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  SALVAGE

  A NOVELLA OF THE UNITY SPHERE

  Charles Brass

  SALVAGE

  A Novella of the Unity Sphere

  Copyright © 2020 Charles Brass.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events are wholly the products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual business establishments, events or locations is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of the book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights.

  1st edition

  Seabrass Productions

  ISBN: 978-1-947713-05-5 (Kindle ebook)

  Contents

  SALVAGE

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  SALVAGE

  The seizure strikes two minutes from lightdrop, when the freighter will leave the emptiness of darkspace for all that’s familiar.

  My tiy-ke Geen and I sit in the passenger module’s last row of seats, where they’re larger and wider. The first eight rows are for humans and byveri, thirteen of which are scattered about the twenty-four seats. The last two rows are for us kavax. The two others on the flight are strangers; they sit across the central aisle, one row up.

  I should warn Geen. But though we’ve been together since just after our chall addictions, I’m not yet that trusting. Maybe in time...

  The pressure builds between my knuckles, where my scales give way to the pebbled, light-green skin running down my fingers. The pressure wraps around to the dull yellow of my wrinkled palms. I raise my hands from the armrests and scrutinize them in the dim light. Tremors travel the joints of my four fingers, into my palms–my thumbs are unaffected. Similar sensations begin at the base of my toes and creep above my ankles. My boots scuff the deck plating.

  “Brayn?” Geen notices. “Is– Are you–” He places a hand on my chest. “Relax.” His voice lowers. “Breathe. Remember to breathe.” This is what the humans told us to say. What they urged us to focus on.

  The tremors climb above my elbows, sweep through my shoulders, and penetrate my chest. They squeeze my knees, and my boots scuff harder. The muscles in my neck jik my head side to side. My inhal and exhal pips at the base of my neck sputter open and close. I squeeze my eyeridges together–I don’t want to witness my own helpless spasms. My ragged breathing is hot in my ears until a rush of blood drowns it out.

  The fear hits–cold, paralyzing. I can’t tell if I’m breathing, not with the paralysis and my blood rushing so loud. And it’s hot, so hot. My twin hearts beat rapid tempos beneath my shoulders. The pulses crash through my central lung. My chest feels vice-grip tight. Sparks of light twirl behind my closed eyelids. Then the rush of blood and pounding in my ears, fades. I hear nothing, I see nothing.

  This is it. The one where I die...

  A chall seizure can kill the first time, or the thousandth.

  That I might die brings a distant relief.

  A sensation of falling grips me–the worst part. Even lying down it’s ferocious, and I... fall. I fall. Nausea churns my guttards–the only sensation beyond my plummet that reaches me. I never know how long this will last. At some distance I’m aware of time passing, just not... able to gauge the seconds turning into minutes into hours.

  I might be choking. Frothing at my inhal pips. Sucking sputum deeper into my lung–if I’m breathing at all.

  It’s bad enough I’m going to miss the lightdrop, if I do survive. I hope my seizure releases me prior to the freighter’s docking. I loathe being found rigid like this by more strangers.

  The spinning in my balance settles. The rigid seatback gives me reference. My fists have curled tight. With effort I straighten them. Outside noises creep back into my awareness.

  “...here. I’m here,” Geen whispers. His hand remains on my chest, pressing, as though I’ve been fighting. I might have; I’ve emerged from seizures to his face bruised, one eye swollen shut, and my knuckles aching.

  He’s never said anything. Just as I don’t when he emerges from his seizures, no matter how hard or deep he’s scratched me.

  I wonder if he worries how the next one might kill him. His are far less frequent, and milder in comparison. But just as I’ve not opened to him, he keeps secrets from me.

  The tremors release my limbs. He relaxes. I settle my palms to the armrests and again curl my fingers around the ends, but lightly. He pulls his arm back and slumps into his seat. My breathing returns to normal. The freighter’s metallic clicks and groans echo as my rush of blood returns to its normal rhythms.

  Not this time. Not this time.

  I’ll have a chance to salvage something of my life. Until the next seizure, anyway.

  Like always, I’ve soiled myself. That’s why I wear diapers now. Diapers designed by those clever little humans, right after the effects of my chall addiction became known.

  One of the kavax across the aisle glances in our direction. I chuff, blowing air from my inhal pips. The stranger turns away.

  Geen leans close. “Are you well?”

  Not trusting my voice, I nod. I wish I had a mirror. I want to make sure the scales on my neck have returned to their normal yellow-green. My muscles thrum with the seizure’s residue. My hearts beat hard and fast. Though I’m breathing well, my chest muscles don’t feel like they’re in sync. My inhal pips open wide but little air reaches deep enough into my lung.

  This seizure wasn’t the worst, but I don’t feel like I’m improving. I should be–it’s been nearly an annum now. Geen’s worried for himself, there’s a big one lurking, perhaps just around the day. Me? While I’ve been tracking mine, and the data shows they’re happening more days apart than before, I’m convinced instead of improving, my condition is deteriorating.

  When I awake tomorrow, everything’s going to hurt. Exactly at the wrong time.

  The voice of Mr. Tremp, the human therapist who’s helped me since that start, echoes. You’ll get through this, Sen Brayn. You’re one young, tough son of a bitch for a kavax.

  Yes. I’ll get through this. I’ll hurt, but do my job, and do it well.

  I have no other choice. No other hope. I’m at the end. This job is all I have. It’ll let me salvage my life for a bit, or lose it.

  At some point, I’ll find a reason for all that’s happened. It can’t be for nothing.

  Having made the drop, the freighter coasts toward Chalico Station. Announcements through overhead speakers inform us we’re about five minutes from docking. We’re advised to wait until all the mooring cables and airlocks are in place before we stand and gather our belongings from the overhead and underfoot bins–with caution, as items inside may have shifted. The passenger module’s lone attendant walks down the aisle collecting garbage from the light snack handed out midway through the six-hour journey.

  With fingers more steady than I expect, I dial up the view from the pilot’s deck on the small plate mounted in the seatback ahead. The image is generated by the many scanners housed in the freighter’s body and from data provided by the approaching station’s equipment. It’s the view I appreciate the most–the view from the pilot’s deck. Where I used to work.

  My chall addiction, forced on me and thousands of other kavax by a group of fanatic byveri separatists, stole that from me. Stole my life from me.

  Unreasonable actions. All for nothing, for them–they were wiped out in response.

  Geen reaches over and shuts off the plate. “Don’t.” His voice remains low.

  “I just want to see. I missed the lightdrop.”

  “You’ll return to the pilot’s deck before you know it. Until then, don’t t
orture yourself. You know what the therapists said.”

  Mr. Tremp never said anything about not watching. He encouraged it, actually. Keep the dream alive, Brayn. Give yourself a destination. A hope.

  Delusional, this hope. They’ve determined one is never ‘cured’ from a chall addiction.

  “The therapists know nothing.” My fingers tighten around the armrests. Except for Mr. Tremp. “They only know what I tell them. What I’ve told them.” I’ve kept secrets from them too. I clench my teeth for a moment, then force myself to relax. “I don’t tell them how much it hurts. How much I miss it.”

  Geen pats my arm. He’s seven decades older, many more wiser. In another situation, I’d be happy to have him as my tiy-ke–my life coach, mentor, friend. He says, “I keep secrets too. We all do. They really are trying to help. But they are right in one thing: we must not torture ourselves thinking of what we’ve lost. We must find our new aptitude. And do what we can to survive until then.”

  The whole reason we’re on this freighter, coming to this station in this end-of-the-way location on the Unity Sphere’s periphery, is to do just that. To survive. The job seems simple enough. It will only last at best three days. It does involve significant risk. Injury. Incarceration. Death. But the payoff...

  “I need to change my diaper.” I keep my voice just above a grumble, the clicks and pops of our native tongue slow and deliberate.

  Geen sniffs, and squeezes my forearm again. “We’ll stop at the first refresher.”

  I press into my seat, clench my teeth, and bunch my noseridges close. The smell of my addiction wearies me. As does my previous annum.

  Members of a byveri syndicate opposed my birth world’s inclusion into the Unity Sphere. They weaponized chall, normally a harmless spice, and dispersed it among the kavax population. Their species was not affected, nor were the handful of human settlers. But their effort failed to sway the world vote, and they were smashed by the Unity Fleet shortly after. My birth world still suffers. Tens of thousands died in the first days. The rest remain affected. Not as bad as me–most of them have returned to their aptitudes.

  I don’t know what’s worse–the seizures, the utter loss of hope, or the senselessnees of it all.

  The freighter docks with a series of metallic groans and clangs. Finally the lights around the inner airlock hatch at the module’s forward bulkhead brighten. The humans and byveri in the seats ahead, most dressed in the dingy gray overalls and white tunics of mine equipment operators and tunnel grunts, crowd into the aisle. They dig their cases and duffels from the bins and disembark through the open hatch. We wait for the two kavax strangers to do the same.

  The module’s attendant waits patiently at the hatch. She sniffs. Her forehead wrinkles, revealing her disgust at my smell. “Did someone spill something?” She speaks in a low voice, as though asking the question to herself.

  I catch her looking back down the aisle. Hopefully the diaper’s caught all my urine so she won’t know it’s me, even though I’ll probably never see her again.

  Geen and I leave the freighter. Once again I wish I can see the scales on my neck. I’m sure they’re tinged a deeper yellow with shame.

  The arrival platform is small and not much brighter than the passenger module. Smooth metal bulkheads give way to rock walls several paces deep–the station must be a rock/metal-skeleton hybrid. The humans, byveri, and kavax quickly disperse into the corridors leading away. Geen points. There’s a refresher down the right corridor.

  My duffel over my shoulder, I alter course toward it.

  A scrawny human wearing the dark blue overalls of a maintenance crew, a fully loaded tool belt around his waist, lifts himself from the wall he’s been leaning against and hurries our way. “Hey.” He’s here to meet us. The message we received before we boarded the freighter told us to expect him. Not his name, just that a human from station maintenance would be waiting.

  There will be no names during this. I am simply Pilot. Geen is Engineer. The human? Escort.

  Geen intercepts him. “He needs to use the refresher. He’ll be out shortly.” Without having to look, I know he’s stepping into Escort’s path.

  “He can piss and shit later. The boss wants to see you two pronto.” He speaks in Sphere Standard, the Unity Sphere’s common tongue. His voice is raised, not too loud but enough to turn heads.

  “I said he needs to use the refresher.” Geen’s voice is raised but also not so loud. “We will wait.”

  I may not entirely trust him, but Geen does have my back. I like to think I’d do the same.

  “Cruksing shit. You kavax are all the same.” Then, in a lower voice, “Lizard-faced automatons. I have to do this. I have to do that.”

  Geen chuffs.

  I angle into the refresher. The light in the sign overhead sputters and buzzes. After a turn the entrance opens to a wide space not much brighter than the corridor, and not particularly clean. I enter a large stall, lock the door behind me. There’s a toilet and a trough, a paper-wipes dispenser, and a fold-down tray. I deploy the tray and place my duffel on top, then dig out a clean diaper.

  After removing my soiled garment. I use wipes to dry off what’s wet, then pull on my new diaper. A glance confirms I have four remaining. Since most of my business here will be conducted in a zero-g suit, four should be more than enough.

  I have stacks of them waiting at home. Assuming I return...

  I grab my dataplate from a duffel pocket and enter the time and duration of my seizure. My human therapists, especially Mr. Tremp, like for me to track such things. They can graph the data and show that my seizures are happening less frequently and lasting for shorter durations. But that sense of falling that grips me, there at the end each time, is getting worse. There’s no unit of time to measure how long that falling lasts. An eternity.

  I drop my soiled diaper into a recycler as I exit.

  Escort, hands on tools at his hips, snorts. “That couldn’t have waited?”

  I step close, purposefully invading what humans call their personal bubble–one of the many odd concepts I like about humans. Up close, he’s even more scrawny than I first thought. I stand a full two hands taller, and four hands wider at the shoulders. “No, it could not.”

  His face is expressionless as he holds my gaze. At least I think it is–there’s still so much to learn about the variety of human expressions. They are not like the byveri, which one can read after only a few interactions, once one understands the positions of their round ears as they swivel and move with their emotions. Human facial features have far more ability to reflect what’s happening in the meat of their mind. We kavax have a small array of similar expressions, with our nose- and eyeridges somewhat able to move similarly to human lips and eyebrows. Somewhat. It’s the color of the scales on our neck that gives us away. All that blood rushing through the area, or not.

  It’s much easier to decide if a byveri or a fellow kavax is leaning toward a physical reaction to a given situation. Escort’s expression and the steadiness of his gaze give nothing away.

  Physically, he’s no match. But he has tools. However, I have Geen. Plus, the human’s been sent to fetch us. It’s unlikely he’d engage in what humans call fisticuffs. Especially over something so trivial as this small delay.

  His shoulders slump and his expression loosens into what I determine is a relaxed state. I’m done in the refresher, obviously. He can complete his task. “Whatever. Follow me. The boss is waiting.” He spins and marches down the central corridor.

  Geen trails me by a step as we follow.

  There are no bright lights anywhere, as though the station lacks the power for proper illumination. Even the storefronts in the few shops we pass are dim, uninviting. There are still crowds, with the majority of the humans and byveri wearing miners’ garb like those who came in on the freighter with us. They congregate mostly around establishments that leak smells of food and beverage. There is muted music, heavy on the drums–the byveri composer Huckbar h
as released a new symphony.

  I force calm. Months ago, I’d have growled, clenched my fists, ached for a byveri to look at me wrong. Mr. Tremp helped me curb those violent tendencies. The bastards who did this to you are all dead. While I understand the desire, you can’t go around inflicting pain and suffering on every byveri you see. You have to be better than them.

  A tram takes us through rough rock-walled tunnels. At our destination Escort leads us past rows of mining equipment sitting idle, hatches open, repairs underway. Sounds echo: chains rattling, human, kavax, and byveri conversation, the grumble and buzz of equipment. We’re led through a hatch which seals behind us. The sounds are left behind.

  The floors have a thin rubberized coating. Our boots scuff across fabric; the sound is unusual and very quiet. Office equipment emit faint electrical hums. Dim plates on unmanned desks await activation. Dataplates sit in chargers. Printouts are tacked to bulletin boards. Everything about this reeks of a world alien to me. I don’t see how humans or byveri could stand to work in an environment like this. Give me the controlled, open clutter of the pilot’s deck any day.

  A pair of turns into equally quiet corridors, then Escort stops at an open hatch and waves us in. Behind a simple metal desk near the back wall sits an older, heavier man. He has hair over the top of his head and along both cheeks, his chin, and his upper neck. His overalls have green piping–an indicator of rank.

  Geen and I stand before the desk.

  He looks up from his dataplate. “Finally.” He doesn’t offer us a seat, as there are no chairs.

  “I am–”

  The human raises a hand. “No names.”

  Geen pauses. “Engineer. This is Pilot.”

  “I trust there were no difficulties getting here.”

  “No.”

  “Good. I’ve reviewed your training files.” His gaze shifts from Geen to me. “You look like you can handle any problems you might encounter with the sled. Better than anyone else tested, anyway.” His eyebrows bunch together. Not a lot, just enough that his eyelids close slightly as well. I think it’s what humans call a squint. “You sure you’re up to this, Pilot?”