Author - Jade Blackwind
Title - Gift of Wings
...Blood of the world is fire. Young worlds bleed with molten rock, skies shining with ionized plasma. Obsidian spires tower over the seas of liquid fury. Far above, in the void between the magic sky of indigo and the roaring magma hell, the ever-silent watchers float in their sleepless duty among the crumbling monoliths of the past.
The edge of all things is but the beginning. To fly towards the destiny, one must be given wings; and a gift of wings is the greatest favor a human may bestow upon another.
A Gift of Wings
That particular world was not young. It was old and barren, an endless cold wasteland. By day, the skies were made of dull bronze. By night, three small moons shed their dim gray light over the ruins of the old colony dome. Much of what's left of the former Gallente settlement was underground, and the reactor still gave power. The miners were long gone. Other people now lived on Thelan IV.
It is amazing how persistent the humans are in reproducing the worst their social instincts offer. Drop a freighter full of random exiles and refugees in the middle of nowhere, and in less than a generation, you'll see a functioning society, bound to prove yet again that hell is indeed other people. Such was the case of this barren world. They've formed a society. Bound together by the will to survive, they clung to whatever traditions each one brought with him. There were shamen, and elders, and established businessmen. The market, and the currency. There were smugglers and the omnipresent Angels and Serps, of course, but the hellhole was so insignificant that they didn't even bother to assert full control, instead sending down a few unlucky pawns to monitor the "establishment".
The "establishment" had children. Young lions and free Matari warriors, as they thought of themselves, of course. A gang of teenage adrenaline junkies, perma-wasted and deadly in their blind chaos. For the youth of the camp, those were icons. Many would give off everything they owned and their body just to go "windriding" with the "lions", to bask in their glory.
Windriding. There was no lack of winds. The old colony sat on the foothills of the massive mountain chain stretching from east to southwest, and to the north, an ancient crater loomed. Black ice filled its cup many miles wide. The dust storms and tornadoes came from the east and through the valley between the colony and the crater. It could be all clear and still, and next you'd see a wall of black wind overtaking the sky and sinuous vortexes of death dancing down the valley. No wonder the Gallente abandoned the place despite the minerals. But the young lions loved this world - in a way, as a Drop addict might love his prostitute mother, but still. The dust storms made them awake, alive, they were the only thing that's non static in the dying world under the three moons. And so, those teenagers would get high, and race with the winds in their rusty hoverbikes, and dance, and scream, and take shots of themselves and their bitches - camera shots, I mean. They'd also fire weapons in the air, of course. Sometimes, one of them would crash and die, or get sucked into a tornado, and they would find it out only next morning.
Once, a boy two or three years younger begged the Lions to take him windriding, and they agreed, reluctantly. He surrendered all his prized possessions to the gang - mostly, in form of technical consumables. When the time came, they did take him along, but only to torture and humiliate. Think Goonswarm recruitment scam. The apex of the event, the "bonus room" of sorts, consisted of "making the whelp into a pilot". They strapped him to the cross of a large kite, made of plasteel tubes and discarded industrial fiber sheets, and launched the kite into the blackened sky to be dragged after one of the hovers.
It didn't go well that time. The boy was sick or something. He was utterly pale and scared to death by the time they strapped him to the kite. Then, he soiled his pants. When the contraption soared over the Blackwind Valley, it was obvious to anyone who wasn't heavily drunk or drugged, that the "rookie pilot" passed out. Yet, the gang, yelling, ululating, laughing and shooting into the dusty skies, rode forth.
Then, it happened so, that one of the lesser bitches, whose body was given to the "lion" who drove the hover with the kite, rebelled. Whether it was alcohol, or Crash, but something switched over in the girl's mind in those moments in the shadow of the dust storm. She pushed the brakes and yelled "Stop it!" to her tattooed boyfriend. Then, she yelled other things that he didn't like.
The Lions gathered around. "You don't talk to a Lion like that, *****." - said the gang member and hit her several times. - "If you do not like that we're making a warrior out of this pile of ****, we'll make a good pilot out of you."
She spit blood into his face.
And so, the Lions of Matar tied the girl to the cross of plasteel tubing while the storm was already engulfing them, and the rebellious ***** ascended into the torn skies of Thelan IV, laughing with her broken mouth.
Our story ends here. Does it have a moral? Yes, but it is up to you to find it, dear reader.
Because, the edge of all things is but the beginning, and, to fly towards destiny, one must be given wings; and a gift of wings is the greatest favor a human may bestow upon another.
know that in the times and places beyond we will all be united, as rain drops are united falling into the ocean. I know that the spirits exist, but those aren't the spirits the shamen talk about, and I doubt that those elder beings are our ancestors at all. Human life is but a barely discernable flicker between two curtains of eternity, a short flight from nowhere into nothing. In this life-long fall from the sky to the ocean, nothing matters but your wings, the wings that the fate has given. But the color with which you paint your wings for this journey is up only to you.
A Gift of Wings - Part II
Once upon a time, in a slum on a forsaken planet far, far away, lived two teenage girls who were sisters. The younger sister was shy, obedient and reliable; she always did what the "more important" people told her. The older sister was the kind that never really knows what she wants, but manages to find trouble at every corner. She abused her role of the older sister by dragging her sibling into trouble, too.
After the windriding incident she had to hide in the lower tunnels to avoid the gang members who were now less than friendly. Sister brought her food from their mother's stand she helped to run. In this self-imposed exile, the girl found the unlikely ally and friend in the cowardly boy whom she saved from the "hazing" by the gang. Together, they conceived a plan to escape the planet.
A smuggler ship named "Pride of Poitot" would land on Thelan IV each other week. The dilapidated spaceport some 60 km from the colony was still usable, and the local Serps exploited it. The teens would steal a hover and ride to the port, then sneak into the cargo bay, evading the heat and motion detection sensors by keeping with the cargo hauler drones. Lots of time went into preparation. The goal was to survive and avoid detection for the few hours it'll take for the Pride of Poitot to reach the nearest highsec station in the Federal space.
Trying to stay away from the Lions curbed most possibilities for entertainment that the older girl had. She resorted to reading some old Gallente books that the cowardly boy brought her. Some of those books were decades old, pulp novels abandoned by the evacuating miners. Of the origins of others, she wasn't sure. Among those books was one of those fake psychology self-improvement tomes for housewives that teach the reader to relax, think positively and enjoy her (most likely) sad and miserable life. She discarded the book with contempt, but a phrase from it remained in her mind like some sort of a prayer, a prayer into which she put all her dreams and hopes for the future after Pride of Poitot, after the dying planet under the three moons will fade from her life like a bad dream that never existed.
"To fly towards destiny, one must be given wings; and a gift of wings is the greatest favor a human may bestow upon another."
As the set date was getting closer, the girls' mother became increasingly worried about their behaviour. You know that type of an apathetic and helpess parent that does not notice that her child sleeps around and smokes crash, but gets really upset about the school grades. Only a blind unit of livestock could not notice the older sister's antics with the Lions and believe that a broken leg and two broken ribs were the result of a fall down the old tech shaft in the western tunnel. In any case, the girls' mother went to the elders of what's left of her tiny clan, and the crones nodded their heads, agreeing, that the unruly child must be initiated and, preferably, married within he next year.
While the marriage wasn't an immediate threat to the teens' plans, the Voluval was. Attempting to avoid the ritual meant adding the whole clan to the list of people to stay away from at all costs, and one should not underestimate the social networking power of the Vherokior fastfood sellers and small time barterers. It'd also make getting the keys to a hover much more difficult - there weren't too many hovers in the camp H17.
"Who cares, it's just a tattoo that takes a day to make." - they decided. - "We'll go on with the plan after this is over".
And so, the girl surrendered herself to the crones and was prepared as the last day dawned over the barren world. They put a ceremonial cloak over her body and led her into the sacred cave where the mystics dwelled, and there, among the smoke and the grinning masks of the ancestors, injected the accursed Jovian nanites into her, to reveal her destiny for the tribes to see.
The injection was much more painful than she expected. Then came the burning feeling. She was supposed to say something, but was too occupied with her own pain. The only thing she was able to come up with, was that phrase from the Gallente book.
"To fly towards destiny, one must be given wings; and a gift of wings is the greatest favor a human may bestow upon another."
The burning intensified, as if her entire body was on fire. She hated the planet, the clan and her family by that point. In a few days, it'll be over forever. She'll become an Impetus holoreel star, or a fashion model, or an ethnic pop singer. The Gallente like "ethnic" stuff to outline the multicultural nature of their state. Die, Thelan IV, die in a supernova, burn as her body is burning. On some point, she almost fell unconscious; on the wings of fire, she was flying towards the dark light from the heart of the universe.
Then, it all ceased, and silence filled the cave. The shaman produced a dirty mirror and then another, allowing the girl to see her own back. There, like a beheaded Mordu's eagle, sat a crimson mark, spreading tendrils of blood. Indeed, those were the wings, the wings of a night daemon, thief of souls, bane of the unborn.
Our story ends here. Does it have a moral? Perhaps, yes; for the fate may give you wings, but the color with which you paint wings for this journey is up only to you.
How often one dreams of changing the past? To choose another road, to correct that single mistake years ago that led his entire life down the wrong path? How often one is triumphant, feeling on the top of the world, with grand plans for the future, only to find himself next moment immersed in a most horrid nightmare ever imaginable and his life ended in disaster?
A Gift of Wings - Part III
Master Guispon spent the last day of his life as a true king of his small domain, which also served as his home and the home to his servants and slaves. He awakened somewhere in space near the second planet as the ship gently rocked, aligning to the station; the maids bathed him and groomed his long silver hair. Smells of incense and perfume filled the richly decorated room. His throne room, which, by extension, also served as the manager's desk and the captain's cabin.
He had an exquisite, if light, breakfast with some sparkling white from the old worlds. By the time his little wandering castle - about 250 meters from the bow to the rear thrusters - magnificently floated into the immense dock, a mountain of light and sound, he was appropriately dressed and prepared for the business meeting. He felt a little excited - it would be his first deal with a capsuleer. 2k ISK per head, considering the quality of the livestock, would net him well over 300% in profit. The demand of the egger to attend personally, was, of course, strange, but he got enough security staff to prevent any possible complications. After all, outside of his pod any egger is just another sack of vulnerable flesh, perhaps, even weaker than most trained people, and one well-aimed blast will send him back across the universe to the clone vat where he belongs.
The small conference room was on the 220th level of the business section. A detachment of Guispon's own bodyguards secured the location. The capsuleer turned out to be a bald, unremarkable man in a standard "Impact" pilot suit, and the meeting proceeded uneventfully as the buyer thoroughly examined the data, sometimes letting out a witty comment. Then, they began to set up a contract to conclude the deal.
At some point, shortly before the buyer signed the contract, there was a slight change in the quiet hum of the life support machinery. Guispon probably woudn't have noticed it, but his suit did, because an emergency mask instantly deployed from the collar, covering his mouth and nose. A gunfight erupted behind the door. The capsuleer screamed in panic, jumping up from his chair.
"No! I wasn't paid for this!"
He reached for something under the table. Guispon decided not to wait and fired the implant that replaced the thumb of his left hand. A laser beam pierced the wailing man, and the "capsuleer" collapsed back into the chair. Gracefully, like a leopard, the slaver inspected the body. The upper implant socket was an obvious fake. The exit from the room seemed to be blocked.
Noises behind the door slowly died down. Suddenly, the holo-walls that were supposed to be the solid outer hull of the station slid aside, and several mercenaries stormed into the room. The man who led them had no helmet on, only the gas mask, and Guispon, who took cover behind the table, instinctively discharged both his laser finger and the dead "capsuleer"'s pocket blaster into the leader's head, while changing position. The air around the mercenary flashed with the characteristic sapphire halo of an overloaded Pith-grade personnel shield. Another mercenary, a towering giant in gray armor, easily intercepted Guispon and kicked the weapon from his hand as the last charge of the weak thumb laser made only a scorch mark on the chestplate.
- Mr. Guispon. - The blond Deteis man with the Pith shield pushed away the actor's corpse and nestled comfortably in his place, smiling with the sadeness of knowledge. - Sorry for the rude interruption of your business meeting here, but we have an urgent personal message to deliver to you.
- Wai? - The giant's voice with heavy Thukker accent resonated under his faceless infantry helmet. - Wai, man, you sell dat ***** to master Kuun? She - psssshhhhh! - killed him dead! Now Kuun is very sad.
- Gentlemen. - The Intaki breathed heavily under his mask, trying to keep calm. - I assure you, that I am as much a victim of this vile fraud as master Kuun. I am not a madman to cross the Rancer Ten. I'll repay any damage...
- Of course, you will. It is of no matter that you didn't know that the slave you sold was, in fact, a walking bomb loaded with nanites that killed Kuun and devastated significant part of the residence. We are aware that this is the work of the Barons and will deal with them in time. However, it was you who delivered the vessel and its payload, and you will be made an example to others. We have a set of exact instructions about what should be done with you.
- No one messes with da Rancer Ten, man.
...And so, they took from him all his possessions, and his ship, and his precious cargo, and, with all due respect, accompanied him to the airlock. As they were passing the frightened herd of young cattle, Guispon caught the eyes of one of the slaves for a second. It was a skinny mongrel, already collared; the girl's lips moved as she looked at him, and, with years of practice, the Syndicate slaver understood the message.
"I give you wings, Master Guispon. I give you wings."
He raised eyebrows slightly and turned his head away. One of the Rancer Ten men pressed the gun to his side as a gentle reminder that they had to hurry, and Guispon walked faster, his back straight, his face looking forward to the next life with a smile of royal calmness. After all, he was a master and a king, king of the Pride of Poitot.
Our story ends here. Does it have a moral? Indeed: If you value your belongings and your life, don't accept station trades from unknown people.
It is always a scam.
Always.
Everything in the universe is intervowen in a strange web of improbable causalities that yet are too often predetermined. That which seems a wondrous coincidence couldn't happen another way because everyone involved simply could not make a different decision - or they'd no longer be themselves.
A Gift of Wings - Part IV
Once upon a time in Hagilur lived a Sebbie boy whose brother was an Angel pilot. Their parents died, so, the older brother cared after the younger. When the boy grew up, he showed remarkable affinity to the techy side of things, so, his bro recommended him to superiors. He became a drone maintenance technician; two more years into his career, and he was promoted to maintenance drone operation overseer in one of the Angel deadspace facilities in the system.
The Angel facility was as common as those facilities go. It consisted of a listening tower (also known as "The Middle Finger"), a docking pad for cargo vessels and a storage hangar, a resupply and repair station, a personnel habitation module, a recreational module ("Madame Lai's") and a couple gun and missile towers for defence. Sealed corridors connected the modules. The garrison stationed in the facility included a dozen figates, several destroyers and an old Ixion amptly nicknamed "Yo momma".
The maintenance drone operator could meticulously study every nook and cranny of his domain while sitting in his little capsule-like room, surrounded by monitors. The drones were his hands and eyes; his work was a never ending minigame of tactics and resource management, and he enjoyed it.
He spent his free time watching holoreels and playing games, though there was lack of human partners for a proper match. He tried to interest Ormulf - a guy from weapon maintenance - in Swords of Rouvenor, but Ormulf turned out to be incapable of mastering even a simple attack or defence combo and just waved his gunblade around like a dumb bot.
Occasionally, they'd have a drink together (the Sebbie boy needed one to overcome his shyness) and go to Madame Lai's when it wasn't too busy with the ship crews. At that time of the day cycle, there'd usually be Bara, dark-skinned, with large, but well-shaped body, who was popular with the guys from security; lithe Lula with dark red hair, always gloomy, who never the less was said to be very good at what she was paid for; timid, gentle Aya with short pink hair and awesome thighs, who was, unfortunately, too fond of Drop; and the puffy-lipped, blue-haired Odette, who was sometimes unbearably chatty. He'd always go for Aya when she was available, or, failing that, for Odette, and Ormulf would choose Bara or Lula, because he had a thing for darker skin.
One day, when they were together in her tiny compartment, Aya said: "I love sea. When it'll be over, I'm going to live on a water planet. Just the ocean and no people at all. I'd wake up every morning and listen to the wind and the waves for the rest of my life".
He thought: "They'll just dispose of you when you stop making profit", but, instead, asked her: "Have you ever been to the sea?"
"Nope." - Aya looked at the oxidized ceiling. - "There were no seas or rivers where I grew up. I just sorta like to imagine how they are."
"When I'll make enough money, I'll buy you out, and we'll go to the sea together."
He lied, of course.
Then, the day came when the celestial dice finally rolled the wrong number. The alarms sounded across the facility as the ships were scrambled to repel the invader who was discovered already in mid-warp. He saw it all on the monitors as a Stabber-class cruiser slowly decelerated and unleashed its first salvo of autocannon and missile fire on the approaching pirate wing.
The Angels might have stood a chance if the enemy had another type of tank or less firepower, but not this time. As the stabber's shields lit with the familiar glow of adaptive hardeners, the first frigates who dared to put a suicidal tackle on him went down. One of them was flown by the sebbie boy's brother - and he could do nothing to help.
He ran from his post to the docks, where chaos reigned. Near one of the disused Styxes was a huge secure container. Those things can probably withstand a direct nuclear blast. He threw in a portable oxy-regen with a few charges and a few cans of water. He tried to search for Ormulf, but failed.
Meanwhile, "Yo momma" caught a full broadside and exploded. The stabber's captain turned his attention to the automated gun and missile batteries. After those were silenced, the rain of phased plasma hit the cargo hangar. Some desperate pirates tried to launch the Bestower which was docked at the facility, but the ship was turned into rubble before they could start the engines.
In that moment of death and destruction, amidst the explosions and the screaming claxons, he realized, that, after his brother and, perhaps, Ormulf who were probably both dead by now, there was only one person in this deadspace pocket he cared about and wished to save.
Aya. Yes, the slow, shy, Drop-addicted girl with pink hair from Madame Lai's. It was a surpise to him; but there was no time to think, and so, he charged through the burning and crumbling corridors of the facility as the merciless god of death pounded on it with his hammer of fire. Somewhere halfway, the artificial gravity of the complex went out, and he flew forward, or, rather, swam, like a dolphin, through the debris and clouds of smoke.
- Aya! - he cried into the dark maw of another corridor. In the bar, fire slowly bloomed in zero gravity, like a sun's newborn child; compartments screamed, torn by the changes of pressure, and Madame Lai's corpse, carried by the escaping air, slowly overtook him in a trail of raven-black hair.
- Aya!
Roar of destruction silenced his words as the central tower began to fall apart.
If the good resorts to mass murder of innocents to defeat evil, what kind of good it is? But what if there is no other way? And what if there are no innocents? Treachery reaps vengeance and death begets only death. In this cosmic wheel of suffering, there is no good, but only different shades of evil.
A Gift of Wings - Part V
...Lieutenant Logar Hakilia awoke from pain in the darkness. His face and left shoulder were still burning. He hung suspended in some sort of a net in zero gravity; his back touched a wall of cold metal. Barely noticeable pressure kept him against the wall; whatever he was in was slowly rotating.
Sounds surrounded him. The outer walls slightly creaked, cooling down. Some piece of machinery emitted a quiet hum. Someone sobbed. It was a woman or a child. There were more people moving around, or, at least, attempting to move around and hitting the walls.
The person that was sobbing suddenly let out a shriek of horror and went silent.
"****. That's Odette". - The voice was familiar; it was one of the exotic dancers. - "The leg. Catch her by the leg."
"She is dead and you aren't yet. Hold me. We need more mass. Bara, can you please hold me? We really don't need Odette floating around."
Something touched his hand.
"How are you, man?" - it was someone from the dock security. - "Your face doesn't look good."
Logar tried to smile.
"Still alive. Where are we?"
"In the friggin' container. The girls dragged you in. They said, we can't leave Ormulf, because he's a good guy."
"Thank you, girls." - Logar tried to smile again. - "I owe you my life."
"Save your thanks for when we're out of the can." - He recognized her now. It was Lula, and the one who sobbed was Aya.
"Hey." - Logar turned to the man from security, or, at least, to the direction where he was speaking from. - "How the hell all that **** even happened?"
"I've heard that someone hacked our nav router so it started to act like a beacon. They powered it off, but a bit too late. I bet it was Tepp. That geeky bastard who'd just sit in his hole and fap at drones. Who else could do it if not him?"
"Anyone." - Logar shrugged. - "If we had a RSS plant all along, it could be anyone."
He turned away and tried to close his blind eyes, but it only caused more pain. His eyelids were gone. Of course, the government will pay for his new eyes and new face. But why they didn't extract him in time? And since when the completion strikes on his ops are outsourced to capsuleers?...
He didn't like capsuleers. They were human weapons of mass destruction; RSS unleashed them on their targets, like ravening beasts. There supposed to be no capsuleers this time. There supposed to be an actual op. Something wasn't right. For spirits' sake, there were slaves in the compound!
"How many people are here?"
"With us, seven. You, me, Angur from storage, some half-dressed freak and four... three girls."
"Watch your tongue!" - The man spoke with heavy Amarrian accent. - "I am a servant of house Kargash, not a "half-dressed freak"!"
"As you wish, Your Servitude." - lazily answered the Angel next to Logar. - "But I'd like to bring to your attention that I have a gun and you don't."
Logar began to slip into darkness and allowed the waves of pain to carry him away for awhile. When he regained consciousness, the air seemed stale and whatever was quietly humming a few yards away didn't hum anymore.
Apparently, the ship that destroyed the facility didn't pick the can with people inside. Capsuleers. They don't need extra people in their holo-game world.
"Do we have any water? I can't see anything."
Someone brought a bottle of water to his lips. He drank some. The next time he came back, it was harder to breathe. The Amarrian from the Bestower was the first to break down and now whined in a shaky voice. Logar thought that the "servant of house Kargash" was probably very young. It is often hard to tell with Amarrians.
"I insist that we euthanize the slave ****** to save oxygen! We are more important. We can still be saved. If the three of those won't use any more oxygen, we'll live twice longer!"
"Aren't you supposed to be preparing to meet your god or something?" - yawned the Angel with a gun.
There was a commotion, a series of unrecognizable sounds echoing within the can, and then, Lula said calmly:
"Do you remember the game of two furriers?"
"Yes. What?" - The Amarrian was almost crying. - "We didn't play that game. I don't like you."
"It does not matter. Odette is dead, so I'll play with you. But it is you who will be the bad furrier now."
Something hit the metal wall with force, then, came another flurry of muffled sounds. The Amarrian cried; there was horror in his voice now.
"Stop!! Stop it!! Please, save me, you're the security, you're supposed to save me! No, no, please --"
"There is no station, so I'm not the security anymore". - answered the Angel with a gun. - "And you still use too much oxygen".
Something in the distance snapped with a quiet crack, and then there was silence.
Time passed. Logar lost control of his feverish mind and started to hallucinate at some point. It was hard to tell if he was awake or not; fluorescent circles and breathing spirals, like strange deep-sea creatures, moved at him from the darkness. Voices whispered something in a Heath dialect he almost seemed to understand. One voice was that of compassion and mercy, it smelled of ash, blood and burnt plastic.
"You are suffering. I have nothing to help you, but I can stop it. We'll all die soon anyway."
He was almost ready to agree, when, suddenly, the container wall pushed him forward. There was now a gravity force applied to everything within their small island of steel and tritanium, and it grew.
Someone tractored the can.
...I was going to write at least two more installments in the series, but now I neither have time nor the mood to continue. It's not a big loss, as the next chapters would probably be disastrously boring and full of government officials and descriptions of Hek. So, I decided to jump right to the conclusion of this story, and what is the best conclusion than to visit everyone more than ten years after?
A Gift of Wings - Coda
Some of the "Young Lions" died in various accidents or from drug overdose, but most of those who didn't eventually became the "Establishment" themselves. Their reign in the abandoned colony didn't last long; one day, the gray and red ships of Jacus Roden descended from the skies to clean up the planetside Serpentis presence that was getting somewhat bothersome. Camp H17 ceased to exist. Those who passed the security filters and the detainment center were scattered across the region. I saw one of the "Lions" an year or two ago; he was driving a cleaning machine along the station corridor in Dodenvale with a zombie-like expression on his tattooed face.
The cowardly boy who liked books ended up with the Serps after he was released from slavery. His traces are lost somewhere in the Serpentis Inquest labs.
The frozen corpse of Master Guispon, former owner of the slaver ship "Pride of Poitot", was still on display in the headquarters of the somewhat locally famous criminal syndicate called the "Rancer Ten", when the said headquarters was almost instantly and completely destroyed by a bored member of the actual Rancer Ten - or Minus Ten, that is. The mercenaries who executed Guispon are still out there, somewhere, changing names and faces.
Tepp, the maintenance drone overseer at the angel facility, died somewhere in the wreckage. His body was never found.
RSS spear lieutenant Logar Hakilia, also known to some as "Ormulf", got his new eyes, new face and a honorable discharge. He died in the battle of Mekhios as a volunteer aboard of one of the transports that were evacuating slaves.
"Bara" became a waitress in one of the countless establishments at Hek Boundless. She lost the remnants of her appeal, but gained three noisy children and an inept husband, whom she bosses around.
"Lula" also ended up in Hek. Everyone who was in that can got sampled to establish identities, so, an year or so after she got an offer from RSS to become a test subject for one of their top secret projects because her blood type was special or something, and they were like really desperate. They promised her lots of money -- but killed her instead.
But there still is a most boring happy end to our story. And this is the story of "Aya", the shy sister, the girl without wings. Because, after a few years of adventures and misfortune, she found a job among the staff of one of the myriad capsuleer moon-orbiting bases. She even became somewhat rich - by baseliner standards, of course - and managed to quit before "her" starbase was destroyed during a capsuleer war. Then, with all the experience, she moved on to Native Freshfood and, as far as I know, excels at processing and exporting algae, seaweed and fish.
She lives on a highsec water world now, just as she once dreamed. And, probably, she wakes up every morning and lies in the twilight of her room, listening to the wind and the waves. Except, there are other people around - her husband and daughter. She is ridiculously happy and doesn't mind even a bit that everyone around smells of fish. She found her mother and bought her a small restaurant, so, the aging woman can continue to do what she did for the most of her life, and keep herself busy; and, probably, her mother is now happy too.
Me and Aya met last year in a cafe, when she was waiting for a shuttle home from Teonusude. It is easy to spot other people from Thelan IV. Whether it's the gravity, or the climate, or something in the eyes, the way a person moves - the planet leaves its inevitable mark on its victims, like the Blood Wings on the back of the now long dead girl. We had some tea, and a drink, and talked, and remembered the Lions, and the mysterious ship that would land at the abandoned port, and the boy who got his gift of wings - because, that day I rode with the Lions as well.
Aya told me parts of her story, and I filled in the blanks. Who knows why the Rancer Ten would suddenly turn on the trader they trusted and throw him out of the airlock? Who knows why someone would stash oxygen, water and a flashlight in a Huge Secure Container, and then just run away and die?
Isn't that funny that the ones who get happy ends in this life are always the ones without wings?
But then again, who does?
When everything ends, it begins anew. Science tells us that the universe is mortal. But it is not the only one. Untold numbers of worlds are born from the quantum foam every moment of our existence. In this infinity, somewhere, the exact copy of our world lives on, and everything ever imaginable happened many times and will happen again. Every our fantasy is real, and it will die in time, like we and our world will -- only to live, somewhere, someday, beyond.
A Gift of Wings - The True End
The principal signed the required papers, and they went to the elevator through the dimly lit corridors. Faces of the orphans looked at them from the twilight. This place was more like a jail than an orphanage, but it was built to fit the inhabitants. Some of those 14-18 year olds were dangerous. Teenage gang members, thieves, drug addicts, underage murderers, even one partially trained Kameira. He gutted the unlucky fellow who "liberated" him and was kept in a special, personal cell since he arrived.
"27 and 22 here. Let's start with number 22." - The man in a RSS uniform looked at his datapad. - "Recovered from an Angel site in Hagilur... Claims to be a Federation citizen, any info on that?"
"Second generation illegal immigrant, went missing two years ago." - the stocky Brutor woman who was dressed as a Republic social worker looked through the dirty, semi-transparent doors of the elevator. Reddish patches of light wandered over her face. - "If she's a full Fed citizen, then I'm the Ray of Matar."
The officer nodded. The elevator slowed down, and they followed the principal to the upper deck. Beyond the glass wall, the smoky abyss stared at them with thousands of flickering lights, like campfires of a siege army. A massive dark shape of a Typhoon slowly moved towards the undock.
Hek, Boundless Creation.
The outer wall of a small square room was facing the docks. There was nothing but a table with four metallic chairs. The ventilation systems somewhere above the ceiling grates created an incessant background noise.
The girl greeted the principal and the officials by rising from her chair and standing near the table. She was thin, dark-skinned, with a mess of unevenly cut black hair that still kept the dark red tips somewhere.
"This is Spike Lieutenant Alfilur of Republic Security Services, and this is ms. Hrand. They wanted to have a talk with you."
"Good day, officer Alfilur and Ms. Hrand." - The girl was obviously wary and expected the worst. - "How may I help you?"
Lieutenant turned to the principal; the old man caught his eyes, nodded and retreated to the door.
"Hello". - The agent who was dressed as a social worker gave the girl a friendly smile. They sat at the table. - "Tomorrow you will receive your Republic citizenship. Congratulations."
"Thank you, ms. Hrand."
"In a month, you'll be out of this place. May I ask, do you have any plans for the future?"
The girl shrugged.
"It's Hek. The station is a busy place. Lotsa ships come through here. I'm sure i'll find something. A job, I mean."
"But it probably won't be the best job in the universe."
"Of course." - She looked at the "social worker" questioningly. - "It's not that I have lots of choice."
"But what if you had choice? You are young, smart and strong. You know that you can adapt and survive against all odds where other people just surrender and die. The Republic needs people like you."
"Wait a second. Did I understood that right? You are trying to... recruit me?"
"You would make a great recruit to the RSS, of course." - The male agent gave her a reassuring smile. - "But our offer is better than that."
"Okay, so, what's it then?"
"Have you ever thought of becoming a pilot?"
The girl stared at him in silent disbelief.
"We offer you the admission into the RMS, but not as a common student. The samples that were taken when you were rescued show that both you and your sister share a very rare genetic marker. It means that you are compatible with one of our special sponsored training programs."
"..."
"Here's some information you'd probably like to read." - Lieutenant Alfilur put a small memory stick on the table.
"Sorry. They don't allow us to have the reader pads or anything that can be hacked or used to hack, or to communicate with the outside."
Agent Hrand raised her eyebrows.
"It's not a problem. We have a hard copy as well." - Alfilur replaced the memory stick with a thick folder, pages upon pages of fine print.
"Thank you".
"We'll see you tomorrow. We all hope that you'll make the right decision."
* * *
...The principal met the agents, and they went to the elevator through the dimly lit corridors. Faces of the orphans looked at them from the twilight. There was a new set of scratches on the doors of the elevator, a graffiti tag. The upper deck was empty and silent.
As the oxidized door slid aside, the principal muttered something, letting out a quiet hiss of rage.
"Spirits damn her soul, I was away for FIVE MINUTES!"
The girl sat on the floor, on the crossed legs, looking at the smoky abyss of the docks beyond with expressionless, empty face. At both sides of her, meticulously arranged on the floor plating across the room by size and length of the fragments, were torn sheets of paper, thin stripes overlaid on each other.
"What's this?! I'm asking you, what's THIS?!"
"That's her wings, I suppose." - said agent Alfilur.
The abyss stared at them with thousands of flickering lights, silent.
Author
Topic: YC 116 Writing Contest - 3rd Place - Prose (Read 975 times)