Flower Hangars [https://i.imgur.com/jilo46G.jpg]
Chapter II: Benefactor
Life is a preparation for the future; and the best preparation for the future is to live as if there were none.
~ Albert Einstein 1879-1955 A.D.
(Record Intact)
507 A.E. April 17, 18:32:21 Local
JP “Sol” Starwind
New Earth Imperial Order, Delan III, Red Heaven Space Dock, Dock 7
Danther initially wanted to move on, but when I conceded that maybe we should just be browsing the ship listings and buying remote if a match happens to surface, he seemed to settle in, and, after a suspiciously non-deliberate suggestion on his part that he might be able to design a ship himself, I began to settle in too. Danther even found a decent apartment and I scored a job with one of the repair crews working in Red Heaven’s miniscule industrial district.
I think we both know why I wanted to stay, though.
It’s been a month since we arrived in Red Heaven and still I keep coming back to The Walnut whenever I get the chance. I’m staring at her now, sitting on a folding chair I’ve begun leaving near the main airlock.
Looking at her, it hits me again how archaic she looks—all angles and strange structure. Could it really be Pre-Exodean? It has to be. …The pointed nose. …The engine housing. …The incomplete armor coverage. It must have been an old ship too—not at all designed with warp defense in mind.
Even so, I love the look of her. There’s something about it that just speaks to me.
“What are you doing here, mister?” a young girl asks, and I almost fall out of my chair at the surprise. She laughs.
I glare at her, but then laugh too. “What are you doing here?” I ask.
“I asked you first,” she replies and, thinking about it, she’s got a point.
“Fair enough. I was just thinking about this ship.”
“They say you’re weird—that you come out here every day.”
I laugh, grinning at her. “Sometimes twice.”
She smiles back. Cute kid. “Why?”
“I want to figure out how to get inside.”
“You can’t.”
“Yeah, that’s what everyone says.”
“Why do you want to get in, anyway?”
“I want to see what’s inside, for one. But I also need a ship.”
“What for?”
I choose my words carefully. “A friend and I want to start a business,” I reply, not sure why I’m telling her this. I should be trying to figure out where her parents are; why is her A.I. steward allowing her to come out here unescorted?
“What kind of business?”
“Aren’t you the curious one?” I ask, grinning.
She grins too. “Says the one trying to get into a ship that isn’t his.”
I nod, pursing my lips. “You have a point. Anyway, my friend wants to get a ship so we can go rift mining or surveying.”
Her expression flattens. “Sound boring.”
“Yeah,” I agree, laughing.
“What do you want to do?”
“Me?” I ask, grin showing teeth. “I wanna race.”
“Race?”
“Yeah! Push myself, the crew, and the ship to its limits!”
“That sounds a lot better than void mining.”
I laugh again. “Yeah. I expect we’ll have to do some mining, no matter the ship—until we can make enough in the races.”
“Do you think this ship would race well?”
“I’m not sure, but I could definitely work to make it better—that’s what it’s all about.”
“But why races?”
“Well,” I say, thinking. “It’s sort of a way to prove yourself, I guess. There’s a race for every kind of thing—ones that test a pilot’s smarts, daring, and coolness under fire. They test the ships too, sometimes being about who gets to the finish line first, but also some that are about dangerous conditions, and navigation, and all sorts of other things.”
“How is that a business?” she asks, obviously skeptical.
“Well a lot of money is made. Some people bet and there’s prize credits, but there are sponsorships too. Some even design their own ships and use the races to demonstrate or field test their specs so firms’ll buy their blueprints. I’d want to fly independent, so I’d have to focus on winning.”
“Everything other than winning sounds boring.”
I laugh. “I agree.” I look back to the ship. “Still, though… sometimes you have to do the stuff that isn’t fun to get by.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well I have this job I’m working—fixing up old ships. I’d love to be racing—you know, right now—but I need money for rent and food and all that.”
“Have you tried telling her?”
“Telling what to who?”
“Whom.”
“What?”
“Telling what to whom.”
“What?”
“Telling the ship what you want to do, you nugget!”
“I…” I turn to the girl, staring at her. “What?”
“The ship has an A.I., right? Tell her. I—,” she begins, but then looks off, intent; maybe someone’s on her personal feed? “I have to go. See you again, mister!”
“I—uh, okay,” I say, waving. “I’m J.P. by the way, but my friend’s call me Sol. What’s your name?”
“Soma.”
“Okay Soma. See you around! —and be safe!”
She heads off, waving.
I turn to the ship, staring. I haven’t thought about A.I. in a while, the idea kinda sore ever since I had to ditch my own guardian when I left St. Jerome’s. Then again, I never got along well with old Strider. …Mr. Strider.
I shake my head, considering the little girl’s words.
“I…” I stop, feeling like an idiot. “Hell with it. Ship?” I wait a little while. “Walnut?”
507 A.E. April 17, 19:08:01 Local
Danther Minth
New Earth Imperial Order, Delan III, Red Heaven, Sol and Danther’s Apartment
I take another sip of ale, perusing the job listings. None of the fucking jobs pay enough for someone with my—
If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.
The door opens. “Hey Sol,” I say, tossing him a bottle. He flicks a finger, stopping the bottle in air and plucking it from where it hangs. “How was work?”
He groans. “I have no idea why they don’t just have a mass assembler redo the whole thing—I swear if I have to inspect another…” He sighs. “Find anything in the listings yet?”
“Which ones?”
“Either.”
“No. The newly listed ships are all outside of parameters and the job listings…”
“Danther, you have to get some kind of job—it’s been a month, man.”
“I know! I know!” I say, more apologetic than frustrated. “It’s just—”
“They’re all beneath you?”
“Oh, fuck off,” I reply, but not too harshly; I deserve it. “Everything is just so godan boring and they all pay like shit.”
He laughs. “Trust me, I know.”
“Any luck with that ship?” I ask, trying to change the subject.
“Nah.” He takes a swig of ale. “Met a little girl today,” he replies with a chuckle. “She said I should talk to it.”
“What?”
“Yeah, right?”
A nagging little thought tickles my mind. “Did she scan you?”
“Danther, she was like ten years old, man! She’s not—”
“Appearances can be changed, Sol! Remember Crescent Hill?”
He snorts, waving a hand.
A knock comes at the door. We both freeze. I look at Sol. He’s tapping his head, right beside his right eye. I nod and mentally toggle one of the many visual filters, turning the apartment’s walls transparent for me.
The man outside looks at us in turn—damn, this apartment is cheap, but I would have expected at least some anti-snooping countermeasures.
He points at the door, body language lazily insistent.
“I’ll take care of this,” Sol says.
“Wait!” I reply, but he’s already at the door.
The man’s imposing—almost two meters tall and somewhere between muscular and athletic—the type of figure someone born burly gets when they don’t use their genetics as a crutch. He also wears a deep hood and what looks like an ivory-colored mask with holographics moving over the surface; I recognize it, albeit vaguely. I forget the name of the world, but the men—some women too—wear that to honor… what was he called?
“Yes?” Sol asks coolly, his hand on the trench knife at his hip.
The man’s head tilts down at the weapon —a show for our benefit. “There’s no need for that, Mr. Starwind. I’m not here for violence,” he says, voice gravely and stern—almost professional—like he’s about to announce details on the next high-end simulation.
“No?”
He ignores the question. “As you know, Mr. Khal is a man that takes a sort of pride in the smoothness of his operations, a courtesy—for whatever reason—he deemed to pass on to Mr. Minth here,” he says, holding out a gesturing hand to me.
Sol looks my way, a gesture he sometimes uses to bait an opportunistic attack, but the man seems genuine about his promise of non-violence for the time being.
I remember. Those in the hoods are called Angels. The planet was Archangel Prime. They wear it to honor The Angel—The Archangel, as he was called—who was first known as The Heaven-sent or something like that.
If anything, I remember of the warriors of Archangel is true, it’s a good thing Sol didn’t attack.
After their world nearly fell to Visian, the men of Archangel became… well the only thing Archangel Prime is known for now is mercenaries—expensive mercenaries. They—
“Mr. Khal has afforded you an additional week, Mr. Minth…,” he says, interrupting my thoughts, “which is to say beyond the seven years and change you have already… delayed. If your debt has been paid off in that time, I don’t return.”
“If not?”
“I do return.”
“A week’s… generous, considering…,” Sol says, filling the silence.
He nods. “Good evening, gentlemen,” he says, departing without another word, leaving the conversation feeling abrupt and…
Sol closes the door as I receive priority mail. Seeing it’s an itemized assessment of my debt, I forward it to Sol as well. He whistles.
“This is bullshit,” I mutter.
“No, it isn’t.”
“I… I know.”
Silence falls as Sol goes over to the fabricator. He hands me a glass a moment later; looking at it, my analyzer breaks it down. Whisky.
“Eight hundred million credits,” I say.
He hums, acknowledging the number.
“I could make that in a year, if only I…”
Silence.
“Why did he let your…,” Sol begins. “How did…?”
“He knew I wasn’t good for that kind of money… my talents are, though.” I look at him. “I bet he let the money go—an investment, as far as he’s concerned. What he expects me to earn it back will be, uh, pennies on the dollar, as was said.”
“You really think Khal is interested in what you do?”
“Hell if I know.” I drink the whisky. It burns. I need a distraction. Red Heaven has a casino—a damn fine one—but that’s how I got into this fucking mess in the first place. “Do you want to see if there are some decent sim suites nearby?”
He laughs. “I still have our unfinished Fantaziya campaign.”
I think and then laugh. “That fucking dragon.”
“That fucking dragon,” he agrees. “Let’s go.”
507 A.E. April 24, 17:18:31 Local
JP “Sol” Starwind
New Earth Imperial Order, Delan III, Red Heaven, Sol and Danther’s Apartment
“This week’s been misery,” I say to the silent ship, “one terrible event after another. Fantaziya only served to irritate Danther. His rust shows and he gets more frustrated every time we fail, but he keeps wanting to try. It’s…”
The ship remains silent.
“Pathetic?” I shake my head. “It hurts seeing a friend like that.”
Silence.
“I tried to get his mind off of things, but it seems every time the idiot gets distracted, his grin falters and he just tells me how many days, hours, minutes, and seconds we have remaining.” I sigh, the motion in my chest releasing some stress. “I come home from work to the still unemployed and progressively more and more drunk Danther, who just mopes and complains.” I look up at the ship. “I should be there now—it’s the last day—but I just needed some time to collect myself or I’ll probably end up doing more harm than good.”
I hum, thinking.
“Truth is, even if he could get a job after what happened, there’s no way in hell he’d raise that kind of money before…”
I shake my head, looking down.
“We can’t run or hide. Khal’s not going to accept any reasonable payment plan—not after seven years of putting it off—and Danther’s stuck on the idea that Khal wants him for something specifically. This whole thing’s a mess.”
I look back up at the ship again.
“You could help us out, you know. Just open that hatch and we could escape.” I sigh again, chuckling as I stand. “But that isn’t for you—some Earth vessel helping a gambling drunkard shirk his responsibilities and the idiot friend who’s too hopeful to accept the inevitable.”
Silence.
“If I’m not back tomorrow, this’ll probably be the last time I see you. You were a great, hopeful mystery, Walnut, but, well… I don’t know—when it comes down to it, I have to go with my friend, you know?”
I bang on the ship’s hull twice.
“Farewell, Walnut; may the rift favor you.”
I leave the dock and make my way back. I want to take the long way—make up some lie to tell myself about getting some decent food, drink, or whatever—but I know I need to be at the apartment…
We need to pack.
I round the corner, seeing the mercenary from before sitting on a bench in the center of the walkway. I pause, closing my eyes for a moment, and then advance. He turns, seeing me and—
The little girl from before—the one telling me about the ship—pokes her head out from behind the man, smiling. “Hey Sol!” she says, waving.
I freeze. Had Danther been right about the little girl? Had…?
“We don’t have the money,” I say, not able to think of anything else. “Do you two…?”
“We just met,” the mercenary says, strangely—almost deliberately—calm. That voice hits me again like it did the first time we met, the gruff professionalism in his sound almost impossible to disregard. “She wanted to know about my mask and hood.”
“Hmm,” I say, smiling despite myself. “Under different circumstances, I might have similar questions. You’re an ‘angel’, right?”
“Hi, Sol!” she says again, a little annoyed.
“Hey, Soma,” I reply, stress mounting, pulse quickening; I have my neural calm me. “What brings you here?”
“Just exploring.” She grins. “I like this city.”
“Do your parents know where you are?”
“Doubt it,” she replies, grin faltering a little.
“So, uh, guy, what happens now?”
“You go inside and talk to your friend,” he replies, that same deliberate calmness in his voice.
“Look, we don’t have the money. You can tell your boss—”
“First, you have larger concerns than debt right now,” he interrupts, shifting gradually and facing me. The weight of it gives me pause, stare piecing the mask. He turns back to the apartment. “Also, in the spirit of clarity, I don’t work for Mr. Khal,” he says with a kind of grin in his voice. “This collection of debt is a… a favor for a friend type situation.”
“Didn’t stop him from adding your hiring fee to the debt,” I reply.
The mercenary laughs, the sound smooth and almost artificial, the look of relaxed amusement fitting on the man’s frame. “That sounds like Khal.” He nods toward the apartment. Intrigue mixing with suspicion, I approach, heading in.
My stomach drops.
Danther shakes, eyes blotchy and face pale. He holds a pistol to his head, hand unsteady.
“Shit, Danther,” I say, taking a step.
“Don’t,” he whispers, and I stop. “L-look, Sol… man, this debt is mine—”
“Fuck, Danther! Don’t—fuck—what are you doing, man!”
“Think about it, Sol. T-this solves everything. The debt is mine alone. You can be free of…”
“Danther,” I say stepping forward. “Come on, man—please!”
“I just need to have a little courage… for once.”
“Danther,” I begin, but a knock from behind gives me pause.
“What do you want?” Danther asks, sneering at the mercenary.
“I have been honest with you thus far, have I not?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I reply, hoping he’s going somewhere helpful with this. I look back to Danther, seeing narrowed eyes and a quivering lip.
“Well it is not much of a foundation for trust, but I hope you will take me at my word when I say the situation has changed.”
I open my mouth, but I get a simple neural message from the mercenary requesting I let Danther ask. What is this guy playing at?
A couple moments of silence pass, but Danther sniffs. “W-what do you mean?”
“Your debt has been paid,” he says simply.
“F-fuck you!” Danther yells.
It happens in an instant.
Something in the way the mercenary’s frame tenses sets me off, but before I have the chance to react, I hear Danther’s pistol go off behind me. I turn in horror—fearing the... —but see Danther pointing the pistol at the mercenary. He fires again.
Before I know it, the mercenary is past me—between Danther and I. In a blur of motion, he has a hand around Danther’s throat, another around the wrist with the pistol. I take a step to intervene, but the mercenary does something coordinated and fast, catching the pistol and pointing it at me. “Don’t.”
The word, calm, rolls like lazy thunder.
“Impressive… but don’t.”
I stop.
It’s only then that I realized what I was doing, arm halfway swept to deflect the pistol arm, while the other hand drew my knife. When had I learned that? Must be a subroutine left over from a sim or—
The mercenary tosses the pistol aside, disrupting my thoughts. “I was telling the truth about the debt. I take it you know that now?”
“I… yeah,” I reply, feeling somehow withdrawn.
“Then also know this,” he says, staring at Danther, voice cold. “That courtesy I just afforded you will not be repeated. Clear?”
Danther coughs.
The mercenary relaxes a little. “I’m afraid I don’t have any details as to why your debt has been mitigated. That you will have to review with Mr. Khal.” He heads toward the door, but pauses, turning back. “That was a courageous thing you did, Mr. Minth, walking to the edge of that cliff as you did for the sake of Mr. Starwind, here. Few can claim to have a friend willing to do something like that.”
“I-I was terrified.”
The mercenary looks over his shoulder. “Yeah, well, that just means you’re sane.” I swear, I can almost feel a grin. “That’s a good thing.” He turns, leaving. “Good evening, gentlemen, I have to go make sure that girl is okay—gunfire and all.”