Tevun-Krus #59 - SpacePunk

Barter - A Short Story by @jinnis

Barter

By jinnis

Jay Sands avoids the densely populated sectors of the galaxy. She can't stand the space traffic regulations, and she outright hates the crowds in the ports of the hub worlds. This makes her an outcast. Or, as hub-dwellers like to call anyone from the fringe, a punk.

Jay doesn't mind. Better a punk than a peasant is her motto. Admittedly, she never met a peasant, spending her life in deep space. Okay, she tested living on a planet once, a short-lived disaster.

She found the habitation domes too crowded, and the outside with its vast plains and endless horizons made her dizzy. Jay experienced the old spacer's fear of falling off the planet, mistrusting the rock ball's invisible, non-adjustable gravity. Surface sickness drove her back into her natural habitat: a cosy ship, driven by trustworthy engines and shared with a reliable AI.

Under normal circumstances, Jay stays away from the HCW, the hub of civilised worlds. But overdue repairs on her Pi-class freighter leave her no choice. Out on the fringe, there's a distinct lack of karabol, the core component of a Pi-C's powerful hyperdrive.

~

The moment she drops out of hyperspace near HCW S-17, Jay feels a sneeze building and suffers from a scratchy throat. Her body's allergic reaction to the nearness of the hub. Emma insists this is made up and purely psycho. But what would an AI know about human psychology? Jay snorts—probably too much yet not enough to name a cure. Meanwhile, the symptoms scream at her to steer clear of the station hanging like a big double doughnut rotating around a vertical axis in front of Emma's sensors.

There's nothing to do about it: Jay needs a new set of karabol cubes for the mellow interchanger. Nothing too fancy, but impossible to purchase in the outer reaches, even from the ingenious gek'klarat.

"Emma? Please set a course for docking."

"Your voice pattern signals an increasing malfunction of your throat. I recommend an immediate health check."

"Emma, skip it. You know how much I hate the hub. Give me a break and bring us in."

"Confirmed. Three hours standard to docking."

Jay leans back with a shrug and closes her eyes. She learned long ago to ignore Emma's moods. It's commonplace an AI's sensitivities inflate with its increasing knowledge. Two hours to kill till she's in reach of station communication. Enough time to lose her voice to hub allergy. The call registers a few minutes later.

"Unknown ship in quadrant G4-north alpha. Identify."

She curses under her breath while enabling visuals. Looks like she's bellybutton deep in trouble. Five sleek drone ships of the hub border patrol engage her cruiser like a herd of hungry bullcats. Not that she's ever seen one of these mythical animals, and she doubts they exist at all. Anyway, the hailer in the lead ship repeats his call for the third or fourth time. There's no denying it's aimed at her. Jay clears her throat.

"Pi-class MA-757, Gullogong registration, Jay Sands of HCW S-04, pilot. Request permission to dock."

The answer is silence. Not that she minds, it's better than the repetitive hailing from before. But after a while, it becomes disturbing.

"Emma? Any readings what they're up to?"

"Negative. Lead's scan tickles my outer sensors though."

"As long as you don't develop a sneeze too..."

The human voice of a patrol officer interrupts her, its tone almost husky, laced with awe.

"Pi-C MA-757, are you real? These ships weren't built for ages, and HCW-04 dropped out of the ring half a century ago."

Jay frowns, unsure how to handle the outburst. Are they recruiting kids for the patrol these days? Everyone knows time runs slow for fringe travellers. On a whim, she establishes visual connection.

The officer wears a smart uniform, light blue with the emblem of Gov HCW. Jay can't remember the colour and cut, another sign she's been gone a while. Emma could tell her exactly how long, but she doesn't bother to ask.

The face above the trim collar looks about her age, which means the man could be her son, perhaps a grandson. He's clean-shaven beneath too-long, curly hair. Cute, she thinks, especially the soft brown eyes. But she isn't here to flirt with a patrol officer, not before business at least.

"What do you mean, real? Sure, this ship and I aren't straight from the printer, but we're still going strong. Sell us a few karabol cubes and we're off like a shooting star."

"Karabol? For an interchanger? They're out of production for ... decades."

Now he's taking it too far, cute or not. Jay suppresses a sigh and flashes a sweet smile. Damn, why did she engage visuals?

"Listen, I really like your jokes, but could you give me permission to dock and visit a workshop? A set of karabol cubes is all I need."

"Mrs Sands, I'm not joking. Since the fringe worlds offer nothing exciting, string-jumpers aren't built anymore. Long distance travel is restricted to fixed gates now. Mellow interchangers and karabol cubes are forbidden gadgets of the past. The dangers of navigational errors while interacting with summary fields..."

"... can be easily compensated by a progressively learning AI. Thanks, I got my pilot's licence back when HCW S-04 was still in commission, and my AI had ample time to acquire the necessary skills."

"But... who would risk an AI developing independent consciousness?"

An audible snort conveys Emma's disapproval. Jay winces, hoping her AI-companion is smart enough to keep out of the discussion.

Luckily, the officer missed the interaction. He shakes his head and turns away to search a cupboard by his side. While she idly wonders how long she spent fringe hoping, he brandishes a shiny, small pyramid.

"See? The only use for karabol nowadays. Bought it as a birthday gift for my daughter."

Jay's face probably reflects her cluelessness, as he continues without a prompt.

"It's a recording device. Pictures, music, movies, personal diaries—you know teenagers. Believe me, you won't find karabol on S-17. You'd have to visit the factory sector of central, where they produce these for the entertainment industry."

No way is she venturing this deep into the hub, not voluntarily. But maybe...

"How much karabol does this unit contain?"

The officer squints to study the specs of the pyramid.

"It says 50 grams, radiation-free, capable to capture a 150-year lifespan. Amazing stuff."

Jay's grin spreads. 50 grams will allow her to replace the cubes twice, at least. No need to return to the hub in her lifetime.

"I'll trade you for the karabol. What's it worth?"

Cutie's face falls and Jay suddenly fears he'll deny, afraid to break a rule or, more probable, be left without a present for his daughter. She has to change his mind, quickly. Running a hand through her purple hair, and counting on the unfailing effect of her deep emerald eyes, she runs her tongue over her lips and smiles.

"I offer my private collection of gek'klarat asteroid crystals. They might make an adequate gift for your daughter. And..."

The officer's eyes widen.

~

Jay runs a fingertip over the karabol pyramid sitting in her palm. Her trip to the hub went smoother than a wet dream. And more satisfying. Time to hit the road and sail back to the fringe. Emma confirms the target coordinates, her voice warmed by a happy overtone.

"Ready for jump in 0-3 minutes. Jay, you better stow this in case we hit a rough spot."

"Yes, thanks, Emma. Wouldn't do to damage our precious karabol in transfer."

She smiles. A child's toy against alien trinkets, with benefits. Nothing as rewarding as bartering with glass beads.