No Life

Starkino Station 0637, this is Lancelot Class CSV-534, the Pious Guardian requesting station response.

...

We are transporting cargo destined for this station and are requesting A-firm for dock.

...

Starkino Station 0637....

Jiral Ubesh sat in the passenger seat, listening to the pilot of the Pious Guardian repeat his hail to the station. He watched the live feed coming from the spyglass cameras affixed to the front of the Guardian, admiring the desolate shell of the long dead beast of tarnished steel. The docks were dark and empty, save a few haphazard ships, long ago stripped for parts. Staring at the graveyard sent an icy chill through Jiral's spine, raising the hair on his neck. He continued his survey finding no lights, no facilities drones, no signs of life. The old ice mining facility was abandoned, maybe decades before their arrival.

The pilot conceded, giving up his hail, but kept his radio pointed at the station as he maneuvered into a docking sequence. The Guardian, a Cargo Support Vessel, was an escort ship, designed for protecting caravans rather than transporting cargo. But Jiral's cargo was small, and he paid well for the voyage. Besides, the station was less than a stone’s throw from Ganymede, the pilot’s next destination anyhow.

The Guardian's hull creaked as it locked into the corroded docking clamps. Checking his outboard sensors for breaches or malfunctions, the pilot sighed with satisfaction. He turned to his patron.

"Here's your stop, sir. Will you need any assistance with your cargo?" The pilot grinned wolfishly. Jiral hadn’t learned so much as the pilot’s name on their trek across the system, but he did become acquainted with the pilot’s dark sense of humor and ceaseless need to fill the empty space with a joke any chance he could. Jiral rolled his eyes and unstrapped from his seat.

"No thank you, captain. I think I can manage." Ducking his head, Jiral headed for the cargo bay near the rear of the ship.

Inside, he found his single pack, the only luggage he carried. Jiral rechecked the contents, finding his terminal sized package still within. He released the mag-chain and effortlessly carried the pack less than a dozen steps across the cargo hold to his brand-new EVO suit. Before now, he’d never even seen an EVO suit in person, wearing it felt daunting. With several deep breaths, Jiral climbed into the suit, strapped down with mag chains in the light-G of the ship. The custom fit suit conformed to his body, and the systems hummed to life as sensors read his DNA sequence, matching the suit to Jiral.

He hefted the helmet over his head and toyed with the clamps until it sealed. The HUD glowed to life, displaying a colorful menagerie of metrics and data, most of which Jiral did not fully understand. He saw his body temperature, heartbeat, and power cell levels; the Guardian’s pilot assured him these were the only three worth remembering. Jiral picked the suit that provided 100 hours of extended use, springing for additional ballistic weave fiber and an acetylene saw. Turning, Jiral tried to take his first step, but couldn't move. He looked down, and realized the boots were still mag-chained to the cargo hold. Kneeling, Jiral fumbled with the chain, releasing the lock with thick gloved hands. EVO suits were not designed for articulate hand movements.

"You hear me, kid?" The pilot's voice echoing inside his helmet surprised Jiral. He'd forgotten he hooked into the ship's comms.

"I hear you uh, sir.” He was unsure of what exactly to call the pilot.

"Good. If you're all sealed up, I'll go ahead and open the cargo door."

Jiral re-checked his sensors. "Good to go." The door creaked open behind him and Jiral turned to watch the station come into view.

"Remember, 12 hours then I'm off to Ganymede, with or without you. Drop off your package and come right back."

Jiral used one of his newfound head movements to ping a 10-4 back to the pilot. One of the sensors told him the hold was no longer pressurized and the station had no false gravity. The EVO suit's auto pilot kicked in the mag-locks on his boots and Jiral stepped out onto the docking bay without turning back.

SIX MONTHS EARLIER

Jiral was jolted awake by the dull clang of someone beating on his door. Weary-eyed, he pulled on a dirty shirt and stumbled across the small single-bed apartment to stop the banging. Stretching, he pried the door ajar and peered out.

"Yea?" He asked through a yawn.

"Are you Jiral Ubesh?" The woman at the door was dressed in a dark, clean business suit. Jiral immediately recognized she was not from his part of town.

"Depends. Who's asking?"

The woman rolled her eyes. "I represent the law office of Gimbal and Hans. We have a few legal documents for Mr. Ubesh to sign before claiming his inheritance."

Jiral perked up. "Inheritance?" he asked. "I'm Jiral, err Mr. Ubesh. That's me." She scanned his ID tag.

Nodding, she continued. "Yes, it appears that your grandfather left you some money when he died.” She handed Jiral the forms. He skimmed the legal jargon and saw the number at the bottom of the form.

"Twenty thousand dollars?" Jiral's eyes grew wider. He'd never seen that much money in his life.

"Oh sorry, no that was the initial deposit into the account. The final sum is on the back."

Jiral turned the form over and caught himself before falling back into the room.

$59,615,261.87

Minutes passed before Jiral responded. “How?”

"Your great, great... She looked over at the form. Great, you get the idea, grandfather deposited the money in 2017, before being cryogenically frozen. It was all the rage that century." She continued. "Last month, his facility thawed him out and he unfortunately did not survive the process. Condolences. As stated in his will, the money goes to next of kin, you. Twenty thousand dollars, plus 3% compounded interest over 267 years."

Jiral began to regain his composure, absorbing the information. "What do I do now?" He asked innocently.

"The money is yours as of today, however there is one clause in the will. A somewhat weird request, but not altogether uncommon."

"Clause?" Jiral asked.

At that moment, Jiral noticed the small box in her hands. She passed it through the doorway. "You must deliver this package to the coordinates indicated in the will. The specifics are outlined on page six." She turned on her heel to leave, calling behind her. "Congratulations, Mr. Ubesh. You're now a millionaire."

He first tried to first purchase a new housing unit, double the size of his current living quarters. But upon signing the lease, his transaction was denied. A call to the bank informed him that only approved purchases could be made until confirmation of the delivery. Two weeks later, he chartered the Pious Guardian at an inflated rate. Once his custom order EVO suit arrived, his shuttle disembarked Earth for Strakino Station.

He entered the reactor core station cautiously, wielding a high lumen UV coated light as a weapon, cutting through the silent darkness of the building. He listened as his suit’s active scan reconfirmed there was no life within the station. With only meters left to reach the drop point, Jiral was being as cautious as possible. The HUD’s GPS blipped every few seconds, the tempo increasing as he neared his destination. He checked his watch, noting the half hour window. He pinged the pilot's radio.

"Pious Guardian, Courier checking in. Do you read?"

"Loud and clear, delivery boy. ETA?"

Jiral rolled his eyes. "13 meters until drop. Proceeding with caution.”

“7 hours before departure.”

Perturbed by the pilot’s punctuality, Jiral responded with another 10-4. He didn’t think the pilot would leave him, but he picked up pace just in case.

His GPS blip was a cacophony of rapid beeps by the time he found the storeroom. The doorway had failed open when the reactor core went offline, taking power and gravity. Jiral wouldn't need to use the acetylene saw, but he didn't mind. Inside the room, his light reflected off the grimy surfaces of lockers and floating detritus. He didn’t understand what was so important about the location, but he detached his pack to unload his burden.

He popped open the metal door of a locker and hinged a mag-chain to the inside. The other end connected to the box with a satisfying click.. He turned to radio the Guardian, but immediately felt as though he was no longer alone in the storeroom. Jiral turned back and found the box still floating just outside the locker. He checked his active scan once again. No life.

"Did you open it?" The voice sounded like it was in the room rather than over the radio. Jiral spun, piercing the dark corners with his flashlight, finding no one, nothing.

"Well?"

His heart raced, but all he could think to do was answer. "N-no. I didn't.

"Oh good. I knew that of course, but… aren't you curious?"

Jiral hesitated, then shook his head.

"Oh, come now, yes you are. Who wouldn’t be right? Open it.” Hesitantly, Jiral looked around the room, then stepped toward the locker.

“No harm now. You made the delivery out here in the middle of nowhere.”

Jiral pried the box open and looked inside.

“You know what’s so important about this place?” The Voice continued.

Inside, he found a small, dusty black notebook floating freely, not much larger than his palm, and made of real paper.

“This is the center of the entire universe. The edges equidistant in every direction.”

Jiral clumsily snatched the book from the box, held it in front of his face shield. The cover looked old, the dust like stars in a black sky. It felt delicate in his hands, fragile. Carefully, Jiral opened the notebook and frowned. He couldn't understand the strange markings, the words were written in an unknown language.

"It's one of my stories.” The Voice said. “I'm a writer, see. An author. Unpublished, but I don’t do it for the money. Not much use for it now." The Voice continued as Jiral thumbed through the pages. "This one, though. I lost it a long time ago; thought I'd never see it again."

Jiral turned a page and began to realize that the symbols didn't look quite as foreign as he'd thought. Still illiterate to the meaning, he began to see patterns, possibly even words form.

"Oh, flip to the end there, that's the really good stuff."

Jiral turned to the last page. He finally found comprehension of the strange words and started piecing together entire sentences. Surprised, he read on. The meaning was lost on him at first, then, Jiral started to understand. He looked up, into the blackness. "What is this?"

"It's my book, I told you."

"What does it mean? Who are you?"

"Read on, my boy and you'll find out. I'm just a writer, a storyteller."

Jiral read the last few lines slowly, absorbing the content fully.

When he read the final word, he let go of the notebook, letting it spin freely to the middle of the room. His light dimmed to blackness. The EVO suit was gone. Jiral too. At the docking bay, the pilot of the Pious Guardian was not in his cockpit. Millions of miles away, the Earth was no longer crowded by its 13.5 billion inhabitants. Everywhere, there was silence for an eternity. Then, the stomping footfalls of a lone life form interrupted the tranquility of oblivion in the storeroom on Starkino Station 0637. The author reached out and grasped his jet-black notebook from the middle of the room. He flipped through the pages and read the final words.

At the center, the Courier finds nothing left.

As he closed the book, the rest of existence blinked out, fading to a dusty black.