Year 2820 - Prima Nelva Asteroid Belt
The rhythmic thud of laser drills pulverizing asteroid quartz was the only constant on Mel's mining vessel, a familiar hum of routine. The cockpit, a cramped bubble of reinforced plasteel and blinking data streams, felt less like a bridge and more like a second skin. A stocky silhouette filled the viewport's edge, Mr. Johnson, his Texas drawl thick as a neutron star, clapping Mel's shoulder with a calloused hand. "Hey, zero in on that vein, boy! You've been burning a dead spot for a cycle now."
Mel flinched, the jolt pulling him from his thoughts. "My apologies, Mr. Johnson. Just… other things on my mind." He nudged the primary flight stick, the Stardust Drifter's magnetic scoop extending with a faint whine. Freshly fractured ore, glinting with embedded minerals, streamed into the forward bay.
"Always the same damn 'other things'," Johnson grumbled, his gaze sweeping over the console readouts. "Finish up. Cargo holds are nearing critical mass. We need to offload at Union Station before the Krell pirates get too bold in this sector."
A faint smile touched Mel's lips. "Already on it, Mr. Johnson." With practiced ease, he rotated the pilot stick 360 degrees, activating the ship's quantum-navigation suite. "Dally, initiate jump sequence. Primary destination: Union Station. Autopilot protocol engagement."
The ship's AI, Dally, a cool, synthesized voice devoid of emotion, replied: "Warp drive spooling. Navigational data upload: Union Station, Grid Coordinates 7.4.2.9, Stellar Quadrant Gamma-7. Gravimetric lensing calculations complete. Estimated jump window: ten seconds. Velocity vector stabilization at ninety-eight percent. Initiate countdown."
A digital chime accompanied the precise enumeration: "Ten… nine… eight… three… two… one." The Stardust Drifter's forward view blurred, the starfield stretching into impossible threads of light before dissolving into a tunnel of swirling blue energy. The G-force was negligible, a subtle pressure on the chest, a testament to the ship's inertial dampeners. In the cockpit, the distant cosmos became a surreal, linear smear, a testament to hyperspace travel.
Johnson leaned back in his co-pilot's chair, the starlight reflections dancing across his rugged face. "Still chasing ghosts, huh, boy? Your old man?"
Mel nodded, his fingers tracing the etched lotus flower on a circular crystal pendant around his neck. "Yeah. Mom said he was part of the Praetoriani Siderum Order. Said they were one of the first, the true pioneers."
Johnson scoffed, a dry, rattling sound. "Hah! Nobody lives that long, boy. If that's the case, your pa would be eight, maybe eight-and-a-half centuries old, wouldn't he?"
"Unbelievable, I know," Mel admitted, a note of resignation in his voice.
"Precisely," Johnson said, scratching his grizzled chin. "Even our ancestors, the first colonizers of Prima Nelva, they purged their history of… what was that planet called again?"
"Earth?" Mel offered, his voice hushed. "Terralia?"
"That! Earth," Johnson affirmed. "Supposedly humanity's cradle. But that's just a myth, a campfire story for uneducated asteroid miners. Even if it were true, we're better off now. We're peaceful here, sharing this sector with the Blansumians, the multi-limbed Yokos, and the quiet Torme race."
"Yeah, we are," Mel agreed, his gaze lost in the warp tunnel's endless flow. "But I can't help but be curious. What did Earth truly look like?"
"We don't know," Johnson stated bluntly. "The elders go silent, get hostile even, if you mention it. Must've been hell for them to erase it so completely."
Suddenly, a searing white flash behind Mel's eyes. The warp tunnel dissolved, replaced by fragmented images: the rhythmic stamp of boots, guttural chants echoing from unseen masses. A sharp, piercing pain lanced through his skull. "Urrghhh..."
"You alright, boy?" Johnson's voice, laced with genuine concern, cut through the hallucination.
Mel took a ragged breath, the vision fading to a dull ache. "Yeah. Just… that vision again."
"Didn't the shrinks on Nova Station give you anything for that?" Johnson asked.
"I went," Mel said, rubbing his temples. "They said it was probably mineral deposits from the ores, or some dietary imbalance. Hallucinations."
"Well, nothing a good shot of nebula whiskey can't fix, right?" Johnson chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound.
Mel managed a weak, almost non-existent laugh. "I suppose not."
"Don't worry, we're almost home," Johnson said, his tone shifting to the business of their arrival. The Stardust Drifter shimmered back into realspace, its trajectory stabilized a comfortable distance from Union Station.
The station was a marvel of stellar engineering: a colossal, intricately latticed metallic sphere, glittering with the combined light of a million modules and docking bays. It pulsed with an internal luminescence, tethered to the nearby gas giant, Xylos, by immense, humming energy conduits that siphoned off its atmospheric gases. Around this titan, the void was a swirling vortex of activity.
Mel saw everything: the leviathan bulk of interstellar cargo haulers, scarred and dented from countless transit jumps; the sleek, angular forms of Union Defence Force corvettes and heavy frigates, their weapon emplacements subtly visible; agile merchant vessels, their hulls emblazoned with the garish corporate sigils of interstellar trade conglomerates; and squat, cylindrical fuel tankers, their liquid energy cargo glowing with an eerie, internal light through transparent hull sections. A ballet of thrusters, silent to them in the vacuum, guided the immense traffic flow.
The comms speaker, usually reserved for Dally's calm voice, crackled with external static, then a crisp, authoritative female voice cut through. "Attention inbound vessel, identification code Delta-Niner-Seven-Zero-Zero. You are entering Union Station controlled airspace. State your purpose and transmit manifest."
Mel tapped the comms button, his voice steady. "Union Traffic Control, this is mining vessel Stardust Drifter, ID Delta-Niner-Seven-Zero-Zero. Requesting docking for ore offload. Cargo manifest Alpha-Eight-Six-Bravo on secure channel."
A beat of silence. "Acknowledged, Stardust Drifter. Manifest verified. Due to current high orbital density, expect a five-point-three-minute holding pattern before approach vector assignment. Your designated port will be Bay Gamma-12, Cargo Spool B. Standard docking and processing fees, total eighty-five Union Credits, will be automatically deducted from your linked Union account upon successful offload. Welcome to Union Station, Stardust Drifter."
"Another credit, another whiskey," Johnson declared, a wide, satisfied grin splitting his face, his gaze already drifting towards the distant, illuminated taverns of the station.
Moments later, the Stardust Drifter glided through the shimmering, almost invisible energy barrier that separated the raw vacuum of space from the station's atmospheric envelope. The shift was subtle, a barely perceptible shudder, then the internal cabin pressure indicators steadied. "Easy, boy," Johnson's voice was a low growl, his large hand settling over Mel's on the flight stick. "Just like landing on an ice patch. Slow, steady, bring her down."
A four-armed K'tharr marshaller, its purple, multi-jointed limbs a blur of motion, began waving a pair of glowing signal wands on the docking pad below. Its ocular sensors, arranged in a vertical line down its head, seemed to peer directly into Mel's soul, guiding his delicate adjustments. The Drifter descended, its landing struts extending, until a soft thump reverberated through the hull, followed by a slight, settling rock. The K'tharr marshaller ceased its frantic waving, its wands now glowing solid green.
"Nice," Johnson grunted, patting Mel's back. "You're finally getting the hang of it, ace. Soon you'll have those old family debts paid off, buy your own damn star-rig, and maybe… maybe we'll even form our own mining union." He let out a booming laugh, the sound rattling the cockpit.
Mel chuckled, the thought both appealing and distant. "Yeah, soon. Soon."
"Come on then, boy," Johnson said, already reaching for the egress panel. He pressed a recessed button, and with a hydraulic hiss, the primary cargo ramp slowly lowered, extending a short gangway to the docking bay floor. As they stepped out, the cool, recycled air of the station felt alien after the ship's stale atmosphere. Automated metallic arms, their articulated joints whirring, were already extracting the heavy, sealed crates from the Drifter's cargo hold. Twelve crates in total, each packed with raw, unrefined ores, their contents a glittering promise of credits.
The arms meticulously separated the various mineral types into designated hoppers before depositing them onto a massive, calibrated weighing scale. A digital readout above the scale flickered, then stabilized. "Thirty-two thousand and thirteen Union Credits," an automated voice announced.
Johnson's face split into a wide, triumphant grin. "Haha! We breached the thirty-two K mark! I'll wire your forty percent cut directly to your account, boy."
Mel felt a blush creep up his neck. "No, Mr. Johnson, you don't have to. Forty's too much."
Johnson clapped him on the back again, harder this time. "Nonsense, boy. I couldn't haul half that without your sharp eye. I'm getting old now, besides. You got debts to clear, remember? Consider it an investment in keeping you around as my ace pilot."
Mel grinned, a genuine, unburdened smile. "Okay, Mr. Johnson."
"Good. Now come on," Johnson said, already striding towards the bay's exit. "Whiskey ain't gonna wait."
They passed through a humming archway of automated scanners, a soft blue light washing over them, verifying their identities and ensuring no illicit contraband entered the main thoroughfares.
The immediate space beyond the scanners exploded into a chaotic symphony of sights and sounds. This was Union Station's central concourse, a vibrant, sprawling metropolis under a geodesic dome. Synthetic trees, their leaves glowing with bioluminescent patterns, rose toward the distant ceiling, filtering the air with a faint, sweet scent.
Bazaars overflowed with exotic goods, stalls manned by beings of every conceivable physiology. Humans mingled with towering, crystalline Sylvans; squat, fungal Mycoids; and sleek, reptilian Krills.
Mercenaries with their heavy-duty combat gear rubbed shoulders with haggard freelancers, their data-pads clutched tight.
Miners, fresh from the asteroid belts, their faces streaked with grime, laughed boisterously.
Enforcers, their Union crests shining, patrolled with an air of detached authority.
Even the whispers of black dealers, the subtle nods of cartel members, and the defiant glares of gang enforcers were part of the station's constant, vibrant hum. Every time Mel returned, it was a renewed assault on the senses, a raw, unfiltered slice of galactic life. He found himself smiling, a quiet appreciation for the chaos.
"Come on, boy, what are ye gawkin' at?" Johnson's voice pulled him back.
Mel jogged to catch up, his smile still lingering. "Yes, Mr. Johnson."