Boone's Journey
K. L. Stein
Boone’s Journey
K.L. Stein
Boone’s Journey
Copyright © 2014 K.L. Stein
Cover Copyright © 2014 AmyGDala Design
Edited by Magpie Editing
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Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. All characters, places, businesses, and incidents are from the author’s imagination. Any resemblances to actual places, people, or events is purely coincidental.
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BOONE’S JOURNEY
Red, green, blue, red, green, blue.
The familiar pattern of flashing lights lulled her into the place between complacency and comfort. Talia’s lips pursed, humming in beat to the light’s pulsations as she flew through the motions, marking items systematically off her imaginary checklist. Landing gear ready – check, deceleration auto pilot – check, sensory gauge on – check, vodka – check, check. Everything seemed in place. Rebooting the computers on the Turinth Outposts had been part of her mission for the past five years, making this more of a habit than a challenge.
Preliminary reports done, Talia stretched out along her seat, resting her feet on the window above the control panel, letting the vodka seep down her throat until it burned. Her reflection stared back at her. Even in the dark, she could see why people tried to approach her. The collage of awards sewn into every shirt announced her as a prodigy. Combined with her smooth skin, fit body, and full lips, the Academy had tried to brand her as the poster child for their program. That plan failed, and continued to fail at every press conference, training session, or investor’s meeting. What her lips lured over, her sharp tongue deterred. No one wanted their kids growing up to be like her; hell, she didn’t even want to be like her. She closed her eyes against the annoying repetition of the lights and lifted her flask to her lips. The lights might offer reassurance to some, but to her, it simply reminded her that every second of her life was dictated by another person or mission.
Even with her eyes closed, the lights flashed in her mind, amplifying the headache pounding in her head. No matter how many times she had made this trip, it still wore on her. Not even the harsh drink could erase the dull pain at the base of her neck where the edges of the headrest cut in.
She had cursed the budgetary cutbacks over the years. Whoever thought a padded seat cushion amounted to luxury had certainly never ridden in a cruiser for eighteen hours straight. But as long as the cutbacks stopped at equipment, and not her paycheck or liquor, Talia didn’t mind. To her, the new bottle in her cabinet was just as impressive, if not more useful, than the new award sewn into her sleeve.
Truth be told, none of it really bothered her on this trip – the silence, the space, and the freedom outweighed any discomforts. This was the one mission free of the micromanagement plaguing the newer recruits. No video monitors gauging cost efficiency, no one watching as she stripped out of her suit, and most importantly, no one to trade stories with.
They tried that before, on a mission to set up a remote fueling station between the Capital and Lancher planets. The poor new recruit wanted to trade histories, as if some camaraderie would form between them. Talia smiled, remembering his pale face as she shared her story, how her parents had no clue how to handle their gifted yet anti-social child. The relief on their faces as they realized her preference for isolation, and dropped her off at the academy. Her future solidified at ten. Apparently her history was not the kind that motivated. When they teamed her up again, her words of wisdom were of the ‘stay out of my way and hand me the vodka’ variety, but they didn’t like that either. After that, they gave her the outlier missions. And she never complained too much.
She always made a show of volunteering, but honestly, she looked forward to this trip. Missions this easy rarely popped up, and in terms of simplicity, this one was mindless. All that it required was acceptance of isolation, knowledge of basic electronics, and familiarity with the outdated tools left at the outposts. The former she had in spades; the rest, she had learned to improvise.
Anchored to the second moon of Turin, the outposts served as the main communication buoy for their quadrant of the galaxy. Nestled between two black holes, electromagnetic disturbance wreaked havoc on their communication and visibility. The solution, hastily built outposts that connected communication between planets through a crude hardwired system and a complex arrangement of satellites and transponders. The system needed to be updated, especially now that the business and political centers of their galaxy required more energy, but justifying the cost was hard to explain when no one wanted to admit to limitations or deficits. There was a system in place, and that seemed to appease most – no matter how outdated or broken that system was. For the cost of one explorer, and a bare bone cruiser, the façade continued.
One more hour and she would be there. Beyond her feet, she saw the outposts emerge out of the darkness. Large metal beams stacked atop each other, narrowing in toward the top, making a ladder or a temple depending on the angle. The lights flashed along the edge of the beams, with a hypnotic pull, while underneath the metal a tangled web of wires hid.
She remembered her first trip here and the terror when she had climbed that metal monstrosity for the first time. A mangled mess of wires crossed and twisted around each beam. They habitually frayed, requiring habitual maintenance and welding. Working with the archaic tools, she’d managed to burn through the outer shell of her suit with the soldering iron, and barely held onto the melted wires that ran throughout the beam. If it weren’t for some quick thinking and a reserve of brass nerves, the entire communication system would have faltered. It was amazing that her heart hadn’t jumped out of her chest; it hammered more than she had on the wires.
That victory drink had never tasted so good.
The thing about victory drinks though, after the first one, the rest pale in comparison, leaving a hollow pang of longing. She knew that feeling too well. Another sip of Amiliba vodka coated her throat, burning a slow path.
Red, green, blue, red, green, blue.
She watched the lights between her boots, flickering in a pattern vaguely reminiscent of her previous night on Amiliba, and smiled. The sickly-sweet drink rested on her lips, teasing her with its burn and memories.
The colonized planets in their galaxy ranged from civilized to archaic, depending on their primary focus when founded. The planets surrounding their suns housed their political leaders and scientists, while the remaining planets scattered throughout the system served a single purpose. Unfortunately, rather than develop or change plans, planets became discarded with the advancement of technology and needs.
Amiliba was a strange combination of agriculture and pharmaceuticals. From above, circular paths marked the different regions. The natural farms wound between the greenhouses and manufacturing plants. Boasting the highest ratio of pills per person, warehouses lined the streets, responsible for both growing and transforming their food into capsules. As interest waned, more abandoned buildings increased. These darker corners called to Talia,
luring her in with other types of pills and promises. A refuge to the outliers of society, and a blend of outdated purposes and expectations, Amiliba quickly became an irresistible temptation before every mission.
The visions pulsed in sync with the lights and her lips parted in remembrance. Nights there flew by way too fast, and the distracting memories quickly faded with duty’s renewed claim on her focus. But with this mindless mission, she could reminisce for one more day. That’s what she wanted, one more day to remember the warmth of his embrace, his breath on her neck, and the way her body moved free of its cumbersome suit. The bottomless drinks and the thick haze of smoke helped erase any thoughts of preserving her reputation. One night was usually enough to remind her that she was still alive, that the restrictions of her suit and decorated awards hadn’t erased her yet.
The thick, pink drink snuck through her smile, catching in the back of her throat. Before she could stop her cough, vodka sputtered out, coating the dash in sticky pink.
Red, green, blue, red, green, blue, red, red, red.
Crap, crap, crap. Her feet flew down in an instant, knocking over manuals, and the rest of her drink as she leaned over the instrument panel.
