NOVEL WEB 9. Routine Hopes
My standard alarm woke me the next morning. Current environmental information wormed its way into my half asleep mind even as I clawed my way to proper consciousness. A headache pounded away at the insides of my skull and my mouth felt dry. I sat up and rubbed my face.
Luckily for my slight hangover, the force of routine got me out of bed and to the lavatory where I splashed my face with some water and drank from a cup that I kept on the counter next to it. A look in the mirror above showed exactly what it always did and my bagged eyes peered into my reflection from behind tousled dark brown bangs. Despite my tiredness, I still cut a decent figure for a younger man. I was slim and in decent shape because of the work I did. My muscles were trim and toned across the board and I did make some effort to keep my skin healthy, even if just as a means to alleviate dysphoria somewhat. Of course, a large part of my body issues came from my broad chest and shoulders. My entire one hundred ninety-one centimetre frame was shaped like an upside down triangle and it felt entirely wrong to my mental self-image.
I was aware that I was a semi-attractive man on the outside and had experienced girls attempting to flirt with me a couple of times. Especially as a professional pilot when I had been on my home station, the status alone was enough that I could have easily gotten into a relationship. I didn’t have any interest in those girls, though. Not only did I feel wrong about being a guy in a relationship, none of them had ever been particularly interested in who I was behind the face. All they cared about was a handsome, up and coming professional guy. That wasn't me.
Though, from my research, many others in my situation had significantly greater problems.
Perhaps it was just my ability to dissociate from my physical reality that kept me sane for all those years. I could have pursued any number of treatment programs that existed for transition, but I had decided to save up and go for the ultimate (nearly) instant transition prize instead.
Medical science had come so far in the last century in what it could do for people. Advanced hormone therapies were the cheapest option by far and did far more than such options in the past. As the science caught up to imaginations, though, new options had emerged, including bio-identical reproductive organs, artificial vocal modulators, even full face reconstruction that put the plastic surgery techniques of old to shame. Some people had even mostly shucked their mortal forms to live in digital realms instead of the physical.
It was enough for most to transition in those ways. Maybe I was greedy, maybe those techniques were not good enough for me. I felt guilty sometimes that I refused the options that were easier, that I refused what so many other people had done to alleviate their dysphoria and dysmorphia. I wanted the best possible result, though, and the Celeste institute could do what no other method could by creating an entirely new body to replace rather than augment the old. Of course it was prohibitively expensive, it was unique.
Determination flared in my reflected eyes. Doubts and capitalist scrooges be damned. I would have my satisfaction. That was something I reminded myself of every day. I was fighting for my dreams and I couldn’t let anything stop me.
I walked back to my closet and got dressed in a clean jumpsuit. After missing a day of work out in the debris belt, I really needed to get some serious production done to make up. The derelict freighter I had been working still had its reactor core and that would do nicely if I could pull it out.
A beeping from my wrist alerted me to a message from Echo.
“Can’t meet up today. Dad is going out with the shuttle for a meeting with the gate authorities and the Ratatosk is moving docks. Your boss graciously offered some heavily discounted service for his ‘hopeful business associate’. Guy seems like a real sleaze, I don't know how you put up with him. We aren’t going to turn down cheap service, though, so we took the offer. Maybe we can chat again later?”
I replied that I needed to work anyways and she sent back a ‘fly safe’. It was going to suck when she had to ship out again, I could already tell. There weren’t really any people on the station that I got along with on a personal level, so meeting Echo had been a real trip. In the station environment, most people stuck to themselves. There were a few socialites out there, but they were few and were mostly in different sectors.
Almost as a rule, the corporate people didn’t mingle with the dock rats and scavers. Likewise, outside of professional talk, spacers and pilots like myself rarely interacted with those outside of our arm of the station. There was of course some relations between pilots and the dock workers, but there was a very fraternal atmosphere amongst each group.
There were several of the other pilots and dock rats that I worked with that I knew and we did meet up occasionally to gossip and grumble about our respective bosses and jobs. I wasn’t much for the gossip though so even then, I was fairly singular. That I had spent so much personal time with Echo was an oddity for me, doubly so after I actually shared personal stories. She was comfortable, though, and open in a way that the jaded workers of D’reth Station did not compare to.
“Hey, Vox, lock up here and message the Torgal branch that I’m headed out on the heap today. Expect departure in thirty.”
“Yes, Ma’am. Will there be anything else?”
I paused to think but was unable to come up with anything else worth bringing up. “Nah, that's it, Vox. I’ll let you know when I’m headed to the hangar. We’ll pick up the usual routine from there.”
“Of course, Adresta. I am happy to comply.”
My lips pushed up into a grin. My personal A.I. was a lifesaver. Turing would have a field day looking through her coding if he could understand it. Questions regarding her sapience aside, I didn’t know how I would function without her reminders and occasional prodding. I was absolutely atrocious at keeping schedules and staying organised. The computer intelligence was the best assistant I could ask for and by far the most precious gift my mentor had given me when I finally departed his service.
With stomach grumbling, I made my way to the nearby cafeteria for breakfast. Like most of the food services on board the station, it was set up buffet style, with individual portions laid out ready for the taking. Payment was processed by automated systems that logged what food was on your tray and totaled the amount at the gate on the way out of the line. It was a simple but highly efficient system for the station workforce.
I snagged a hot breakfast sandwich and a pita covered in onions and synthesised cheese that I would be saving for my lunch. Stopping by a pharmaceutical vending machine, I also purchased a dose of hangover relief that quickly helped with my headache. My last stop was the cafe where I grabbed my usual tall cup of coffee.
Upon reaching my hangar, I groaned at the payment due notice that greeted me. I nearly dismissed it, but instead quickly made my monthly rent payment through the comms panel just inside the door. It was a normal thing, but a necessary one. I needed the space for my workshop. Another yawn forced its way out of my throat before I drowned it in more coffee.
A quick look over of my ship didn’t turn up anything egregious and I climbed through the hatch and into the bubbled cockpit. The view straight ahead clearly showed the completed nacelles and a burst of confidence washed away the last dregs of my fatigue. Freedom was ever so close. I could almost touch it. Just a little bit more and I would reach my goal. I just had to hang in a little longer.
I set to my checklist with renewed energy. Computers came online first and I requested current airspace information. As that trickled in, I pinged the tracker I had placed in the derelict both as a tag of salvage claim and also a means to find it again day after day. As a hulk, it didn’t move under its own power, but it was still in orbit, and in space, nothing is ever truly still.
Its orbit had shifted some, in fact. I theorised that the hulk had struck another object flying through the debris field, but there was no way to be sure. I could only hope that it was still intact enough for me to pull the core out. Even as old as the freighter was, the core would be highly valuable.
As a rule, ship power reactors were highly engineered and finely tuned pieces of equipment that used the annihilation reaction from collisions of matter and antimatter to create energy that was then harvested from the reactor as highly energised plasma that was in turn fed through a direct energy converter that powered all shipboard systems.
Suffice to say, it was highly technical stuff. Even with my extensive knowledge, in my mind, the insanely complex machines totaled little more than black magic and fuckery.
The Oxide rumbled as I brought its reactor online; black magic and fuckery indeed. At that moment, though, I felt connected with my ship. There was untapped potential in both of us. We were meant for so much more than what we were in that moment, despite our meagre and humble beginnings. The nacelles, still on their rack, symbolised that potential. We wanted to make the jump, we just needed a bit more to be ready. The energy was there, the willingness too, all we were lacking was the last ingredient. For the Oxide it was a navigation computer. For me, it was my transition. I truly despised how expensive either one would be.
Comms came up soon after and I thumbed the transmit button.
“Oxide-77 to D’reth Station Control. With you at workshop bay number one two six. Requesting departure clearance heading to debris sector zed-nineteen.”
The response came quickly. I was a bit early for the usual morning rush after all.
“Oxide-77, you are clear for departure along vectors provided. Have a good day.”
Quick and to the point as usual. I gave my computer a brief moment to load the vectors that had been transmitted by the control team and pushed them to the heads up display. It was all very standard procedure and only the fact that I was departing from my personal hangar rather than the salvage yard berths kept me from falling into the usual patterns of flight.
“Alright, Vox, depressurize the hanger and open the bay door. I’m headed out.”
Rather than a verbal response, the pressure alarm sounded outside as I watched the display in the cockpit register rapidly dropping pressure on the exterior of the hull. Internal environmental systems were within operational spec and I completed my checklist by buckling myself into the seat harness. The exterior pressure alarm went quiet and I looked on as the bay door slid open smoothly to reveal the structure of the station and open space beyond.
The Oxide’s reactor seemed to pulse in time with my heart as I pushed the throttle open and moved out into the inky black.