‘More science than art.’

  Hear that saying a lot. Basically means that certain things work certain ways and certain folks gotta learn to deal with that. Sure, you can finesse the finer details a bit, but hey, rules are rules. That recipe needs eggs. Needs to be cooked at a certain temp. People look at machines the same way. Especially starships. A good hand can push something to its limit, but you try and go any further and things start to break down.

  And if you don’t remember to scrape the scragging gunk off your radiator foils, ship’s gonna reach that limit a lot sooner than you think.

  Some folks turn their nose up at a Hachek. Says it needs far too much pampering. I say if all a ship needs is a scrape-down now and again to be ship-shape, that’s a keeper right there.

  That said, there’s a bit of extra crust on the starboard panels. Need to monitor the coont outflow for any leaks. Power couplings look secure. Manifolds tucked and tidy. A knock on the hull and nothing rattles. Always good.

  But then, a noise some twenty meters behind me. No hesitation. Draw the bster. Take aim. Seems my guests had the same idea. Four bodies rush into the hangar, more waiting just outside the door, all with their... weapons trained on me. What do you even call those? Pikes? Ceremonial spear-ssh-rifle things. Suppose they fit with the gaudy robes, even if said robes cshed with the entire industrial sector I found myself in. Mauve wouldn’t have been my first choice in an Honor Guard, let alone one meant to be sneaking around an occupied capital. But I’m not here to judge the local fvor, I’m here to do a job. Suppose it’s best I fsh my palms, then. At least, well as I can with a bster in one hand and a de-icer-turned-gunk-scraper in the other.

  The guardsmen understandably remain on edge, but at least they don’t look ready to light the pce up anymore. The rear unit starts to filter in, much more tightly packed than the vanguard. That’s when I see my first glimpse of the package nestled between them.

  “You the Amartan?” asks what I can only assume to be the Captain of this little troupe. They already know the answer. As the mob continues their cautious advance, they can’t help but stare at my helmet. Even the most isoted of worlds can recognize this thing. The faceless visage that simultaneously invokes the known and the unknown. The glossy bck dome masking myriad merchants of murder and mayhem.

  “I’m an Amartan,” I reply. Doesn’t matter how soft I speak, voice always winds up suitably tinged by the helm’s vocoder. No use being anything but blunt. “But yes, I’m your transporter.”

  Finally, the Captain pivots his gaze to look at my ship. Can’t say I like how his face scrunches.

  “And this is your blockade runner?”

  Don’t know what his problem is. Thing’s A-okay, as in ‘it’s okay because it’s shaped like an A’. Sleek geometry. Clean lines. Can’t even call it rough around the edges, the edges are literally the sharpest bits. My ship’s a goddamn arrow ready to tear a hole through space. But I suppose not everyone has an eye for these sorts of things.

  “That it is. Hachek-css Skipper. Primed and ready to slip through whatever the folks in orbit are cooking up.”

  “Those ‘folks in orbit’ belong to the Archduchy of Thalembor. They possess the combined fleets of no less than eight treasonous Barons who oppose—”

  “Listen, all the aristocratic nonsense this pnet’s currently wrapped up in isn’t exactly lost on me, but I don’t need to know the finer details. You got something you want safely transported off-world, and I aim to do just that.”

  The Captain grumbles, but ultimately backs off. He waves the rear guard forward, who spread out to reveal another gaudily garbed individual, through this one was less than half the size of her protectors. A teenager. Princess of Kholusia, st true heir of the Royal Concord, such and so on. Needs to be smuggled off-world to muster the forces and recim the thing for honor and justice and what have you.

  ...

  And she’s staring. Figures. I try to make it easier for them. Forgo the protective ptes and more... ‘martial’ adornments used by some of my more merc-minded kin. Nothing to be done about the envirosuit, though. Most of it’s concealed beneath some bog-standard aeronaut’s coveralls. Assuming they don’t take a second gnce, can pass as a flight-tech, maybe even a service drone. But if their eyes do decide to linger, well... they see ‘the Amartan’. They get to thinking. Get to wondering. Get to praying.

  I holster my pistol, set aside my scraper, and approach the kid. The Guard does their guard thing, tightening up, baring their pikes, but ultimately know there’s nothing more they can do.

  The girl stands firm as I take a knee, doing everything she can to put on a brave face. But I know a thing or two about masks. She’s gotta be a wreck inside.

  “Nothing’s going to hurt you. Not here. And not up there. I promise. Now, here’s how things are gonna work. You, and you alone, will board my ship. Together, we will slip through the blockade and make our way to the Kamden system where your aunt... your aunt, right?... your aunt will take you off my hands. I receive my payment and we part ways, never to meet again. Even should you require another transport, chances are my House will send a different Knight. Nothing personal, just how we do. Everything clear so far?”

  The girl nods.

  Good. Everything’s on track. I take a closer look at the little royal. Big eyes. Small nose. Long, fuzzy ears like a rabbit... or a maybe a deer. Definitely Feyori.

  Of all the big strains of demihuman, always felt they got a raw deal. I know, I know, Iskarans got the whole immune disorder thing, but we were due a humbling. Everyone else, they just wanted a bit of extra comfort on their new home. No one expected the warp to... well... warp.

  By the time the second wave of ‘clean’ colonists arrived, they thought their predecessors ravaged by alien lifeforms. Went to war with the Roshek because they had no reason to believe a bunch of overgrown lizards used to be humans whose gene-mods didn’t sit well with an intergactic jaunt. But at least they were capable of going to war. Taking after woodnd critters ain’t much help in resisting a budding empire trying to secure its hold on a new gaxy.

  On the plus side, genetic profile shouldn’t be far enough from baseline to effect her travel.

  “Okay, now this might be the scary part.”

  I rise and turn toward a crate nestled beside one of the Hachek’s nding struts. One by one by two. Thing almost resembles a coffin. Not that far off, I suppose. A subtle kick to the hidden tch and the lid pops open. Inside, a series of monitors, cushions, and a vaguely humanoid-shaped crevasse. They immediately understand.

  “This is outrageous!” the Captain protests. “She is a passenger, not cargo!”

  “Afraid they’re one and the same. Listen, the things I’m going to be doing up there... consider this a blessing. It was hard enough slipping past the blockade once, and it’s only been reinforced since. Only way this works is if the princess here takes a little nap.”

  “Surely this isn’t necessary—”

  I cut the man off. Could probably let him air his grievances. Put him at ease at his own pace. But there’s only so much time I’m willing to waste.

  “Care to hear the science? Because I did the science. Terrestrial dampeners have rendered this pnet’s entire atmosphere dissonant to any and all subspace cryptokinetics. That means I can’t even begin to power up this thing’s FTL coil until we’ve breached orbit. Now, the second those disks start winding up, every single ship in that blockade is gonna get a ping. Those in the area are going to intercede, and I’m willing to bet the adjacent sectors are gonna move to reinforce. That’s a lot of eyes with a lot of guns on my vessel. On your precious cargo. Now, I’m a good pilot. A great pilot. I can dodge ‘em long enough to make the punch, but in order to do that, both myself and the Hachek need to be operating at our peak. That means a partially depressurized cabin and subjecting myself and anyone aboard to a mixture of G-forces, AG-forces, and CK-forces so immensely complicated that the Archduke of Blimbor could tear down your pace and build a new one from scratch by the time I finished expining it to you. This box right here, though? Its insuted in such a way that I could probably jettison it from orbit with the princess inside and she wouldn’t even feel it make ndfall.”

  I had more spiel ready to go, but decide to relent as I watch the princess quietly approach the box. There was a certain haste in her breaths. A certain tremble in her hands. But as she gripped the container’s edge, she had a certain determination as well. Maybe it wasn’t a mask after all. Or if it was, whatever it was hiding was made of sterner stuff than I once thought.

  The Captain of the Guard rushes to her side, not to pull back or protest, but to offer a helping hand. Guess we’re all on the same page now. Wonderful. Slowly but surely, the princess climbs inside and gets herself situated. And again, I take a knee.

  “You got nothing to worry about. Once this thing closes, you’ll be put in stasis. It’ll be like... taking a nap. And when you wake up, you’ll be looking up at your auntie instead of this shiny mug. And should things go horribly awry, you’ll be perfectly fine for a good five or six cycles. Plenty of time for someone to pull you out of my wreck. In that case, it might not be a friendly face, but hey, if your people can hire one Amartan, they can hire another to mount a rescue. Nobody kills nobles these days, not when there’s a ransom to be had.”

  Quite frankly, I didn’t know it was possible for someone’s eyes to go that wide. Suppose the bedside manner could use some work. Folks never seem to take the same comforts in things as I do. Shame. Those kinds of assurances would make me sleep like a baby. Oh, well.

  “But, uh, never mind all that. Things are gonna go perfectly. Now... would you like some music? I got speakers in this thing. Kind of pointless with the biostasis, but on a subconscious level I’ve heard it helps put folk at ease.”

  The girl nods.

  “You got it. Now, settle into whatever position you find most comfortable.”

  Another nod. The girl then closes her eyes and csps both hands around the medallion hanging from her neck. Keepsake. Heirloom. Figurative-and-or-literal key to the kingdom. Don’t know. Don’t care. Nah, that’s a lie. Something about being able to hold onto something that small and be put at ease... find myself a bit envious.

  I reach over the resting princess to prod at the internal control panel. A tune begins to py. Something gentle. And with that, I shut the lid. By now, the Guardsmen have me completely crowded.

  “Is she... okay?”

  No window on the thing. I merely point to the external screen reying the passenger’s vitals. Checkmarks across the board. The Captain exhales; a breath so deep you’d think he’d been holding it for hours.

  “Thank you, Amartan. You may not know it, but the fate of a world rests in your hands.”

  “Maybe it does. Makes no difference to me. Could be hauling a sack of potatoes for all I care. I’ve been given a task, and I aim to complete it.”

  “I’d heard tales of your peoples’... convictions. Found them hard to believe. Even after all this I struggle to understand. I’ve seen those motivated by greed. By pride. The utterly selfish and incomparably selfless. But you... you’re something else entirely.”

  “Suppose that’s why you hire us.” I give the crate another nudge. Repulsor field kicks into gear and the hefty package soon begins to float. Practically weightless, takes next to nothing to push it up the ship’s entrance ramp.

  Now, the inside of a Hachek isn’t much to write home about, even one that hasn’t been gutted and stripped bare by yours truly. To the left, the cockpit. To the right, cargo hold. And that’s about it. Main body’s a svelte twenty meters stem to stern. Wings add a solid ten meters to the total length, but those are little more than a pair of prongs to house the main thrusters. All in all, can’t get any smaller if you still want an FTL coil installed. At least, not without resorting to one of those external one-and-dones. Unreliable, those things. Assuming you can compensate for the performance drop, that’s still a gring appendage hanging off your ship. Something like that simply wouldn’t do. Not for a mission like this.

  I gently lower my ‘cargo’ into a hole of the same dimensions in the floor. Snug. Secure. Symmetrical. Another check of the vitals. Looking good. Then let’s get this show on the road. Slip through the bulkhead and take my seat at the helm. Single chair. Single flight stick. A few monitors and panels surround me, but they’re unnecessary. At least, they will be. Could just send the data straight to my helm, cram that HUD so full of diagnostics and readings that I can’t see past the visor. But that, too would be unnecessary.

  There’s a reason I put the princess in stasis. One besides that obvious concern for her safety. While you can never truly predict how someone will react when things start to get... heated, you can usually count on them to react somehow. Fear. Excitement. That beautiful mixture of the two. Even if she can keep herself calm on the surface, those thoughts’ll start to stew and bubble. Can’t have them breaking my concentration.

  I roll back my sleeves to reveal the hermetically sealed envirosuit underneath. Technically, I don’t need one all the time. A few antibacterial stims and even the most cursed Amartan can stand to expose their pale ass to the gaxy for a few hours. But there’s a comfort to it now. And not just a physical one. This thing lets me do things other folks can only dream of. Rather, the thing inside can.

  I twist open the outer seals on my wrists. Teeny tiny airlocks of my own. Get a familiar arm ringing in my head for my troubles before a bck goop pours out and hardens to seal the breach. Epherium. The Tenebrae Vita if you’’re feeling fancy. Psionically charged dermal interface. The Amartans’ little trade secret. Let’s us ‘feel’ even when covered in multiple yers of all-encompassing hazard wear. Also let’s us mentally link to armor, weapons, tech, whatever we need to get the edge on assignment.

  Don’t know if it was designed to ever interface with something as rge and complex as a starship, but hey, if it works, it works.

  I reach beneath the flight controls to retrieve two cables. Always takes a bit of effort to get ‘em plugged into the wrist ports. Epherium doesn’t exactly have a mind of its own, but it can take a bit of coaxing to get over that subconscious survival instinct. But once I finally manage to push through, finally manage to make the connection... it’s time to wake the ship from its slumber.

  Lights flicker. Instruments chirp. Mechanisms whirr. It’s a song that would prove a familiar delight to any pilot. But to me, it’s more than a song. The ship and I are linked. I can feel the engines fire up as I would my own beating heart. As I clench and unclench my fingers, so too does the Hachek’s radiator foils extend and retract. I need not look at any monitor nor pour over the feed in my helm. I simply know as the ship knows. Feel as it feels. And it’s as ready to go as I am.

  With but a whim, the entrance ramp retracts. Then, a deep breath. Main engines ready to go, eager for release. But we still need some vertical lift for the initial takeoff. No thrusters for that.

  Back in training, no two pilots described the experience the same way. But pretty much everyone agreed that cryptokinetics were the hardest thing the grasp. See, a fundamental aspect of psynamic control is that the further your stray from the shape and sense of self, the more your connection degrades. That’s why soldier proxies still look and used equipment like people, despite humanoids being fairly inelegantly designed when it comes to battlefield efficiency.

  Eventually, the mechanics can be overcome. Simplify them, and really what’s the difference between flexing a muscle and moving a wing into pce? But CK fields? Artificial gravity? Shields? That kinda stuff? Oh boy. Natural neurokinetics are a rare, rare breed and interfacing with a ship is like asking you learn a skill you weren’t born for and—probably worse—a skill you have to give up every single time you unplug.

  What does it mean to maneuver oneself with repulsor fields? It is not a mere denial of gravity, but a calcuted opposition. It is not a push, nor a pull, but a consensus. A symbiosis. Day to day, you forget gravity’s even a thing that exists until something falls victim to it. But right here, right now, I not only have to acknowledge it for every single fraction of a sliver of a moment, I have to manifest and maintain its reflection.

  Slowly, we begin to rise. Our nding struts begin to retract. Our turbines spin and thrusters glow. Takes everything in our power to not suffocate from holding our breath. Don’t need to consciously think about every little thing, but suffice to say, there’s still quite a lot of little things going on at the moment. Sometimes, it’s maddening. But most times... it’s euphoric. No more floating. Time to fly.

  With a sharpened roar, we surge forward, trading the confines of the hangar for the smoldering spires of an industrial sector that refused to slumber—either ignorant or uncaring of the ongoing regime change. And as we weave our way through the many manufactories dotting the sector, it’s as if we can feel the warmth of each exhaust port tickle our belly as we pass overhead.

  Science says this kind of thing shouldn’t be possible. Guess that means this isn’t more science than art, after all. And it is in these moments that I feel like an artist.

  After we’ve had our fun rolling and rocking through the outer metropolis, we begin our ascent in earnest. A steady static permeates our being. A fuzzy mold spreading across the surface of our mind. Must be the subspace dampeners. Every spacer knows you don’t make the punch inside a pnet’s gravity well; you’re gonna break more than just your hand. But there’s still a lot of prep-work I could have gotten out of the way. Guess we’re doing things on the fly. And as we trade bright skies for the bck sea... that may be easier said than done.

  Incoming call. Several ships already on approach. No use responding. They already have us IDed from the first time we slipped past them. Time spent bluffing is time spent in their favor. Let’s see if any of them can keep up with us.

  We surge forward, fast as our sublights will take us. Interceptors already bringing up the rear. Concordian ships. Pretty little things. Curvy and chrome. Style, but not without some substance. Can’t quite match our speed, but I suppose they don’t need to. Not long before we come under fire. Superheated slugs soar past our view. Annoying little things. Nothing our shields can’t handle for now, but every impact drags us down. Energy we cannot spare. Weight we cannot bear. No armaments of our own. Can’t fight back. Don’t need to.

  Cut engines. Pivot. Spin. Reengage thrusters. That sharp a change in vector, ship would have cracked in two if not for every system working in tandem. At the very least, any passengers would have been sent tumbling around the cabin. But without devoting resources to a ‘comfortable’ ride, we can push ourselves further than they ever could.

  The pursuers begin their long, drawn-out reorientation. All they know is ‘go’. Well-trained enough, but no match for us.

  FTL coil is powering up. Slowly but surely, a disk of precisely carved itenerite spins faster and faster as it’s pumped with an ionic charge. It winds back, further and further along its track, the gap between it and its fellow determining the distance of the jump.

  Don’t have the draw to make it to Kamden in one punch. Can’t risk the loss of integrity with a micro-jump. Cracked disk in the middle of nowhere and I’m done for. They’re no doubt monitoring me. Know my max range. Monitoring my vector. Go all out and they’ll easily track and follow me. What’s the best compromise? Seventy-eight percent? Seventy-nine?

  We shiver and shudder. Someone nded a lucky hit. Shields still holding up. Can’t be out of position when time comes to jump. Slightly off angle and that’s more than a few lightyears’ worth of deviation. Limits our options.

  More ships on approach. Light cruisers this time. Those could actually do some damage. Already getting pings for torpedoes. A few hundred kilometers. Got time. Could use them against the smaller crafts, but that would put us out of position. Seems we are fast approaching a none-too-pleasant convergence.

  Seventy-three. Seventy-four. Almost there.

  Then, the stars ahead begin to shift, consteltions warping past their breaking point. Can only mean one thing. Space itself was folding. And with an inaudible pop, another vessel manifests directly in our path. Big one too. Whale of a thing. One of the Archduke’s capital ships, no doubt. Could probably tear us to pieces. But it’s not the armaments we’re worried about. The hulk releases a radial volley of not torpedoes, but disruptor mines. Hundreds upon hundreds of orbs pulsing their incessant natter.

  Seems the whale was casting a net.

  Circumventing the array would mean mistiming our jump. Avoiding it would mean veering too far off course. That left us only one option.

  Each orb was close enough, each field rge enough that they had effectively raised a wall in subspace. The Hacheck was many things, but it was no icebreaker. That said, the wall did possess a gap. Its origin point. With no disruptor aboard the ship, we technically had our hole.

  There were certain calcutions we could run. The distance between ourselves and the cruiser. The discrepancy of masses. A dozen or more other factors that would determine whether we’d desync from material space and pass right through... or miss the threshold and become a string of subspace debris one atom wide and several light-years long.

  Seventy-seven. Seventy-eight.

  Now or never. Remember, this is an art.

  Punch. The spinning disk of our FTL coil sms against its fellow. In an instant, a cryptokinetic energy field still not wholly understood by man envelopes us. Its hold tightens and tightens until, finally, it drags us to a pce we ought not be. Space folds. Where once we were, we no longer are. The bck shifts. The stars streak. All else disappears. We are alone, hurtling through subspace beyond the speed of light. We are that which hides beneath the veil. That which lurks in the between.

  Everyone has a different perception of subspace. It typically manifests as a chaotic tunnel of swirling vibrance; one the yman might grow sick from staring at too long. Some close the shutters. Others sneak that fleeting glimpse. But we ck such luxuries. Our body and ship, our senses and sensors are one. We must perceive. We must endure. But we have learned to tolerate it. To enjoy it.

  Deep breaths. In and out.

  My foot taps against the glossy tile of an overly elegant hangar. When I got the assignment, this is what I expected. Stone columns. Golden trim. Everything shiny. No need for subterfuge on Kamden, I suppose.

  Back pressed against the Hachek’s nding struts, I do everything in my power to still my racing heart. To quell the tremble in my hand. Disconnecting is always a chore, but I suppose they need ‘the Amartan’ to render payment.

  I shoot the nearby crowd a gnce or two. The princess and her aunt embrace. A confluence of gaudy robes and garish makeup. On the plus side, seems to be a genuine love there, not just royal obligation. Even the celebrating guardsmen seem to possess something more than a dutiful rapport. All seems well. Maybe that means I’ll get a bonus. Though I wish they’d pick up the pace a bit.

  Get my wish as the aunt makes her approach alongside a chest-toting guardsman. Another Feyori. And despite being a full grown adult, she barely stands a head taller than the child. Probably not easy to get by when the powers that be look down on you both figuratively and literally. Though if you ignore the whole ‘civil war’ thing, seems this lot did pretty well for themselves. Not easy maintaining independence, especially this close to the core. They got my respect.

  “You’ve my sincerest thanks for delivering my precious Felna safe and sound,” she says, offering a quick bow of her head. Not too deep, though. Guess she’s an image to maintain.

  “Just doing my job.”

  “Perhaps. But if I may be so bold, I believe this could be the start of a very fruitful retionship between our Houses. In fact, what would it take to secure your services as a retainer?”

  I offer a quick chuckle. “Not my pce to say. Those kinds of negotiations are the purview of the House.”

  “And are you not a Knight of said House?”

  “Lady, it’s a just moniker. Some of the others might cling to the trappings, but I’m just a pilot who gets things where they need to go. End all, be all. Now, the Nobles back home? I’m sure they’d love a bit of whatever high-society thing you and yours got going on. A chance to dust off the proxies? Attend a terrestrial soiree or shindig? They’d be more than happy to hear you out. Just be sure to do any negotiating yourself. Might sound weird, but they hate intermediaries, even though they’re technically not there in person. It’s... it’s a whole thing.”

  A pause. Then a subtle grin. “Trust me, I’m more than familiar with the eccentricities of nobility. Would that we could all say what we mean and mean what we say. But as, we all have our parts to py. Or rather, our parts to pay.”

  With a nod, her attendant steps forth, offering me my strongbox. A flip of the lid reveals several tightly packed columns of credit chips alongside some fanciful, yet fungible bits and bobs. All in all, a good take. None of it’s making its way to my pockets, but it should be enough to convince the House to order some parts I’ve had my eyes on.

  I tuck my prize beneath my arm and offer a parting bow, but the little one tugs at my jumpsuit before I can slink away. The princess can’t quite speak; can barely even make eye contact. But eventually, she removes her neckce and offers it to me.

  Hmm. Guess it’s not all that important after all. Or... maybe it is.

  I take a knee and dip my head, presenting myself like a good and proper ‘Knight’. She slips the medallion over my helm before finally finding her voice.

  “Thank you.”

  Precious little thing.

  “You’re welcome.”

  Technically, House edict dictates this be presented with the rest of my payment as tribute...but I think I’ll make an exception this time.