Earth's Lunar base

Year of 2248

The security sergeant's gaze blazed a path across Ori's cheeks. He had to see the emotions roiling within her.

She struggled to hide them from him, fighting to remain still and smooth her features. It was hard. Her uncles had insisted she learned impassivity. With how terror paralyzed her, this wasn't possible. Pinching her lips stemmed the need to babble, to demand answers. She wished she could command the news to be good.

Uncontrollable tremors twitched her muscles. The effort to remain seated, to not pace, to strangle the nervous energy drove her insane. The bombardment on her senses was barely containable.

A port guard had brought her straight to this sergeant's office. He grimaced as he met her gaze. His features folded into an expression she recognized—distaste. Either her presence in his office bothered him, or he had news he didn't wish to impart. Judging by the way he pursed his lips, she leaned toward the latter.

"What seems to be the problem, miss?" His calm voice fueled her agitation, ramping the tension building in her chest.

His hesitation had to mean he had received word. No news, or not knowing, would have been a different conversation, one peppered with questions and assurances. Despite the fear gripping her heart, she grappled for control over the despair settling in her soul. Leveling her gaze with his, she steeled her determination. Fine, she could play it his way.

"My uncles haven't collected me. I haven't heard from them either, and this comm silence is scaring me." She jumped to her feet to pace, giving in to the anxiety enveloping her. If her agitation offended him, he didn't say. "Please check the news feeds. Something might have happened to them."

The sergeant sighed at his data tablet, taking time to search it.

She huffed at the pretense. He must think her too young to understand what he was doing. In her sixteen years, she had experienced more loss than many did in their entire lives, helping her to see through his ruse.

Uncle Diso had made certain she could read people well.

"You already know." Her voice spiked, revealing her inner turmoil.

His shoulders slumped, confirming her suspicions. "Yes." Exhaustion slithered through his voice, deepening it. "You might want to sit down, Ms. McKenzie."

"Just tell me." Her knees weakened at the despair in his eyes, and she collapsed into the chair.

"Pirates destroyed a cargo vessel on a return voyage from Mars's military base."

"Just tell me." Her knees weakened at the despair in his eyes, and she collapsed into the chair.

"There were survivors?" She squeezed the words past her tight throat, despite the truth weighing on her, telling her not to hope. A tear slipped free to drip onto her jumpsuit, dissolving into the fabric with mesmerizing determination.

"No survivors. The news came from the base. They're salvaging the area. They had taken delivery from this specific vessel. According to the comms, it was a three-manned cargo drifter."

"It could be any three men, not necessarily my uncles." She grasped at straws. If there was any chance the report was wrong, she would cling to it. She fixed her unblinking gaze on his face, desperate for an ounce of hope.

"The transponder beacon belongs to their vessel, the Ossicles."

All energy drained from her, her life force choosing to follow her beloved uncles. She stifled a sob as best she could. The sound came out garbled yet recognizable. Clamping her lips shut, she shuddered under the effort to rein in her grief. He granted her a few minutes before coming around his desk to cup his hand over hers. The gesture seemed unnatural and awkward, his skin burning hers.

"I'm sorry for your loss." Compassion drenched his tone, hardening his voice as though he understood her pain. "What will you do now?"

She didn't know what to say.

Her uncles would expect her to grieve, but only when it was safe to do so.

At present, strangers surrounded her with no safe port to call her own. She needed a place where she could sacrifice herself to the burn behind her eyes and nostrils. Peace, absolute silence, time, and God willing, a sense of security before she would let the grief claim her. Sucking in a ragged breath, she squared her shoulders, straightened her spine, and wiped her escaping tears.

"Did your uncles leave you any tokens?" His kind voice irritated rather than soothed her.

She dipped her gaze to hide her rising anger, coating her pain in a thin layer of heated emotion. His gentleness rattled her when she battled to keep herself together. She ran her thumb along the edge of her jaw, needing the tactile sensation to ground her. "Yes, enough to start a new life. I did well in the exams. Finding work shouldn't be hard."

The sergeant typed something into his Optical Data Implant, or O.D.I., embedded in his left wrist, and rose. "Come with me. Universal Parts is always looking to hire." He strolled through his office door, glancing once to ensure she didn't fall behind.

Her leaden feet dragged. She struggled to generate the energy to take each step, her limbs limp, her knees threatening to buckle. Studying the sergeant's back, she furrowed her brow. She trusted him without hesitation when a uniform could be misleading. His kindness was a rare trait in the far reaches of space. But despite this, he probably wanted to pass the problem of a sobbing girl on to a prospective employee, washing his hands of her.

Uncle Diso said it was easy to falsify kindness. Everyone had ulterior motives. Yet here she was, trusting a stranger, even if he was the port-sergeant. He led her along the causeway, past garish food stalls reeking of reheated protein bars. Outside the staid, dark gray facade of a recruitment office, he paused. As the door slid open, he held it for her in out-of-place gallantry.

He ignored the receptionist and entered the office unannounced. "Darrian."

A chubby man glanced at the sergeant as he rushed forward to shake her hand. "Oriana McKenzie?"

She accepted his hand without thought and scrutinized his stature, his too-tight suit, and his forced cheerfulness. Uncle Diso had taught her to analyze the details in a person's character.

"I was about to comm you, but here you are."

"You were?" she whispered in a surprised tone, but kept her face indifferent, hoping to hide her grief.

The sergeant's stiff posture hinted at a relationship that wasn't amicable between the men. "Ms. McKenzie, this is Mr. Darrian—he is the recruitment officer for Universal Parts."

Mr. Darrian claimed to want to recruit her. Like a job mattered, like her life mattered. Her uncles were gone. Gone, like her parents, and she was once again alone. She couldn't shake the idea they had prepared her for this. Since her parents' death when she was six, they had become her guardians. Together, as a family, they had traveled the known galaxy, each uncle a tutor.

Uncle Bos had taught her how to fix anything since spare parts were scarce in outer space. Uncle Gayn had shared his knowledge, teaching her how to read and write, integrity, respect for life, alien cultures, and how to map the stars. Uncle Diso had embodied honor and Hatimaye, an ancient fighting style.

All three had loved her, without a doubt. They had raised her to value love, laughter, and friendship. She couldn't have asked for better fathers.

"We have a position available on Earth. You can start as soon as you like." Darrian's voice droned, slurred, but she caught the tail end of his words and assumed the rest.

"It can't be this simple?" Her tone implied indifference, but at last, she had command of her vocals again. It was best this way, cold...numb, to not feel, or at least, to give the appearance she had no feelings. She ignored the violence of the emotions trapped like panicked bats in her chest.

"Yes, I've seen your results. I've verified your background, and..."

The sergeant shook his head.

When Mr. Darrian stared in puzzlement, tilting his head like a confused piggish dog-cyb, the sergeant typed into his O.D.I. Her anger burst into flame, rising to squeeze her throat. A burning in her chest expanded to fill every inch of her until her hairline tingled. The sergeant must think of her as a child, or worse, an imbecile.

"What the sergeant is trying to tell you, sir, is that my uncles died today. Yes, Bos McKenzie trained me. Yes, I need this job. Yes, I'll take it." She held out a trembling hand.

Tears stained her face, but she met his gaze without flinching. Let him say a single word, and she would show him everything Uncle Diso had taught her. A night spent in a port cell would be a safe place to mourn.

The man accepted her offered hand, conveying his sympathy.

She hated his touch, hated the sergeant's as well. Not the skin on skin, but what their touch implied—sympathy, pity. She gritted her teeth. No one pitied a McKenzie.

"U.P. will receive the notification. The shuttle departs at 0600 tomorrow morning. We'll reserve passage for you." Mr. Darrian patted her hand.

She tugged her hand free before giving them a polite nod. "Thank you."

Leaving the office, she waited for the door to shut behind her. Once it did, she collapsed against the wall. Her gasps interspersed with dry sobs, yet the tears didn't flow.

Time slowed while she fought for strength, for sanity. She wanted to wail at the universe, at the injustice of it all, at the pain lancing through her, snatching her breath, holding her captive. She wanted to wail her sense of loss, to fight the growing void in her chest. Instead, she dove right in, seeking its darkness, its unemotional appeal, needing it to enshroud her in impassivity. As the shroud grew like an unquenchable inkblot, she died inside, numbing the pain that would await her when she resurfaced.

The dimmed lights and the shuttered stalls cast menacing shadows. The sounds of the bartender locking up were faint behind her while she debated what to do next. Not that she had many choices. Keeping to the lit areas, she could amble from food stall to food stall. A few remained open to serve the evening crews. Or she could head to the docking bay and wait outside the shuttle.

At the thought of food, her stomach growled. A sharp pang twisted her gut at her neglect. The nausea demanded she feed it something other than her own stomach lining and alcohol. She chose not to think about her last meal: what it had been, when it had been, and where it had been. That memory was best left alone. She feared it would trigger the pain, remove the cap on the firm grasp she had on her emotions.

One bowl of synthetic noodles later, she took an elevator pod to the docking levels. She activated her magnetic boots according to safety protocol, not wanting to draw attention if she disobeyed. The shuttle had docked, but the exterior door wasn't open, and the ramp not yet lowered. With nothing else to do, she ran an assessing gaze over the dilapidated transport junket and grimaced. The mismatched panels weren't official replacement parts for this Scorpio class vessel. An exterior vent was an issue.

The grooves marking the metal indicated the number of times the panel had needed repairing. The internal ejection of the panel concerned her. Only a serious malfunction in the engine's cooling system could blasted the panel off. Sub-standard repair bots had caused the external damage. Each scar from the many re-attachments indicated a marked lack of respect. Hence the bots.

Uncaring mechanics tended to have a short shelf life in the outer reaches. The added panels had removed sections of the vessel's name. These non-standard replacement parts were in grays, rusts, and greens. Bold colors against the ship's original white frame.

Other passengers arrived within an hour of the ramp's retraction. Shuffling toward it, she assumed her place in the crowd preparing to board. First come, first choice of the operational ketsi seats. She didn't need a seat to adjust to her backside or height when a quiet corner would do. Away from a visiting grandmother with tales of her grandchildren. Away from someone with wandering hands. Away from a nosey neighbor or a traveling salesman.

As soon as the ramp lowered, she rushed in to find an isolated seat. She scanned her O.D.I. over the protective belt to claim it. Once it unlocked, it registered and informed the trip advisor she had boarded. She grunted at his official title. After strapping herself in, she leaned her head on the headrest. Exhaustion slammed into her, draining her, and numbing her mind and heart.

As soon as theyretracted the ramp, the exterior door locked, and the vessel's engines poweredup, she slumped. Portraying a strong persona wasn't necessary under the dimmedlights. With a smothered sob, she swiped the paypad, purchasing a cryopen. Asharp pinch in the neck, the cold burn of a sedative, and the sweet silence of darknessconsumed her.