Aboard the freightliner Lennox
Gael tried to pull his hand away from the rifle stock, but the metal seemed to cling to his palm, warm and buzzing. A whimper rose in his throat as his finger tangled with the trigger guard. The window across the alleyway blurred and shifted to reveal his brother, and Loic was staring at him with an apologetic expression. “Hurts, Gael. Hurts,” he said, over and over.
Dark curls clung to one side of Loic’s face and his head was shaped oddly. Dented, sort of flat. Blood seeped across his forehead, mingling with sweat and grime.
The targeting buzz tickled Gael’s palm again. A high, tight whine edged past his lips. His finger was stuck. The gun hitched back in his hand, firing. Inside his head, a wail rose as he tried and failed to pull his finger out. The rifle continued to shudder, shot after shot echoing in the place where his yells should be. Across the alley, Loic’s head came apart in green-tinged horror.
Screaming, Gael jerked forward and fell. Pain exploded across his forehead and a flare of white light obscured images of blood and brain. He reached for his head, fingers groping madly along his hairline, tangling in curls instead of trigger guards. A vision of brain matter flickered across the white space behind his closed lids as he continued probing. He found no broken pieces, no squishy pieces, no holes, no blood. Just sweat and an egg-shaped lump in the center of his forehead.
He’d been dreaming again.
Reality slowly replaced the nightmare. He was in the observation lounge aboard the freightliner Lennox with a shiny new ID chip and a completely legitimate travel voucher. He must have rolled off a bench and hit his head on one of the restraint hooks.
Light. He needed light.
Gael crawled over to the holo viewer controls and keyed them on. His request was met with a quiet tone and the message: “The Lennox is currently in transition. What would you like to view?”
He already knew not to ask for Alkirak. The Lennox database had no visual data on the remote planet, only a sparse Galactipedia entry. His thoughts were too scattered to fiddle with any number of words. He wanted something to look at.
“Show me the Bhotan system.”
The ceiling and walls flickered once before fading behind an outside view of his home system. Zhemosen was the third of five planets. He’d learned that here, in this lounge, and he’d seen his first glimpse of it from space—the impossibly blue marble dotted with strings of clouds and islands, replicated now in holo form.
Four weeks into his journey across the stars, he still had a hard time marrying his view of the City Without End with the pretty planet spinning over his head. He’d seen holos and pictures of the beaches, the oceans and the islands, but all he’d ever known was the undercity. Dark streets, bitter air, and water that tasted like sweat. Sometimes it seemed impossible that they were all on the same planet.
Gael sat on the bench and leaned back against the wall. His heart rate had calmed, but his hands still tingled and his head hurt. He didn’t dream every time he slept, but often enough that he’d developed a schedule whereby he stayed awake for as long as he could before passing out in a convenient corner, hopefully exhausted enough to sleep.
A bed would have been nice, but privacy had proven a valuable commodity aboard the crowded freightliner. Traded, it could buy you almost anything. Gael had given up his bunk for most of the trip, dividing his sporadic sleep between a cubby in a pressurized storage hold and this tiny, rarely used observation deck. In exchange, he had credits to spend on sending and receiving light-speed mail packets, including holo transmissions.
The bonus had been access to the Lennox’s vast onboard public data libraries. He’d learned more about the galaxy over the past month than he had in his short lifetime. It was humbling in an unpleasant way to realize how little he’d known. It was also amazing. The galaxy was amazing. And he was heading out there to—
A short tone echoed inside the observation lounge, preceding a ship-wide message. “The Lennox will be leaving transition in five minutes. All passengers should proceed to quarters or the nearest lounge.”
Instructions for crew followed. Gael was already on his feet. He could stay here; the benches in the observation lounge were equipped with light transition harnesses. Unfortunately, the room was not equipped with something to catch his vomit, and he only had one change of clothes, which he’d like to save for tomorrow.
Thank the burning sun there was only one more day of this—and that this drop into real space was only for refueling purposes. A visit to port would have him hiding in the storage hold again. He hated it down there, and not only because he always got the creeping sensation that he wasn’t the only person tucked into a dark corner. Since leaving the undercity, he seemed to have developed a phobia of tight spaces. But if a warrant officer had his description, even his new name wouldn’t save him.
Gael palmed the door release, stepped out into the corridor, and followed his mental map to the nearest bathroom. The two-minute warning sounded just as he slid through the door. He didn’t bother with the lock. If someone wanted to burst in on him strapped to the commode while he vomited in the sink, they were quite welcome.
Everyone else on the ship was probably in more pleasant circumstances.
Gael got the light restraint over his shoulders and flopped back against the dull-gray wall behind him to wait. A last tone sounded and the ship lurched. Gael’s stomach rebelled, and he leaned over the sink.
Later, after washing out his mouth, Gael inspected the lump on his head in the mirror. It was already purpling around the edges. He was going to meet Abraham Bauer with a dark bruise in the middle of his forehead.
Terrific.
The cheap plastic Band on his wrist vibrated softly, indicating an incoming message. The thrill of having his own Band had yet to fade, even though the model Price had gifted him with did little more than carry his new ID chip and enough credits to get him from Zhemosen to Alkirak—or point Z to A, as Price had delightedly pointed out several times. The Band also had limited comms access. He couldn’t send or receive from it, but he could get alerts.
Gael hurried to the comms lounge to access his mail.
He had four hours until the ship reentered transition. He’d watched a couple HVs on how travel across the galaxy was accomplished and retained one simple image—that of a pebble skipping across a stream, with each touchdown being a visit to real space, the arcs in between being jumps through folded reality. His stomach cramped at the idea of reality folding.
Two decks down, he touched the door panel to the comms lounge and slipped inside. Another passenger was taking advantage of the lull between transitions to access their mail. Everyone else was probably eating. Eating in transition was weird. So was using the bathroom.
Gael slid behind an empty console and keyed his Band to display the new message. It was from Bram. Taking a breath, Gael held it against the odd sensation that traveled through his internal organs every time he opened a message from the man who had offered him a contract out of Hell. Then he pressed Play, and an image filled the small, personal screen. Bram had eyes that might be blue or brown—it was hard to tell in the holo—and dark-blond hair cut very short, framing a face that was all pleasing angles: a wide brow, defined cheekbones, a strong nose, and a square jaw. As always, Gael felt his lips quirk up into a small smile. He liked the way Bram looked. He liked it a lot.
Posting an HV at Heart Companions had been like being a contestant on some ridiculous gameshow. Price had told him to have fun with it. Gael had had to restrain the urge to delete his profile once people had started responding:
A woman had wanted to add him to her harem.
Fifteen separate invitations to contract with Booyah Companions—a service that would not have matched him with a single lonely colonist.
Dick pics, tit shots, and combinations of both.
One respondent had had six breasts. And tentacles.
Twenty hours after the nightmare had begun (or had taken a bizarre left turn), he’d received a polite, concise message from Abraham Bauer. In his first HV, Bram appeared as nervous as Gael, stuttering over hello in almost exactly the same place—which probably wasn’t hard to do, but kind of endearing? And his voice. Really good face, but it had been his voice that had ultimately won Gael over. His accent was soft and mellow, as though he had all the time in the universe to consider his words and shaped each one specifically before using it.
During the week in which they’d negotiated contract terms, Gael had become fond of his voice.
Bram began this latest message with a firm “Hey” followed by the expected pause. “I figure you must be about a day out,” he continued. “If you’re anything like me, you’ll be glad to have solid ground under your feet again. Hope the transitions haven’t been too rough. I’ll have to tell you about the time our ice harvester got caught in transition and we all thought we might end up in some alternate reality.”
Bram smiled and the tightness in Gael’s chest eased a little, even while his stomach knotted furiously over the mention of alternate realities. If the Lennox got stuck in transition, he’d ask for a suicide pill. Better to know his end.
“So, I haven’t planned a whole lot.” Bram scratched the side of his face in a gesture that was already becoming familiar. “I reckoned we’d just, ah, see what you wanted to do. There isn’t much to see here yet, of course. My farm. Some sights along the way there. It’s quiet out here, but I get the idea you’re looking forward to that.”
A flush of guilt burned Gael’s insides. Was he using this man, this seemingly nice, unassuming, and apparently lonely farmer? Bram’s short missives had been such welcome respite from the horror following his botched job. Every day had been an exercise in patience, waiting for a message from Bram while hiding and trying to avoid the nightmares where he shot his brother, the girl, or opened doors only to find Julius Trass screaming on the other side.
Sitting here now, he almost felt as though he’d won the grand prize in that stupid gameshow.
“So, anyway,” Bram went on, “this is just a short one. I . . . I’m looking forward to meeting you. I guess I hope you’re of a similar mind. But, hey, life is what it is and, well, I want you to know that I’m a fair man. We’ll see how this works, and if it doesn’t, it doesn’t. I hope you don’t mind me sayin’ I hope it does.”
Pink tinged Bram’s cheeks and he ducked his head, obviously embarrassed. He muttered something and ended the connection. He must have decided afterward to leave that last part in before sending the HV on to Gael’s comm address—which was sweet and interesting.
Gael watched the short message again, not so much listening to the words as watching Bram’s face. Absorbing his presence. The breadth of his shoulders showed Bram’s physical strength. He was a large man, but had a gentle way about him. He moved like he spoke, slowly and methodically. He seemed really nice.
How soon would he expect them to be intimate? Up to this point in Gael’s life, sex had mostly been a transaction. Bram obviously wanted more than that, and Gael wanted to deliver. He had no idea how love worked, though, except as an overwhelming obligation to a person who relied on you to make life happen in a sensible and orderly manner. Loic had needed that, and Gael had loved his brother with every fiber of his being.
He played the holo again, pausing just as Bram spoke his final words: “We’ll see how this works, and if it doesn’t, it doesn’t. I hope you don’t mind me sayin’ I hope it does.”
Touching the projected image, Gael disturbed the pixels over Bram’s shoulder and moved his finger down to the center of Bram’s chest.
“I hope it does too.”
When the transition alarm sounded, Gael swore. He’d meant to record a return message, but it was too late now. Closing the holo projector, he stood and stretched, ignoring the squirm of his gut. He’d booked his own bunk for the last transition in the hope he’d actually get some sleep. Sleep would be good. Sleep without nightmares would be even better.
This time tomorrow, he’d be on Alkirak.
Oh sun.
His bunkroom was unoccupied and relatively clean. The Lennox had good air circulation; only a slight whiff of sex remained. Thankfully, the bedding had been replaced. Gael strapped himself into the lower bunk and considered taking a sedative to help him through the transition. He’d had more access to medication over the past few weeks than he had his whole lifetime, and not all of it had been pleasant. Sometimes, his shoulder still ached from the broad-spectrum vaccine they’d jabbed him with before he could board.
Considering the bunk above him, and the lingering hint of semen, he hoped the crew was as well inoculated.
Long habit of not allowing himself to be caught in a vulnerable position had kept him from accepting anything else up to this point, but with fatigue sitting heavily on his eyelids and his stomach already tensing for the inevitable lurch, Gael found himself reaching for the dispenser. He wanted to look lively for Bram, right? Not like a bad investment?
As he waited for the drug to dissolve on his tongue, anxiety rolled over him in dizzying waves. He was about to pass through to the far side of the galaxy. Travel to a planet he’d never heard of. Live with a man he’d met only five weeks before.
Oh sun, oh sun, what had he done? Seriously, what had he—
Gael woke up with a dry mouth and a fierce headache. He licked his lips, thick tongue sticking to parched flesh, and opened his eyes. The smell of vomit did not immediately assail him, but the low light seeping in through the bunk screen sent a sharp pain through to the back of his skull. Groaning, he sat up and checked his Band.
They’d be docking with Alkirak Orbital in one hour. He’d slept through the trans-in and trans-out.
After cleaning himself up—he hoped water was plentiful on Alkirak because he was so done with having the dirt blasted from his skin by charged air—Gael packed his single bag and headed to the observation deck for a first look at his new home.
From space, the planet was disappointing. A large dark ball striped with thin clouds at the poles. He was viewing the night side, but still. Gael gripped the rail set in front of the view screens. This was it. His new home.
Slowly, excitement caught him. This wouldn’t be the same as the jobs he’d failed at before. No killing, for one. No intimidation. He’d probably have to practice smiling. He’d be expected to smile. And if Abraham expected more than simple companionship from the outset, he could offer that too—and try to enjoy it, because he could be a new Gael here. One as bright as his new surname.
Docking, disembarking, and documentation all passed smoothly, the knots in Gael’s gut loosening as his ID chip scanned with no warning, no arrest, no Trass enforcer popping out from behind a screen to drag him back to Zhemosen. The differences between Alkirak Orbital and Zhemosen Orbital began to filter through slowly, as he stopped waiting for trouble and started trying to convince himself that he was nearly there. Price had been right about the lack of tech. The station was utilitarian. No wide view ports, entertainment alcoves, and little to no commerce. No advertising holos and the only eatery looked like a commissary. Nor were the people decorated with temple disks, holo tattoos, feedback jewelry, and all manner of enhanced gloves.
Gael followed a group of contract miners to his assigned shuttle and slotted himself into a seat by one of the tiny windows.
“Not going to be much to see on the way down,” said his seatmate, a bulky figure dressed in a Muedini Corporation coverall.
Gael sorted through possible responses before settling on one that he felt fit his new persona. He smiled. “So long as I can see the sky, I don’t mind.”
“Hopping from one hole to another, eh?”
“Hole?”
“You’re from . . . let me guess. Cappadocia. Small as you are. Lived your whole life underground, right?”
“Something like that.”
A small jolt moved through the shuttle as they fell away from the orbital station. Gael pressed his nose to the window.
“If you wanted to see the sky, you should have tried for one of the Betas. Clouds the color of polished amethyst and forests so old, they’re still counting the rings on their trees.”
Rings on trees? What was he talking about?
“Of course, getting a contract out that way is like winning the lottery. What are you here for, anyway?”
Turning back to his neighbor, Gael sorted through possible responses again. “I, er, um, hospitality.”
“Huh. They must be thinking of improving the town. Glad to hear it.”
“You’re here to mine?”
“Part of the dregs crew. There’ll be a steady run of iron for years to come. Enough to hold the company’s interest while terraforming goes ahead.”
“The farms.” Gael nodded with some excitement. He’d read about the effect the farms had on the atmosphere. “I’ve seen pictures. It’s beautiful. So green.”
The miner snorted softly. “You really must be from a deep hole if you think the terraces are any kind of green. But to each his own.”
Uncertainty warred with Gael’s desire to be excited about his new home. His new life. He leaned toward the window again and looked out. “Will we be landing on the dark side?”
“Unless you want to be served up as barbeque, yeah.”
“Huh?”
The miner pointed a stubby finger toward the window. “See that glow over there? That’s the sun getting ready to spread her light. We’ll pass by close enough for you to see the cracks.”
“The cracks?”
His companion laughed, slapping his hands on his thighs, and turned to speak across the aisle. “This kid! He thinks he’s dropping into paradise.”
Gael watched as the glow expanded, heralding the approach of day. The distant ground remained nearly as dark as night, the charcoal-covered surface streaked with bands of burnt umber—except for the cracks. He wouldn’t have known what they were without that word nestled in his frontal lobe. Long fissures, appearing as deep lines of shadow, split the surface, all running in the same direction, north to south, as far as the eye could see. And not a single mote of green.
Where were the farms?
Swallowing, Gael sat back and rubbed his eyes.
“Know what Alkirak means?” the miner asked.
Gael shook his head. “No.”
The squat finger pointed toward the window again. “Crack.”
“They called the planet crack?”
“Funny, ain’t it?”
No. “Where are the farms? The terraces. Where do people live?”
“Where do you think?”
Dawning horror threatened to pull Gael through his seat, through the floor, and out into the nothingness of space. “In the cr-crevasses?”
“Told ya. Holes in the ground.”
And just like that, Gael’s shiny new life followed the drag of his limbs, falling away from him with an almost audible thump. He really had jumped from one hole to another.