Chapter 13 - Ayden
The Intergalactic Confederation AI database is loaded with every piece of art ever recorded, regardless of who produced it. That means we’ve got access to every movie, documentary, and music track from our Old World. Handy, right?
“You’ve got a holo-message from Logan,” Vlad announces, leaning over the console.
“Urgent?” I ask while pulling on my shirt after a quick shower.
“Low priority,” he confirms. “Take your time getting ready.”
Inside the Impala, our two-seater flyer, space is tight and efficiently used.
It’s got bare-minimum comforts—a round cabin with a two-person cockpit at the front.
At the back, there’s a door leading to the hygiene zone: a toilet, a mini shower, and a sink barely big enough to wash your hands and brush your teeth.
In between, there’s maybe twelve square meters for everything else—meals, briefings, and whatever else we manage to squeeze in.
On either side, we’ve got slide-out sleep pods, just over two meters long and a meter wide.
I tap the starboard panel and my bed unfolds.
I’m feeling wiped out—time to crash after that short but relaxing rinse.
“Want me to wait before opening the message?” I ask as Vlad starts stripping down for his turn in the shower.
“Up to you. I’ll be quick,” he chuckles.
It’s an old running joke—on all Confederation ships, showers are capped at three minutes. Just enough time to wash off properly without wasting precious water, the most valuable resource out here in space.
As Lavoisier, some brainiac from old Earth, used to say: “Nothing is lost, nothing is created, everything is transformed.”
Out here, water’s rare. Thankfully, all our ships are equipped with ultra-advanced recycling systems that purify every kind of liquid into drinkable water. The system’s also got a strict timer—three minutes per person, per day.
I start heating some water and set two mugs on the table along with a couple of freeze-dried meal packs—our gourmet dinner for the evening. Vlad strolls back in—completely stark naked.
“What the hell, man?!” I shout. “I don’t need to see your junk! I’ve told you before.”
“Relax, babe. I’m out of clean nightwear,” he shrugs.
Vlad’s a fun guy to travel with—witty, a bit snarky, which I honestly appreciate. But he’s also the king of procrastination, especially when it comes to boring chores. No surprise he’s behind on laundry—he always waits till the last possible second.
“That’s no excuse! No way I’m eating dinner with your package flapping in my face. Grab a towel, for Stars’ sake.”
“I didn’t realize you were so turned on by me,” he says dramatically, placing a hand over his heart. “But I’m afraid you do nothing for me, babe.”
Vlad and I have been partners for five Polar years. We know each other’s quirks inside out. Vlad likes women. All kinds of women. Me? I’ve been stuck on one in particular—even after all this time. Since she’s off-limits, I settle now and then for someone else. Brunettes, preferably.
From the start, I laid it all out for Vlad and Igor.
Told them about Sam. About Logan. About the impossible mess I’d gotten myself into.
Igor immediately suggested switching partners.
We’d all trained together and got along well.
The reassignment wasn’t a big deal—especially since Haruki had floated the idea himself.
So Igor joined Logan, and I became Vlad’s new teammate.
Vlad’s a lot like me in many ways. Dark-haired, unlike Logan, and with eyes the opposite of my old partner’s. That helps me not think about her too much.
While Vlad rummages in the back looking for something to cover his assets, I finish prepping the soup-like dinner.
We both sit around the table and wrap our hands around the steaming mugs.
“Impala, play the message from Logan,” I command.
The music cuts off, and a hologram lights up above the table. Logan’s face appears.
“Hey Ayden. I’m on my way to Gekkaria. Just wanted to let you know Albert passed away.
Sam’s all alone there now. I’m planning to bring her to BN-22.
She might feel safe with her little gecko friends, but the rest of the planet’s falling under the control of traffickers.
Igor’s staying at base while I go get her. Just keeping you in the loop.”
The message ends. The holo vanishes. I sit there, stunned.
Holo-messages are a one-way deal. No instant reply.
The distances are too vast. No guarantee on delivery time either.
I only get a timestamp based on Polaris, the Polarian homeworld.
This one was sent several days ago. I’ve got no idea whether Logan’s reached his sister yet—or if they’re already back on BN-22.
“Well, that’s an interesting little update,” Vlad comments.
I glance at him, waiting for the follow-up.
“If I recall,” he says, “you’ve been burning up for Logan’s little sister. That’s why you ended up here with me. And she’s grown quite a bit since then—at least based on those recent pics Logan showed us. If she does move to BN-22… that opens some new doors, doesn’t it?”
“I’m not burning up for anyone,” I say flatly. “There was just… a situation. And I chose to walk away so things wouldn’t get messy with Logan. That was a long time ago. She’s moved on. So have I.”
“Who are you trying to fool, exactly? Not me, I hope. You were brutally honest with us five years ago when you asked to switch partners. Don’t insult my intelligence pretending you’re over her now.”
Before I can respond, our ship’s AI interrupts at just the right moment.
“Incoming message,” it chirps in its usual metallic voice.
This time it’s not a holo—it’s a mission update displayed on the wall screen. A list of current ops and which teams are assigned. Akifumi manages a lot of agents. Some work alone. Others in pairs. All of us share the same objectives: Catalog lifeforms across the galaxy.
Identify terraformable worlds—those that could support life but haven’t sparked yet.
Combat slavery and planetary looting by the Smuggler Coalition.
Akifumi regularly updates us on mission progress and everyone’s current location. That way, we can coordinate and avoid overlapping.
“Things are heating up in the Eastern quadrant,” Vlad notes, studying the map.
I know what he’s getting at. That’s where Gekkaria is. That’s also where Logan’s location is flagged. Vlad’s giving me an out—a chance to ditch our current mission and head East.
“There’s already plenty of boots on the ground,” I point out, highlighting the units in that zone.
He gives me a nod of respect. He floated the option without really believing it was smart. And he’s right. Even if every instinct is screaming for me to go check on HER, my duty lies elsewhere.
“Akifumi says the team’s tracking a major slave market in that quadrant,” Vlad adds. “But it looks like it’s still far from Gekkaria.”
“Logan won’t risk anything when it comes to his sister’s safety. And I can tell you—Gekkaria is one of the chillest planets I’ve ever seen.”
“Hey, look who’s on that slave-trade case,” Vlad says, zooming in. “Pherebos! Remember him?”
“The long-haired guy with the violet eyes? Yeah… wasn’t even Human, right?”
I remember that intense stare, totally unsettling. We crossed paths at one of Akifumi’s training camps. A lone agent, if I recall.
“Yeah, from some unknown world—I forget the name. Anyway, he’s on it. So no reason for us to drop everything and go East.”
“Perfect. Then we stay the course. Besides, Jason and Xenon are also headed South. Might be a chance for the four of us to meet up,” Vlad says enthusiastically.
“We’ll see. Right now, I’m dead tired. Going to bed,” I say.
I climb into my bunk and pull the cover over me before hitting the lock button. While in motion, we seal our sleeping pods—just in case the AI has to pull an emergency maneuver. Better bruises on the ego than on the body.
Sleep comes quickly. And as I drift off, the only thing glowing in my mind is the intense blue gaze ringed in black that’s haunted my dreams for years. A look I’ve never managed to forget.
I'm sitting in the cockpit of the Impala. Next to me, Vlad is going through the standard checks, making sure everything’s running smoothly.
Sure, the AI does that too—constantly—but nothing beats a good old human once-over.
No matter how well we prepare, space always finds a way to mess with our plans.
“All systems nominal,” Vlad announces.
Time in space can feel like forever. Even with our top-of-the-line Polaris tech and its insane speeds, the journey between destinations includes these long, dragging stretches of nothing.
So Vlad and I have our routines. Daily manual inspections—because trust is good, but control is better. And then, we play.
Vlad’s favorite? Chess. A game from Old Earth. He taught me five years ago, and yeah, I gotta admit—it’s brilliant.
With Logan, things were quieter—more individual stuff like reading. Which I liked too, but let’s be honest, it’s less social.
As we’re approaching a barren, rocky planetoid, an alarm pierces the quiet.
“AI, what’s going on?” Vlad asks, sounding alert.
I scan the screens and see that we’ve picked up a distress signal. A ship is stranded in high orbit above the lifeless rock.
“Looks like they’re in trouble,” the AI confirms.
“They’ve triggered an automated request for assistance.”
“Alright. Scan the ship and cross-check it with the database. Do we have a holographic or voice message backing the call?” I ask.
“Negative. Just a standard, anonymous beacon.”
Vlad and I lock eyes. This smells off. The ship is small—six to eight crew tops. Someone should’ve been able to send a more detailed distress call.
“AI, try contacting them for a status update,” Vlad says.
“Already did. No response.”
This is getting sketchy. Is it a trap?
We’ve seen this tactic before. The Slavers’ Coalition is infamous for it. Send out a distress call, lure in some do-gooders, then ambush them and strip their ship clean—crew included. If they board something bigger than theirs, they just play it off like the problem’s been fixed.
“Do we go?” I ask Vlad.
He nods and pops the hatch on our weapons compartment.
“Set the pistoblasters to stun. Wide range,” I say.
If it’s a trap, they’re gonna regret picking us.
We close in on the vessel. Once we have it in sight, we circle around for a recon pass—nothing stirs. We dock slowly, every movement deliberate.
The moment we open the hatch, the stench hits us like a gut punch. Death. Thick and sour. I gag hard enough to feel my last meal climbing back up.
The access bay opens straight into their cargo hold. Inside, rows of cages—and corpses. Rotting bodies locked in cells. Slaver ship, no doubt. These cells are their calling card.
Focused, we clear the level and head upward. No signs of life anywhere. It’s a ghost ship.
Everyone’s dead. Prisoners and captors alike.
“Shit… What the hell happened here?” Vlad asks, more to the air than to me.
“No visible signs of violence. No bullet holes, no blood. Looks like they all just… died. Most were in their bunks. The captain’s on the bridge, slumped in his chair. Judging by the state of the bodies, this happened days ago.”
“Shit. Containment,” Vlad mutters, brows furrowed.
“AI, initiate containment protocol and begin pathogen scan,” I command through my wristband.
Well, we’re officially in deep shit. We’ll have to tow this deathtrap to the nearest Confed base for decontamination and full investigation. And I can already hear the word I dread most: quarantine. Just great.
We make a swift exit and seal the airlock behind us.
“AI, start full disinfection of the Impala,” Vlad orders.
I pinch the bridge of my nose, frustration bubbling up. If this was a virus, we're screwed. Whatever it was, it hit hard and fast. We need to stay alert and not freak out.
“Disinfection in progress,” the AI confirms. “Did either of you touch potentially contaminated surfaces?”
“Uh… control panels, elevator buttons, doors…” I mutter, already regretting our decision.
“Were you wearing protective gear when you boarded?” the AI presses.
“No,” Vlad answers, annoyed. “Those suits limit mobility. If it had been an ambush, they’d have slowed us down.”
“As per protocol, Impala maintained positive pressure during the docking, ensuring containment within the foreign vessel. However, if the pathogen made contact, it is beyond my control. I’ve notified the nearest base and set course for BN-33.
They’ll provide further instructions and prepare for your arrival.
In the meantime, monitor each other closely for symptoms. Report anything unusual immediately. ”
Vlad and I exchange a look of shared regret. There’s no way around it now.
“The silver lining? We get an extra shower—with lots of fun chemicals! We’ll be squeaky clean for the next decade,” Vlad jokes.
“You go first,” I grimace, thinking about the hell that is a decontamination cycle—overheated water and acidic sprays that sting like hell.
“Me? First? What am I, the guinea pig?” he gasps, pretending to be scandalized. “If I survive, you’ll know it’s safe.”
“Don’t worry. If you die, I’ll make sure they remember you as a true hero,” I shoot back with a grin. “Now move your ass!”
“When you put it that way…” Vlad sighs and disappears into the hygiene bay.
While he’s busy scrubbing himself raw, I prep the course to BN-33 and run the procedures with the AI. Once he reemerges—naked, again, but this time with a legit excuse—I head in for my turn.
I strip down, dump my clothes in the sterilizer, and step into the shower unit.
“Go ahead, start the cycle,” I tell the AI.
The first blast hits like acid. My skin screams as a thousand microscopic needles jab into every pore. The chemical stink burns my throat, and I cough violently. Steam clogs my lungs. My muscles clench involuntarily, and my eyes sting even though they’re shut tight. It’s brutal. Absolutely brutal.
And all I can think is… I could’ve avoided this.
If I’d listened to Vlad and headed for the Eastern quadrant, I could’ve been on Gekkaria. I could’ve seen Logan. I could’ve seen her. But no. I made my choice. And now Vlad and I are stuck with the consequences.
All we can do now is hope we weren’t exposed long enough to catch whatever killed those poor bastards.
Only time will tell.