Home for Christmas

By RJGlynn

She'd known fear. She'd seen the aftermath of a colony-ship–asteroid collision; seen an overpacked sweat-can full of noisy, arguing life transform into a cold carcass drifting in space. In that nightmare, she'd faced her parents' and younger brother's deaths amidst hull breaches, engine loss, and cascading system failures. So, she knew the feeling of fear's void-frosted breath on her neck; knew its brutal grip, a suffocation felt long before any oxygen deprivation.

But two soul-hollowing years after the Galactic Syndicate Fleet had dragged her hypoxic twenty-five-year-old arse clear of death and into a lifetime of brutal debt, finding herself once again facing her doom hit a little different.

Holli Maddex's lips curved as she stepped onto the white, simulated-marble deck of the Natalis, a privately owned, high-warp pleasure cruiser. Its décor gleamed, starkly opulent compared to the worker levels of the fleet citadel ship she'd been serving on, but under the sheen and glitter of wealth, systems fine-tuned for unfathomable speeds hummed almost impatiently. In her past life, before the grey limbo of GS Fleet servitude had become her world, she'd loved to fly—anything, anywhere. Surface-to-orbit cargo shuttles. Rust-bucket land-speeders through her former colony's urban sprawl and biter-infested bogs. Ignore the Natalis' pretentious décor and the festive decorations currently 'hyper-gaudifying' its already garish golden reception area, and the ship was a decent ride. A nice toy for its owner.

She wouldn't be.

She rolled her eyes to the Fleet Work Service agent escorting her, Nyko Tresaint. As a fellow void refugee, a non-citizen working out the decades of his salvation debt, he shared her too-lean, hard-worn build, but not her 'sartorial' instincts—those of a piece of stim-nic gum that'd rolled through dive-bar pretzel crumbs and couch lint. He'd acutely shorn his tightly curled, dark hair for convenience and to discourage the wildlife that plagued the fleet's overpopulated worker accommodation decks, while she'd let her dull copper locks mat into grungy ropes. Against his warm, mahogany skin, his tight-collared, carbon-dark uniform look pressed sharp enough to draw blood; whereas her beige overalls were a morbid art installation of sweat stains and random smears from her last five shifts unclogging cleaner droid internals and wrangling other tech repairs. She stank, her perfume that of a pair of deck runners left wet for a week, combined with robo-dispensed hygiene fluid, burnt electronics, and grease. Whereas Tresaint—

"How can you afford soap?" For a moment, curiosity overrode the blithe apathy she'd cultivated in place of rage and despair. "Do you get bonuses for delivering solar-hot pieces of arse like me to the fleet's sadists and pervos?"

Tresaint shifted dark eyes her way. A brief rats-nest-to-rat-eaten-sneakers assessment indicated scepticism regarding her definition of 'hot'. As for the 'sadist' comment, the rapid loss of humour from his expression said much about her new assignment. "The work transfer order assigning you to this vessel does not stipulate your new employer's personal entertainment preferences."

"But it does stipulate the amount of owed service time he bought." A detail that should've had screams sounding in her head, but she'd long ago learned panic was the least effective reaction to the fleet's labour policies. "How many times, in all your years transferring workers between jobs and vessels, have you seen an employer claim a person's entire life debt like this?" Usually, fleet citizens, businesses, or public departments like her former employer, Citadel 8's Sanitation and Maintenance Service, bought no more than a week of a non-citizen's owed labour in a single hiring instance. But according to the fleet-stamped document Tresaint had shown her half an hour ago when he'd dragged her from her dormitory, someone had purchased all her owed time. According to fleet law, one "Ves Darion" would now determine how she spent the next five decades of her life. What she did. Where she ate, worked, and slept.

If she lived that long.

She drew in a long breath. Knowing the temperament of the fleet's wealthier citizens as she did, she'd come prepared for the worst—and to avoid it. No way was she signing up to be a personal punchbag, serf, or pet. Death would be preferrable.

Face grim, Tresaint tugged down his already perfectly in order coat. "In my experience, multi-year purchases are usually a punitive measure." He cast her a taut glance. "Who'd you piss off in the last day cycle, Maddex?"

Holli lifted a shoulder. "Didn't catch his name when my fist hit his larynx."

Tresaint turned to stare. "You assaulted a citizen?"

Holli pulled a face. "More stopped his forward momentum with my knuckles." At the work service agent's choked curse, she sighed. "Shit happens, Tresaint. The dude was chem-baked, stumbling about Citadel's Recreation Deck, asking people to sit on him like that weird bearded guy everyone's currently dressing up as for... What's this month's fleet festival, again?" She scowled up at the tree-like, silver chandelier overhead, trying to recall the point of all its baubles and candy canes. "You know, the consumerism carnival, with all the gift-giving and gluttony?"

"Christmas."

"Right." She flashed Tresaint an appreciative smile. "Anyway, the guy—some kind of privileged elite type—stumbled into the backroom of the StarClub, where all the chat-and-flirt hosts were taking their break and I was disembowelling trash-jammed cleaner bots. He vigorously gestured to the fuzzy red pants that were falling off his arse while he yelled, 'Ho-ho-ho, you flotsie whores. Come sit on my—' He did not say 'knee', deviating from what I understand is the accepted festival tradition. Then he lunged for this cute hostie wearing a red-nosed faun costume and..." She shrugged. "I 'gently' redirected him away from her and towards the floor."

Tresaint closed his eyes. "You hit an elite? You're fucked, Maddex."

"Yup." She pasted on a mindless, mad smile. "So, situation normal." Void salvage like her and Tresaint were effed from the second of salvation. The GS Fleet stole the lives they saved. After two years of endless, thankless work, with no say in what she did or for whom, she felt like a ghost. The ambitious cybertech graduate she'd once been seemed dead and gone, along with her family and all her dreams of romance and adventure travelling the galaxy. But today, one way or another, that grey limbo would end.

"No, not 'normal'." Tresaint glared at her then the opulent reception area around them. "The citizen who bought all your service, Ves Darion, is not just any corporate elite. He owns damn near a quarter of the fleet, including the citadel ship you just got transferred from. If he's the guy you hit..."

"He wasn't—too old." Holli recalled the smooth, salon-pampered larynx she'd hit. "I think it was his idiot son, Modri." Was, in fact, painfully sure of it.

Tresaint made a sound that would've been a curse if he'd given it the air it required. "That's worse, Maddex. So, much damn worse."

She knew it. Modri Darion had a reputation in the fleet, his destructive, chem-jacked escapades always on the gossip feeds. Working in maintenance, she'd personally seen some of his non-human victims: cleaner bots jammed with drug-paraphernalia; abused androids drowned in punch bowls or swimming pools; others shivved with broken champagne flutes or metal cocktail straws. But that carnage paled against what she'd heard happened outside of public monitoring. Bots and droids weren't his only victims. The a-hole like to play sick games.

She looked to Tresaint, whose expression appeared caught somewhere between desperate and ill. "You don't need to worry about me, whatever happens. I was never going to last fifty more years of shit-grovelling and backhanded slaps." Dignity did not go hand in hand with work in the GS Fleet. "It's better it ends today." And for better or worse, she'd see that it would.

"No, it's not," Tresaint ground out, his stare almost furious. "From what I've heard about the younger Darion... Maddex, the bastard's idea of entertainment is to dismantle his play things, usually with a dessert fork. Or he drops them into a fight pit with one of his robo pets, which does the dismantling for him."

Holli pressed a hand to her stomach and eased out a breath. "If I get a choice, it's definitely option two. I've always had a soft spot for droids."

Tresaint looked like he'd say more useless words, but footsteps rang out, brisk and clipped. Not the soft tap of a lowly worker's deck runners. Whoever approached didn't give a damn about disturbing others or drawing attention—in fact, they probably craved it.

Modri Darion strode into the Natalis' reception area with the drug-addled panache he was notorious for: white hair in chaotic spikes; mirror-sequin hot pants; and silver, retro-Earth cowboy boots half fastened. High-end, implanted coms tech glowed gold across one cheek, ear to pouting mouth, and festive jewellery glittered against synthetically sculpted pecs and abs. A few bright strands of beads echoed the red baubles on the upside-down tree chandelier overhead. Also in keeping with the Christmas theme, a red, fur-trimmed coat fell rakishly from his well-muscled shoulders to slither over the deck behind him, two metres beyond any reasonable length.

Three assistants stalked behind him. All androids—high-end CyStella 1000 units, exclusive tech designed for anything from advanced medical diagnosis to interstellar navigation. All had identical appearance settings: scintillating-silver semi-translucent epidermis; bald, earless heads; and long, androgynous bodies. Circuitry glowed blue in their eyes and across their cheekbones and chests. All standard kit. What wasn't was the fur-trimmed red bikinis strapped to their chassis, and the red baubles flashing on their noses.

"Ho-ho-ho, flotsie grubs! Whoo, baby! Has Christmas come early." Modri Darion pumped his fists upward, a performer taking his stage, his whole body hyped with chems and malicious anticipation. "Gods, the old man does give the best gifts, doesn't he? If it's not delicious money, it's sweet, sweet revenge. Hah!" With a wide smile, he came to a stop in front of Holli, his stare drug-dilated and red-rimmed. "You in trouble, trashie girl. Daddy did not like a filthy piece of space-flotsam touching his precious, precious boy. But whoo, baby! Who can blame a desperate flotsie for wanting to get her paws on this." He gave a little wiggle and shimmy. "I mean, what was your last lover? A refuse bot? A pile of poop? Hah! Ha-ha."

"Hah! Ha-ha!" Like a well-rehearsed orchestra of inanity, his three assistant droids echoed the moron's laugh, blue diodes lighting up on their faces to graphically simulate smiles.

"Fuuuck." Holli breathed out the curse. "Have you lobotomised your Stella units? Dude, they have the processing capacity to decipher entire languages in seconds, run logistics across star systems, pilot ships like this one across the damn galaxy. One of them could probably break through your security encryptions and steal everything you own in a blink, and you've deployed three of them as a laugh track? Seriously, dude, that's so cringe."

Modri recoiled, hand going to his jewellery-cluttered chest. "Since when does trash speak?" He lowered his gaze to hers and bared his teeth. "Daddy didn't buy you for conversation, flotsie. You remain silent—until I tell you it's time to scream."

Holli angled her gaze sideways to Tresaint. "Hey, what job description was attached to my new service order? My pre-salvage expertise was in cybertech programming and maintenance, but for the past two years, my work's been mainly basic repairs and refuse removal. No vocal work. I'm not sure I'm qualified for this new position."

Tresaint's stare sent strong shut-up-before-you-get-yourself-killed vibes. "The job description was just 'general domestic'."

"So, screaming on command wasn't specified?" Holli looked back to Modri, his face still centimetres from her own. "Did your father get you the correct festive present? A 'general domestic' doesn't sound like what you're looking for at all. I mean, the screaming thing? You're after something more thespian, right? Maybe with some singing and dancing."

Modri straightened. He turned to the closest droid, one differentiable from the others by a faint scar from mid chest to abdomen: the location of its central processing unit. Despite its exclusivity and hefty price tag, the droid had clearly been misused and abused. "Did you hear the trash make words again, dolly? Or am I tripping to an alternate universe where I can't crush or vaporise anyone anytime I damn well want? Uh, what a ridiculous thought! Hah! Ha-ha!"

"Hah! Ha-ha!" The android parroted its master's laugh, its diode smile flashing briefly before its face returned to neutrality, but its subdermal circuitry flickered with continued data flows. "Confirming detection of oral dialogue. Language: Universal Human Standard. Origin: organic service unit 91890, a.k.a. Holli Joan Maddex, sole survivor of the Edge System colony vessel the SkyReaver."

Holli smiled brightly at the droid. "Please, just call me Holli. And it's lovely to see you again, synthetic unit CS991. I hope your new CPU and protocol chip are serving you well." The droid should've been sent back to its manufacturer for repair, but to a spoiled elite like Modri, it'd been just another smashed robot to dump in the bin for repairs or recycling. "Do you still wish to be addressed as Synthie for personalisation and efficiency reasons?"

The droid inclined its head. "That designation is one of the thirty-six I will respond to."

Modri waved his arms madly as if having a seizure. "Why is the trash still talking? I ordered silence. Or is it time for someone to scream?"

"Mr Darion," Tresaint interjected swiftly. "I can organise retraining or the assignment of a more suitable service unit if you're unsatisfied with this worker."

"Oh, for pity's sake!" Modri threw up his hands. "Another flotsie with flapping lips? Does no one beat you grubs enough these days?" He glared down his nose at Tresaint. "No. I don't want the trash creature fixed or replaced, you imbecile. Daddy bought it so I could break it!" He flapped his jewelled fingers at his droid assistants. "Take Daddy's present to the games lounge and put it with my other Christmas gifts." He spared Holli a coy glance. "I'll open it shortly. Vein by vein."

Tresaint jerked a step forward. "It's illegal to cause fatal harm to an organic worker. Only a fleet-sanctioned resource officer can order the retirement of a living service unit, and only after a stringent work-performance investigation and review."

"Oh, pish! Daddy gave this one to me. I'll do what I want with it." Modri flicked back his hair and struck a pose, hand on hip. "But you know, while its screams will be music to my ears, there is something better than a solo performance. A duet! Hah!" He waved in Tresaint's direction. "Dolly, have this flotsie's pathetic life transferred to me. It's Christmas, we should have a proper party!"

"Transfer confirmed," the droid designated Synthie responded.

"Lovely!" Modri clapped, then pivoted extravagantly on heel, sending his over-long coat sweeping over simulated marble. "Dollies, bring my gifts to my playpen. I need to go select a pressie opener and some luscious, festive nose candy."

Tresaint cursed as the two unnamed droids grabbed his arms. He shot Holli a desperate look. "Great work, Maddex. Did you have to provoke the murderous psychopath in the room?"

"Yes." Holli sighed as Synthie, the droid she'd fixed days ago, pulled her deeper into the ship's high-spec gloss and gaudy festive decorations. "But I prefer the term 'distract'."

Tresaint cut her a wild glance as he fruitlessly struggled against the droids handling him. "What?"

Modri suddenly spun about, the implanted coms tech in his cheek glowing bright gold, ear to mouth, as it silently transferred data and messages. "Dollies, what's this nonsense about me purchasing two thousand more organic worker units? I didn't order them! My Christmas parties are invite-only and highly exclusive!"

The droid Synthie drew to a stop before him, its own coms circuitry glowing cool and blue as it gathered data. "Your financial security systems have been compromised."

"What?" Modri blinked. "What do you mean 'compromised'? Explain!"

Synthie's circuitry flickered again, more data flowing back and forth from ship systems. "Another party has control of your digitally stored assets and has used them to purchase workers and transfer them to this ship's hold."

Modri jerked his head back, confusion in his chemically hyped eyes. "What? Who?"

Holli winced. "I get your father gifting me for petty revenge, but purchasing two thousand other worker units just for fun is serious overkill, don't you think, even for a gluttony festival like Christmas? Is your dad going to be okay with you halving the indentured worker population on one of his citadel ships?" She looked to Synthie. "How is Mr Ves Darion doing right now? Specifically, his liquid digital assets."

"They are twenty-five per cent of what they were thirty seconds ago," the droid replied with cool neutrality.

"Really?" Holli blinked then gave the droid a blinding smile. "Wow, Synthie. Nice work. Time for departure then?"

"Course is set for the Edge System," the droid reported. "Moving clear of Citadel 8's docks now. Warp jump in one minute fifty-three seconds."

"What the fuck?" Modri gaped as the Natalis' docking thrusters set the ship vibrating. "I didn't order a jump! Cancel the departure now, you glitching slut bot!" He lunged for the droid, hands raised to strangle it.

Synthie caught his throat first and effortlessly lifted him from the deck, leaving him to gasp and squirm in midair.

"Aw, Modri." Holli sent him a sympathetic glance as she located the corridor to the ship's bridge. "You still think you're the captain of this ship and its droid crew. That's super cute." She tossed back a smile as she strode away to take on her new role. "Synthie, secure our hostage and be sure to let Fleet Defence and their corporate overlords know just who'll die—horribly—if they fire on this vessel."

Tresaint, now free from his droid escorts, scrambled to catch up to her. "What the hell did you do, Maddex?"

She shot him a cheery smile. "I accepted the Christmas gift Modri gave me, you know, when he tossed his uber-elite droids in the general waste." She laughed, remembering the feeling of her dulled, depressed neurons lighting up like one of the gift carnival's sparkling trees. "I thought the girl I was died years ago, but it turns out she still knows her high-spec tech." With a skip and a grin, she entered the ship's bridge, a festival of lights and eager, humming systems. "And she's still hella ready to fly!"