When you spend weeks in space with the most dangerous criminals in Cavea, you learn to stop expecting ordinary days. Today was supposed to be the exception, a quiet descent back to Earth, 800 years in the making. The kind of day that would cement my mission in the footnotes of history. But no—turns out the universe had other plans.
The cockpit stinks of piss, a light protest from my prisoners to make my space sickness a hundred times worse. The thrum of engines along with the eerie nothingness of space creates a chaos that can eat any man given enough time. I've nearly my limit. My hands grip the controls loose, the stars outside my viewport stretching like threads as the planet below crept closer.
"Everyone strapped in?" I snicker out my coil suit. Not bothering to glance at my audience. The cargo hold was full of scum—killers, thieves, and worse— all shackled tight to their seats. None of them answered, of course. Those who do emit noise do so through the mumbling of their metal muzzles entraping their voice. They keep the others on their best behavior for me.
The ship shuddered, just a little, barely noticeable. I frown and click the holoPad console. "Stabilizers are checked. We are code 4." The words weren't for anyone but myself. Behind me, one of the prisoners muttered something under his breath. "What's that?" I call back, my voice sharp.
"I hope you're a better pilot than you look," came the reply in jest. She gives me uncomfortable eye contact for a criminal with nothing but centimeters of wiggle room.
"Another comedian. Best pray I don't crash this thing or none of you are walking away."
They laughed—some of them, anyway. A low, bitter sound. It wasn't funny. I have no desire to talk to scum, I house murderers, rapists, and thieves, and these barely scratch the list. But man gets lonely, the first days were silent, but you spend 63 days on a floating spacecraft and you might find yourself making friends with devils.
The comedian in question is one Ivana Creed, known as 'The Black Widow.' A master manipulator and poison expert. She had infiltrated wealthy families on several occasions, gaining their trust before killing them to inherit their resources. She is a desperate one, many of my crew protested conversation with me, but she had been gunning for me from day one. But among my crew, playing a crooked Robin Hood is the least of their sins.
Lyra 'Shiv' Salthorne, one of the most violent gang leaders in Cavea history, previously controlled much of the black market and is known for her brutal enforcement tactics. She's the type of woman whom I wouldn't be surprised to learn she's pulling the strings still, hundreds of thousands of miles away from home rotting in a space shuttle.
Not all are like her, take Tobias 'Plague' Anders, the second-highest death count on my crew but perhaps the biggest coward. A previous chemist for the institution, and current bio-terrorist who weaponized Cavea's agricultural sectors, releasing a deadly pathogen to extort the council for resources. Thousands died for weeks, 'The Black Widow' killed for money, and she did so quickly. 'Shiv' killed those who opposed her, and she did so slowly. 'Plague" killed indiscriminately, without notice and without mercy, simply to pursue his own selfish desires. He is not a strong man, with normal height, skin and bones. It took not but a week for him to become the punching bag of a group where their only weapon was their voice, not he sits in shame strapped from head to toe. He had previously attempted suicide 40 days ago, I will not provide him that luxury.
Dante 'The Phantom' Kross, is a master thief with an uncanny ability to evade capture at all cost. His crimes include some of the biggest heists in Cavea history, robbing the council spire's treasury, smuggling rare technologies, and the Assassination of my previous leader. I heard he turned himself in on purpose, he knew he would join me on Earth. Most thought him clever but it matters not the reason, now that I oversee him he lacks any plausible escape.
There sits one more man, the other criminals are calling him a 'Monk.' He hasn't made a single noise since we strapped them onto this ship, not even the sound of his breath reaches our ears. His name is Reinheart Amon, previous senior adviser of the Special Space Force of Cavea. He is also my brother.
'The Black Rampage,' also known as the single most destructive act in Cavea history. A bloody act that shifted him from a man of honor to one of rebellion. Abusing his military power, he staged an explosive assault on central sectors of Cavea, meticulously planned, targeting military outposts, communication relays, logistical hubs, and the home of our neighbors. With over 3000 confirmed deaths including many more unaccounted for, my brother had committed the ultimate sin. I don't know why or what prompted it but since he came home from that day—the day I put my brother in handcuffs—we haven't said a word to each other.
So I distract myself with the friendship of criminals. Then it happened.
The ship jolted hard, a roughness that spikes the adrenaline through your veins. Red lights illuminate the holoPad with warnings, red and angry.
"Malfunction in the stabilizer array" the holoPad lets out in its depressing monotone voice. "Code 3. Code 3." The holoPad repeats itself.
"Malfunction?" I hiss, hands searching my controls for the answer.
Another jolt, this one harder. The previous laughter in the cargo hold stopped. I feel the tension rising, and the jolt was quick enough to give those with muzzles bloody noses and lips.
"This is your captain speaking," I say in calm, at least I think. "We're hitting some turbulence. Nothing to worry about—unless, of course, it gets worse."
It got worse.
The Alarms scream. Violence rips through my spacecraft as red blinks erratically in my halls.
"Pod integrity compromised," the holoPad said. "Emergency separation procedure, commencing in 60 seconds."
I am too late. This ship is going down, like it or not. With a deafening clang, my front pod detaches, sending me hurling toward the surface of the planet below. My outside world slowly blurs to chaos as I spiral uncontrollably, stars are replaced by flashes of green and blue. "Shit, shit, shit!" I shout to myself, now separate from the crew, I can only assume they will die, and for a reason, I cannot explain, that deeply hurts me as I speed to my death. Gripping the seat as the pod shook violently, metal screams as the atmosphere tore at the hull, and debris whirled around me like angry wasps. My coil suit does well to reflect the heat, but the infinite heat attacking me makes me a ball of fire. Defying physics my protective system engages, and an inner airbag exploded outward, cocooning me in a tight, suffocating shell, still on fire. My body jerks me before everything abruptly stops. I feel no pain on the verge of death, this is a drug I didn't know existed. For a long moment, there is silence, I stay unmoving searching with my eyes for my body. I start at my hands, looking next to my torso and feet, revealing I am mostly intact. But I am suffocating. As the airbag deflated, I struggled to breathe, pulling myself free of the harness. I am merely all that is left, me and my coil suit. My ears ring and my vision is blurry as I rise from smoke and shattered panels. Trying to focus, everything feels… distant. Fractured. I press my fingers on my temple as flashes of moments—faces, names, voices—dart through my mind and vanish just as soon as they flash. The broken console in front of me blinds a bright red, its symbols unreadable. Had it always looked this way? A question hung in the air, but I couldn't grasp the answer.
"What the hell… is that?" 2 men say in unison, it's hard to see but their words are obviously directed at me.
I fall back, dazed and disoriented, muttering the first thing that comes to mind.
"Where the fuck am I?"