Chapter 2 – Goodbye Gorelion #3
I mean, I wasn't sure I'd want to spend my vacation time squeezed into an arena along thousands of other spectators, no matter how much the conglomerate touted the luxurious viewing areas, and I especially couldn't imagine wanting to watch people (sometimes) murder each other and (once, memorably) beat someone to death with their own severed limbs.
Then again, I'd never had a vacation, so what did I know?
I wandered around for awhile, studying departure boards and stopping at a few displays where travellers posted notices about where they were headed and how much a berth might cost. Apparently luck wasn't on my side at the moment, because a cursory inspection didn't reveal anyone headed in the direction I needed.
I swung through a few restaurants and bars, flashing my smile where it would be appreciated – smiling is considered an aggressive gesture in biryat culture, so I scrunched my forehead in the friendliest wince I could manage when I spoke with that particular server – and came up with nothing.
The day was passing me by, and it was going quickly.
And the longer I went without a likely prospect for getting to this damned Tournament, the harder it was to shove down and ignore the slow simmer of dread at work in some unlucky twist of my small intestine.
It was one thing to pack up everything I owned in a single bag and cheerily say goodbye to Alet Trident and the only home I'd known in my adult life; it was another to realize that even this paper-thin attempt at a plan might fizzle out right now because I couldn't afford to book passage on a public vessel headed to the part of space I needed to get to.
The sounds of the leisure courts, which had been delightful when I'd first arrived, quickly became a cacophony as the traffic picked up, the solar winds coming off the nearby asteroid belt mellowing at this point in the day so that more vessels could dock and cast off.
I jabbed at a beverage machine, which ground out a sickly sound before dispensing a cup of a green, milky beverage that absolutely wasn't the sparkling water I'd just paid for with my dwindling credits, and then I wove through a massive herd of malat shuffling in from one of the loading areas and grumbling about the displayed prices of adequate lodgings.
I made it as far as a bench half-hidden beneath a spray of fake foliage before my knees just gave out on me, and I half-sat, half-fell onto the broad metal surface, green drink sloshing up over my hand and dripping all down my pants.
Great, just great. I was out of a job, out of a home, on the run from a religious cult that would scoop me up and torture me until my brain fell out (a brain falling out meant there was more room for the holy spirit, right?), and if I didn't find a way to Thenat-6, I'd also be in violation of a legally binding contract with a massive media conglomerate.
And now my knees were damp and sticky and smelled like – I leaned over the edge of the paper cup and inhaled – wet brin.
The roar of the crowds around me fuzzed out as I stared down into the murky green sludge, and I did the math on my remaining credits.
Could I afford a bunk here, close to the docks, so that I could pounce on any rumours of available seats?
If I couldn't, did I have to circle back to Alet's den and beg for a bed there for the night – mine was already filled; she had a waiting list of prospective dancers – or maybe I could borrow more credits to cover a bed here?
I didn't really know anyone else I could ask.
I sat the cup down with a dull thud next to me and wiped my wet hand on my pants, which were already damp with green sludge, so what was a little extra?
I tried to think of any clients I might be able to track down who had maybe let a little personal information slip and would be amenable to having me show up for favours.
It was a stupid idea. The only thing people slipped me was the tongue, or sometimes a hand, or other appendage, down my pants. No one liked sharing things like their home address or ship name as pillow talk, or sticky-couch talk, I guess.
I was in trouble. This was bad. The walls were metaphorically closing in, pretty impressive for a space as cavernous as the leisure courts.
I blinked up at the ceiling high above with its mirrored display of space beyond, the distant arc of the nebula spinning out in the depths of all that black.
Ships winked as they came and went, the view framed by massive white girders, like a cage.
Here I was, tucked away inside, when what I needed was to be out there.
It was like being a kid again: trapped, powerless, suffocating.
But I wasn't a kid, and I couldn't let panic get me, no matter how hard my heart had started to lurch against my ribs or how tight my throat felt or how deep I had to breathe to feel any oxygen in my lungs at all.
Five.
So I'd spent the morning looking for flights. That was just one morning.
Four.
I had a couple weeks. Anything could happen in a couple weeks.
Three.
Worst case, I 'd have to write to the conglomerate and explain that I needed help getting there.
Two.
They could take it out of my winnings, I'd say, and then I'd promise to be extra blood-thirsty or something.
One.
If that failed, I could always throw myself out of an airlock. It'd be a pretty quick way to go. And then someone could scoop up my frozen body up and ship me back to Seraphim, and I wouldn't have any problems any more.
Okay.
I was again struck by the sense that I should be a bit more afraid about dying.
Other people were. Maybe it was a weird holdover from all of those Sunday school classes.
On Seraphim, it hadn't been too important to be attached to this life because it was what came after that counted: my existence was useful only insofar as it determined what happened with my eternity.
It had been weird, to be simultaneously told that you were playing an essential role in God's holy war while also understanding that the here-and-now didn't hold any real value, beyond what you could do for the cause.
To feel crucial and disposable, all at the same time: my life had value as a crucible to make or break my soul, which only had value insofar as it was needed by Seraphim.
I could see, thinking about it, how that might do a number on a kid's sense of self-worth.
But now I knew that my life didn't matter, which didn't feel as depressing as it sounds.
Once my life was done, it was done, and the Tournament would go on and Trident would go on and people would still be here at this spaceport, coming and going and complaining about the price of lodgings and the lack of decent homeworld food on the station.
I huffed out a short, skeptical laugh.
It didn't really matter at all, did it? I stuck my pack between my knees and went rummaging around my meagre possessions, finally digging out the journal I'd half-heartedly started when I had aspirations of doing some reflection and working on myself.
Most of the pages were predictably blank.
I ripped a handful from the back of the journal and grabbed a marker from the recesses of my bag.
Maybe I needed to make my ride come to me.
I carefully wrote out what I needed and my contact info while also omitting my name or any identifying information.
It was easy enough to buy some decorative tape from one of the little shops tucked up a narrow, dimly lit alley – this tape flashed gold and white and had little fish jumping out of waves at predictable intervals – and then I set to posting notices on the pillars holding up the official noticeboards.
Partway through my attempt to paper every likely flat surface with my impromptu flyers, my wristband buzzed with a message. I paused, wedging the last few flyers under my armpit, and tapped the interface.
You're meant to run lines with me this morning, so unless you're currently out and about purchasing some delicious treats, you owe me an apology. Khrelen's message glowed a soft white in the air above my wrist.
My stomach twisted, maybe with guilt. Sorry, I wrote, Had something to take care of. Ask Devala.
I was going to mute the thread – he'd get a message from me later that I'd queued to auto-send, explaining everything, and I didn't think I could handle lying to Khrelen right now – but the guilt was throbbing low in my gut, so I added, I really can't talk right now, but you should know that you're great.
You'll get your break! I bet your monologue would have made me cry.
And then I muted the thread and refused to let myself think about saying goodbye to Khrelen Tintissi or Yellow Fin Station or the life I'd made for myself. Instead, I set myself to taping up the rest of my signs. I had a problem to solve; I couldn't waste any time feeling sorry for myself.
I was crouched beneath one of the smaller displays near a less popular berth – it was more narrow than the others, and caught the worst of the solar winds from the angle of the belt – taping up my eleventh notice, when I heard a soft sound, like someone clearing their throat.
I jerked up. "Ow," I hissed, my head smacking the bottom of the display board.
My gaze caught the edge of a very shiny pair of black boots, and I grimaced.
I should have known the port authority would take notice eventually.
They probably had some words for me about not going through official channels or paying whatever fee they wanted to charge.
"Listen," I said placatingly as I shuffled backwards from underneath the sign and drew myself up to full height, "I'm really not trying to cause any trouble.
It's just that I'm having a hard time finding a seat on a ship and –"