Chapter 2
Rykar
My hands moved over the transport’s controls as I prepared to land my vessel in the Destran city’s docking bay.
The Solas stretched out below me through the viewport.
Their beautiful, organic shapes were filled with life, bustling with activity I had no intention of joining.
The cargo holds for each Sola looked the same—supply crates lined up in rows and bots or Destran workers with data screens, ready to move their contents to their destinations.
I had three stops on the schedule—medical supplies for Zurian’s Sola, rare minerals for Damiron’s metalworks, and communication equipment for Scaron’s tactical operations.
All of it loaded. All of it logged. I was perfectly on time, as always.
The pattern had become second nature—arrive, unload, reload, depart.
No lingering. No small talk. No invitations to join the others for meals or storytelling or whatever it was people did when they had the luxury of feeling like they belonged somewhere.
I went to all three Solas and delivered my cargo without having to set foot outside my vessel or exchange more than the bare minimum of words with the dock workers.
Within two hours, I was finished, and even that wasn’t soon enough.
Just being within sight of the Solas made my gut tighten and my muscles tense.
The transport’s engines purred as I completed my preflight departure checks.
External sensors showed clear skies ahead, with favorable wind patterns for the route I’d plotted to the Kepler mining station.
It would take me eighteen standard hours instead of the usual twelve, but the longer route skirted the edge of contested space, avoiding the main shipping lanes where I might encounter other transports.
Where I might have to make conversation with other pilots who knew me from before.
Before, when I’d had siblings to protect. Before, when I’d believed I was capable of keeping anyone safe.
Pira would have loved the new Destran city.
The thought came unbidden as my gaze drifted across the city’s thriving community.
Through the viewport, I could see Destrans moving with purpose, smiling, talking.
Their skin shifted through pleasant hues of blue and green that signaled contentment and belonging.
A group of younglings raced between cargo stacks as they played a game of hide-and-seek.
Their laughter carried up, even through the sealed cockpit.
One of them stumbled, scraping a knee on the stone walkway, and immediately two others rushed to help.
Just like Pira would have done.
My sister had the gentlest hands I’d ever seen.
Even as a child, she’d been drawn to healing—tending to injured creatures we found in the wilderness around our Sola, carefully bandaging Jorik’s scraped elbows when our younger brother’s enthusiasm for exploration outpaced his coordination.
She’d studied the ancient healing arts with a dedication that made our parents proud, her fingers learning to channel the subtle energies that could mend broken bones and soothe fevered skin.
“You worry too much, Ryk,” she’d told me the last time we’d spoken, her voice carrying that familiar note of fond exasperation. “Jorik and I can help you. We’re not children anymore.”
She’d been twenty-four. Jorik, twenty-two. Both of them adults by any measure, both of them skilled in their chosen fields. Both of them dead because their older brother had decided to let them come along on a dangerous supply run in a battered ground vessel, salvaged from the Brakken.
My jaw clenched as I forced the memory aside.
The preflight checklist demanded my attention, each item on the list a welcome distraction from thoughts that led nowhere productive.
Fuel levels: optimal. Navigation systems: online.
Communication array: functional but set to emergency frequencies only—I had no interest in casual chatter from other pilots.
The dock controller’s voice crackled through the comm, professional and efficient. “Transport Seven-Seven-Alpha, you’re cleared for departure. Safe travels, Pilot Rykar.”
“Acknowledged,” I replied, keeping my response brief. The controller probably expected more—perhaps a comment about the weather, or my intended route, or when I might return. Normal social pleasantries that I had no patience for.
I engaged the vertical thrusters, lifting my ship away from the docking platform with the smooth precision that came from years of experience.
The city fell away beneath me. Its warm lights grew smaller as I climbed through the atmosphere.
Soon it would be nothing but a distant glow, then not even that.
Just the way I preferred it. The silence. The isolation. The freedom from having to pretend I was anything other than what I’d become—a pilot whose guilt and grief were too heavy to bear.
The transport settled into its cruising altitude, autopilot engaged for the long journey ahead.
I leaned back in my seat, watching the star-scattered darkness unfold beyond the viewport.
Out here, surrounded by the vast emptiness of space, I could almost believe I was the only person in the universe.
No one depending on me. No one trusting me to make the right choices.
No one who could be hurt by my failures.
“Look, Ryk! Do you see that constellation?”
Jorik’s voice echoed in my memory, bright with the enthusiasm that had defined my younger brother’s approach to everything.
The youth had been fascinated by navigation, by the ancient art of reading the stars and finding one’s way through the maze of space without relying entirely on modern instruments.
He’d spent countless hours studying star charts, memorizing the positions of distant suns, learning to calculate jump coordinates by hand in case our ship’s computers ever failed.
Skills that might have been used, if he’d been able to live to full adulthood.
My fingers tightened on the armrests of my chair.
I’d hit a ground mine, which had tossed my stolen vehicle like a toy and destroyed half of it.
I remembered the moment of impact, the way the huge wheels had burst and the frame had twisted beneath my feet, the sharp pain as something struck my head and sent me spinning into unconsciousness.
When I’d awakened, my first thought had been relief.
We’d survived. Somehow, impossibly, we’d made it through.
I’d called out for my siblings, expecting to hear Pira’s calm voice assessing our injuries, Jorik’s excited chatter about how we’d managed to escape.
Only, we hadn’t escaped.
I’d lost my siblings and ten cycles later, with the Brakken defeated and the Destrans on a new land and thriving, the guilt still sometimes hit me like a physical blow.
I should have protected them. Should have been more alert, should have detected the Brakken mine sooner, should never have allowed them to go with me.
Should have died with them.
That was why I took the longest routes now, why I avoided the settlement except when duty demanded my presence.
Every face I saw there reminded me of what I’d lost, of the family I’d failed to keep safe.
The other Destrans were kind—they offered me meals, invited me to join their gatherings, tried to include me in their close-knit community.
They meant well, but they didn’t understand.
I wasn’t meant for belonging. I was meant for the isolation of space, for the long, empty hours between destinations where there was no one to protect and no one to disappoint.
The navigation display chimed softly, indicating the ship had cleared the moon’s gravity well and was ready for the first jump.
I moved through the familiar sequence of commands, my hands steady on the controls.
Jump calculations, course corrections, final system checks—all of it automatic, leaving my thoughts free to wander where they would.
Mostly, they wandered back to my siblings.
Pira would have thrived in the settlement below.
She would have loved working alongside the other healers, sharing her knowledge and learning new techniques.
The Destran healers were among the most skilled in known space, their methods blending ancient wisdom with modern medical science in ways that would have fascinated her.
She would have made friends easily. Her gentle nature drew others to her like flowers turning toward the sun.
And Jorik would have been in his element among the navigators and pilots.
The city’s location at the intersection of several major shipping routes meant there was always someone arriving with tales of distant worlds and exotic phenomena.
He would have spent hours listening to their stories, adding to his mental catalog of stellar cartography and hyperspace anomalies.
They would have been happy here. They would have belonged. And, maybe, I would have, too.
I settled back in my chair for the long journey ahead, already planning my next route. After Kepler Station, there was a mining colony in the Vega system that needed medical supplies. Then perhaps a run to the outer rim, where the asteroid miners were always in need of equipment and provisions.
Anything to stay busy. Anything to stay away.
I was jerked from my thoughts by the sharp tone of the proximity alarm.
“What the hell?” I muttered, running through the system diagnostics. Everything showed green. No sign of mechanical failure or external interference. Then the sensor array came online, and my blood went cold.