Stories of stars cut route

You remember the last day quite clearly: a quarrel with your ex-missus, loading of your primo-cargo, and the disparaging sneers your captain-colleagues gave you. You were never ashamed of your work, but yesterday it irked you all too well. No one of them knew that you though of this voyage as the last one of such nature. [[Continue|space_001]]

According to the contract you signed in the stuffy, Humour-smoke-filled room, if you manage to bring your cargo to the the Onyx Cluster you'll have your life all decked out. And decking is the thing you covet so hard. No one will disrepect you after that. And Jilly, and kids... They will love you once again. And if they do not... [[Continue|space_010]]

Your train of thought and reminiscence is interrupted by a comm-links signal. You remember Hawkins on duty, but the voice is not his, but of Gingo: "Cap, you there? Was some noise from cargo. Hawk went to check, no response. What I do?" [["How far are we?"|space_100]]

"Done three-fourths of trip. Almost there I reckon." — comes the reply from Gingo. — "It will take us just another..." His reply drowns in a high-pitch noise that sends you reeling on your bunk. Heart quickens, and a very uncomfortable feeling wells up in your stomach: a sonic gun. You've eaten your fair share of such weaponry from the Moonmicks during the Campaign and remember that noise now by heart. More than by heart you remember the faces of your compatriots lying both in their trenches and all over ruined spacecrafts. But what is this thing doing HERE?! [[Continue|space_101]]

You frantically click the communicator's button, calling for Gingo's reply but there is none. The communicator's visualisation graph indicates incoming transmission, but you can't hear it due to being deaf. You could activate the transcribation algorithm, but it will take too much time. And time is of essence. Having no connection with Comm's center, you rush to Cargo Bay. [[Continue|space_111]]

On your way to Cargo Bay there is another sonic boom that sends you sprawling, blood gushing from your ears. You try to stand up but blackness covers your peripheral vision and your feet buckle down under your weight. And then you retch and profoundly vomit. (set: $stunned to 2) [[Continue|space_120]]

You feel like you do not have much energy and fighting spirit left in you, but you've known much worse in your life. From your experience, many give up right before succeeding and claiming their rightful place in the skein of fate. You do not know whether this moment is now, or not. [[I stand up|space_121]]

You wipe the bile off your face before attempting standing up. Your body aches, eyes sting, weakness spreads throughout your body. It is very much not what you though it would be. You crookedly smile at your all-too-prophetic sentiment about the "last voyage". You had a nagging feeling before the flight, but disregarded it. Being so full of yourself, you wrote the destination into your logbook before even taking off. Your wife had also asked you not to take the job. Supersistion proved right. Her's wisdom, as usual, too. [[Continue|space_130]]

Despite the assault of fate you are still standing, unbroken and unbowed. You refuse to be hammered into the mould and give up — nothing is lost. You find yourself in the middle of the corridor. It forks to Bridge and Cargo Bay. What you will? [[Live another day and hole up on Bridge|space_400]]

Your gait is lame, sweat trickles down your spine. You are hot and cold simultaneously. You are not sure if you've made a right choice, but it is too late to turn back — you've already spent much energy walking. Moreso, you think you hear footsteps behind you. It cannot be as you are still deaf, only your thundering pulse assailing your hearing. You duck nevertheless as if awaiting a sonic projectile to take your head off. [[Continue||space_401]]

You get to the bridge. Turning around you see a silhouette, a shadow creeping somewhere from the intersection. You cannot see who that is — the ceiling floodlights and two sonic booms make everything too bright. You think about closing the door, but are not barring it yet — you cannot do so without a cap's panel. And your panel, you suddenly realize with cold sweat rushing your nape, is inaccessible without the keycard you've lost somewhere along the road. [[Continue|space_410]]

You cannot know whether you've been seen or not. You see your trusty knife that you retained upon discharge, of rondel type. You've left it for your mates to play the stabscotch before you took your nap. You can hide and ambush the one coming through the door. You also know that due to the vessel's proximity to the planet, your communication will be transmitted instantaneously. Maybe it will not save your life, but at least you will be able to report everything you know about the situation onboard to prevent that traitorous cunt from fabricating the story. [[Make as many holes as you possibly can in assailant's body|space_499-1]] [[Send the flight log and your testimony to flight officer|space_499-2]]

You wait, and you wait. Time feels very slow, as if you are in a time capsule. Your eyes gain an acuity you never expected to have in such conditions. Your vision goes tunnel, heart steadies, and you feel the checkered grip of your knife somewhat soothing, relaxing. You hold it reverse, as taught decades ago. It is as if your body remembered your old life, something you knew all too well, and switched your default operating mode to survival. [[Continue|space_499-1-1]]

Like a prehistoric moth caught in amber, unmoving, and your gaze glued to the mechanical clock's second hand, you observe its movement. You manage to count sometimes to eight, sometimes to eleven, during a single hand movement. One and a half heartbeats per second. Then the figure, armed with a sonic projector, comes into your view, and you release all the pent-up energy. All of it. You pounce at them, your left elbow aiming somewhere under the chin to quickly subdue, knock down, and disorient, your right arm held high. You knock them down, plunging your knife right through the left clavicle. The bone cracks and gives, driving your blade deep into flesh. [[Continue|space_499-1-2]]

You hear an unnaturally high-pitched scream. Fury rages in your mind, and you give everything you have to your bloodlust. They wanted to kill you. Ruin you. Steal your dream. But you were better. You bested them, and now you finally win. You pull out your dagger and plunge it again. [[And again|space_499-1-3]]

[[And again|space_499-1-4]]

When you finally manage to stop, the cadaver of your own making is as riddled with holes as an extinct spotted dog breed was that you saw last time you went to a museum with your daughter, Milo. Dalmianian dog was it called? You gasp for air, your vision is black, as you think, from exertion. Then you drop your knife and wipe down your face with your back hand. You feel something hard with sharp edges, crunching and biting your skin when you do so. Bone fragments. It was both exertion and blood that prevented you from seeing. You wish you did not: under you lies a supple, thin body with pale skin, clothed in an aristocratic costume. You've never seen such cloth. You do not remember anyone like her on board. You notice your keycard in your unfortunate victim's palm, but it is probably too late to stop or change the course. [[Continue|space_499-1-50]]

You want to stop seeing, want to stop discovering even more facets of the situation you thought you knew enough about. It gets worse and worse, and seeing no other option, you let your gaze traverse upward. Female, according to the many knife holes you added to her breasts, stomach, and neck. The right side of her chest is savaged thoroughly, blood pooling under her body, and an array of lung tissue bits sticking here and there. She is of your daughter's age, around 20 or so. Blonde hair tangled with bits of metal, plastic, and blood and bone fragments of her own. You notice the trails of blood running out of her ears — not unlike yours. [[Continue|space_499-1-7]]

Hurt, stricken by surprise and fear, with wide-open eyes. Eyelashes raised as if such a conclusion to her life was something entirely opposite of what she thought it would be. What was behind them? What has happened to her during this shorter-than-life space travel? What life, what story could her eyes see in her lifetime if you had not slaughtered her here? Her eyes will never move, expression forever frozen both in her rigor mortis and your memory. [[...|space_499-1-9E]]

You manage to send the transmission, conveying everything you know to the flight officer. You do not know what the response is. You assume they want you to act according to the emergency protocol, but you have no keycard to do this. Having nothing else to do but wait, you sit down in your chair and turn your face to the door. [[Continue|space_499-2-1]]

Off balance, deafened, nauseated and disoriented you: [[Call Gingo|space_110]]

A figure emerges through the door. Female, tall and pale. She looks very young and is of your daughter's age. Her ears are long and pointy with dried blood running down her neck. Eyes stricken with fear and evidently disoriented, not unlike yours. Her face looks regal, even with blood and swelling under her left eye. Despite her haughty look and general dishevelness, she is beautiful. The sonic gun in her palm is not. [[Turn around. You have no fight in you|space_499-2-3]] [[Attack her before she kills you|space_499-2-4]] [[Do nothing but observe|space_499-2-5]]

You keep going in endless circles and spirals, thinking about all the would-beens. You remember all the twists and wrongs your merciless fate brought upon you. You had no choice in your life; you coerced yourself, and you never had agency. Always reacting, but never acting. And now your passivity brought you here. A fitting end for you. What if that was the problem? What if instead of delegating choices to others, you had made choices of your own? What if... Your brooding is interrupted by a lurch that sends you flying with a loud bang. You have arrived.

Her beautiful face is also riddled with blood and pieces of bone. The mouth is small, the lips are thin, and the nose tip is upturned a bit. You remember seeing someone like her via Telecasts, but cannot remember who or what she exactly is. "Regal" comes up when you think about what type of face that is. And then... [[You look into her eyes|space_499-1-8]]

You did nothing wrong! The thought is so loud you scream it at the top of your lungs. You can’t hear your own voice, but you know it is there — jagged, wounded, and desperate. This situation should not have happened in the first place. This trip should have gone much differently. It should have been the start of your new life. And yet here you are, killing women and children again. Today, at least, you killed to protect and self-preserve yourself, not due to your commander’s order. [[At least try stopping the vessel|space_499-1-02]] [[Keep reflecting|space_499-1-9E]]

Despite all your failures and despair, you still have a sliver of hope left. Deep inside, a minuscule tawny ember twinkles and refuses to be extinguished. Is it your pride? Maybe your reptilian brain simply wants to survive? You do not have time for reflections. Burning all your remaining reserves like there is no tomorrow, you rush to your panel. The dead, pale face of your female victim flickers in your vision for a split second, but you disregard it. You jam the keycard, nearly snapping it in half, into the hole it fits. [[Continue|space_499-1-03]]

Digiscreens brighten up, showing the collision imminent in mere seconds. You glance over metrics and data, discovering evidence of someone tampering and disabling all the safety mechanisms that would have already saved you otherwise. The face of the flight officer is fraught with terror and tension, but you cannot hear him. You send an emergency stop signal, but have not much hope of your vessel actually stopping. There is also a nagging feeling that you've forgotten something. Something crucial to do. Incapable of remembering that exact lost information, you switch to gravibrakes that, according to the vessel's documentation, are set up to quickly stop the fully-laden vessel. Maybe it will work even better with the ship, whose cargo is a single dead girl and her box. [[Continue|space_49-1-04]]

The surface of the planet closes in with tremendous speed. Your vision blurs, your mind is hazy. One blink and you see clouds, notice faraway dots of different colours — aerial vehicles, you think. Another — and the city landscape is beneath you, looking more like a cracked, riddled with fissures, blue planet's surface. You heard of such cities, Elevian make. You have never visited the alien cities before. This one will be your first, and probably your last. You, then, remember that thing that nagged you: you are not inside the capsule. [[Continue|space_49-1-05]]

Your fate turns out worse than death: at first, you were rescued and treated. Then you, illustrious mind, are shackled in a human vegetable, prosecuted and tried for the crime you have committed. It turns out you have killed a princess of these pale people with unnaturally long ears. You had killed the last one of her kind, the pure one. Their sole hope. And for this, according to the judge's verdict, you will be tortured for an eternity. You sincerely doubt this: you cannot live so much. And then they bring the neuro-suit. Similar to the one you yourself bought for your daughter, but this one looks like a much more sophisticated version. They show you the date and time: (align:"=><=")[(text-colour:navy)+(bg:red)[28:59 12-FRE-UU35]] [[Continue|space_49-1-09_E]]

After living through a single virtual life, at first, you scarcely remember who you were or are. Then they solve it by some memory-enhancing injections, and you remember every detail of your life in the brightest and clearest detail. You also now remember your new, fake life they forced you into. You look at the clock (align:"=><=")[(text-colour:red)+(bg:navy)[29:00]] //(align:"==>")+(box:"=X")[and plunge into another life...]//

You close your eyes and brace for the sonic wave. If you remember right, you won't even feel your own death. When the slender arm brushes your shoulder, you instinctively lurch and open your eyes. You see the sonic gun lying before you amongst all the numerous buttons, levers, and knobs of your control panel. There is a slight smell of blood, caramel, and wood in the air. You turn around and see her sitting behind the comms desk, elbows straight on it, propping her chin. Her eyes do not look as fearful as before. She, curious like a child who sees a new shiny toy or an animal in front of her, studies you. It feels unnerving, but not dangerous. [[Continue|space_499-2-3-1]]

You feel like you've done something very wrong. Something you should not have. But all you did was protect yourself, fighting for survival. Everyone would do so. Right? [[Right!|space_499-1-01]] [[That is not right|space_499-1-6]]

She walks in, wary of you and keeping the sonic gun close. She says something, but you cannot hear. As she walks to the comm's desk and takes her place behind it, you realize that your opportunity for violence is lost. Probably. Her piercing, studying gaze is uncomfortable, so you redirect yours and focus on your panel. The surface is close by; if you do nothing, you'll definitely die. [[Do nothing|space_499-2-5-1]]

She walks in, wary of you, keeping the sonic gun close. She says something, but you cannot hear. If you do not attack now, there will be two panels and a chair between you and her. There is your trusty knife nearby. You have plenty of survival chances. You snatch at the opportunity. Everything is a blur: you jerk and pick up your knife. You vault over your panel. Your troop commander would disparage you for such a vault and force to a march. But you are not on the Moon, and the vault you've done is enough to close the distance. Her eyes flick with fear, and she raises the gun, its resonator at your sternum. "Too late!" a gloating flicks through your mind, and you raise your knife... [[Continue|space_499-2-4-1E]]

Her lips move, but you cannot hear what she is saying. What you read makes no sense. Thinking of your daughter, you remember that your objective is to survive if you want to see her. You take a look at the navigometer to ensure you still have time. Ignoring the flight officer's distraught face on your screen, you motion the girl to the wall behind you. She does not understand, so you show by example: you press the big red button, and the wall gives way to an oval compartment behind. There is an oxygen mask, a medikit, and safety belts. You never had to use the rescue capsules before, for if you had to, you would have a word with their creator about the capsule's size and comfort. [[Continue|space_499-2-3-2]]

You see each other through the window between you. Her discomfort is evident, but you can do nothing to help her with that. You have no cure for negative experiences. Nevertheless, you make your face smile encouragingly. You see her face easing and lightening up a bit. Then comes the impact, and you black out. [[Continue|space_499-2-3-3]]

The next days are a haze. Despite your safety capsule, you still have to spend days in the care unit. Sonic guns and space overloads don't mix well. You never see the girl again, all your questions are answered in half-truths, and sometimes are ignored outright. From what you've gathered, the girl you had smuggled is truly of high birth and is precious to the planet's government. What happened in your cargo bay remains a mystery: you are not allowed to contact the girl while the locals disclose nothing. [[Continue|space_499-2-3-4]]

You have no time to gather enough information, as once you are discharged, you are given a choice: remain here in your new life or leave. If you remain, you should forsake all your family connections and will never fly again. It is not that you've had a family — your divorce was a long time ago, your daughter is already grown-up and has a partner. What they offer in return is wealth and respect for you, and a fat, anonymous payslip for your family. If you leave, they will provide you with a two-seater for your wrecked cargo ship and want you to take a passenger with you. [[Remain and start a new life|space_499-2-3-5E]] [[Return and continue the old one|space_499-2-3-6E]]

They are true to their word, and in a month, you will move into an opulent apartment. You can get whatever you want, but you are still seen as an alien and a stranger. The inhabitants of this planet are alien to you, too: many of them carry the peculiarities of the girl you had smuggled, of varying degrees of manifestation. Some are too pale, some are too tall, or too thin. Some with long, round ears, some with short, pointy ones. But all of them, no matter how they look, watch you with wariness and something else. You cannot discern what exactly that something is. You are a stranger in the strange land. You also receive the video message of your daughter upon receiving your obituary and money. She looks sad-ish, but sheds no tears. No wonder you have not spent much time with her lately, constantly in your search for meaning and fortune. You also long for space travel. Your heart aches when you remember all these trips and adventures you had. You still have a lot of flight in you; you are quite young by human standards. But only once you had lost it, you've discovered how ungrateful you were for that facet of your life. Now that you have your golden cage, what meaning have you found?

You live your last days on this planet on your ship. The passenger they asked you to take in is non-verbal. He mutters under his breath frequently and sometimes pisses himself. But most of the time, he simply lies gazing upward at the dirty, unmaintained ceiling with his empty eyes. It is as if he is not here, and you have a horrifying sense of deja vu each time you look into his eyes. So you don't. When everything is ready, you embark on yet another trip. You are dissatisfied with the vessel you've been provided with — it will barely last a dozen trips. Hell, for all you hope it will last at least this one. Upon leaving, you see a crowd gathered. You see the girl you rescued in the back of it, circled with troops and sitting in a high chair. Her face is solemn but resolute. She nods to one of her guards, and they leave, not bidding you a farewell so much for a good deed. When you slowly overcome the gravitational pull of the planet, you hear an alarm. Something is coming, and it is quite fast. Realization dawns upon you: there was no choice. It was either being a pet or being killed. At least you died free and did what you thought was right. Observing the approaching missile that moves so terribly slow, you take a breath, relax, and close your eyes.

Too late for you. Your arm goes too far off the mark, blade only grazing her shoulder. She does not hesitate. It should have been painless. Your instructors told you that. They lied, and you've just discovered it in the most unfortunate circumstance. For an astonishingly long moment, you agonize. Your skin is scorched and black, and blood boils. Your muscles and bones, drying out and becoming all too brittle, crumble under their own weight. You are being baked alive from inside, atom by atom, your entire being is disrupted, unraveled, and scattered. The unbelievably painful experience lasts for an eternity before you finally disappear into nothingness.

You lean back into your comfortable chair. You feel its texture with skin, reminiscence floods you: you, with your wife and daughter, happy and still together, in the shop choosing the "space throne". Your daughter chooses for you. It is of repugnant blue, but she liked it. She did everything in his chair until it was installed in a cargo vessel: studied, played, even called her friends. You learn to love it too: in a dozen or so trips, you start really appreciating her choice. Unknowingly, she made a right one, and your back has never hurt since. The inbuilt massage and beverage holder were also of great utility for you many times. You also remember... [[Continue|space_499-2-5-1-1]]

Your reminiscence is interrupted by your unwanted passenger. Her face is not that pale, actually — it is now red with anger, while her eyes are full of terror. She puts her gun to your face, but you couldn't care less. You are already dead for all you know, even though your biological death will come a little bit later. Poor girl probably never lived her own life properly, and now she shall die. She is definitely not content with it, but what can you do? You can, probably, direct her to space capsules. But will you? What does it matter anymore? [[Direct her|space_499-2-5-1-1-1]] [[Ignore her|space_499-2-5-1-1-2]]

You do not care. You do not want to live; you will not live. So will not she. You ignore her pleading, tears, and the voice you can't hear. You wonder what voice she has, but not for long. There is a hidden bottle of Tungusca, you remember. You open up your cabinet, pull the cork with your teeth, breaking one in the process, and greedily gulp a third of its contents. Acrid hazelemon taste assails your buds, fogging your mind and body. You no longer feel pain. You offer her the bottle. She accepts and drinks. Then vomits, but drinks again. Two of you share the last moments of your lives in solemnity and drunkenness. When the vessel collides with the contact, your mind is no longer there to process the possible pain both gravitational overload and the hardness of impact would wreak upon your body.

You do not have the energy to live. She has. She still has a fight in her, and her verisimilitude to your daughter pushes all the scruple buttons you have. You sit up in your chair and try to direct her with signs and finger-pointing. It does not help her much at first, but somehow she manages to find the rescue pod button. She takes her place and then pulls the safety belt. Around her neck. You wonder from what savage times or world has she come, not to know the spacefaring basics? You force yourself to stand up and help her with the belt. And sit back into your chair. Even though the second pod is there, gleaming with its many lights as if beckoning you to try to live, you've made up your mind. So you open up your private cabinet with a bottle of Tungusca, take two or three gulps, and relax. You die instantly during the sudden lurch of your vessel's hard landing. The captain goes with his ship.