Sunspot

[Proselyte]

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I was right about that. A fair amount of time has passed. At least ten days.

The cold has been oppressive. It's a daily struggle to keep it from stealing the feeling in my limbs.

I wasn't lucky enough to get any estimate on warmer clothes from my hosts for the first day. The gown they gave me and the bed covers were not sufficient for fighting the chill. I strained to resist the urge to lay in bed and shiver, and worked in as many exercises as I could manage in sparse conditions like these since they started providing me food.

Well, it's just synth paste, but it's enough to keep me going so I can work on getting my body back into the swing of things. Gets the blood flowing, and the activity eases my mind.

Left arm's been popping a lot more in the elbow now... it's still weak. I'll need to push through it if I'm going to be as sharp as I was before. At least the scarring seems to have faded. Well treated. That's a little shocking for how dingy things are around here.

Some more folks did eventually come check up on me, besides the young Corsair. Bretonians by their voices, wearing cold weather clothes, blue green patches on the arms. No room for relief at them not being Cretans, though. Still held me at gunpoint when I asked to go to the restroom.

The concrete structure I'm in seemed quite vast - I think I'm on just one of several floors after I got a look outside my cell. The walls have a slight curvature to them too, curiously enough. My pair of stern Bret escorts were entirely resistant to me asking where I was or trying to elicit some compromising small talk, and rushed me toward the restroom - thankfully, having the decency to wait outside.

After we returned, they gave me some clothes - some underwear, a green tee and some jeans, some cheap brown moccasins, a belt and an orange hoodie jacket. It helped a little with insulation, and the paste kept me going, but damn if I don't look ratty, especially my hair. It's not a comfortable state of being, but it is a guarantee they didn't want me freezing over. I'll take any of those I can get.

In the meantime, I think. I pour over what happened to me. How it felt. That overriding sense of emptiness. Like it was sucking me in, sapping my lungs, tearing out my nerves. That now ranks among the worst things I've had the displeasure of experiencing.

How did I even survive?

It's not like I could get away. I had no way out, but, here I am...

My whiling away of the hours got cut short by a knock on the door. I shout to the other side of the door to whoever thinks they need to bother being so polite.

Yes? Someone there?

Someone you're due a chat with. May I come in?

It's your dungeon, buddy.

The door creaks open, and in steps a portly, gruff looking man with a smile on his lips. Blond, blue-eyed, a scraggly short beard and slicked hair. He moves with an ease that sets him apart from his companions, who enter with him.

I see a mountain of a Hispanian man in a dark clothing, sweater laden with bandoliers. He sports a distinctive black walrus mustache, and has a certain murderous aura about him the longer I look. The young Corsair from before, notably without my hat and looking a touch bitter, trails just behind him. They both loom near the door, a menacing background presence.

The Bretonian man leading them walks over to me sitting on my bedframe, and offers my plasmaball cap towards me, head bowed slightly.

It's a dam, not a dungeon, lass. This, on the other hand, is yours.

I don't think I'd have been left ignorant and freezing my toes off if they cared about being nice. Still, this is more than I've gotten out of anyone that wasn't gloating at me.

I take the hat, and my hair's not doing me any favors right now, so I plant it atop my head. The Corsair boy sneers my way in response.

Well, thanks. I appreciate it. So where are we?

The scruffy gentleman paces calmly, motioning with his hands while he talks.

Oh, straight to the brass tacks? Let's at least swap names before we get on to the tedium.

Would you say that if you were stuck in a box for a week?

I'd relish the opportunity to gab after so much quiet. Here, I'll kick us off: name's Rudy. You?

Theresa... Theresa Rubble. I'm a courier from Bethlehem.

It's not a good lie, but it's probably better than throwing my real name around right now.

And I'm the man what saved your hide, out in the black. Shame that's not who you are, though.

Um- meaning what?

AWES at the Dublin Raceway in 830. My man Jasper's a fan, watches time to time. Got a memory for faces. Your name's Aspen Harlow.

Nuts.

Not that I blame you. Typical Zoner caution. A doctor, right? What starts an egghead flying racing ships anyhow?

Ah well. I was never a great liar anyway. Maybe I can make some rapport out of this.

I shrug and grin. The cool, calm me: relaxed and friendly.

Pft. A habit for picking up dangerous hobbies. Sticks to me even after my career change.

You also pick up fans, judging by "Sunshine's Groupie Wagon". Must be one hell of a story there.

Oh my God.

People actually remember the groupie freighter. People I've never met. Is this divine punishment?

My cheeks flush and I'm suddenly dreading that those races were recorded for the whole sector to see.

Ope- gosh, no. No clue where they came from, but it was nice of 'em to cheer me on. Maybe I'd be more comfortable if they kidnapped me.

Kidnapping? Me? Never. We can just be little rough with the accommodations. It's our sort of normal here.

Well you've got rough right. What's your word for it, then?

"Post-operation convalescence"! That, and I was running late. Terribly busy lately, y'see.

You'll tell me it's all pro bono too, right? Fingers crossed.

Oh, we'll talk money in a second. But for your first question, welcome to our little slice of the Big Can.

Gran Canaria. Somewhere cold on the planet, obviously. Mountains? The poles, maybe?

BMM built this dam, you know. New construction for the colony they were going to jam people from the Leeds overflow into. Your lot showed them off though, so they're trying again on what you're all still calling Sprague, up in Omega-3. Makes for an ironic little hideaway for me and mine.

They aren't really "my lot", you know. I'm Pennsylvanian. It's a nice planet, though.

Aye, 'tis. Just the same, doctor, we'd like to keep our homes looking just as fine. Or, 'least as close to it as we can manage. Turns out there's always someone in Bretonia who'd like to recreate Leeds when they dream about the bottom line it brought for all those centuries.

I've known women from Leeds. The inhumanity of the bombardment aside, they told me that it wasn't much better before it was rendered lifeless anyway.

I hope they're both alright.

So, we put a wrench in plans like that. Doing that well takes information and planning, and that's my department these days. Just looking for a few answers. About, say, where you've been, or about that curious shiny trinket you had aboard your vessel.

Trinket? Y-yeah, I had an object aboard. Alien. It could be dangerous. Are you keeping it secured?

I've been sweating about that artifact all week. I still have no idea what it does after an initial scan. I definitely wasn't in a hurry to use my talent to try and tap into it, to conduct its echo. Too many uncomfortable stories about the danger of active specimens. I hate to imagine these people using it like a paperweight.

Oh, no. The thing itself is off to the private display of some Yank poser by now. Might be there already. I sold it.

What an IDIOT.

Why?!

Well the payout for starters. Fancy piece, worth a high price even this late into the trade. That and you had nothing else to pay me with, by my eyes. Where'd you pull it from? Sprague? Running it up to Liberty?

Wh- no! I've never been to Sprague! I was going to study it, determine its purpose, earn us a little insight into their workings. Not go pawn it off like a looter. Why would I do that?

This guy is actually grinning at me, I can see the satisfaction in his eyes. I glare daggers. If it wasn't for his Corsair goons...

Well if that's the case, then who was it what did you in? No other reason to travel that corridor.

What does it matter to you anyway? Just looking for more where that came from?

Ohoh, if only I'd get so lucky, then our money problems would be done with even if BIS did swarm all over us. So who jumped you?

Focus. Breathe. Regulate yourself.

Don't bother lying. Try the truth. Just, edited slightly.

Folks I'd have been better off not learning about. The kind that make you pay if you do. It's a... personal feud.

Hm. Fine then. Unlucky for you, though, surely.

Just like that? That was easy. Better this way for him, anyway.

I'll tell you how I see it, since you seem more like the clueless spelunker than a real mover or shaker.

I give him a look of confusion. What did he expect?

Maybe you think you've got some high and noble purpose so you can dumpster dive in an alien's refuse. Good for you. What I see, aside from a big plus to the bank account for making do of the situation, is someone who's going to bring attention to a route I'd rather not have looked at that closely. People who whacked you are your business? Fair play. But something like that could've attracted eyes. I don't want that trouble anywhere near what we're up to.

And what is that?

Fighting for our bloody dignity, that's what. From BMM, the Crown, bunters on the prowl. Understanding what that dead species used for toilet paper or whatever the hell else, is worthless next to that.

He's genuinely frustrated. Definitely sees me as some kind of threat for my bumbling around.

His emotions are raw, now. Even without actively tapping the gift, I can feel their potency arc through the space between us.

If I just focus for a moment... reach for that current... follow it back to the source...

Simmering. The being of the man in front of me churns within, an anxious boil. Methodically, professionally, he suppresses it. Problems off a list, addressed cleanly. But the concern is ever present, merely tamed. Before my sight, laid bare. In a flash, the core of his emotion, the crux of his feeling. Of his new, distant home...

Protectiveness.

My eyes flutter for an instant as I come back to myself. Rudy's arching an eyebrow, looking at me like I just spat on his shoes.

It doesn't matter. Shallow of a look as it was, I think I'm confident about an approach.

Listen... Rudy. I didn't find the artifact on Sprague. I'm not out to endanger anyone, least of all the people who rescued me. It was just bad luck. I know I'm not one of your own, but you've got my honest thanks, from one spacer to another. Maybe I can help.

Is that an admission of debt coming my way?

If we consider that debt paid with both the proceeds from the artifact, and also my honest efforts at making sure no attention comes towards you for this, yeah. If I'm missing for too long, though, people I know may come looking around. Neither of us want the trouble after you did me such a good turn. Let me handle that for you.

His calloused hand runs over his short beard, in that pondering elder sort of way, side eyeing me. It's hard to tell whether he's budging, but I'm more focused on making my case.

You'd have to let me go. It's good for both of us, and you don't need to give it a second thought. Nice, isn't it?

How long are you going to listen to this prattle? Do we ransom the Zoner, or not?

The burly Corsair marches over to just behind his... employer? Partner? He looks like he's about done listening to me go on, the way he rolled his head.

He's sort of sabotaging me. I don't want to be stuck here just so these people can squeeze money out of my friends.

Seems like that's up to Rudy.

Thank you to the peanut gallery for the input, but I'll make that call when I'm right and ready.

You made your wealth circumventing our trade. Then you whisk away the majority of the proceeds? You owe us tribute for our work here.

The young Corsair seems to almost rise to say something too, but hesitates, staying just behind his older counterpart.

You don't need to commit to anything you don't think is worth the risk.

I'm bloody well aware.

There's a bit of venom in his voice when he glares at me. This "welcome guest" pretense is wearing a bit thin.

Easy does it. I don't want to push my luck.

Rudy looks me over, then his partner, before motioning to the doorway.

We're done for now. Torente and Soto, why don't we sort out our side of things?

I simply watch them go, still seated, the younger one being the last out. We wrinkle our noses at each other, and before I know it I'm alone again.

Their footsteps echo and fade off into the corridor out the door. I can only hope that conversation ends well for me.

I'll find out, one way or the other.

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