Ricardia's sidelong blow had hit the hacker so hard that his head twisted away. He turned back to look at her, gaping like a fish. From the corner of his eye hung a feed-contact she'd dislodged, sitting there like a tear.
RIcardia, the man's sidekick, the rest of the street - there was a collective hush, as though no one was sure how to react. Although she couldn't see them, it was the passerby that sprung into action first, hurrying away as past as possible. Then the tension truly shattered, and the hacker let out a snarl of rage and indignation.
"Caedem help me," Ricardia muttered, then pivoted and ran full tilt down the street.
She'd maybe gotten a two, three-second head start before the two men gave chase. Around her, inexplicably, she could hear scattered cheering.
"Good luck, girlie!" An old man saluted her as she flew break-neck past his shop, but one made a move to block her pursuer's path. People love an underdog, but Caedem forbid if anyone stepped in to help a lone woman, apparently. The thought helped fuel the flames, pushing Ricardia forward, and she turned a corner, heading down another street at full speed. She didn't need to look back to know where her pursuers were - she could hear the heavy breathing of the two men close behind.
A boulevard meant light and local authority, but Ricardia didn't know if she had it in her to make it that far. She was athletic - the reason these men hadn't caught her yet - but she was running out of time.
For several long, horrible seconds, the three of them ran in silence, only interrupted by the rush of wind, the thrum of pounding heartbeats. The universe had been reduced to one directive, and Rcardia was determined to keep moving for as long as she could. But then, underneath the adrenaline, a plan was beginning to form. These men may be bigger, and faster, but they were from Onyx. They didn't have a Factor.
It was then that she saw it: further down the street, a gap in the buildings. A service entrance maybe, or just a quirk of architecture. But right now, within her half-baked plan, it was her salvation. She dragged everything she had left up to the surface, pushing through those last few moments to the alley. She turned the corner; there, spotted a dilapidated recycler against the wall, threw herself behind it. Then Ricardia began to strip, tearing off her full-length sweater.
The two men burst into the alleyway, came to a stop. From behind her hiding place, she could hear them: the scuff of their feet, their exhalations. She imagined them pointing, silently communicating to conspire against her, to flush her out. But now she was ready. Ricardia waited. One moment. Then another. She heard the pounding rush of feet then, and threw herself out into the open, pushing her Factor as hard as she could.
Standing in the alley, the hacker knew that the dead-head tourist was hiding behind the recycler. The alleyway was stub-like and empty otherwise.
He was furious. What should have been an easy bypass-hack on the woman had left him humiliated. He wanted revenge, to see her beaten-down for her disrespect. They edged closer, came to a stop. Finally, he eyed his partner, jerking his head. There was no hesitation as they charged in together.
Then there was a flash, solar-bright, and the hacker went reeling, his retinas frazzled. Against the dimness of Onyx, the bursts of electric-white and red were an overwhelming shift in vision. The men cried out, yelling. A phantom - an anti-silhouette - loomed out of the aurora of light, and the men shrinked away. The blinding rays seemed to follow it, emanate from it, and they scrambled to cover their vision.
It took some time for the sunbursts of light to fade from the back of their eyelids. Blinking, adjusting to the gloom, the men gaped at each other. The partner lumbered to the recycler, looked around. He turned back to the hacker. "The girl's not here anymore," he mumbled.
The hacker kicked a wall, setting flakes of mortar into the air. Then he swore, violently.
Patterns still traced themselves across Ricardia's skin, the residue of bioluminescence. She leaned against another alleyway, a few streets over, her arms wrapped tight around her torso. Her Factor had performed brilliantly; she'd initiated a flare of red light, stimulating danger, setting off a trigger of fear in her pursuers. Despite exuding such bright light, her skin was cool to the touch. She'd replaced her sweater, covering most of the residual light. As the chemical reactions in her skin wound themselves down, she'd soon return to her unassuming self. Ricardia continued to grip her body, trying to will the shaking to recede along with the Factor. She'd escaped, but she was tired, alone, and resourceless.
Ricardia lifted her head a little. She'd be okay. She forced the assertion to cycle through her mind like a mantra. She'd make it to the harbor, and then find passage home from there. But she needed some time before moving again. Ricardia lowered herself slowly down, down onto the rocky ground. There, hidden by station-simulated shadows, she let herself cry for just a little while.
...
The harbormaster was not the reassuring force Reicardia had hoped for. It wasn't her face - although her stonewall expression and craggy exterior wasn't helping. Rather, Ricardia could read it in the woman's body language: the way her eyes slid away from Ricardia, failing to muster more than a sedentary level of focus, or the way she draped herself over an excessively padded chair, arms swinging limp
Upon sucessfully reaching the harbor, Ricardia had urgenlty flagged down the first dockworker she'd seen. The man had been suspicious of her initially, but quickly realized that she was a helpless tourist and not some local grifter. He'd taken her to the harbor's huge municipal building, where a bored secretary had her wait for hours before finally beckoning her into the office.
Now she stood before the woman, who had the nerve to actually hold up a finger as she entered, forcing Ricardia to stand there and wait as the Harbormaster finished jabbing away at an old keyboard. As she waited, what little patience she had left fraying, Ricardia glanced around at the room.
The office was shockingly opulent, and the sight was made even more jarring by Ricardia's recent escapade through Onyx. Planted like a barnacle against the bulk of the station, the office was huge and airy. An entire wall was made of fortified glass, allowing for an unobstructed view of open space, and the constant flow of ships as they moved to and from the harbor. The office itself boasted a shockingly expensive arrangement of furnishings: the desk, table, and chairs were all ornate, made of actual, bona-fide wood. Atop the table sat a series of models, iconic space freighters and pleasure crafts that even Ricardia could recognize.
Finally, the harbormaster looked up, and gestured for Ricardia to explain herself. But when she recounted her arrival, the theft and the chase, the woman just gave her a bitter laugh.
"Oh, honey," the woman said, leaning back. "Why, of all the little shit-patches across this system, did you pick Onyx for your little retreat?"
Ricardia reddened. "I needed to get away from home, you see-"
"So, what? An adventure? Miss, you arrived here with no anti-hack tech, didn't arrange for a guide, and with nothing but the clothes on your back."
"I had a bag," Ricardia mumbled. There seemed no point in correcting her. "It was supposed to be waiting for me at the hotel."
The harbormaster sighed, shaking her head. "Look, I've seen this before. Some little guy from a sweet little planet wants to see what it's really like out there, in the black. And there, coming through from some screen, are the lights, the thrills of some place like Onyx, and they pounce on it."
The harbormaster slid open a drawer in her desk, digging around.
"You came here with no experience, and no plan. The people you see stepping off those ships behind me are either veterans in this kind of world or just don't have anything left to lose."
Ricardia didn't answer. What could she even say? A day ago she'd felt intrepid, more bold and adventurous than anyone else on Caedum. But reality had beaten her down, right when she needed a lift the most.
The harbormaster had finally managed to wrestle a small, electronic tablet from the desk. Catching Ricardia's look, she explained: "any bureaucracy that goes on at the spaceport is done on an encrypted, separate server. I'm sure you understand why." She pulled up a digital form on the battered thing and passed it to Ricardia, prompting her to fill in her personal information.
"Give up on your money and whatever else shit you lost. It's gone. But we can at least get you a ride home, courtesy of our sponsors."
Gratified, Ricardia turned her attention to the form - and simply stared. That little thread of hope she's woven during the past few moments promptly frayed.
"What's the hold-up?" The harbormaster asked her, but her eyes were narrowed; already putting the pieces together.
"This is the Purists' emblem," Ricardia mumbled, pointing to the top of the form. "Why is it there?"
The other woman sniffed. "Come on, now. The entire sector is Purist."
"But I thought Onyx was independent!" Panic was leaching into Ricardia's voice.
The harbormaster laughed. "Open your eyes. You've seen what this place looks like. Money that goes into the station doesn't exactly go towards the public good." She sighed, shrugging. "It means most public services here are Purist-funded."
"But I can't do this!" Ricardia exclaimed. "I'm from Caedum!"