CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Almost twenty years had passed since Soran took his first steps onto the Hyacinth. Amazement and fright gripped him as he emerged into the expansive hangar of the docking bay. Baffled by the bright lights of the circadian Holo-dome, he watched the digital approximation of a blazing amber dusk surrender to a stelliferous nightscape. Crowning the cylindrical station's apex, this simulacrum of planet-bound solar cycles satisfied some deep yearning of the soul, staving off the void-madness that had affected so many of the early astronauts.

  Bustling walkways filled with all manner of sentient beings connected the innumerable sectors of the station: humans, aliens, and androids swirled together in a soup of avarice and fear that had grown to nearly a million individuals since the station's inception. Only five years old and left to fend for himself in a place wholly indifferent to his presence, Soran wandered to nowhere in particular.

  The drifters that had abandoned him here were long gone. Government subsidies for fostering children orphaned by the calamity were only guaranteed for the first five years. After that, the children became a burden and were routinely dumped at the nearest port. Those innocent eyes that once attracted sympathy from the sentimental had become beacons of desperation, warding off those who could scarcely care for themselves. Soran was one such child. He had outlived his usefulness and became just another mouth to feed. Too young to pull his weight, he was tossed aside without a second thought by people he thought were his family.

  For days, he wandered the expansive decks of the station, scrounging scraps for food and trying to stay warm beneath the sanguine glow of Shimmersene pipes. The station occupants saw his kind as nothing more than pests, shooing them away from their stalls and threatening to call security. Alone and afraid, he hid in a disused workshop, curled up in the back of a broken-down ship. He tried desperately to sleep, tormented by the roaring of his stomach and the emptiness of his life.

  Days passed with nothing to eat. The emaciated boy had no choice but to venture into the unwelcoming alleys to scavenge what little he could. As he opened the workshop doors, a tower of a man loomed over him. Startled, the boy darted back to the safety of his scrap heap but was grabbed by the scruff of the neck before he could even turn around.

  "Lost?" The man asked calmly. Soran kicked and screamed for him to let go, but his futile attempts to escape caused only laughter. Gently, the man released his grip and returned the boy to his feet. Soran righted his torn shirt, staring defiantly at the living wall who had his four arms folded in an authoritative stance. He mimicked the man's pose, poking out his tongue to demonstrate his lack of fear.

  "I see you found my little project. One day, she'll soar again. Needs a lot of work, mind you." The man said, walking around the junker the boy had been using as a bed. Soran followed the man, joining him in inspecting the ship. He had no idea you could do something with a heap of junk like this, better crushed up and recycled into something of value.

  "How long will it take?" The boy asked inquisitively, the little ship offering an escape from the nightmare island on which he found himself marooned.

  "Depends how hard we work." the stranger replied, passing the boy a socket wrench.

  "Fancy giving me a hand? Oh, where are my manners? I'm Lanic. You are?" He extended a metallic hand to the boy, and for some reason, Soran's anxiety faded, replaced with something he hadn't felt in a long time. He took the offer, grabbing Lanic's hand as firmly as he could.

  "Soran. Soran Valek." He replied, smiling at his new friend. He couldn't have predicted how the encounter would change his life, but looking back, that was the moment he found purpose.

  A toxic plume of smoke-filled air clawed its way into Soran's mouth. He choked as murky fumes filled his lungs. His eyes stung, squinting at the sight of the exhaust-filled cabin. Crimson blades of emergency lighting sliced through the gloom, and emergency tones blared their hymn of panic. They had landed, and somehow, the boy was still alive to witness the aftermath.

  "Guys!" Soran howled, wafting away the wall of smoke in a desperate search for his crew. He pulled the torn belts from around his shoulders and cracked away from the dried collision foam that had deployed around him. Through the dense ebon fog, he noticed the pilot's seat encased in the substance. Soran jumped up, breaking away the outer shell to discover a still breathing but unconscious Ranna inside.

  A loud grunt and crashing of metal sounded from behind and a battered Tugg emerged from under a mound of cracked foam and debris. Shielded beneath the Accran's giant frame lay an unharmed El, curled into a protective ball. She peered out like a curious snail, checking the situation was stable and that they were no longer hurtling toward their doom. Tugg activated the ventilation shafts, clearing the smoke and dust from the air. On a howling gust, the predatory chill of the outside invaded the Horizon, inflicting a collective shiver, the environment in which they found themselves as inhospitable as the one they had survived. El used her wrist console to scan their location. After a series of pings from the radar, they received an unwelcome answer. Marooned. Marooned on the frozen moon Boreus. Ceaseless waves of freezing wind lapped up against the shores of glacial lakes, and the mile-thick ice concealed oceans of frigid darkness, teeming with horrors that nature had mercifully decided to confine.

  A slew of ill-favored facts began to surface as El pawed through the diagnostic readouts; The Horizon had been reduced to a glorified tent, crippled and half-buried beneath the plains of the tundra. Three wings were incinerated, two were partially destroyed, and the remaining three were barely functional. Both engines were drained of fuel, and the onboard generator showed minimal remaining power. It was bleak across the board. Ranna gasped himself back into the world of the living, waking to a situation that would be any Captain's worst nightmare. He broke free from what remained of his foam prison and stretched out his battered limbs.

  "We in one piece?" Ranna asked, looking sorrowful as he picked at the tears in his favorite jacket. He was met with a surprising level of spirit, considering the circumstances. The fact that the Horizon had saved them from their fall was something to be celebrated despite the glacial prison they had fallen into. However, their current situation was secondary to the matter that occupied their interest. Their close encounter with a being beyond time was an experience that defied both reason and explanation. Neither the shock of the crash nor their miraculous survival was comparable to the cosmic impossibility of the Levantikar.

  Before any words of wonder could pass from their lips, an interruption blared from the cockpit. It was the generator, giving them a final and ominous warning. Five minutes of emergency power remained. El and Ranna acted in unison without hesitation, conducting a planetary scan. They scoured the frozen world for something, anything that would aid their escape. After a minute of disappointing silence, the screen flickered green. It was a match. Around three miles south of their current position were the elemental components of Shimmersene. Well, at least something that resembled it. With a bit of luck, they would escape from their icy stockade before the Borean winds designated them a permanent fixture.

  El fetched the spare suits from the living quarters. The hunters wasted no time, allowing the Nanofibres to engulf their bodies, warming their frigid limbs in seconds. "The suits should protect us for around 2 hours. After that, their molecular structure begins to freeze, and... so do we," said Ranna, his expression inspiring little to no confidence in his crew.

  "Better bring frosty. No doubt our government friends will be along shortly to admire their handiwork." Ranna signaled to Tugg who reluctantly collected the Cryo-cylinder that contained Kaligan's head, clipping it to a spare hook on his back. The crew activated their helmets and proceeded to the side doors, which stubbornly refused to open. With a little tinkering, El confirmed the inner workings were frozen solid. They were trapped. Tugg pushed to the forefront of the group, turning his good shoulder toward the blockade. With a 'gentle' push, the door launched into the distance. The piled-up snow erupted in a shimmering cloud as the hunters emerged into the frigid wasteland, beginning the arduous trudge toward what they hoped was salvation.