Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
I step into the dirty spaceport terminal, suppressing a shiver as industrial fans overhead fail to clear out the heavy smell of antiseptic and sweat. A line of bleary-eyed travelers snakes around metal chairs, leading to a small counter manned by a bored attendant in a rumpled uniform.
I can’t help noticing the “Health & Safety” signage plastered behind him, all referencing sedation protocols. Despite the cramped shuttle ride, there’s still the matter of a mandatory micro-jump gate hop before we reach Valis. Cheap or not, sedation is the rule for organic passengers.
“Name?” the attendant drones, barely looking up.
“David Wayne.” I hand over my ID chip. A dull beep confirms my identity.
He taps at a console. “Next of kin or emergency contact?”
“None,” I mutter. Another beep finalizes me in the system.
I hate how official travel logs box me in like I’m a package being processed.
I try to hide my shaking hands as I wedge deeper into the cramped shuttle seat, knees pressing uncomfortably against the scuffed metal before me.
The cabin is a claustrophobic array of worn seats and squealing seat rails. Every time the shuttle rattles, my stomach twists. After leaving Avalon Prime’s crowded terminal, I told myself I could handle a cheaper short-range route, a small hop to a secondary station, then this old shuttle over to Valis. Turns out “cheaper” means spending half a day feeling stuffed in a half-broken cargo crate.
A medic glides over, brandishing a small injector. “Arms out,” she orders, her tone clipped yet precise. I comply, feeling the cool press of the device against my skin. A blue LED on the injector blinks rapidly, indicating alow-dose sedative cocktailcalibrated for short-range Jump Gate transitions. The hiss of compressed air follows, delivering a sharp sting as the fluid pulses into my vein. A subtle tingle races up my arm within seconds, and my eyelids grow heavy.
Tabitha’s whisper crackles in my earpiece, amused. “Sweet dreams, you mad genius.”
I can almost feel her wry smile through the neural link, but before I can reply, consciousness slips away beneath a soothing,drug-induced haze. It’s like floating in a warm void. Each heartbeat echoes as the sedative regulates my vitals, preventing the dangerousjump sicknessthat can scramble human synapses if we’re fully awake during transit.
I sense the ship’s internal readings. Faint beeps ofbiometric scanners and flickers of overhead lights bleed into the dream. Phantom shapes merge in my mind of schematic diagrams, half-formed memories of mechs, jump calcs, and the flash of Korr’s mocking grin. Then, reality wavers, and my mind surrenders to the enforced stasis.
Suddenly, everything jolts. It’s as if someone’s torn open the warm blanket around my brain. The sedation dissipates with a cold rush, and I snap awake to glaring shuttle lights. A sour taste clings to my tongue, the classic aftertaste of sedation chemicals wearing off. My limbs feel leaden, as though I’ve been pinned under gravity a notch higher than usual, and my head pounds in rhythm with my urgent pulse.
Around me, technicians move with the practiced efficiency of med-lab staff, scanning passengers to confirm safe emergence. I blink hard, focusing on the shuttle’s corridor.
Outside, through the reinforced windows, I glimpse the swirling industrial haze of our destination. With a ragged breath, I realize we’ve landed, or at leastdocked. The squeal of pressurizing clamps echoes, and a disembodied voice chimes over the intercom, announcing our imminent arrival.
I swallow hard, trying to clear the dryness from my throat. Tabitha’s voice crackles back to life in my ear, decidedly smug. “Welcome back.”
I roll my eyes, too groggy to retort and too grateful that she remained online to guide me through the haze. Stifling a groan, I unbuckle from a constrictive harness seat. Overhead speakers crackle. “Arrival at Valis sector approach.”
Tabitha senses my mood without me saying a word. Her voice purrs into my earpiece, sarcasm laced with genuine worry. “You’re fidgeting like a cornered cat, David. Not planning on puking, are you?”
I close my eyes and will the motion sickness away. “I’ll hold it together,” I whisper. The passenger beside me doesn’t bother looking up from his portable holo-vid. He must have come out faster than I did. Probably because he has a fair amount of extra weight.
Skinny people like me don’t dissipate the chemicals as well.
No one here wants to make conversation. I can’t blame them. The overhead lighting flickers with an ugly, sporadic sputter, like it’s about to short-circuit any second.
“You, me, and turbulence clearly don’t mix,” Tabitha quips. “Next time, maybe we’ll forge the sedation logs."
I suppress a bitter laugh. Sedation logs are expensive to forge properly, and I’m scraping the bottom of my funds. “Give me a chance to rebuild my bank account,” I reply softly, trying not to draw attention. “Then I’ll treat you to all the forged travel passes you want.”
Her digital hum crackles warmly. “I’ll make a high-roller out of you yet.”
I snort.
Right now, I feel anything but high-rolling.
The shuttle lurches violently, engines changing pitch as we descend toward Valis. My teeth clack from the jolt. I catch a glimpse through the scratched window. A thick, smoky sky blankets rows of factories and looming industrial towers. It’s late afternoon, but the sunlight barely pierces the haze. The urban sprawl below is all dull grays and rusted browns. Valis, my new home.
“Welcome to the city of good intentions gone sour,” Tabitha drawls. “Rust, smoke, and questionable corporate ethics at every corner. I can’t wait to see how we’ll improve it.”
I press my head against the seat and exhale, faintly relieved when the pilot’s voice crackles through the overhead speaker, telling us to prepare for landing.
My chest is tight, part anxiety, part anticipation. I have only a vague plan. Find a cheap place to set up shop, work on my mech designs, and push myself to the next step. The rest feels like stepping into the unknown, but I’ll take the unknown over the humiliation I left behind in Avalon Prime.
The landing is rough, but at least it’s over fast. An alarm pings, the cabin door unseals with a hiss, and the line of passengers shuffles out onto a plain terminal ringed by chain-link fencing. Beyond the fence, cargo crates are stacked haphazardly, and forklift drones zip around, nearly colliding with cargo carriers. A haze of pollutants clings to the air, leaving everything with a greasy film. I tug my jacket collar up, stuffing my bag’s strap tighter over my shoulder.
“Let’s see,” Tabitha murmurs. “Coordinates from that old listing say the salvage yard is about three miles from here. You want me to ping a rideshare or something?”
I scan the swarm of battered hover-trucks hauling crates, trying not to look like a naive newcomer. “No rideshare,” I tell her. “It’ll cost me what’s left of my budget.” My small inheritance from my father is already dangerously low. “I’ll walk.”
“That’s my thrifty pilot,” Tabitha praises. “We can’t waste all your credits.” I notice the lights blinking on and off erratically as Tabitha adds, “We’ve got a power grid to fix, apparently.”
I let her sarcasm roll over me. She’s not wrong. To get a workshop big enough to build what I have in mind, I’ll need an entire hangar, plus a place to stash hardware without the local corporate watchdogs breathing down my neck.
The lead Tabitha found suggests a ramshackle hangar on the outskirts, run by a man named Quinn “Patch” Reyes. The comm listing said he’s got salvage-lot authority and is willing to lease space to “resourceful individuals.”
That’s code for under-the-table deals if the price is right. And I need to speak that code right now.
I step past the terminal fence and head down a cracked sidewalk marred with graffiti. The scrawl reads everything from gang tags to anti-corporate slogans. Each breath tastes like scorched metal. This district clearly isn’t a tourist spot. Flickering neon adverts overhead promise industrial welders and oxygen filters.
I pull my jacket closer and push forward.
I pass a corner store with a shattered window, the shopkeeper glaring at me from inside. Half-rusted lampposts line the streets. A few guys sprawl near a burn barrel, chatting quietly. One of them eyes my bag suspiciously, but I keep my head down and walk on.
After about thirty minutes of trudging through half-abandoned blocks, I see an expanse of chain-link fence crowned with barbed wire. Beyond it, clusters of salvage piles rise like twisted monuments. Stacks of old mech limbs, dented cargo pods, and half-melted plating reflect the dull evening light. A sign in chipped paint reads REYES’ SALVAGE.
I call out near the locked gate, my voice echoing in the thick air. “Hello?”
A muffled crash from within the yard, the clang of metal on metal. Then, the gate rattles. A figure steps into view, short and wiry, wearing greasy coveralls. Quinn “Patch” Reyes, presumably. His silver-threaded hair is cut short. He eyes me, flicking a half-spent cigarette to the ground.
Tabitha hums at the sight of him. “He’d sell his own grandmother’s dentures for the right price,” she whispers. “I admire the hustle.”
I stifle a grin and approach. “You’re Patch?” I ask, trying to sound more confident than I feel.
“Depends,” he growls. The gravel tone matches his yard’s aesthetics. “Who’s asking?”
I swallow, clearing my throat. “Name’s David Wayne. I wrote to you about the hangar you had available.”
Patch scrutinizes me, then the bag I’m carrying. “Right. You not worried you’ll get lost out here, kid?”
I stand straighter, fighting the impulse to bristle at the word kid . “I can handle myself,” I reply evenly. “Mind if I look at the hangar?”
He barks a short laugh but turns to wrestle the gate open. “Suit yourself. You got spunk, at least. This way.”
Inside, the yard is a labyrinth of scrap heaps and looming towers of salvaged mech frames. A forklift drone zips by, hauling disembodied servo arms across a dusty lot. The smell is an overpowering mix of rust, grease, and stale air. We weave through the debris, each step crunching on scattered metal shards. Patch says nothing at first, pausing to let me see the scale of his operation like he’s daring me to regret coming here.
Finally, we reach a hulking structure with a half-collapsed roof. It’s definitely a hangar, though I’d call it a giant steel skeleton. Bullet holes or something similarly damaging pock the walls, and entire sections of rusted beams are visible. Overhead, a few flickering lights spark and die irregularly, reflecting on water puddles from who-knows-what leak. The floor is caked with dust and corrosion. The place smells like a graveyard for dead machines.
Tabitha gives a low whistle. “Cozy,” she remarks. “Are we sure we don’t want to check other listings, maybe one with an actual roof?”
I can’t blame her skepticism, but the sheer size of the structure is perfect for a workshop. After we fix the holes, that is. I note the scattered generator units near the back corner. Half of them probably haven’t been operational in years. A hollow pit forms in my stomach as I realize how much work—and money—it’ll take to get the power running, let alone upgrade any security.
Patch crosses his arms and eyes me expectantly. “Like I said over comm, it’s rough, but it’s big.” He waves at the overhead girders. “You could fit a full-scale transport in here if you wanted. Rust aside, the structure is stable enough. And I keep the local regulators off my back. Means you can do your…tinkering uninterrupted.”
I nod, skimming my gaze across the interior. “How’s the rent?”
Patch’s grin is a crooked slash. “Five thousand credits a month, upfront. Nonnegotiable.”
The blood drains from my face. Tabitha hisses in my ear, “He’s bold. He must see we’re desperate.” She’s not wrong. I glance at Patch, reading his posture. The glint in his eye says he knows exactly how overpriced it is and that I might pay it anyway. Bastard.
I told myself I wouldn’t blow all my resources in one fell swoop, but Korr’s sneering image creeps into my mind, fueling me.
This is the next step. I can’t give up because it’s pricey.
I set my jaw. “That’s steep,” I reply, trying not to let my voice shake. “Especially for a place with holes in the roof and a half-dead generator. I can’t pay that.”
He shrugs. “Then maybe you can’t have it. This is Valis, kid. People pay if they want to bypass corporate watchers.”
Tabitha offers a quiet burst of moral support. “You can do this, David. Don’t let him corner you.” She might be a snarky AI, but she does believe in me.
I square my shoulders. “Look, I can wire you half that for the first month, provided you let me fix the roof and the power grid. If I can do that, we both benefit. Right?”
Patch’s eyes narrow like he’s surveying me for weakness. He points to a battered forklift drone near an old shipping crate. “I’ll have to keep that income separate from certain bribes. If I drop my asking price, you better handle the rest of the overhead. Generators, basic security, you break it, you fix it.”
I nod, wanting to appear calm. My inheritance will be nearly gone if we do this. Yet if I turn away now, I lose my best shot at building anything on Valis. The memory of Staff Sergeant Korr’s humiliating laugh sears the back of my thoughts. I refuse to crawl away again.
We speak for a few more minutes, going back and forth, with frankly neither of us budging. Finally, he’s had enough.
“So, you want the place or not?” He grunts.
I exhale, ignoring my trembling pulse as I realize I’d been focused on making shit happen. Not going back with my tail between my legs. “I do.”
His grin returns in full force. “Good choice. Let’s get the paperwork sorted.”
He leads me into a makeshift office nestled between two shipping containers. Inside, a single, flickering lamp illuminates a rickety metal desk heaped with data tablets, coffee-stained forms, and wads of old receipts. He rummages through the mess and slaps a contract template onto the desk, then gestures for me to sign.
The figures look predatory, but I see the blank spot where he’s offering a slightly reduced monthly rate. It’s still highway robbery, but it’s survivable.
His signature is a lazy scrawl, but it feels more ominous than any official stamp. “Welcome to your new fortress,” he jokes. “Don’t bother me if the place catches fire, though.”
“Hold on,” Tabitha purrs, reciting a quick digital read. “Better confirm you’re not signing away your soul.” Her voice in my earpiece is for me alone. With a subtle flick of my wrist, I let her run a hack to read any fine print. She hums. “No traps, other than the price. He doesn’t plan to sabotage you, from what I can see.”
My mouth is dry as I press my ID chip to finalize the transaction.
The beep is deafening in this cramped space. Patch tears off a physical copy from his dingy portable printer, some archaic contraption that squeals with each line. “Your problem now.” He hands the slip over. “Generators are all yours to fix or burn.”
We step back outside. The sun is almost gone, and the polluted sky of Valis glows in a bruise-colored twilight. Overhead lamps flicker around the salvage yard, casting odd shadows across piles of rusted machinery. I direct my gaze toward the looming hangar. My hangar now, my responsibility. The weight of it leaves me both exhilarated and terrified.
Patch moves away to tend to a sputtering forklift at the yard entrance. I stand alone by the yawning mouth of the hangar, letting the dusk wash over me.
Finally, I step inside. My footsteps echo across the dusty concrete. The overhead lights flicker like they might give up at any moment, a fitting metaphor for my uncertain ambitions. Rust covers the walls in swirling patterns. In some corners, twisted support beams poke through jagged holes in the sheet metal. Puddles of oily water shimmer on the floor.
This space looks like it’s teetering on the brink of collapse.
Tabitha’s voice emerges soft, minus her usual teasing. “You okay?”
I bite my lip. “Just thinking about how much this will cost us. Time, money, everything.”
She’s silent for a beat. Then, with surprising gentleness, she adds, “Don’t forget why we’re here. That big jerk who said you’d never make it? This is your chance to prove him, and everyone else, dead wrong.”
I nod, heat flaring in my chest. “Damn right,” I whisper. “I’ll show them all. And after I get this place operational, I’ll build something that’ll shake the galaxy’s idea of a mech pilot.”
I pivot toward a cluster of decrepit generator units lined against one wall. One is missing a cover, revealing a nest of frayed wires inside. Another is so dented I’m surprised it hasn’t exploded yet. I flick on my flashlight to poke around. The stench of old circuitry prickles my nostrils. The coolant hoses are bone-dry, the power couplings half-corroded.
If I can tinker these back to life… It’s never been done. At least not by me.
Yet something about the junk calls to my engineering instincts.
A fresh jolt of excitement courses through me. I’ve done makeshift repairs a hundred times in my life, though never on such a large scale. Between my inheritance, the last of my savings, and my obsession to surpass every blockhead who mocked me, I’ll manage.
We’ll see who’s “too scrawny” after I get a real mech up and running from this base.
Outside, a forklift squeals, and metal clangs echo through the night, blending with the hum of distant factories. Valis is alive with heavy industry, forging everything from mech limbs to starship plating. From within my battered hangar, I sense a spark of energy, like the entire planet is brimming with raw materials I can shape. It’s not the glamorous mech academy I imagined, but it’s real.
It’s mine to make happen.
I drop my bag with a thump on an old crate, rummaging through the small gear I brought. Tabitha’s quiet as I set out a multi-tool, some spare cables, and a flickering datapad. This is basically all I have to my name now besides an unstoppable dream. My heart pounds as I glance around. Holes in the roof, rust in the corners, a power grid that’s basically a suicide risk.
And yet, I’ve never felt more alive.
“All right,” I announce, my voice echoing in the cavernous space. “Let’s see about hooking some power back up, Tabi. We can’t start building in the dark.”
Tabitha’s tone brightens. “You want me to do a once-over on those generator schematics? Maybe, I don’t know, keep you from getting electrocuted?”
I manage a genuine laugh for the first time all day. “Electrocution is not on my to-do list. See if you can find any salvage-lot records that show how these things ended up here and if they’re salvageable.” I yank a cable coil from my bag, my breath hitching in a rush of adrenaline. “We’ll do everything ourselves. No one’s gonna hand me a blueprint for success.”
Tabitha’s murmur echoes in my ear. “Atta boy. Let’s get to work.”
I walk deeper into the hangar, stepping gingerly around puddles and debris. Each flicker of the overhead lamps reveals more rust, more peeling paint. My reflection in an oily puddle is faint. I see a lanky silhouette with determination etched into every line. I kneel beside the first generator, aware that if I can’t rig stable power, I’ll be stuck. I also know that if I manage this, if I truly fix it, it’ll be a raw demonstration of my skill.
And skill, I have.
I grip the multi-tool, open the generator’s side panel with a squeak , and stare at the jumbled mess of wires. Cracked insulation, severed leads. Someone tried to patch it before they abandoned it. My mind whirs with options, a thousand approach angles. Tabitha flicks on a low-level scanning routine, highlighting potential weak points in my visor display. She feeds me hushed commentary. “Watch those couplings. They might be fused.”
I take a slow breath, my heart steadying. The reek of scorched metal almost feels welcoming. Time to transform this worthless salvage into a functioning lifeline. My plan is to get basic lighting stable tonight. Tomorrow, maybe the security system. Then, I can focus on the real project.
I close my eyes, letting the swirl of exhaustion and determination settle. The ghost of Korr’s sneer is still in the back of my mind, but something new drowns it out. Hope. I’m spent, low on funds, and alone except for an unlicensed AI whispering in my ear, but that might be enough. Actually, it’s more than enough.
“Let’s prove him wrong,” I whisper to Tabitha, the scoreboard bright in my imagination. “Let’s prove them all wrong.”
“Damn straight,” Tabitha replies. “Now, start rewiring that beast, soldier boy.”
Despite the grime and stench, I grin. This is it, my new beginning.
I lean forward and pry out the damaged wires, my mind already leaping ahead to the day this withered hangar transforms into the cradle of something extraordinary.
I can almost taste the vindication, and I won’t stop until every last rusted inch of this place answers my call.