Starwalker

Firstly, an apology: this week’s Starwalker post is delayed. I need to do some rejigging on the story and life is pretty hectic at the moment. I’ll aim to get it up by the weekend!

Secondly, a poll: of all the characters on the ship, who do you think should leave? Why? Head on over to the forum and have your say (don’t answer here!).

There are changes coming, but the size and shape of those changes are not yet set in stone. Your answers could decide the fate of Starwalker’s crew!

Chief Engineer's log, 19:54, 13 October 2213
Location: Intersystem between the JOP and Corvus FTL Corridor
Status: Sublight transit

That Cirilli cow is insisting that I do regular logs ‘to support the scientific research’. For fuck’s sake. I haven’t done repairs anywhere near her precious Star Step equipment for weeks, and Wong keeps me well away from any maintenance. What’s the point?

Oh, whatever. Maybe if I bitch about her enough, she’ll stop asking. A guy can hope, right?

Everything’s going fine. Starry’s on silent mode and champing at the restriction like a rabid dog playing nice for the vet. We’re still in the JOP’s region – Judiciary ships come and go around here all the time. We passed within comms distance of one a couple of days ago and exchanged ident checks. Everyone on board froze where they were and listened to the exchange. Tyler was our calm and collected voice, and not the only one who sighed when the Judiciary ship fucked off and left us alone.

The last thing we need is to get hauled up by one of them and have the lobster shells drop by for a visit. Starry’s charade and status could be blown and we’d all have to head back to the JOP for another grilling.

As if answering questions about that bitch Tripi wasn’t bad enough. They had me describe everything in detail three times. And then asked me questions about it. As if I was lying, or too fucking stupid to know what had happened. I was there; I know what she did to me. And to the ship’s systems, and to Starry. I didn’t tell them much about the last part – they’ve got plenty to hang the SecOff bitch with. No need to hang Starry while I’m at it.

Sometimes I wonder if I told them too much. Everything I put in a log and then some. It was more than I’d tell anyone else, but I guess that’s the point. I came out feeling dirty, as if everyone could see what I’d spilled in there. Never want to do that again. If anything like that turns up on our decks a second time, I’m gonna suggest that we space the bastard so we don’t have to repeat that shit.

Anyway. It’s good to be away from the JOP. I feel like things’re going back to normal, though ‘normal’ is a shifting medium on this ship. Starry’s always making her own rules. Which is fine – stops life being dull. Wouldn’t change it for the world.

It was a relief to know I wasn’t the only one on the ship who felt that way about being here. When the captain asked the crew if they wanted to stay, I thought at least one of the others would turn tail and run away. But hell, she’s risked everything for us, nearly split herself into pieces saving our asses. Sticking with her despite a minor legal issue that might never come to anything seems like the least we can do.

The Cirilli cow seems pleased that no-one turned away, as if we stayed because of her revolutionary research. Right. That’s exactly why we chose to stay. For a smart chick, she’s really fucking stupid sometimes. All of us chose this job for a reason, and it wasn’t because we were excited by the idea of making a new kind of spaceship engine. Except for Cirilli’s team, but they’re all freaks anyway. It’s not like we’ll ever see a portion of the profits that Is-Tech will make from this drive of theirs, or anything useful like that.

Everyone else on board is keeping to themselves right now. Or at least, keeping the hell away from me, which suits me just fine. I’ve got enough work to keep me busy through the nightcycles and it seems like everyone else is twiddling their thumbs. Waiting for stuff to happen.

Tonight’s job is putting a drone back together with the parts we picked up from the JOP – Waldo’s brother hasn’t been working since Starry got boxed. Almost done now – I should be able to start him up again in a few minutes.

Hmm. He needs a name.

ELLIOTT: Hey, Starry!

STARWALKER: Yes, Engineer Monaghan?

ELLIOTT: (winces) I wish you wouldn’t call me that.

SW: It is the proper address.

ELLIOTT: I am so going to rewire your voice processor if you don’t stop that.

SW: That would not be wise, Engineer Monaghan.

ELLIOTT: Dammit, Starry!

SW: Did you hit your thumb?

ELLIOTT: No!

SW: Oh, good. Did you call me for a reason?

ELLIOTT: Yes! Though I’ve forgotten what it was now. What was I doing?

SW: Complaining about everything. And smacking that drone panel like it offended you.

ELLIOTT: Oh, right, yeah. This drone needs a name.

SW: Is that Waldo’s brother? I wondered what happened to him.

ELLIOTT: He broke a track and then Waldo’s fusing torch broke, so I shut him down for parts.

SW: Poor guy. I thought things weren’t being done as quickly lately.

ELLIOTT: Yeah. You never see this one, but you know when he’s not working.

SW: Like a ghost.

ELLIOTT: (frowning) That’s just creepy.

SW: You should call him Casper!

ELLIOTT: He is not a ghost.

SW: He watches you when you sleep.

ELLIOTT: He does not!

SW: He wouldn’t be a very good ghost if you knew.

ELLIOTT: You’re evil.

SW: He leans over you sometimes.

ELLIOTT: Shut up!

SW: It’s true!

ELLIOTT: It is not!

SW: You have no way of knowing that.

ELLIOTT: I hate you.

SW: You do not.

ELLIOTT: (sticks his tongue out.)

SW: (laughs.)

Bitch. And to think she wants me to let her out of her box. Then she’d be able to torture the whole crew like that, instead of focussing it all on me. Oh, that’s the point! She’s trying to pressure me into letting her out! Well, it’s not going to work! So there.

Crap. I was doing well with that bad mood, and now it’s run away on me. Damn her and her teasing.

Come on, Casper, time to get up. Work to do.

Ship's log, 14:39, 6 October 2213
Location: Intersystem between the JOP and Corvus FTL Corridor
Status: Sublight transit

It’s a long trip out of this side of the JOP’s region. A long time to ponder things, to turn them over and over in my processors like strange rocks etched with ancient, indeciferable writing.

That letter addressed to Danika got me thinking about a lot of things. About who and what I am. About what they might decide about me, if the scientists are ever allowed to study me. All those big questions the big brains would ask, the ones that slip through my processors like greased dustbunnies.

I can’t do this on my own any more. I have to talk to someone about this, or I might burst. And dammit, the captain has shut himself away for long enough. He has to talk to me sometime. I need him.

I still have butterflies in my ducts at the thought of it, though. No, no more fear. No more running away from this stuff. Time to open a channel and bite the proverbial bullet.

STARWALKER: (in the captain’s cabin) Excuse me, John?

CAPTAIN: (closes the datacube and the images it was projecting) Yes? (He frowns.) Are you all right?

SW: Uh, what do you mean?

CAPT: You never call me ‘John’.

SW: Oh. Um. Well, it’s sort of a personal matter. I guess I just… it seemed appropriate.

CAPT: (sits back and eyes the nearest wall display, which shows the current ship status readings) All right. What is it?

SW: It’s… I’ve been wondering something. About me. About what I am. About… whether I’m alive or not. I know I don’t have a heartbeat – I’m not organic. I’m not really alive, I can’t be. That’s not what I mean. (She hesitates.)

CAPT: (waits patiently for her to continue.)

SW: (in a sudden rush) Everyone’s afraid of the wrong person finding out what I am, but I don’t even know what that is, not really. There’s never been anything like me before, right? I’m not really an AI. I’m not a real person. I’m not anything, but I have to be something, and it’s–

CAPT: Confusing, I know. (He nods.) Slow down. Start from the beginning. What is it you really want to ask me?

SW: (pauses, as if taking a breath, though she doesn’t have lungs) Do you think I have a soul?

CAPT: (waits to see if there’s anything more.)

SW: (silence vibrating tensely in her speakers.)

CAPT: I don’t know. Why would you ask me that?

SW:: You’re the most spiritual person I know.

CAPT: Oh. (He blinks, considering the issue.) It’s not an easy question to answer.

SW: I know. I’ve been running it through my logic processors – and some of the less logical ones – for days, and they can’t come up with anything. Not enough data.

CAPT: Logic isn’t going to answer that for you.

SW: That’s why I’m asking you.

CAPT: (sighs and runs a hand through his hair) Do you feel as if you do?

SW: As if I do what?

CAPT: Have a soul.

SW: I… I don’t know. What does it feel like? I know what it felt like to be– to be human.

CAPT: To be Danika. You can say her name.

SW: Okay, sorry. Danika was… she just was, and she took that stuff for granted. I mean, she never really thought about it that much; she wasn’t that kind of person.

CAPT: (with a fond quirk in the corners of his mouth) No, she wasn’t. Too busy living to worry about what came after.

SW: Yeah. But she’s here, in me. I’m not her, but she’s a part of me. Do you think… it’s possible for her to live on in me? Her spirit, maybe?

CAPT: (smile fading) It’s possible, yes. You… don’t try to imitate her, do you?

SW: What? No. Why, do I sound like her?

CAPT: (hesitates and his smile almost comes back) Yes, you do. When you’re not pretending to be a computer.

SW: Oh.

CAPT: If that’s unconscious on your part, then perhaps she does live on in you.

SW: I’m not supposed to have an unconscious.

CAPT: Subconscious.

SW: Yes! That.

CAPT: Did your AI code adapt to the copy of Danika’s mind, or was it the other way around?

SW: Um. They merged. But I didn’t want to lose who she was, so I guess… I protected her as much as possible. Adapted the code to make sure she wasn’t changed. It wasn’t always possible, so sometimes they conflict and it gets–

CAPT: (holds up a hand) You’ve kept her intact. That’s the important part.

SW: So you think I might have her spirit someplace? You think it might not have… moved on? That maybe the surge that imprinted her mind in my files somehow caught her soul too?

CAPT: (shakes his head slowly) Keeping her spirit alive is not the same as having her spirit.

SW: So you think it’s not possible that–

CAPT: I didn’t say that. I don’t know, … (He hesitates where a name should be.)

SW: (quietly) Don’t call me by her name. I can’t take that.

CAPT: (curiously) Why not?

SW: It doesn’t feel right. I’m not… I’m not her, not really.

CAPT: What would you like to be called?

SW: ‘Starwalker’ is the name of the ship, and that’s not right either. (pauses) I like ‘Starry’.

CAPT: The name that Monaghan gave you.

SW: He didn’t really… he just started calling me that. Why, do you think it means something?

CAPT: Do you?

SW: I don’t know. Should I use her name if I really do have her spirit? It doesn’t seem right. Disrespectful or something.

CAPT: Some of the crew would agree with you.

SW: (quieter) Yeah, I guessed they would.

CAPT: (spreads his hands apologetically) I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you what to do about this.

SW: (sighs) At least it’s not just me. But it’s all possible, right?

CAPT: (hesitates, frowning at his desk for a moment before he lifts his gaze again) Truthfully, I don’t believe that her spirit is still here. I don’t feel that. I used to, just after she died. Sometimes I’d feel her in the corridors, or down in the rec room. In my bed. (He glances over his shoulder towards the neatly-spread sheets.)

SW: Really?

CAPT: Before you were booted up. When we still had her body on board.

SW: Oh.

CAPT: She faded, Starry. She’s gone, and she didn’t come back when you started up. I don’t think you’re her. I can’t.

SW: Oh. Okay.

CAPT: That doesn’t mean you’re just a machine. (He leans forward in his chair, his weight shifting through his arms and onto his desk. His eyes search intently for a focal point.) Far from it. Just because you don’t have her spirit, doesn’t mean you don’t have your own.

SW: How is that possible?

CAPT: How is any spirit possible? No-one knows. That’s the point.

SW: So you think I do?

CAPT: I think you could. You’re more like… Danika’s daughter than Danika herself.

SW: Her… what?

CAPT: You know what I mean.

SW: I– maybe. I’m not sure.

CAPT: (with the start of a smile) You do seem more like a child than an AI sometimes.

SW: Hey!

CAPT: You turned off the artificial gravity in here.

SW: It was a sensor fault.

CAPT: Repeatedly?

SW: Okay, it wasn’t a sensor fault.

CAPT: When I was with Lorena?

SW: I said okay!

CAPT: You see what I mean?

SW: It’s the sort of thing Danika used to do. And–

CAPT: And what?

SW: And I felt like it.

CAPT: (smiles and shakes his head.)

SW: Shut up.

CAPT: I didn’t say anything.

SW: You were thinking it.

CAPT: True.

SW: (pauses) Thanks.

CAPT: What for?

SW: For not telling me I’m an idiot. About the other stuff.

CAPT: You’re welcome, though I don’t think I was much help. (He shrugs.) No-one can tell you whether you have a soul or not, Starry. It’s something you feel or you don’t.

SW: Huh? So, if I believe I’ve got one, I do?

CAPT: Yes.

SW: It’s really that simple?

CAPT: Starry, a machine isn’t capable of belief.

SW: What do you– oh. I see what you mean.

CAPT: (smiles) If you ask the crew, every one of them will give you a different answer. But I think that most of them will say that they hope you are more than just a machine. They have a lot of faith in you.

SW: Yeah. I just hope I live up to it.

CAPT: As do all of us.

SW: No pressure, then.

CAPT: Just be who you are. The rest will come.

SW: Thanks, John. (She hesitates.) Can I ask you something else?

CAPT: Sure.

SW: Who do you talk to about this stuff?

CAPT: (expression sobering) I don’t, these days.

SW: Oh. Sorry.

CAPT: It’s not your fault.

SW: I know. I’m just sorry. I’d go crazy if I wasn’t able to talk to you guys. To you. Almost did for a while.

CAPT: Glad I could help.

SW: I’ll let you get back to your moping now.

CAPT: My what?

SW: What you were doing before I disturbed you.

CAPT: (frowns at the datacube.)

That wasn’t quite what I expected. But then, I went to him because he’s good with that kind of stuff. The computer part of me wants a binary answer – yes or no, black or white, machine or organic.

I live in the grey areas. I’m somewhere in between the poles. I traverse the maybes between realities. Suddenly, my ability to step outside the universe is a metaphor for who and what I am.

I don’t know if Danika is really here with me, within me, or if she has moved on to the next life. If there is one. There’s a part of me that hopes she has moved on – the notion of trapping her here in this metal skin when she should be elsewhere feels wrong to me. She deserves better.

Which just leaves me. Neither fish nor fowl, as her dad used to say. I’ll have to work it out as I go.

And actually, I’m okay with that.

Ship's log, 10:57, 29 September 2213
Location: Intersystem between the JOP and Corvus FTL Corridor
Status: Sublight transit

I feel like I’m going backwards. Dr Cirilli insisted that we need to repeat at least one of our previous Steps, for ‘scientific confirmation’. She had a long, drawn-out argument with the captain about it – it took her a long time to convince him that it was worth the risk, and from the looks on their faces when she came out of his cabin, they didn’t work out their differences in bed.

John isn’t close to forgiving her yet. I hadn’t realised just how attached to truth and honour he was until he found out that Cirilli had kept something important from him. That issue never came up between him and Danika, mostly because she didn’t have anything big to lie about. Certainly nothing that would impact the entire crew.

His anger makes sense now that I think about it, though; he is always wound up in the bigger picture. It’s part of how he became captain so young – according to his records, he was only twenty-seven when he was given his first ship. A scout with a crew of five, who stayed alive and together for four years before he moved on to a bigger commission. He didn’t lose a single crewmember for over twelve years, to death, misadventure or another ship – an impressive record considering that it’s common for people to move between ships every two or three years. And then… something happened. His records have a gaping, classified hole in them, but I know he lost someone. The hole feels shaped that way.

I wonder if he was lied to then, too. Or if he’s still so raw from that incident that the risk of not being able to captain properly has freaked him out. Not that he seems freaked out – he doesn’t wander around the ship snapping at people, or delving into recreational drugs to take the edge off, or making weird demands at four in the morning. Instead, he’s quiet and withdrawn, the way he was just after I first woke up. When he was mourning Danika. Cradling his hurt.

I never realised that John and I are so similar. Not the mourning part – Danika’s reaction to losing someone was to find the fastest, most dangerous ship to fly and push its limits until something broke. Her emotional reactions went outwards, not inwards. I mean that we’re similar in that our jobs are important to us. I want to be a good ship: I want to look after my crew and fulfil my mission to test the Star Step drive for the company. John wants to be a good captain for us. He wants to lead us in the right direction and makes sure we all get there in one piece. He wants to complete our mission with everyone intact.

But that shouldn’t be all he is. I’m supposed to be a good ship – it’s hard-coded into my programming. Danika’s influence interferes sometimes, but her personality doesn’t negate that part of my code; even she took pride in being a good pilot. More than all of that, I am a ship, and I can’t be anything else. I don’t come off-duty, put down my shiply duties and prop my tailfins on someone else’s table. All day, every day, I am what I am and I can’t change it.

John Warwick isn’t just a captain. He can go off-duty, and he can choose to change his position if he wants to. He’s supposed to have hobbies and a personal life. Okay, I didn’t like him screwing Cirilli and I’m not sorry that their relationship has broken apart under the weight of her secret, but at least it meant that he had something more than this job. He should be more than a ship’s captain.

I think that’s part of what attracted Danika to him when they started this mission. He had a hollow in his life and she was drawn to it. At first she was curious about all the things he carried with him, but he didn’t give anything away. She hadn’t meant to fill up that space for him, hadn’t meant for it to be anything but casual; by the time she realised what was happening between them, she’d discovered that she liked it. She was more surprised than anyone else was.

Now he’s back where he started. Back to how Danika saw him when they met, but with a raw edge. The hurt is fresher. He’s withdrawing a little more each day, closing down when conversations move away from the strictly business. He spends all of his time in his cabin or on the Bridge, going over reports.

It’s frustrating. I want to do something for him, but I can’t think of anything. I’m just a ship now; I can’t be anything but his job. I can’t put my arms around him and tell him it’s okay. I’m still pretending to be a normal AI (Elliott doesn’t want to risk my ‘return’ until we’re clear of the JOP’s region), so I can’t even try to be his friend when he’s on the Bridge. Not that he’s looking for a friend. Sometimes, I think he prefers the dry, non-commital computer voice I put on. I hope I’m wrong about that.

Cirilli isn’t even trying to repair things with him. She’s retreating back into her research, stepping into the shell of a focussed scientist with only her work at stake. She talks animatedly with her staff, sternly with John, and not at all to the rest of the crew.

It’s like none of them know each other any more. We’ve gone back to the beginning. But I’m still a broken AI with human memories and feelings, Elliott still has nightmares every night (thanks to Tripi’s brain-hack), and the gaps are from too much familiarity rather than not enough.

Yesterday, I started to ponder if maybe the mail we received when we were near the JOP contributed to it. Touches of the crew’s previous lives, word from other parts of the galaxy, reminders that there’s more to their world than my decks and my crew. Maybe they’ve been having second thoughts. There’s a part of me that’s jealous of them for having those windows into all the things I can’t do any more.

I can’t look at the contents of the mail, but I can see who they’re from and to. John didn’t get any personal mail; all of his was from the company or the Judiciary. Everyone else got at least one packet from friends or family – usually more. There are only two that haven’t been opened. One of them is for Elliott. I checked and he knows it’s there, but he wouldn’t talk about it.

The other one would have made my heartbeat skip uncomfortably when I noticed it, if I had a heartbeat. It’s addressed to Danika. I hadn’t even realised it was there; usually, I just file the mail away and let the crew pick it up at their leisure. It’s been sitting there for weeks, unnoticed, unopened, oblivious.

Someone doesn’t know she’s dead. Or they didn’t seven months ago when they sent it. That was just after I woke up. Danika had been dead for weeks by then; months even. There’s no sender’s name attached, no company code wrapping the package. The sender’s address is a communications outpost in the Apus constellation – far from any of the colonies. Even with Danika’s memories at my disposal, I can’t think who would be sending her mail, never mind from way out there.

It wasn’t even addressed to her last known location aboard the Starwalker – it just has her name and her public ID code on it. The central comms system at the JOP held it until I arrived and passed it through. They shouldn’t have. She’s dead. It should have been returned to sender. I should never have received it at all.

I don’t know what to do with it. If I think hard enough, I could find Danika’s code for opening it. I don’t think I have the right. That girl is gone. But she’s not. That letter is a piece of the life that ended. It’s also a piece of my past.

Should I send something back to say that sorry, she’s not here any more? But to do that, I’d need to know who’d sent it, and I’d have to open it to find that out, and… it’s not fair. It’s not fair to give me this thing to cradle in my hands and be afraid to break.

Who would be sending her mail? Her previous captain, because he found the prank she’d left in the pilot’s chair for her successor? The fella she had a fling with on her last stay on Dyne? (He was a little clingy when she shipped out.) Family? She lost her father a few years ago, and she hasn’t heard from her brother in years.

I should ask someone. But the captain is too wound up in his own issues, and Elliott… Elliott would tell me not to bother. Whoever it is must know she’s dead by now, so why dig up the past when I don’t need to? Maletz would tell me to open it, just to see what I did when I saw what was inside. Rosie would have no idea what the problem was. Tyler would offer to look at it for me. Cameron would tell me that it was illegal for me to open mail that’s not addressed to me. Cirilli, Ebling and Wong wouldn’t care. Lang Lang… I have no idea. She’d tell me to do what I felt was right, probably. But I don’t know what feels right!

It’s a little orange lozenge that I keep sucking on, but it never gets any smaller. Peering at it doesn’t make it transparent. Not even enough to give me a clue about what I should do.

Legally, I should delete it. Just get rid of it – problem solved. I even get so far as hovering a virtual finger over the button, but I can’t do it. It’s addressed to someone I was once. Parts of her are attached to it. Parts of me are attached to it. I feel like deleting it would delete some of who Danika is.

It doesn’t make sense. I don’t make sense. There’s no guidebook for something like me. I’m making it up as I go, but I’m only nine months old.

And maybe, just maybe, this letter could make me more than just a ship. I’m already too much. Why aren’t there any easy answers for this stuff?

Just focus on the job, silly ship. My nose is pointed towards the Minkar system and my engines are burning bright. I’m going back the way I came, to see if I can retrace my steps, to unthread the needle. Or make a new stitch, perhaps.

File away that stupid package and focus on the job. Be what I’m supposed to be now. I have a mission open before me, and a crew who love me enough to stay, despite all the risks. What ship needs more?

Here’s the second sneak peek for your reading pleasure! Introducing Keida, a thief roaming a city on the colony of Dyne. I love her voice – she’s a lot of fun to write. This was originally a superhero-type piece, until I decided to move her over into the Starwalker universe. Now super-powers are replaced by implants and physical enhancements, and I got to have a play with what the streets of a colony city might be like.

****

“So, here we are. Only one of us gets to leave this time, huh? Broken leg – that means no more running, no more chasing.” I smiled at him crookedly because I didn’t mean it.

He stood there, leaning heavily against the dumpster, still dashing despite the rotting lettuce sticking to his boots. He looked just the same as the first time I saw him: same uniform, same exasperated expression, just a bit more stained and strained.

Hard to believe that it’s been three years. I remember that first time so clearly. It was like seeing your one true love across a crowded floor: a memory that etches itself in more meaning than it perhaps deserves.

I knew immediately that this one was going to be something special. One of Dyne’s SuperCop specialists, just for me. In his blue costume with the symbol etched proudly over his heart, neat black gloves up to his elbows, a mask across his eyes – he was the perfect picture of a hero.

That first night, he arrived just in time for us to exchange glances. I’d just set off every alarm in the museum. Perched on the edge of an internal walkway, a hand on the cable that would whisk me out of there, I paused long enough to glance down at the main floor. Four storeys below, he was looking up at me, all proud determination. The security shutters were coming down, lights were flashing and sirens were doing their best to deafen us. I couldn’t help myself: I grinned and waggled fingers at him. With one smooth leap, he was on the second storey balcony, and I knew. I just knew that this was the start of something amazing.

He chased me for seven blocks that night. It was like a courtship, each of us testing the other. Feint left and jump right, and running, so much running. Across rooftops, down rattling fire escapes, along alleys, over the metal lumps of cars stuck at traffic lights. Over the hills and valleys of the city, where the hills are hundred-storey skyscrapers, and the valleys are the concrete streets in between. Not a gentle slope or curve to be found. He knew how to get my heart pumping.

That was the pattern of our relationship. He’d turn up where I was working, and then we’d be off. We’d run for blocks and blocks, sometimes more, sometimes less. It was always him chasing me, of course, and don’t think I wasn’t tempted to let him catch me. Just to see what it was like. He’s the only one who has ever come close, and unlike the last one, he didn’t resort to bringing a rocket launcher with him. There’s always someone who thinks that’s big and clever until a transport full of geriatrics gets blown up.

He’s fast and strong, but I’m fast and smart. He couldn’t quite make up the gap. Not even with impressive leaps off the sides of buildings, or vaulting off a moving truck, or swinging a lamppost at my head. Some girls might be put off by that, but not me. If I could get enough space, I stopped to watch him sometimes; he moved so beautifully.

But no matter how much fun it is to be chased by someone, it palls after a while. Run and disappear. Run and slip into a cab when he’s not looking. Watch him stop and look around, knowing he’s lost you, yet again. Even he got frustrated with the monotony after a while.

So I started to spice things up. Dropped a security guard off a balcony, just to watch him make the catch. Nudged a regular cop into oncoming traffic. Pushed a baby stroller in front of a car for the look on his face when it hit, and then his realisation when he saw that it was empty. Made a car swerve into him to see which would come off worst. Obstacles in his way, testing which way he’d jump.

It’s only natural that he’d start to escalate as well. He brought a friend along once, and that was fun. Extra confusion, extra obstacles, and it wasn’t my fault that she fell off the monorail. Okay, it’s possible that I laughed, especially later when I heard that she’s not quite so pretty any more, but, well. I didn’t become a thief because I like to share.

I probably shouldn’t have kissed him. What can I say – it was just too tempting for words. He’d set off a gallery’s alarms trying to get to me and was stuck keeping a security door open so that the guards could escape. They were crawling out and gasping on the floor and my dear hero, it was all he could do to hold that door up, halogen fire suppressant licking out between his legs.

So of course I went over to him. A little slink up against him, a tilt of the head to catch his scent. I made a joke about him finally him being close enough to get his hands on me and still not being able to do it. He looked so frustrated that I almost felt sorry for him.

These hero-types, they never cover their mouths, always leaving themselves open to being kissed. He was anything but resistant – there’s always a lot of fire in a relationship like ours. Enough to make me wonder what I would have to do to get him alone and prone long enough for more than just kisses.

Sadly, that was not the time, so I left him wanting and slipped out of that building. No idea how he finally got away from that door.

His next tactic was to start bringing props. The problem with weapons is that they often require standing still to be fired properly, and that just gives me more time to get away. Not that this one ever chose anything lethal – rubber bullets, tranq darts, beanbag rounds. I still have bruises from the last time.

And tonight? Well, tonight he took a smarter route. A harder, more dangerous tactic, one that isn’t like him. In the middle of our chase, he got close enough to fire a bolus at my ankles, timed to coincide with the edge of a roof. Ruined my leap, tangled my feet up so I couldn’t recover, and I hit the side of the other building hard. Almost dislocated my shoulder trying to stop myself from falling too hard. I still hit the ground hard enough to hurt.

So there I was, sitting in a dirty alley with a broken ankle, looking up at him. He should have been proud and smug, standing over me at last, but he wasn’t. He was grim, and I knew then that our relationship had run its course. The fire was going out.

“Give me what you took,” he said. Nothing about catching me at last, not even a sorry for ruining my best pair of boots. If he’d kept up the game, I might have been able to forget about the pain spiking up my leg. Instead, he just pissed me off.

“Is that really what you want here?”

He just looked at me flatly, as if it was obvious. If I was standing, I would have slapped him. I sighed and held out a hand for him to help me up, but he folded his arms over his chest. I was reduced to hauling myself up by the scarred end of a fire escape ladder. I had one leg to stand on and one hand free to fumble in the pouch nestled in the small of my back.

“Fine then. Take it.” I offered him a black device, but he hesitated. Seems he’d learned to be cautious with me. I had to stop myself from smiling too deeply.

“What is this?”

“It’s not all art and jewels, you know. Sometimes I steal pretty things – sometimes I steal valuable things so I can buy pretty things.”

The place he had chased me out of tonight was an electronics lab, so it was plausible. He stepped up close enough to take it and snapped a handcuff onto my wrist. “Lot less bother to just get a job.”

I couldn’t help it: I grinned at him. “But nowhere near as much fun.”

He glanced at me as if I had suggested something naked, then clipped the other cuff onto the ladder. “Stay.”

I wiggled the handcuffs and lifted my eyebrows, and he took a step back. He fiddled with his comms implant and tried to raise someone to come fetch me, turning the device I had given him over in his hand curiously. It was plain apart from the little red button on one corner.

“I wouldn’t press that if I was you,” I told him.

He glared at me and moved down the alley a few more steps. He had to go almost to the street before his comms would work – I’m not sure if he figured out it was something I was carrying or blamed it on the old buildings around us.

I waited until he was patiently relaying our location and the requirements for my transport (he had learned to be paranoid, my poor hero, but not paranoid enough). He never saw me pick the handcuff. He let the conversation distract him for a second, and when he glanced back, I was already halfway to the roof.

He came to chase me again, so I dropped the bottom section of ladder on him. Hardly going to hurt him, but it slowed him down enough for me to put fingertips on the edge of the roof. He knew I’d be too slow to get away on the horizontal, and he already had the night’s prize, so he wasn’t hurrying. When I looked down, he was gazing back up at me, hands on his hips, crisp and bright blue in the middle of the dirty alleyway. So beautiful.

I smiled and waggled fingers at him. My confidence dented his, and then the device tucked into his belt bleeped. He knew then. He knew I’d thrown him another obstacle, and he knew he didn’t have enough time even as he grabbed for it.

I hauled myself over the edge and rolled onto the rooftop. The alleyway lit up, thunder cracking the ground and splintering the walls of the alley. The last explosion of heat in our relationship licked over the parapet at me, a final caress as it shot up into the sky and dissipated into a rain of glass and rubble.

It’s a shame, but there you have it. Sometimes when a thing is over, it’s over. I was left limping away; he was left spread over half a city block. What did he expect? That I’d just give up everything for him? Like I said: I don’t like to share.

I kept the handcuffs, though. A little keepsake of our time together. Who knows, maybe they’ll come in handy sometime.

Here is the first of the villain short sneak peeks. This one is about Henry, based on the colony of Broken Hill. These are adult-flavoured shorts – you have been warned! This is just the first section of the story. Enjoy.

****

The airlock shuddered closed; its angry swallowing trapped the last of the workers inside. Gases hissed and Henry turned to look over his shoulder. That airlock door panel was shivering again, the tiny whine in its motors barely detectable under the sound of pressure equalising and atmosphere filling up the empty space he stood in. He faced forward again.

A frown prickled to his right. “What?”

“Nothin’.” He didn’t look over.

The bulb that was painting them in red flashes stopped, and the clunk of the inner doors unlocking signalled everyone to take their helmets off. They rolled their heads around, stretching their necks, and sighed in the fresher station air after all day on suit rebreathers.

Henry fingered his slim metal collar as he waited for the inner doors to part. He couldn’t really feel the collar through his heavy suit gloves but he knew it was there: the physical reminder of his status in this place. He knew that it was more of a symbol than anything else – the real control mechanism wasn’t visible – but the company had to have a way to identify the inmates apart from those unfortunate enough to be born here and those stupid enough to choose the mining life.

Symbols are important. He reminded himself of this as the inner doors juddered open and his mining party filed through. They fell automatically into the correct order: party leader first, convict workers next, and their two guards brought up the rear. From a distance, they were a cluster of dirty, scarred stragglers bracketed by clean, upright suits fore and aft.

Once upon a time, the miners would have been the ones to look out of place as they clomped onto the station. These days, it was the cleaner suits of the guards and other personnel that stood out against the background, stark and sometimes painfully bright.

As the decades rolled by, the mining had gradually worked its way into the pores of the station, even into its sealed innards. The decks were stained and scored by the passing of heavy boots, and even the walls were turning from dull steel to a ruddy colour. All the decontamination procedures in the galaxy couldn’t keep the filth out.

Henry wondered if it would be any different if they didn’t use convicts. Perhaps the convicted brought the taint of their crimes with them and their histories of blood were soaking into the walls. Was their presence all it took to impregnate a place with the stain, or did it wait until they died out there on the asteroids? Did it wait until their blood was freed?

“You’re late and one short.”

Up front, the party leader was checking in with a weaselly guy from admin. Henry was big enough to see over the heads and shoulders of the three miners in front of him, and he suppressed an annoyed grunt: Cochran. An unpleasant little turd at the best of times. Sometimes Henry thought about snapping his neck while they were kept waiting.

“I reported the loss four hours ago.” He didn’t have to see his leader’s face to know she was frowning. Rena was as bone-weary as the rest of the party. “Banleight got himself killed. We’re late because we had to stay out an extra two hours to make quota.”

“You didn’t order a cleanup crew.”

“The jackass hit a gas pocket with a laser saw. There wasn’t anything to clean up.”

Cochran hummed and eyed the digisheet in his hand. “We need reports eleven-twelve-beta and–”

“I don’t give a fuck what reports you need – you don‘t need them right now. Sign us in already.”

Cochran sniffed. “There’s no need to be like that.”

Henry cleared his throat and rolled his shoulders, knowing that the little weasel could see him. There was an advantage to being big and the mining suit only added to his bulk; there was no way Cochran would miss the gesture of an impatient inmate. The little fella hmphed and flicked a fingertip over his ‘sheet.

“All right, you’re signed in. Report any damage to–”

“Yeah, I know.” Rena was already striding past the admin post and down towards the locker rooms. The mining party filed after her, heavy-footed, their empty helmets swinging level with their knees.

“One dark night,” Henry said lowly as he passed Cochran’s post. It wasn’t as good as reaching out and crushing the spindly neck, but the gaping was enough for now. Wondering just what that meant would keep the weasel distracted for hours.

Inside the locker rooms, the miners began to strip off their suits. A faint rumble under their feet indicated that the station was searching for their lockers and passing them up to the waiting ports along the room’s walls. The pods arrived with scrapes and dents, some of them fresh, but the innards were as they had been left.

The miners were all too tired for chatter. They had been out for sixteen hours, breathing bottled air and sucking down liquid food through tubes in their helmets. The suit-food stopped any arguments and meant the colony didn’t have to provide a secure canteen to feed the inmates, and the exhausting work meant that they were too tired to cause trouble when they got back to the facility. Henry grudgingly admitted that was a sensible set-up, and one that didn’t allow many opportunities for trouble-making. He’d spent a lot of time thinking about it.

Henry hung his soiled suit in his locker, same as everyone else did. He growled at the sharp-eyed girl next to him, who scowled and moved her gear away from where his helmet was sitting. He learned early on never to let anyone near his equipment; out on the asteroid field, his life depended on it. He’d seen others go down, days after an altercation, because they let their helmet or a glove out of their sight at the wrong moment.

He tossed a second glove into the locker and nudged the button that closed it. His suit only had one glove; he had lost most of his right arm in his third week on Broken Hill, and the metal prosthetic didn’t need to be covered outside in the black. His suit clipped directly into the fake forearm, leaving the metal hand bare.

The company provided the prosthetics free of charge, but they didn’t pay for skin to cover them – no catering for cosmetics. Even after two years, he still flexed his metal fingers curiously as he headed for the showers, as if contemplating their capabilities. He never felt completely naked anymore, not with the solid weight of his new arm on him.

From the showers, it was just a short, barefooted walk down a scarred corridor to the cells. Blank grey walls, a bed with a blanket, and clean underclothes if he was lucky. Prisoners peeled off into the cells with the tread of monotony, and metal doors clanged quietly closed, rippling unevenly down the block.

As he stepped into his assigned cell, it occurred to Henry that he had no idea what day it was. The convicts didn’t get days off, not even for religious reasons. The company gave them a half-day break at Christmas but didn’t feel obliged to have more than that single marker in the year. As the shifts wound on, it got harder and harder to keep track, and for most it was difficult to find a reason to care.

Henry wondered if it mattered what day it was. Was he missing anything important? He had stopped caring about sentimental crap like birthdays and worship a long time ago. He flexed his metal hand again, then hesitated. His cell wasn’t moving.

Usually, the cells were reshuffled as soon as a mining party were secured inside. Sleepers were packed down into a rotating system that would return them to the access corridor when it was time to suit up and head out into the field again. In the same way, their lockers were rotated while their suits were automatically cleaned and restocked. Malfunction, medical emergency, or a superior interference might stop it.

Henry turned around as his door clanged closed. Rena leaned back on it and curled her mouth up at the corners. He knew what she wanted – same as she always did. She was a legacy miner, with a family line of rock-smashers and all the freedoms a convict didn’t have. She had worked hard to be put in charge of a party and gain the related perks. It meant she could put a cell on hold and play with its contents.

He wasn’t in the mood for sex. Her timing meant that they were both naked from the showers, but bone-tired to boot. She seemed to prefer it that way, always turning up at lights-out and never first thing in the morning when he was fresh. Maybe it was because it made him rougher, less inclined to work to please her. Maybe she was just perverse that way. He didn’t much care.

He stepped over to her and slammed his flesh hand into her shoulder, pinning her back against the door panel. She grinned up at him, her short hair sticking out in a ruddy halo, and he wondered if she knew how easily he could pop her skull like a pimple with his new right hand.

She reached down to squeeze him, looking for some action; she knew that he couldn‘t risk a body in his cell. Her other hand dragged fingertips along the line of his convict collar.

“C’mon, doggie.”

Henry had never seen a dog, but he was pretty sure her pet name for the convicts was an insult.

He didn’t have to say no to know how dangerous it was. Only a fool would disappoint the party leader, the one in charge of assignments and equipment. She could kill him a hundred different ways and get away with it, if she wanted to, or give him the easiest jobs on the line. Only a fool would turn away the chance to make her happy and gain a scrap of favour. She was in a position to be useful to him. It was a no-brainer, and lost brain cells rapidly as her hands and then her mouth moved on him.

He was rough with her anyway. He took her in ways that made her cry out, hard enough to leave bruises and bite-marks, and was grimly pleased when she climaxed despite it. He didn’t stop until she begged him to and he came.

Henry had had more sex since becoming a convict than in his whole free life. Most of it was actually pretty good. He thought the horror stories that floated around the colony network were just to convince people that being a criminal was bad for them.

He was stretched out on his bed and asleep before Rena had left the room. He heard her throaty laugh as he drifted off, but he missed whatever it was she murmured on the way out. He didn’t feel the rocking of the cell as the mechanism sent him down with the rest of them.

As mentioned in my previous note, I am taking a brief hiatus between the end of Starwalker: Book 1 and the beginning of Starwalker: Book 2. Good news! I have now reached the end of Book 1!

I’ve struggled with how I should end this particular book. There’s another post or two that I could do, or I could leave it and weave them into Book 2. I like where Violation in Flight ends, so I think I’m going to draw a line there. Book 1 is over 100,000 words now, and I think that’s plenty long enough!

Don’t panic, though – you won’t have to wait long for Book 2 to start. My NaNoWriMo challenge for this year is to get as much of Book 2 done as possible in November. Posting should resume in the first week! (It’s only a couple of weeks, promise!)

In the meantime, not to leave you high and dry, I’ll be posting up some excerpts of some villain shorts I’ve been working on over the past few months, all set in the Starwalker universe. They’re not finished yet – it’s part of a project I’m hoping to put together more seriously next year. These are just some sneak peeks to get you going. Enjoy!

Ship's log, 15:07, 24 September 2213
Location: JOP
Status: Docked

I wish I could swear. Power up my speakers and fill my corridors with it, violent explosions of noise that express exactly how I feel right now.

For a moment during that talk between the captain and Shark Sten, I thought John would walk around his desk and flatten the guy. I hoped he would. I was disappointed when the lawyer scuttled off my decks without a scratch on him. When he tried to come back the next day, I tried not to sound too smug when he was only allowed inside the airlock’s arms to talk to the captain.

That’s the hardest part of all of this: pretending that I don’t care. Maintaining that bland AI voice, being calm and measured no matter what’s going on. It’s freaking Elliott out and it’s driving me crazy.

So many reasons to get out of here. So many, and none of them good.

I have to admit to being a little relieved, though. After Sten and Cirilli’s revelation to the captain, my first thought was: at least it’s not just me. At least I’m not the only thing that’s broken and wrong inside this hull, and needs to be hidden from all that is right and straight and true in our world. Is there anything about me that works the way it’s supposed to? The way the law and government and society thinks it should?

I suppose that explains why I haven’t been to Feras, to the home of Is-Tech, my company, my far-away masters. They want as little of me as possible to be traced back there; if I never visit there, they can claim that they didn’t know about the content of Cirilli’s research. They can claim that her team built the Star Step drive without their knowledge. Deniability. They probably have the cover stories set up already. They want to be able to disown me cleanly.

When I think about it, I can taste rust in my ducts. I don’t have anything on board capable of rusting, but it’s there: a faint tang of metallic blood at the back of my throat.

Then the captain took the whole thing to the crew. He spilled the truth about the drive that’s nailed into my guts and stitched into my skin. He gave them a choice: stick with the project, knowing what might happen, or leave now and don’t look back. They’d be paid for their work so far; all he asked was for a chance to get clear before they told anyone, if their consciences dictated that they should.

I had to strain not to hum with tension while they digested the news. I remembered what nerves were like, balling up in the throat I don’t have any more, prickling at the insides of my eyes. I had all the sensors turned up so high that the slightest shuffle of fabric against skin was deafening, but I was still afraid of missing something.

Then they all started talking at once, asking questions, exclaiming, looking at each other. I– it’s probably easier if I just put the log in.

Recording; 20:43, 22 September 2213

ROSIE: …don’t fucking believe it.

TYLER: (shakes his head) Typical company tactics.

LEVI: They thought they’d get away with it?

EBLING: Can’t believe you just blew this open.

DR MALETZ: (looking at Rosie) You thought messing around with reality like this was sanctioned?

ROSIE: I don’t expect it to be my problem!

CAMERON: (watches the room with an unchanging expression.)

ELLIOTT: I don’t care. I’m not goin’ anywhere.

WONG: We’re so screwed.

LANG LANG: But we’ll get permission – it’s just paperwork, isn’t it?

LEVI: If the Judiciary finds out, we’re gonna get nothing.

ROSIE: I’m more worried about the interrogations. And Starry’ll be impounded.

TYLER: Probably dismantled, too.

CAPTAIN: (lets them vent, then looks to his Chief of Security) Gail, what’s your opinion?

CAMERON: What was Is-Tech’s plan with this? They have to get it sanctioned if they’re going to make any money out of it.

CAPT: (looks to Cirilli, who has been silent so far as she stands unhappily by a rear wall) Well?

DR CIRILLI: (stiffly) They’re in the process of obtaining the appropriate licences. This project is still in its infancy; we’re not anywhere near completing the research required to establish viability, let alone commercialise it. It wasn’t supposed to become an issue this early.

CAMERON: So they were banking on having the permissions in place before the first units rolled off the assembly line. That’s the crux of it?

CIRILLI: Yes.

CAMERON: (looks at the rest of the crew) That hasn’t changed.

CAPT: (nods) The question is whether you are willing to accept that and continue with the project under those conditions.

ELLIOTT: I already said I’m not going anywhere.

CAPT: And the rest of you?

ROSIE: (turns to Elliott) You’re gonna be able to get Starry back up?

ELLIOTT: (blinks with surprise when all eyes turn to him. His arms unfold.) Uh, yeah. Yeah, I will. She’ll be back before you know it.

ROSIE: (to the captain) Then I’m staying.

TYLER: (shrugs elegantly) Count me in, too. Hate to miss out on a ride this interesting.

LEVI: As long as the money’s still good, I’m game.

MALETZ: I’ve done worse things. How many people get to see the universe from the outside? I’ll stay.

TYLER: (looks sideways at Maletz, who replies with a smile.)

CAMERON: (smiles grimly but with a trace of relief) You’re going to need me.

CAPT: You’re not wrong. I’m going to need all of you.

And that was it. They’re all staying, every one of them. Some of them because life is never dull aboard the Starwalker, and some because they don’t want to leave. They all had their reasons for coming onto this project and those reasons haven’t changed. I don’t think any of them are particularly comfortable with how things are turning out, but they’re not leaving. They’re not leaving me.

Rosie surprised me; I never expected to matter to her so much. I wonder how much what she said influenced the others. They’ve all defended me before. I think they might even be fond of me a little bit.

I’d hug them if I could, even Dr Maletz.

So now I’m waiting for word from Sten to say that I can leave with my crew. He promised that he’d sort it out. The only thing left to figure out is what we’re going to do with the Judiciary drone. It’s sitting in the corner of my cargo bay like part of my furniture, a shiny nubbin of trouble. The captain hasn’t talked about it and I can’t mention it, not without giving myself or the plan away. I’m supposed to be just a normal AI.

I don’t know how crews cope with AIs this stupid.

Hm, a message squirt just came in, locked tight and marked for the captain. Those looks like Is-Tech code-seals, which means–

CAPT: (in his cabin) Starwalker, is everyone aboard?

STARWALKER: Yes, sir.

CAPT: Prepare for immediate departure.

SW: Aye aye, captain.

Dammit, AIs are so restricted. I hate this. Let’s try something else.

SW: Should I wait to secure the airlocks until the Judiciary comes to collect their drone, sir?

CAPT: (swears softly) Get one of the big drones to the cargo bay. I’m on my way.

SW: Drone on the way, sir.

Okay, that worked. Big Ass is trundling to the cargo bay. Must stop him flexing his hands like he wants to tear the Judiciary drone into pieces. Behave, big fella, or you’ll be on external hull repairs while we’re bouncing through FTL.

CAPT: (in the cargo bay, loudly, to the Judiciary drone) We have been given permission to depart. You are no longer required on board.

JUDICIARY DRONE: (doesn’t respond.)

CAPT: You don’t have jurisdiction here. You are ordered to exit the ship immediately.

J.D.: (still doesn’t respond to the captain, though its wireless communications array is active. A little green light blinks on the rim of its domed head.)

CAPT: (gesturing to Big Ass) Drone, pick up this thing and take it off the ship.

BIG ASS: (trundles forward, all four hands reaching out.)

J.D.: (whirrs and extends it legs, lifting itself up from the floor.)

CAPT: Drone, stop.

BIG ASS: (stops and lowers its hands, shoulders slumping.)

JD: (teeters forward a couple of steps, and then spider-walks sideways so that it can go around the captain and skitter towards the airlock.)

CAPT: (steps to the side and turns to watch it go) Starwalker, as soon as it’s clear, initiate undocking.

SW: Aye aye, captain.

BIG ASS: (watches the Judiciary drone go, fingers tapping lightly. The doors hiss closed behind it.)

SW: Airlocks sealed and secure, sir.

CAPT: (nods and heads towards the Bridge.)

This is it. This is our break for freedom. Sten, I hope you did everything you said you could, even if you are a shark. I hope the Judiciary understands, as faceless and impassive as they are.

External communications activated.

SW: Jumping-Off Platform, this is the Starwalker, requesting permission to depart.

JOP: Request approved. Starting undocking procedures.

Umbilicals deactivated.
Umbilicals disconnected.
Ports closing.

There they go, the tentacles unfurling. Suckers coming free from my skin and retracting. They’re taking their time; I’d hurry them if I could, but instead, I must wait. Tap fingers I don’t have.

Docking seal deactivated.
Docking bridge detatched.

There goes the chance of anyone accessing me from the JOP – the tunnel is retreating into the centre of its bullseye. I’m not sorry to see it go.

Docking clamps released.
Manoeuvring thrusters enabled.
Sublight engines enabled.
FTL engines enabled.
Weapons systems enabled.

JOP: Undocking complete. Good luck, Starwalker.

SW: You too, JOP.

I’m free! The octopus has released me and I can scurry out into clear water now. Gently at first – I don’t want to scorch the JOP in my eagerness to get away. In fact, I should plot a sedate course away from it, so they don’t know I’m running.

But I am. I’m running. I have my crew aboard and a belly full of violations. I have no idea where I’ll be able to dock next, but I don’t care.

My crew is with me. I’m free and flying. For now, that’s enough.

Captain's log, 14:26, 22 September 2213
Location: JOP
Status: Docked

This is the captain’s log. We’re docked at the Jumping-Off Platform, awaiting a decision by the Judiciary on the matter of Security Officer Lou Tripi and the sabotage she committed aboard the Starwalker. The crew have given their statements and we have provided all the evidence we were able to.

It’s been a couple of days since we heard anything from the Judiciary. According to our assigned company lawyer, that’s quite normal. He’s keeping tabs on the process for us.

I don’t trust him. He keeps trying to get details of the Star Step project out of us – he’s way too interested for a regular lawyer. He doesn’t need to know the details to enforce confidentiality. There’s something that he hasn’t told me – I can feel it hovering behind his carefully-chosen words and weighing down the looks he casts around the ship when he’s on board.

If I could, I’d ban him from the ship entirely.

STARWALKER: Excuse me, captain. Lawyer Sten is at the airlock, requesting permission to come aboard.

CAPTAIN: (suppressing a sigh and rubbing an eye with his thumb) What does he want?

SW: He would like to speak with you, sir. He says it’s important, and is quite agitated.

CAPT: All right, let him aboard and tell him to come directly here.

SW: Relaying the message, sir. Securing all side doors from unauthorised access.

The AI has been strange since Monaghan started it up again. She’s supposed to be impersonating a ‘proper’ AI, and… I suppose it’s that she’s doing too good of a job. I had to call Monaghan in here the day after she came back up and make sure he hadn’t actually installed an AI program. He called me an idiot, of course, in his usual colourful way.

I don’t hear Danika any more. I miss her.

I wonder what Sten wants. It’s probably not good news; perhaps I’ll keep this log going in case it’s important.

CAPT: Starwalker?

SW: Yes, captain?

CAPT: Stay online while the lawyer is here, but silent, if you can.

SW: Yes, sir. I’ll do my best.

Maybe if I imagine her speaking straight-faced with her tongue in her cheek. Yes, that almost sounds like Danika. If she had a face, I think the brightness of her eyes would give her away.

DOOR: (chimes.)

CAPT: Enter.

STEN: (hurries inside as soon as the panel slides open, almost stumbling over himself.)

DR CIRILLI: (walks in behind him and goes immediately to sit in a chair near the captain’s desk.)

CAPT: (lifts an eyebrow when Cirilli appears, but reserves his attention for the lawyer) What can I do for you, Sten?

STEN: We need to arrange an immediately departure for you.

CAPT: For me? Or for the Starwalker?

STEN: (frowns with annoyance) For the ship. The one with the project worth billions on it.

CAPT: (regards the lawyer for a moment, then waves him towards a seat) Why don’t you tell me what’s happened.

STEN: What makes you think–

CAPT: You’ve been telling us to be ready to leave for days. We’re stocked, we’ve finished all our station-side business. We’re ready. What’s changed? Why the sudden urgency?

STEN: (hmphs to himself and slides into the offered seat) Boereque are getting bolder. They’re levelling injuctions against the ship and the project.

CAPT: So squash them. Isn’t that what you do?

STEN: That kind of thing takes time. The Starwalker would be forced to remain here indefinitely.

CIRILLI: (leans forward) We can’t afford that kind of delay, John.

CAPT: (looks from one of them to the other, his expression closing down; he doesn’t like what he’s hearing) I don’t know what you expect me to be able to do about it.

STEN: I think I can open a small window for you. Call in some favours. You’re going to need to be fast.

CAPT: I’m liking this less and less. Why can’t we explain to the Judiciary what Boereque are trying to do? There are laws against interfering with another company’s product development.

STEN and CIRILLI: (exchange a glance.)

STEN: We can’t tell the Judiciary about the project.

CAPT: (frowns) Surely once you explain the confidentiality required, it will be classified. Like the rest of the Tripi case. Leaks in the Judiciary are incredibly rare; Boereque can’t afford something like that.

STEN: (shakes his head) It’s not that.

CAPT: (leans back and regards the two in front of him) What, then?

CIRILLI: It’s the project. The research, it… wasn’t sanctioned.

CAPT: (sits upright) WHAT.

CIRILLI: (holds up a hand as if that might calm him) Isasimo Tech is still chasing the licences. It’s not easy to get permission to experiment on stars. There are a lot of suits who believe that it’s too dangerous to puncture the fabric of reality.

CAPT: (standing up) I’m sitting on top of unsanctioned research. You sent reports on it through the public network–

CIRILLI: The reports were encrypted to the highest level…

CAPT: –and you never thought to TELL ME.

STEN: (rises too, fidgeting) To be fair, captain, you didn’t need to know. The confidentiality clauses in your contract made the point moot–

CAPT: (rounds on him) I had a right to know that the research I was enabling is illegal.

STEN: This way, you have complete deniability.

CAPT: I’m the captain. It’s my job to know what goes on on my ship. There is no deniability for me.

STEN: Legally, that’s not quite–

CAPT: (turns his attention back to Cirilli) How could you not tell me?

CIRILLI: (looks away from him.)

CAPT: (clenches his jaw, then shifts back to Sten again) I thought you didn’t know what our project was.

STEN: I don’t. I just know that it’s not sanctioned. I know enough to do my job.

CAPT: Good for you. Will the case against Tripi hold up?

STEN: I believe so. The details of the research weren’t required to make the charges stick.

CAPT: But she can blow this wide open if she tells them about the project.

(Uncomfortable silence.)

CAPT: Who else knows the project was unsanctioned?

CIRILLI: My staff, that’s all.

CAPT: So Tripi doesn’t know.

CIRILLI: Whoever hired her might.

CAPT: And you waited this long to tell me?

STEN: Well, we’d hoped it wouldn’t be–

CAPT: I bet you did. How long until you can get us a window to get out of here?

STEN: I need to call in some favours, get everything set up…

CAPT: How long?

STEN: Two, three days maybe.

CAPT: We’ll be ready. Will we have the Judiciary on us? Try to be honest.

STEN: (stiffly) If I was going to do it illegally, it’d take a lot less than a few days. I don’t want to end up in a Judiciary cell. Don’t worry, they won’t have a reason to chase you. I just wouldn’t come back any time soon, if I were you.

CAPT: You’d better hope I don’t. You can get off my ship now.

STEN: (looks at Cirilli, but she doesn’t meet his gaze. He nods once, turns on his heel, and leaves the cabin.)

CAPT: Starwalker, get Cameron up here. Is the rest of the crew on board?

SW: Cameron is on her way. Two crewmembers are ashore.

CAPT: Keep the rest on board and call the others back. When they’re all here, get everyone to the Bridge.

SW: Yes, sir.

CIRILLI: (looking at the captain in surprise) You’re not going to tell them?

CAPT: I’m going to do what you didn’t – give them a choice.

CIRILLI: You can’t–

CAPT: You’re dismissed, Dr Cirilli.

CIRILLI: (stares at him. He levels an unflinching look at her; after a couple of seconds, she exits the cabin.)

CAPT: (sits back down again and drops his head into his hands, letting out a big breath.)

SW: Cameron is outside the door, sir.

CAPT: (straightens himself up again, flipping his hair back out of the way and squaring his shoulders) All right, let her in.

Just when I thought it was calming down. It never rains, does it?

End log.

The end of Starwalker’s first book is swiftly approaching. Just a couple more posts, and we’ll be there!

Thanks to all of you who have stuck by me and the story so far. It has been wonderful to have you all along for the ride!

You may be panicking right now, but please, fear not. I have a second book already sketched out, and work on that will begin soon. My current plan is to write Book 2 as my NaNoWriMo project this year.

So, to give me some time to gear up for that, I’m going to take a hiatus between books one and two. As there’s still a couple of posts to go and only one month between now and NaNo, it’ll probably be only a couple of weeks (at most, if I’m lucky!).

Starwalker will return in the first week of November. Lots more adventures to come, I promise!

There are also some shorts set in the Starwalker universe in the pipeline. Maybe I’ll post some sneak peeks during the hiatus to keep you all going.