Slipspace

“Scaver Oxide-77 to D’reth Station flight control, with you at fifty klicks on the beltside india approach. Requesting approach and landing platform in the Torgal area.” 

I dropped the throttle to idle and brought the thrusters up to zero my velocity relative to the massive station that took up the entirety of my forward view screen. A large inner core housed the operations sector for the station, including space traffic control. Several small companies also kept offices there. 

Three large arms protruded from the hub, each of them housing a multitude of docks and hangars for the retinue of ships based there. Each arm served a different purpose though. One was the transport hub for interstellar freight and passengers coming to and leaving the system. Another was private hangars and local transport within the system. The last was my destination, the ship and salvage yards.  

Midway out on the major arms was the habitation ring. Every single person who worked and lived on the station had quarters within the ring. More than eight thousand people called it home, including myself. 

It had been another boring day working the scrap belt that orbited forty kilometers above the surface of Telemachus IV, a once incredibly rich colony world claimed by the Terran Union. Unfortunately, the Terrans had repeated the history of the Earth-based countries they originated from and destroyed the planet’s environment in the mad rush to gather resources. 

The hundred years of active colonization had left a massive debris field of abandoned satellites and ships in orbit, however, and there was a good number of scavengers like myself that hoped to build a fortune in the salvage business amongst the bones of the former capitalist wonderland. 

My comms panel lit up and I heard the traffic controller’s voice fizzle through. “Oxide-77, you are cleared on beltside approach india for pad tango sixteen, number three on the approach. Be advised, traffic ahead is a freighter and a light hauler.”

“Oxide-77 cleared on approach for tango sixteen, third in queue. I have the traffic on sensors.” 

Dealing with the controllers was always a fairly rigid thing. With so much going on in the surrounding area, they had to know exactly who was who and where they were in relation to everyone else. Even beyond just the live traffic, there was also what we called the ‘dead traffic’, the flying debris that floated free of the orbiting belt for whatever reason. The important thing when talking to the controllers was to always ensure that they knew what you were doing and that you were doing exactly what they told you to do.

I plugged the approach into my navigation computer and the path projected onto my viewscreen for easy following. A few minutes of slow and careful flying brought me to the salvage warehouse landing pads and then I aligned myself with pad sixteen as told. I felt a clunk as the mag locks grabbed the underside of my craft. 

Shutting down systems, I watched the exterior of the station rise around me as the pad I was locked to descended into the hangar and slid on rails into a berth. An empty pad moved into its place and closed the hangar once again. An automated alert sounded a few moments later, stating that my berth was pressurized and safe to move about in. 

Standing from my chair, I stretched and grabbed my carry-all from the storage locker. The cabin door hissed as interior air pressure synced with exterior and then opened inward. My shutdown checklist went by quickly and I flipped the master power switch off before stepping out into the small hangar I was in. 

As was usual, I did a walk around to inspect the exterior post flight. It was impossible to avoid every small bit of debris as I flew through the salvage areas, and it was important to look for any damage to the hull. Thankfully, I wasn’t able to find any. 

It was honestly a small miracle that the Oxide was still flying properly. I had cobbled the thing together from a junked construction bee that I found planetside a couple months after I got here. It had taken more than a month of digging through junkyards and trash heaps to find enough parts just to fix the manipulator arms that stuck out of the forward hull on tracks going around the bulbous transparent cockpit. I had smashed the aft compartment of a cargo shuttle together with the former constructor to make a small craft capable of breaking up salvage and storing a decent amount of scrap for recycling back at the station. 

It made for one of the ugliest crafts I had ever seen. The spaceframe mechanic I had been working with at the time called it a frankensteined rust bucket. I had played into that and painted the entire hull in a rust red and named it Oxide, as in ‘iron oxide’, the scientific name for rust. In fact, the local trans-gov had allowed me to keep it as part of the official identifier, thus ‘Oxide-77’. 

Following my inspection, I allowed myself to autopilot to the Salvage office so that I could submit my report and get offloaded. 

The office was well appointed compared to most areas of the otherwise dilapidated station. The plasteel walls and floor were actually clean and newer computers had replaced the aged systems that would have been on station at time of construction. Looked like the secretary had been upgraded again too, if the new, young blonde girl behind the desk was any indication.

“Mr. Matson, welcome back. Your arrival was logged in our systems.” I cringed at the name. You would think that in the twenty-fifth century, people would be more accepting of gender identity. That wasn’t the case, though, especially out in a backwoods colony system like this. It didn’t really help that I hadn’t told them about my self-realized identity. I was too afraid that the boss would see me as a liability suddenly and drop my contract. It wouldn’t be the first time he had screwed someone over for a perceived fault.

I needed the money from this job to fund my transition. Ideally, I would save up enough to pay for the ultimate dream: a custom bioengineered transference vessel and a continuity of consciousness mind transfer. The ultra rich had been using the technology to create newer and younger bodies for themselves for a decade now, but the technology was finally becoming widespread enough that the general populace had access, albeit at a staggeringly high price.

“Mr. Kruger will see you in the office.” The secretary waved me back. I sighed and plodded around the desk and into the management office behind the desk. 

Harvey Kruger was standing at the window as I walked in, looking out over the breaker yard that took up most of this arm of the station. The man was in a tailored suit that he thought made him look distinguished. It was disgusting. I might have been biased, though, I hated the guy. He pinched every cred he could and would find any excuse to withhold pay from contractors like me. I didn’t have any other options in this system, though, and I couldn’t yet afford to leave the system without destroying my transition fund. 

“Soren! Welcome back. I trust that you had a profitable day?” My cringe deepened with the use of my given name. 

“Twelve hundred and some odd kilos of durasteel from that derelict freighter I’ve been working. Managed to snag some induction coils from the FTL drive too. They aren’t perfect, but they should be serviceable. I’m hoping to get through to the reactor core tomorrow.” 

The man behind the desk nodded and finally turned to face me. His greasy smile made my stomach churn. “Good! That should give the crews some solid material to work with. Maybe even net enough creds to let you lease an actual salvage vessel from me. You could make much more profit for both of us with a ship like that.” 

He made it sound like he was making a generous offer. I knew better though. A bit of bile crept into my voice as I responded. “And sign an exclusive two year contract with you? I’ve told you a dozen times, sir, that I do not want to trap myself in-system for any length of time.”

He had the audacity to give me a look of fake concern. “‘Trap’ is such a strong word. You know you won’t get a better offer from anyone else. If you leave this system, you’ll be broke again in an instant and I won’t be there to give you such a generous contract again. Do remember that I am the one that secured the deposit for your living quarters on board this station.”

I grit my teeth at his statement. He was telling the truth about the deposit, of course. He had used this tactic several times before. I hated it. This man had been lording his supposed generosity over me ever since I had gotten off the planet. Regardless of my frustration though, I plastered a professional face on.

“Yes, sir, you are correct, of course. However, I do not wish to enter into such a contract at this time.” 

His face settled into a slight grimace. “Of course not. Your ‘ship’ will be unloaded within the hour. I’ll have your pay for today’s load ready tomorrow afternoon as usual. I do also have your profits from yesterday ready now. Five hundred twenty seven credits after your dock and fuel fees along with my percentage.”

I nearly burst a seam at that moment. Yesterday’s load should have been worth double that with the reaction thrusters I had salvaged alone. I forced myself to deflate though. It wasn’t worth the argument. He would just find more fees to tack on to today’s haul. Instead, I mumbled a ‘Thank you, sir’, inserted my cred chip into the slot in his desk and watched the computer transfer the funds to my account.

“Oh, and Mr. Matson, I will be needing your services tomorrow morning before you go out for your salvage run. A large piece of equipment is being delivered to the breaker yard tomorrow and you will be bringing it from the freighter to the yard. Oh-six-thirty hours station time. Dismissed.” 

I turned around and left the office, grabbing a turbolift from the arm to the hab ring. It was difficult to keep from showing the extent of exasperation and frustration with literally everything about the job I had taken. I was definitely not looking forward to the early alarm I would be setting in order to accommodate the extra work.

‘Go to work in space, they said! It will be fun, they said!’ Bah! I loved being an independent pilot of course, and the inky black vastness still hadn’t completely lost its appeal. But, despite the wealth I was slowly (more so than I’d hoped) accumulating, the salvage field was draining me of my enthusiasm. Especially so as I was forced to do business with the snakeish local representative of the Torgal Corporation.

Inside the lift, I flicked my right wrist. From a small nodule that poked out from my arm just behind the wrist, a semi-translucent panel of light projected into a personal terminal screen. I wasn't one to chrome out like many others were with cyberware, but the implanted holographic projector and computer were such a massive help that I had been unable to resist. I never lost my compad anymore, that's for sure. 

I created a new calendar event and alarm for my earlier than usual work time. Another flick of my wrist closed the projected screen.

Upon reaching the door to my suite several minutes later, I walked in and locked the door behind me. My face met the bed before my personal AI had even brought the lights up. 

The computer’s friendly voice chimed in, “Welcome home, Adresta. Shall I order the usual dinner selection from the section five cafeteria?” 

My head turned just enough for my mouth to push out the words: “Sure, Vox, that would be great. Thanks.” I then went back to attempting to suffocate my frustrations with the mattress.

Knowing that I would feel disgusting until I was clean, I got up, groaning in exhaustion. I jumped into the sonic shower and cleaned myself as best I could before dressing in a loose fitting tunic and some shorts. Comfortable, even if not presentable. Perfect for my planned evening of laziness. Food arrived shortly after via a butler droid. The replicate tomato sauce on the nearly cardboard tasting crust with fake cheese was exactly as disgusting as it always was. 

I loved depression pizza. 

“Hey Vox, put the Estoylan Chronicles on the holo for me. Keep it on autoplay, I'm going to veg for the rest of the night.”

“Of course, ma’am.”

Sleep was long in coming, but I was at least able to relax.