast.

‘Request docking?’

“Y – Yes!” I hurriedly replied, fumbling for any button on the nav closet that would take me to the –

‘Docking access authorized,’ the Voidnet protocol announced, almost immediately. It didn’t even require me to confirm using additional input, neither did the station throw a cargo scan nor demand an inspection.

Just what was this place?

‘Welcome, Hana Makoto Reiss, Rank: Anchovy. Refer to the Voidnet rules on principles of conduct at Voidnet-aligned freeports.’

My comm console shut off its strange voice and spoke no further.

Wait, did it just say my rank was ‘Anchovy’? Wasn’t I – no, there was absolutely no time for questions of the sort. I rubbed my eyes and steeled myself as I sped through the pentagonal gate of the asteroid station and into its dimly lit interior, immediately thinking of a line that would take Maine and I to any sort of hospital or doctor.

The cockpit of the mudskipper was bathed in a hazy hue of burgundy as the crimson neon signs of the buildings below, above, and all around me moistened the mists and wispy clouds that gathered at the center. I craned my neck here and there, rolling and pitching the mudskipper, trying to see a damn free hangar space somewhere. My bulging eyes must’ve looked like an image taken straight out of a cartoon.

Come on, come on, I twiddled my joystick, trying to ignore the ever-impending sense of doom from the time spit out by my chipscreen.

1:51 pm. I just hope I wasn’t too late.

Just then, the emblazoned hololights from Hangar 37 – where a ship was just leaving – caught my eye. I moved there immediately, almost blocking and narrowly missing the shuttle that was departing. The pilot of the other ship threw a handful of fingers in my direction as he blared his thrusters to speed.

I paid no notice to it, almost crash-landing the mudskipper onto the patch of hangar, and jumped out of the seat for Maine.

He was in an even worse state.

Bubbling saliva foamed from Maine’s mouth and onto the bed, his entire belly swollen, distended, some stitches already ripped and draining pus. I personally opened his mouth and wiped the nutrient-paste loaded debris from his throat until he let out a gurgling cough, waited until the cough became clear, rolled him to the side, and laid my ears upon his heart.

Beating – still beating? Yes, still beating, but extremely faint, irregular. There was very little time left. I knew from dirtworlds back then if one had a seizure from a sepsis, they would last less than half an hour. When there was no doctor present, that’s when people prepared to give goodbyes.

But not me.

I threw the bedsheets onto the floor and rolled Maine down with a heavy thud, and yanked, yanked, pulled, pulled the sheet with him on the floor, and out into the corridor, then threw open the airlock that separated the rest of the shuttle from the chewed-out cargo bay. There was a lever – a lever – that would open up a ramp and allow me to slide Maine down like on a sled. I couldn’t possibly drop him or carry him on my shoulders in that little ladder hatch I used, because he was twice my size and three times my weight.

Come on, come on, just a little closer – and I don’t know why or how, but at that moment, a peculiar intuition hit me that this was the last time I would be on the mudskipper.

I ripped a spare duffel bag from the stores of the corridor and, wrapping my hands in bandages, hauled the remaining 10 kilograms of diamond, and two in my sack, into that barrel-like bag. I nearly keeled over trying to put it on my back – yeah, it had been more than half a day since I’ve eaten and run without a moment of rest. But I must. Because what I would do in the next moment would lift us into paradise or drop us to hell.

I grabbed Maine’s arms and let him slide on the bedsheets down the ramp with me in tow, almost as if hugging – I could feel the raw heat of friction grazing my bottom and smell the smoking duffel as we sped down the ramp and nearly tumbled several meters. I hit my head briefly on the hangar deck trying to slow us down, and for a moment, all I saw was black – but as my blurred vision became whole, I lifted myself and stumbled towards a dockworker sitting on a forklift, the diamonds sagging the duffel bag on my back.

I grabbed a hold of him, half-crazed, fully desperate.

“HEY! HEY! CAN YOU DRIVE?”

“Woah – woah – hey!” he stammered, recoiling. “What the hell’s wrong with you – hey lady – hey – get your hands off my –”

“WHERE’S THE NEAREST DOCTOR?”

“The doctor? A clinic? What do you –”

“I NEED TO SAVE HIM!” I exclaimed, furiously pointing to Maine. “A’ NEED TO SAVE HIM!”

A mixture of confusion and exasperation came over the dockworker’s face.

“Woah, lady, I’m off duty. There’s a cuppa others over there. I’ve got no business with –”

I pushed my chipscreen into his face.

“I’LL PAY YOU! I’LL PAY YOU RIGHT NOW, SO JUST PLEASE –”

“How much?”

“1000 CHIPS!”

“A thousand – okay, just you and him?”

“YES!” I said, holding my chipscreen to his and mistyping 19 credits instead of 10 because of a slipped finger. Only I realized my mistake too late.

“Ugh, you –” the dockworker sighed, “whatever. 9 creds back when we finish, hey –” he shouted into empty space, because I was already dragging Maine on the bedsheet towards the forklift.

“Hey, hey, move, let me help ya with this,” he gestured me aside, lifting Maine by the torso and yanking him up. “Fuckedy fuck, this guy modded or something?”

I grabbed a hold of Maine’s legs and pushed him up, laying him supine on the side of the sizable forklift, wrapping my jacket across his torso and tugging him in my clutches, half-hanging on the exterior of the vehicle frame.

The dockworker nearly broke the key flaring the engines, as we sped into the crimson night of this underworld.

Rain began to splatter our heads as we exited the hangar and onto the main roads. Fences of corrugated metal lined the sides of the narrow streets, and faceless buildings with piping as their ivy stood wall to wall. Red neon signs of eateries, pubs, spicer merchants, repair shops, and hovercycle tinkerers jutted out the concrete ravine, making us duck in several places, and bloomed the atmosphere in a reddish haze, its many denizens sprinting inside to take shelter under tin roofs.

I looked up to see the other side of the city, suspended far above in the celestial ceiling. It seemed the vapor and smog of people and industry floated up, gathered in the center of this hollowed-out asteroid, and then rained down again in all directions. Scarcely in my life had I imagined something like this to be possible. Then again, there were many things I hadn’t yet seen.

“Which hospital are you bringing us to?” I asked, trying my hardest to speak over the splattering of tin roofs that drowned my voice.

“Dr. Xian’s. Five minutes out – hey, hey, get the hell out the way!” The dockworker hollered to a drunkard, swerving just in time to avoid a different kind of splatter on the sidewalk. “Does the dude have eyes for decoration or what? Yur-mayur [ё моё],” he spat, changing his gears again.

“Hold tight,” he said, bracing the railing with his left hand, “Bump incoming!”

I braced Maine to the bumper with all my weight, the duffel bag of diamonds running into the back of my head. We flew over the bump and then landed again, where it hit me a second time. What was it being a spacer and sustaining cerebral injuries?

Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

The dockworker honked hard as he drifted to avoid a hovercycle, splashing a lake’s worth of water onto the smaller vehicle. The startled driver provided a litany of colorful words in another language I didn’t understand, only to be drowned out by the rain.

“Almost there,” he said, “just round two blocks to the east.”

“Mmmhmm,” I nodded, with a look of what must’ve been a frightening expression of concentration etched into a gaunt face frizzled with hair.

Peddlers and food stalls all rolled out of the way to make space for the forklift, and before we knew it, we had screeched left, right, and left, and skidded to a stop in front of a run-down building with a green neon sign lettered ‘DR XIAN’S MODS.’ The light on the ‘I-A-N’ and ‘M-O-S’ barely kept their lights, so it looked more to be ‘DR X’S D’. Ah, how comforting. It was a stark contrast to the sterile albeit dependable image of ‘MedCenter Consortium’ at Persephone. Here, it looked like if you got in here on an accident, you would get your organs harvested and sold off elsewhere.

But what choice did I have? Don’t judge a book by its cover, the technoshamans were eager to spin.

The dockworker helped me hoist and drag Maine’s unconscious body off the forklift, onto the pavement, and into Dr. Xian’s clinic, kicking the door open. Rain drizzled down our jackets onto the white tiled floors, dimly lit by lights.

A young man in glasses and smartly dressed doctor’s robe rose out of his seat at once and helped us in.

“Sepsis!? Looks serious,” remarked the young man, turning to the corridor and yelling in chaingun fire in yet another language that I didn’t understand.

“Are you Dr. Xian?” I asked, hoisting Maine onto the stretcher with the young man.

“No, no, I’m not the doctor.”

“I am,” said a short, stocky middled-aged madame with black permed hair, appearing in front of us in the blink of an eye through a fireman’s pole in the ceiling. Why was there a fireman’s pole in a clinic of sorts? I didn’t know. Multicolored perm-rollers stuck out of her hair. She doused her cigarette by crushing it with her bare hands, and carried the stretcher together into the bowel of the clinic without giving me a second glance. The operation room. Hopefully.

I was a bit exasperated to see Maine get hauled in like that, after all I’ve done to bring him here.

“Is he gonna be – gonna be safe?” I asked rather exasperated, “you didn’t even take the –”

“Ack, don’t ya worry,” said the dockworker, patting my back. “Dr. Xian’s the best in her craft. She’s fixed all sorts ‘a people. Including me.”

“For real?”

“Don’t have to ask. Just talk to the pharmacist. Mr. Xian.”

The young man sprinted out from the operating room, rubbing his hands to let the alcohol dry.

“Hours since he fell unconscious?”

“4 – nearly 5.”

“Nearly 5. Thank you,” he said, sprinting back.

He came out again after a brief minute or two.

“We’re stabilizing him. The sepsis may have eaten his intestines, but we’ll have to see. We can always mod him a new one.”

“So he will be okay?”

“Can’t guarantee you anything, since you’ve brought him on the edge of going poof, but Dr. Xian will try her best. We will have to keep him in intensive care for a week, due to the severity.”

Fingers crossed. Please work. Adrenaline was still buzzing my insides.

“Would you like to pay now or later?” asked Mr. Xian, strolling to the counter and adjusting his glasses for paperwork.

“Pay... oh –” I stammered, trying to process the whole ordeal – “I’ll – I’ll pay now.” I was afraid that if I didn’t pay, they would harvest Maine for what he was worth, and be done with him. I wanted to give them a surefire cash incentive to work their best. At least to demotivate them from selling his organs.

“Let’s see here. The estimated cost will be...” Mr. Xian read from his CRT screen, scribbling strings of numbers and words unintelligible to my eye, “296 credits. There may be additional doubloons arising out of stay at our clinic, but we’ll bill excess charges before we discharge the patient. Does that sound alright for you?”

“296 – yes, yes, that sounds alright.”

It was not alright, actually. Why was the cost so low? That blasted hospital at Persephone demanded 615 credits upfront.

“Method of payment? We accept chipscreen, insurance, weapons, vehicles, extracted mods from Grade A to C.3...”

“Uh,” I stuttered, trying to make sense of the options, “chipscreen. By chipscreen.”

“Alright,” said Mr. Xian, keying in a bunch of numbers on his own. “Please hold it here and – there we go.”

A waterfall of coins rang off my screen as 296 credits flooded out from my balance of 612.

What I just spent was worth 30 months of minimum wage work.

But screw that, am I right?

“Perfect. And – oh, Mr. Ilya, are you here for your checkup? Accident at work?”

“No, no, just helpin’ this lady out. I’m supposed to be on my free shift, heh,” said the dockworker, Ilya now, waving his hand. “Speaking of,” he tapped me on the shoulder, “you paid me 9 creds extra. I’m returning those.”

I held my chipscreen to Ilya’s, taken aback by the surprising integrity of the... dude. Every single person in the Sector I’ve come across so far, all except Maine, tried to take advantage of my desperate circumstances for their own gain, so it was unexpected for someone to play fair.

9 credits clunked back into my account.

“Well, if that’s all, I’ll be off. See ya around, or not,” said Ilya, strolling out the metaled doors onto the rainy street, shutting it behind him.

“Miss, here’s your relation card –” continued the pharmacist, handing me a white card embedded with circuits. “If you could rest it on this pad right here – yep, that’s right –”

I cautiously placed the card on the pad while he prepared to type.

“Patient’s name?”

“Maine. Arcturus Maine.”

“Biological age?”

“Of the patient?”

“Of the patient, yes,” answered the pharmacist, fingers hovering on the keyboard.

“21.”

“Your name?”

“Hana Makoto Reiss.”

“Your relation?”

“Friend. Guardian.” I felt a little self-conscious saying it, after all I’ve put Maine through.

“And how may we contact you?” I said, looking up. Glints of light briefly reflected off of the panes of his spectacles, his eyes resting briefly upon the tic-tac-toe shaped scar on my forehead.

“Through... uh...”

Mr. Xian looked at me, expectant.

“Through uh... through the dialer?” I conjured, recalling that I left the dialer on the cockpit of the mudskipper.

“Not a problem. Your unhooked dialer number?”

“It’s... 23-A3b5-67O6. O as in ‘Oh’, not zero.”

“Understood. Will you be off-station or staying in Tartarus?”

“In Tartarus.”

“Mmmhmm, understood,” Mr. Xian continued, typing away. “For any situation that may compel you to leave the station, you could also leave us your Voidnet ID with us for near-instantaneous communication. Would you like to?”

“Voidnet ID?”

“The ID attached to your Voidnet profile. It’s at your discretion, Miss Reiss.”

“I... don’t remember, but I’ll be back to give it to you.”

“Sure thing. That’s everything. May I help you with anything else?” Mr. Xian inquired.

The process went by so smoothly I was convinced there must be something wrong. It never went this smoothly.

But maybe – just maybe – after all I’ve been through today, perhaps this was the finish line. Our grand escape 4 years ago aside, there’d never been a day where I felt what I felt just now – the end of a grand and great ordeal. But I knew that if I let my guard down now, I’d collapse or pass out or catch a cold – even then, I felt the adrenaline that had fueled my wits for the past half day rushing out like a tide.

I felt wobbly.

“I don’t need anything else... can I just... can I just wait here?”

“Sure thing,” nodded Mr. Xian. “Please enjoy our sofa. I’ve just started my shift, so I will be here for quite a few more hours.”

“Thanks.”

“Ah, where are my manners –” Mr. Xian said, disappearing into a room. He emerged again with a pot and flask in his hand. “Please enjoy the jasmine tea. Complimentary for guests.”

I looked at it rather warily, but saw the pharmacist take a swig out from the same pot from which he poured the tea.

I passed out from exhaustion before I could lift the flask to my lips.

***

It must have been several hours, because when I came to, it felt like I’d been sleeping for centuries. I took a crazed, confused, and wild look hither and thither at my unfamiliar surroundings, until the blurriness of my eyes gave way to the same room that I fell asleep in.

Thank the archons I hadn’t been kidnapped. It would have been all too easy.

The lights were more dim now, and Mr. Xian himself was almost on the border of dozing off.

I wearily stood, taking the diamond-laden duffel back on my shoulders again. I winced at my sore muscles.

“Mr. Xian...? The treatment...”

“Wha – ah! You’re finally awake!” He exclaimed, taking off his spectacles to rub his eyes. “Please, the surgery is complete. Follow me.”

My heart immediately began to race. I could hear the thumping of blood in my head.

He walked down a narrow passageway, some stairs up, and out into a dimly lit room with a linoleum floor and a couple of flowers.

Maine lay on one of the beds with a breather on his face. The vitals monitor read rhythmic heartbeats that I could see.

And without any warning, I collapsed to my knees and just bawled my eyes out.

Yes, call it cheesy, corny, whatever. Men on dirtworlds would have looked at me all funny and shaken their heads at my sentimentality. At women’s sentimentality.

But after what had happened, after all the efforts it took for me to save him, seeing that it worked broke loose a tide of emotions I couldn’t stem. I’m sure it would’ve been the same for Maine, or for anyone who looked out for a dear friend.

Dr. Xian and Mr. Xian gave me ample time to compose myself. I stood up again, a little self-conscious.

“His small intestine, beyond saving. This, we found lodged in,” said the madame doctor in a distinct planetside accent. She showed me a small plastic satchel containing several pieces of shrapnel. It was from when Voltaire’s lance burst the drake into mincemeat.

“We, mod his small intestine. His large intestine, no problem. We remove detritus,” she continued. “We give antibiotic. Clean his belly. Very challenging. You 10 minute late, he gone,” Dr. Xian continued, gesturing the universal symbol of death with a cut to the neck.

“Thank you, thank you, Dr. Xian,” I cried, throwing her into an embrace. “Thank you. You saved us.”

She seemed a little taken aback, but held her own composure, pushing me gently away.

“No problem. I’m best doctor Empyrean. Maybe one or two close, not on my level.” She seemed to beam with radiant light, reaching for a cigarette that Mr. Xian was quick to take away from her hand. She seemed to swear in a foreign language, and he bantered back. Both chuckled.

“Is there an extra charge for the modding? The small intestine?”

“No charge. On house,” Dr. Xian replied. “But the body reject, we don’t know. We wait. Wait for week. He stay here, maybe full month. Recovery very hard.”

“Oh, thank you, thank you...”

“You can wait. Rest. We give call to you. Ok?”

“Okay, thank you, I’m so grateful, how could I –”

“No worry, now bye-bye. We give him time for healing,” said Dr. Xian, dimming the lights and taking a stroll outside, cracking her neck without taking another sentimental glance.

“At your leisure, Miss Reiss,” said Mr. Xian, following out after his – what was their relation again? Husband and wife? He seemed too young to be a husband... maybe mother and son?

I looked at Maine for what seemed like an eternity. I didn’t want to abandon him or leave him alone in a strange new neighborhood, hell, an entire new station and abode. But there were still some things I needed to iron out. After all, my duffel bag was still full of diamonds.

I gave him a light kiss on the cheek, and strolled out, looking at him until the corner robbed my view of his face.

“We will give you regular calls, Miss Reiss. Please have your dialer or Voidnet interface with you,” said Mr. Xian, seeing me off.

I opened the door and found the chill of night greeting my face. The rain had stopped; the overhead sky was clear. The buildings on the other side of the celestial ceiling appeared clear and crisp miles and miles away. The glistening street smelt of petrichor.

I made my way through the streets, asking for occasional directions, back towards Hangar 37. Witnessing the neon-red facades and the barking of strays, I wondered what sort of lives everyone here led. That man over there with a beanie on his head, toasting what seemed like nutrient potato-blocks over a garbage can filled with newspapers; the woman over there selling grilled locusts, spicing them with salt, pepper, and a dash of chili; the boy and the girl playing Hacky Sack with a ball that looked like it had been sewn far too many times; the storyteller on the street making impromptu gestures, drawing wild cheers; the old couple by a stone bench, huddling together to glance at another part of the city above, pointing to spires and lights alike.

It took me an hour and a half to return to Hangar 37. But when I turned the corner gates from where Ilya the dockworker had once sped me out, I came to behold our mudskipper flattened, charred, shriveled, destroyed.

And before I could process what could’ve happened, a bullet went through my shin.