I relish the cold of space. Every time I leave Rinara, I’m thankful deserts do not exist among the stars. Only infinite space in the black. It’s both the thing I crave and the thing I fear.
Space means time. Time means thought. Thought means….
<<READY FOR DEPARTURE, CAPTAIN>>
“Thanks, Mabel. How are things looking, love?” I swipe up on the display and select manual power.
<<AUTO PILOT IS FULLY FUNCTIONING, CAPTAIN>>
No response is necessary. I could easily enable autopilot to exit the spaceport relaxing with a glass of voli, but I want—no, need—something to focus on. Mabel knows this but likes to push my buttons. I suppose we’re even on that front.
I smirk, but the momentary levity dissolves. I miss Dot. I realize what it says about me—that I miss a robot’s company. But I’m a simple man with simple tastes. I prefer to work alone—in the company of my machines. It’s more charming than it sounds. Besides, machines you can control. People? Not so much.
That definitely says something about me, but my psychologist mother would’ve been the one to know what. Personally? I don’t care.
I maneuver Andromeda free of the border buoys creating a digital net around Rinara, pausing just on the other side to scrub any trace that I was here, and then set a course to Neba. It’ll take several jumps to get around the Verna sun, therefore reducing my ability to make it as fast as I’d hoped, but it works in my favor.
My stories have to line up. If there’s one thing I learned from my father, it’s that facts—no matter how fabricated—have to be verifiable. Thanks for that, Dad.
Course set, I turn to the comms bay. My hand hovers over the recorder, but I yank it back, making a fist.
I promised myself I wouldn’t do this. Wouldn’t get involved. Again. After I freed Sira, I was out. Plan in place. Location at the ready. And then what does Dot do? It brings me trouble.
My gaze shifts to the bundle I rescued from Meloran. Dot’s head unit. There’s not much left, but there’s enough to recreate it once I can get to a parts bay and buy what I need. My command that it salvage the central processor means it’s still in good condition, and the subroutines and personality chip should be intact.
Then I see something next to it. The Shell from Meloran! Bless him, Renner must have taken it off before entering his second heal-cycle, and now I’ve at least got something to pass the time. I waggle my eyebrows at it, but a flashing light draws my attention back to the console to adjust my trajectory.
When the course adjusts, I hesitate over the comms again.
It looks like I’m going back into the thick of it. The only way out is through, or some such nonsense my dad always waxed on about. Bloke never knew when to quit. Maybe I’m more like him than I thought.
I take a deep breath and roll my head from side to side, trying to loosen cycles—decades—worth of knots.
Now I’m delaying the inevitable.
I jam my finger to the screen and clear my throat. Must project confidence.
“This is Scout Atlas Verin, reporting to the High Council as requested. I have located Princess Equorta.”