Void Opals and a Slave

I had several doubts about which category this story would fall under.

I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

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My 120 tonnes of void opals should earn me a few million credits, but I still had about 20 jumps left and a few fuel scooping sessions around the upper layers of different stellar heliospheres. I'd likely buy one of the new Mandalays, or join a group of commanders and establish a new colony. For years, I'd been thinking about setting up a small outpost in a quiet system, far from the intrigues of the major powers. With the profits from this journey, that possibility seemed increasingly within reach.

The alarm suddenly blared, interrupting my daydreams. I was being interdicted. My eyes darted to the scanner, trying to identify the aggressor. Who could it be? I hoped they were pirates - Thargoids were much more difficult to deal with than humans. It was better to submit to the interdiction and then assess the situation. Resisting would only damage the ship's systems, and with 120 tonnes of valuable minerals in the hold, I couldn't risk a malfunction of the FSD if I needed to make a quick escape.

Preparing for interdiction submission in 3... 2... 1...

The familiar distortion of hyperspace transformed into a swirling vortex of blue light. My stomach lurched as the "Vasco da Gama" was yanked out of supercruise. The systems recalibrated quickly, emergency lights flashing for a moment before stabilising. I was back in normal space.

"Shields up," I commanded the ship's system. The bi-weave shields hummed as they activated, enveloping the Python in a bluish force field. My mining configuration included no weaponry -- just shields and modified thrusters for an efficient escape. A choice that now could prove problematic.

On the scanner, three signals materialised. Not Thargoids, thank God. But what I saw made my blood run cold: a Federal Corvette and two Vultures.

The communication channel opened with a crackle. A calm, controlled voice filled the cabin:

"Commander, power down your engines immediately and prepare for cargo scanning. Any attempt to flee will result in immediate destruction."

Damned pirates! if I were in one of my combat vessels, I would add your carcasses to my countless bounty list, but in the Vasco da Gama my only option was escape.

I quickly checked the systems. The FSD cooldown after interdiction was only 10 seconds, plus charging time. I had a chance, albeit a narrow one. I redirected all available power to shields and engines.

"Power distribution: four pips to engines, two to shields," I commanded while silently initiating the FSD countdown.

The Vultures began positioning themselves to block my escape routes while the Corvette advanced slowly. Their weapons were ready, but they hadn't fired yet. They wanted my whole cargo intact, just a few canisters.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," I replied, trying to gain a few precious seconds. "I'm just a miner returning from a shift in the rings. Nothing but hydrogen fuel here."

The FSD counter marked 5 seconds. I knew that as soon as it started charging, they would open fire. My modified shields could withstand a few shots, but not for long against a corvette's armament.

"Tritium and void opals, we've got a jackpot, boys," responded the voice, enthusiastic about the potential haul. "Last chance to..."

I didn't wait for the end of the sentence. "Initiating FSD charge," I commanded, and the Python shuddered as the capacitors began channelling energy for the jump.

"Afterburners!" I shouted to Vasco da Gama's AI while redirecting all pips to shields. I had to move away from the Corvette and its mass effect on the drive. The Python lurched as the modified thrusters kicked in, propelling the ship away from the capital vessel.

A plasma shot grazed past my ship's hull. The Vultures were in hot pursuit, much more agile than my Python loaded with minerals.

"Come on, girl," I murmured to my ship as I fired the afterburners again. Just 3... 2... 1... and I would be ready to jump...

A plasma shot hit the starboard side squarely.

"Shields offline," I heard the cold voice of the computer. "Hull damage."

The cabin lights flashed red. The sound of metal being struck echoed through the cockpit as the autocannons from one of the Vultures reduced the ship's armour with each hit.

The cockpit glass began to crack under the pressure. Alarms sounded throughout the cabin. The atmosphere started to escape. My peripheral vision darkened as I felt the Remlock suit deploy. My hands gripped the controls tightly, keeping aim at the jump point.

"Jump sequence engaged," announced the onboard computer.

The space around me distorted, stretching like a membrane. The last sound I heard before the jump was the impact of more projectiles against the already-damaged hull.

And then... silence. The tranquil blue of hyperspace enveloped me. I had managed to jump.

But at what cost?

As the Vasco da Gama travelled through hyperspace towards the next system, the computer stated the obvious: "Warning: 20 minutes of oxygen remaining." The message repeated itself every minute, as if I could forget that I was about to suffocate in the vacuum of space.

The blue of hyperspace gave way to the sight of a yellow star as I arrived in the Darnley system, a class-E star on the periphery of the inhabited bubble. I barely had time to recover from the jump when the computer fired another alert:

"Warning: Critical damage to Frame Shift Drive."

I quickly examined the system on the map. Just a star and an asteroid ring. No station, no outpost, nowhere to repair a damaged ship.

"19 minutes and 23 seconds of oxygen remaining," the computer repeated mechanically.

I took a deep breath, trying to control my panic. That only consumed more oxygen. I needed to think.

I accessed the diagnostic panel. The cockpit was compromised, continuously leaking air. The FSD had suffered significant damage--I wasn't sure if it would withstand another jump. The hull was at 23%.

I launched the emergency repair program, but I knew it wouldn't solve the more serious problems. As some systems began functioning again, the navigation computer finally managed to identify nearby systems.

If they had followed me, I was dead. But I couldn't stay there. I needed to find a station where I could repair the damage and refuel, all in less than 20 minutes.

The navigation scanner finally showed a result: Heng Station system, two jumps away. It had a medium-sized orbital station--if the FSD could withstand two jumps, if the life support systems lasted long enough, if I wasn't intercepted again...

Too many "ifs" for a situation with so little margin for error.

"18 minutes of oxygen remaining," the COVAS intoned, each word falling like a death knell in the damaged cockpit.

My fingers danced over the navigation panel. I selected Heng as the destination and initiated the charging of the damaged FSD. The capacitors struggled to channel sufficient energy. Under normal conditions, charging would take 15 seconds. Now, the progress bar advanced painfully slowly.

I checked the life support systems again. Perhaps there was some way to conserve oxygen? I switched off all non-essential systems, redirecting power to the FSD and life support.

"FSD charged to 67%... 68%... 69%..."

"17 minutes and 30 seconds of oxygen remaining."

The stars seemed to observe me with indifference through the broken cockpit glass. Twenty years navigating the galaxy, surviving all manner of danger, and this is how I might end? Suffocated in space because some pirates decided I was worth chasing?

No. Not today. The "Vasco da Gama" and I had been through worse situations.

"FSD charged to 100%. Prepare for jump."

I took another deep breath. Now it was all or nothing.

"Engage."

Two jumps. Two jumps of pure adrenaline and prayers to gods I never believed in, and to the only true god I've ever known in the black -- death, whose only prayer is "Not today."

The Vasco da Gama shook and groaned like never before, but the damaged hull and the FSD held heroically.

When I finally arrived in normal space in the Heng system, I spotted on my navigation panel the familiar structure of a small outpost--Crab Station, a modest orbital platform that looked more like an abandoned service station than a proper spaceport. No mail slot, just landing pads exposed to the vacuum. Never had such an insignificant structure seemed so beautiful to me.

"8 minutes and 45 seconds of oxygen remaining," the computer announced mercilessly.

I activated supercruise, directing the ship toward the station as quickly as possible. Every second was precious. I couldn't make any mistakes in the approach.

The distance decreased. 7Mm... 5Mm... 3Mm... I decelerated precisely to avoid overshooting.

"4 minutes of oxygen remaining."

Finally within communication range of the station.

"Crab Station control tower, this is Commander Nuno von Lisbon in the Python 'Vasco da Gama'. Life support emergency. Request immediate permission to land," I transmitted, unable to hide the desperation in my voice.

There was a pause that seemed to last an eternity.

"Vasco da Gama, permission granted. Proceed to platform 3 immediately. No emergency teams available, repeat, no teams available."

Typical of small outposts like this,minimal services, minimal personnel.

"2 minutes of oxygen remaining."

I maneuvered the ship over the open platform. Without the protection of a hangar, I was completely exposed to space radiation and vacuum. If there was any failure in the docking system, I would be finished.

"1 minute of oxygen remaining."

I positioned the ship over the platform. The navigation lights flashed green. I lowered the landing gear. The ship descended slowly, too slowly.

"45 seconds of oxygen remaining."

Contact with the platform jolted the ship. The automated docking system took control.

"Locked," announced the platform system, and the platform elevator began lowering the ship into the pressurized hangar.

At that moment, the timer showed only 32 seconds of oxygen remaining. I was alive by an absurdly narrow margin.

"Station atmosphere restored," the computer informed me as fresh air began to fill the cabin.

I allowed myself to collapse into the pilot's chair. For a few seconds, I just breathed, savoring each inhalation as if it were my first. But I had no time to waste -- the ship was seriously damaged and I needed to assess the situation.

I descended through the hatch to the station and headed for the minimal services available in this forgotten outpost. It wasn't the first time I'd landed in a place like this, but never in such desperate conditions. The Vasco da Gama needed urgent repairs, and I had serious doubts whether this place would have the necessary resources.

Crab Station. I never thought one day my life would depend on the services of this small outpost on the fringes of civilization. But here I was, grateful to be alive, and about to discover how much this "salvation" would cost me.

I approached the repairs terminal and entered my access codes. The estimated costs appeared on the screen, and they weren't encouraging. Basic repairs were possible, but complete repair of the FSD and other systems was beyond the capabilities of this post.

I followed standard procedure and authorized the emergency repairs, enough to restore hull integrity to safe levels and repair the life support systems. For the rest, I would need to find a larger station.

While the maintenance drones worked on the Vasco da Gama, I examined the local market. Following Pilots Federation procedure, I officially registered the attack in the previous system and checked for alerts about similar activities in the region. As there was no Authority presence, this information would be transmitted to the nearest station with jurisdiction, but I doubted any action would be taken before I departed.

Now I needed to decide: remain at this outpost with limited resources or risk another jump to a proper station, even with a ship only partially repaired. The options were limited, and both involved considerable risks. After assessing the damage and the limited repair options, I decided to explore other alternatives. The technical services area wouldn't solve my problem, so I headed to the station's Crew Lounge.

Like in every outpost, the Crew Lounge was a chaotic mixture of bar, restaurant, and information panel where commanders exchanged stories, sought work, and sometimes negotiated equipment outside official channels. The place was poorly lit and smelled of engine oil and fermented drinks - exactly what one would expect from a place like Crab Station. Two bare-breasted slave girls moved silently between tables, serving drinks.

Upon entering, I made a quick scan of the environment. Half a dozen pilots were scattered around the tables, some clearly locals, others possibly in a situation similar to mine - temporarily stranded in this edge of the galaxy.

I consulted the bulletin board at the central terminal. The available missions were typical for a remote outpost: transport of small cargoes to nearby systems, elimination of local pirates, and some suspicious missions without complete details - probably smuggling or something worse.

I requested information from the terminal about equipment transfer. To bring a Class 5 FSD from Jameson Memorial to here, the system calculated a waiting time of 37 hours and an exorbitant transfer cost - about 2,8 million credits, almost half the price of a new one. Transfer rates to remote locations were always absurd, but under these circumstances, it was an option to consider.

I went over to the bartender, a weary-looking man with an cheap cybernetic arm, who was conversing with one of the establishment's two slaves.

"Looking for something specific, commander?" he asked while cleaning a glass with a dubious-looking cloth.

"I urgently need a Class 5 FSD," I replied. "My ship's frameshift drive is compromised and the facilities here can't repair it adequately."

He raised an eyebrow. "Class 5, eh? Not equipment you'll easily find around here." He lowered his voice. "But perhaps you should talk to that woman in the corner. She leads a small mining fleet in the nearby belt. If anyone in this hole has contacts for parts for larger ships, it's her."

I looked in the indicated direction. A middle-aged woman in a utility uniform from the local mining operation was attentively watching her pad, occasionally taking sips of something green in her glass.

Now I had to decide: approach this local source, wait 37 hours for equipment from Jameson, or risk jumping with my damaged FSD. Time was crucial, the longer I stayed, the more likely those pirates would find me again.

I approached the woman's table. She had short black hair and a face weathered by years in the vacuum. Her worn space suit told the story of someone more familiar with mining wearing a remlok suit than breathing station air. Despite the life of hardships that had pasted into her face, something was compelling about her.

"Excuse me," I said with a smile, stopping by her table. "The barman mentioned you might be able to help me. I'm Nuno von Lisbon, a fellow Commander."

She raised her eyes from the pad, examining me with a calculating look.

"Amélia Chang," she responded dryly. "Sit down if you want. I'm guessing you've got ship troubles."

I pulled out a chair and sat across from her.

"Yes, serious problems. Damaged Class 5 FSD for a Python. I was attacked by pirates," I replied.

"Pirates, the scourge of the outer rim, them and those damned Thargoids," she answered while taking a sip of her green drink. I asked what she was drinking and ordered one for myself.

"Tom! A Buck Roger's for me and for Commander... Nuno," Amélia shouted to the barman before I could do it myself.

"Anyway, I'm stuck here. The local outfitting has no parts and transfer would take 37 hours. I heard you have a mining operation in the rings."

Amélia let out a short laugh.

'Mining operation, is a pretty name for what we do. We and my partenesr have three Cobra Mk3s extracting minerals in the planet's rings. Me and two other pilots, all waiting for the fleet carrier to fill up enough to return to the bubble."

"Do you have spare parts? Any contacts who could help?"

She shook her head.

"Nothing for a vessel of your size, Commander. And even if we had a spare FSD, we couldn't sell it. We're trapped in a contract with the fleet carrier owner."

"What kind of contract?"

Amélia lowered her voice, glancing around to ensure nobody was listening.

"The kind they call an 'opportunity' in GalNet advertisements. The carrier owner takes 75% of everything we mine. In exchange, he gives us 'passage' back to the bubble when he's satisfied with the cargo."

"That's practically slavery," I commented, keeping my voice low.

"It's the free market of the frontier," she replied bitterly. "We came here on our own, lured by promises of mineral wealth. The fact that our tiny ships can only travel ten light-years was something we overlooked. The bubble is more than 200 light-years from here. Do the math."

"No possibility of leaving independently," I replied.

"Exactly. It's either jump 40 times through uninhabited systems, risking pirates at each one, or accept this 'agreement' with the carrier owner. Most choose the agreement, just as we did."

I remained silent for a moment, processing the information. Our conversation was interrupted when the establishment's door slid open with a hiss. A burly commander strode in with four slaves--three men and a woman, all shackled and chained together by their necks.

The commander dragged them across the lounge and secured the chain to a ring on one of the side walls. "Pirates", he announced loudly to the room. "Captured this scum myself. Auction tomorrow for anyone interested."

There was a momentary hush, a few curious glances, then everyone simply returned to their drinks and conversations as if nothing unusual had happened. Such was life on the frontier. I turned my attention back to Amélia, disturbed but not surprised by what I'd just witnessed.

"I'm sorry, commander," she continued, her voice softening slightly. "I'd very much like to help, but we're just as trapped as you and those chained to the wall, merely in a different way. If you have patience and sufficient credits, wait for the transfer. If you're desperate, you might reach Hendricks Station in the neighboring system with your damaged FSD. It's a risk, but their facilities are considerably better."

While I was talking with Amélia, suddenly the Crew Lounge door burst open violently. A thin woman erupted into the room, her disheveled black hair flying wild and her eyes filled with desperate determination.

"Stop!", "Stop you dirty slave!", "Catch her!" shouted two burly men pursuing her, veritable gorillas in human form, their heavy footfalls shaking glasses on nearby tables.

The woman ran wildly through the room, knocking over tables and chairs to block her pursuers' path. The Lounge instantly transformed into a battlefield, with commanders jumping up to protect their drinks and equipment, some cursing loudly.

In a desperate move, she tried to leap over a table near ours, but slipped and fell violently on the floor, right beside me, her breath coming in ragged gasps. As she prepared to get up and continue her flight, one of the guys managed to reach her, grabbing her by the leg with a triumphant grunt.

With surprising agility, she twisted her body and landed a kick to the man's face. The impact was enough to make him release her, staggering backward with blood beginning to trickle from his nose.

By instinct, I stood up and grabbed the woman by the arm, thinking to control the situation before she caused more damage. She reacted, struggling with surprising strength for someone of her build, and landed a direct punch to my jaw.