Page 144

red space

S.C. Grayson

chapterone

natalie

Never answer a distress call.

Such a directive was stated in bold at the beginning of every intergalactic freight company’s pilots’ manual. If a cloud of debris or a psychogenic parasite managed to leave one ship stranded in the incalculable emptiness between galaxies, what would stop it from disabling whoever came to help?

The first step in helping somebody else is to not become a victim yourself, after all. It was a lesson taught to me early in the Space Force’s basic training back on Earth.

So, when an orange light began blinking with startling urgency on the proximity monitors of theGokstad, breaking the thick monotony of another day in the cockpit, my heart stuttered. For months, nothing had interrupted the Stygian gloom outside the viewports as I traversed the long quiet between star systems. Now the pinging light of a distress call cut through the stillness as thoroughly as the chiming of claxons on a Space Force Station.

I leaned forward to inspect the readouts, the worn synth-leather of the pilot’s seat creaking in protest at my movements. My gaze swept over the control panel, checking how close the disabled ship would be to theGokstad’s trajectory. My mechanical eye projected a series of calculations onto my vision, indicating the incoming signal originated not far from the edge of a passing galaxy, as if the source of the beacon had spun out of orbit and ended up in the nothingness of space by accident.

If a ship was not built for intergalactic travel, like my utilitarian but sturdy long-range freighter, its crew had little hope for survival.

My fingers drifted to the navigation panel but hovered over the controls. Common sense and manuals warned long-haul pilots away from distress signals for good reason. Pirates often used them as a lure for ships transporting rare commodities. Even if the signal was legitimate, I likely could do little to help.

After all, I was just one person: Natalie Jackson, former Colonel in the Earth Space Force turned lonesome freighter pilot.

I glanced over my shoulder toward the large cargo bay of my ship. The lights in the hold remained off, apart from the dim red running lights, leaving them to reflect eerily off the glass surfaces of row after row of empty stasis pods. I wasn’t sure which was worse: the lifeless faces of hundreds of passengers kept in artificial sleep, looking almost like corpses as they careened through space, or the knowledge that there was no living soul besides myself for a megaparsec.

Except of course, in that moment, others nearby might be in need of aid. If the source of the distress call held any survivors, they would be the nearest lifeform I had encountered in months. The ache of loneliness throbbed in my chest at the thought other beings so nearby, likely also lost and isolated in the icy vastness between planets. However, that ache was pushed to the background by the thought of what the ship’s passengers might be going through, waiting to see if their distress signal would be answered—the panicked desperation that had clutched my own heart after an invading alien ship had disabled my Space Force fighter, costing me my eye and nearly my life. I wouldn’t wish that fear on any being.

The vacant pods in my cargo bay stared at me, their emptiness standing in stark judgement, and my decision was made. I turned to the navigation panel and began making necessary preparations to drop out of hyper speed. Perhaps if I had held the lives of all my passengers in my hands, I would have made a different choice, not willing to risk the safety of those who had no say in the matter on something that might be a trap. But I was deadheading this transport back to Earth—a planet everybody wanted to leave, but nobody wanted to return to.

That’s why this job paid so well. That was why I took it, resigning myself to the suffocating isolation of solo piloting. I would need those credits to start a new life, as far away from Earth as possible.

The floor shuddered beneath my feet as the roar of the fusion engines dulled to a pleasant hum. My ears rang with the newfound quiet, even as my stomach flipped at the sudden change in velocity.

I squeezed my eyes shut against the wave of nausea that rolled over me, acid sloshing in my empty stomach. I should have eaten something, but normal mealtimes had fallen by the wayside several weeks ago. The meaning of the cycling chronometer on the wall, and the ideas of normal social morays and even necessary life-sustaining practices like nutrition had disintegrated against the onslaught of isolation.

When the bile in my throat had eased its way back down to my gut, I opened my eyes, only to be left blinking at the sight in the viewport. TheGokstadapproached the edge of a galaxy, a smattering of stars and planets in the distance scattered across the blackness like tossed confetti.

Much closer than the galactic rim, though, was a starship—or what was left of it. What had once been a sleek black hull was split down the middle, cracks running over the reflective surface out from the terrible rent that had cleaved it in two. I squinted, trying to get a gauge on what type of ship it was.

My mechanical eye automatically scanned the shape and design, comparing it to a reference database. Orange letters scrolled across the top of my vision as I stared at the seemingly lifeless vessel:Escalon Class Entari Warship

My eyebrows raised. I had never heard of the Entari before, but the ship, even decimated as it was, was clearly beautiful. If the pieces were joined back together, it would form a sleek, elongated disk, like the body of a stingray. It was much smaller than the reinforced bucket I currently flew, built for speed and maneuverability.

Unfortunately, it was clearly damaged beyond repair.

And even worse, such destruction would have left no survivors.

An unexpected pain pierced my heart, as hope I didn’t realize I had harbored shattered as thoroughly as the ship before me. I’d hope for an interruption to the long quiet nothingness of my current existence. I couldn’t even hope to salvage the ship and sell the parts, hopefully making enough credits to cut a trip or two off my timeline before I could start a new life.

Now I’d just lengthened my journey for no reason. There were no survivors for me to rescue. Unlike when rescuers pulled me from my damaged Space Force fighter, down an eye but still clinging to life, I had arrived here too late.

I had failed.

Getting theGokstadto fully accelerate the ship to hyper speed again would take hours. I swallowed around the lump of disappointment in my throat, turning back to the control panel and distracting myself by recalculating our flight path.

My finger hovered above the switch that would reengage the fusion engines when the shimmer of starlight reflecting off a piece of drifting debris caught my attention. I lifted my gaze to the viewport once again, and an unmistakable cylindrical shape floated away from the rest of the debris.

An escape pod.