PRELUDE 1
Captain's Log, SCA-65 Jurojin
Stardate 51288.48
After two endless weeks in hyperlight transit, we resolved the mission in just a few hours. Diplomacy and common sense prevailed once again, and the miners'; strike on Rigel XII ended without incident. Not even a declaration of secession, as some board reports had predicted.
The gradual improvement of working conditions for both humans and droids, along with a steady increase in base salary, might be interpreted as a financial failure this quarter. Still, I’m convinced we’ll gain more in the long run by eliminating precariousness and abandoning the intimidation tactics of earlier eras.
Osmiridium mining operations on Rigel XII resume today, after nearly a year of blockade.
With that, we begin our journey to Deneb IV. Satisfied, and with a renewed commitment to corporate principles.
Golden Ashtree: The Future Is You.
​
Karl leaned back in the captain's chair and let out a long sigh. He glanced wearily at Stringer, his personal bodyguard. Stringer gave him a subtle nod, as if validating every word he'd just dictated. Karl loosened the collar of his uniform. Now that the meetings were over, he could finally relax. Stringer pursed his lips in disapproval, a small grimace. It was hard to spend much time around the man: Karl always had the uneasy sense he was being judged more than protected.
Stringer always looked impeccable, almost like he’d stepped off a runway, with an outfit that was far from standard-issue for galactic travel. A crisp white shirt, a jet-black vest and matching jacket, that contrasted strikingly with his dark skin and impeccable poise, and gray trousers with white stripes. Like his smooth, shaved head, his shoes always gleamed, as if freshly polished. His wide, perfectly trimmed mustache only reinforced the air of authority he carried aboard the ship.
It was no wonder the rest of the crew often consulted him first, ignoring the chain of command that Stringer himself claimed to value so much.
Karl didn’t really mind. He had other things on his mind.
“Jeff, before we set course for the Deneb system, it’d be wise to run a check on the hydraulic lines of the hyperlight engine,” he said, tapping a few commands into the arm of his chair. “Mines like these tend to leave behind a lot of residue on the landing pads.”
The synthetic voice of the synav rang out clearly from the bridge’s speakers.
“Yes, Mr. Karl. I’ll notify the engineer. We’ll send a message when we’re ready to depart.”
“Thanks, Jeff. Wouldn’t expect anything less. I’ll be in my quarters.”
Karl got up from the chair slowly, rubbing his left knee. He vaguely remembered how the damned humidity always made it ache. Forty-five was too early for this kind of wear and tear, but long-range space travel was like living by the sea or feeling the rain in the bones. Still, he couldn’t really complain. He was partly to blame.
The bodyguard started to follow, but Karl raised a hand, motioning for him to stay on the bridge.
“No need to follow me everywhere, Stringer. We’ve talked about this.”
“Yes, Captain,” the man replied quietly, with a slight nod.
“And I’ve told you a thousand times—don’t call me that.”
“I’ll keep trying, Captain.”
Karl took a deep breath, resigned, and passed through the door to the operations center. He greeted Jeff out of habit, even though the synav couldn’t perceive the gesture. Jeff was completely submerged inside a vertical tube filled with conductive liquid. Suspended, inert, eyes closed. His long, nearly white blond hair floated freely, almost ethereal. Dozens of cables and synaptic links extended from the ends of the conduit and disappeared into the ship’s systems.
Karl still found the technology fascinating, this new fusion of human and machine. He placed a palm on the warm glass of the tube, gazing at the frail synav inside, wondering what kind of trauma would drive someone to surrender part of their humanity. Jeff was an introvert, reserved. But then again, who didn’t have quirks if they chose to spend most of their life in space?
Jeff’s almond-shaped eyes suddenly snapped open. Karl jumped back, startled. Then they closed again. Probably a tic. He did that when running complex calculations.
Karl descended the stairs connecting the upper and main decks. The Jurojin wasn’t especially large: at forty meters long and twenty wide, it belonged to the mid-range of hyperluminal transport vessels. He could get from the captain’s chair to engineering—the farthest point on the ship—in under fifteen seconds. Nearly thirty, if his phantom knee pain flared up like now.
Everything on board was close by. Perhaps too close.
The crew quarters, located at the ship’s center, had carbon fiber walls so thin that, despite layers of insulating nanomaterials and microdrones that emitted white noise, more could be heard than was probably intended.
Still, this kind of vessel had been a necessary choice: fast, discreet, with a skeleton crew. If he’d chosen a larger ship, corporate regulations would’ve required two fighter escorts. The last thing he wanted was to land on Rigel XII flanked by a private army.
Besides, the Jurojin had been customized to his unique needs.
Just past the stairs: the communal restrooms. He still disliked that particular design choice: he’d have preferred to descend into a dining area instead of shared bathrooms. They were spotless, odorless, like everything else aboard the Jurojin, thanks to the swarm of microbots patrolling the surfaces like an invisible plague. But it didn’t feel right to pass through there every time he changed decks. Maybe it was just old-school obsession.
Across from the restrooms, the repair bay and medical station: barely twenty square meters in total, but packed with the latest tech and finest equipment Golden Ashtree could provide.
Dr. Allison was docked to her charging port, powered down. She was a Zhora unit, which meant she only activated when truly needed. Karl liked her for many reasons. So much so, she was the only one on the ship who knew his secret.
He moved down the hallway and into the first small room, his personal cabin. Once inside, he collapsed onto the bunk. Not as comfortable as the luxury suites he used to enjoy, but he’d developed a peculiar superstition: discomfort sparked creativity.
Drawing on his piloting experience and astro-navigation skills, he calculated how long it would take to reach Deneb IV via the fastest route. After that, it was back to the monotony of boardrooms, meetings, and the occasional investigation—if his mental framework could still handle it. He had to seize this moment. An opportunity like this might not come again for decades.
He rubbed the inside of his left wrist with his thumb. Four small numbers appeared, seemingly tattooed onto the transverse ligament:
5149.
He smiled wistfully and continued plotting alternate routes.
Once again, life was slipping through his fingers.
He’d record the weekly message for his successor later.
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