Aetheral Space

Chapter 152:7.1: Family Matters

The thing in the dark waited.

It had been years since it had last felt light on its eyes, or warmth on its skin. It’s awareness of those sensations had long since faded to a distant memory. The only embrace it knew was the cold and merciless grip of its prison.

It’s arms were bound, as were it’s legs. The only movement the thing was capable of was tired, sedated thrashing -- through which it could eventually maneuver itself to scratch faintly on the surface of its prison.

That scratch, scratch, scratch was the only voice the thing was permitted: the gag bound tight against its lips prevented anything else. Just as the thing received nothing from the world, it was not permitted to release anything back into it.

Occasionally, the thing could hear it’s own muffled voice from outside of the prison. Occasionally, the thing could feel it’s prison shaking around it as it was transported to another place it would never see. Occasionally, the thing would remember the things it had done. That was the depth of its stimulus.

No matter what it perceived though, it could not affect it in the least. It might as well have been a corpse. Whenever these thoughts resurfaced, the thing would cease scratching and lie still for a time.

The thing in the dark waited, and quietly hated.

The Cradle was a pretty weird place.

When Rico walked around at home -- back on the streets of Malaka -- he usually found himself looking down at the floor. Sometimes he felt like he ended up missing half the world like that: if someone was hiding from him up on a ceiling, he’d probably never spot them.

Ever since he’d arrived on the Cradle, though, Rico has found himself looking up. He supposed, given the layout, that was only natural.

The Cradle was spherical, a massive lightpoint station floating in space, and the city it hosted wrapped around the inside like an inverted globe. If you looked up from any position in the city, you’d see streets far above you -- and if you looked up with a telescope, Rico was willing to bet you’d see someone else looking right back at you.

There were only a few lightpoints the size of the Cradle -- and Rico had never seen one as well-maintained. Gleaming bronze spires and spotless white streets wrapped around the inside of the Cradle, with a monorail network connecting the whole thing. Legions of maintenance automatics swept the station at regular intervals to ensure that quality was kept consistent.

He couldn’t imagine how much money this place spent in a single day. Lightpoints probably made a ton of money anyway, to be fair -- without the FTL launches they provided, the previous solutions to the lightspeed problem would mean travel between systems would stretch on for years. Even so, the costs of maintaining those systems plus the costs of maintaining a city… it sort of made him shudder.

Gramps could definitely afford it, but still.

A flock of doves, pecking at the grass, flew out of Rico’s way as the young man strolled through the park, his hands in the pockets of his jeans. Day hours aboard the Cradle had begun not long ago, so the park was bathed in bright light, illuminated by the glowing leaves and bark of the ever-present trees. Rico fished his hand out of his pocket and checked his wrist-bound script: yep, he was definitely going the right way.

The transition from park to street was nearly seamless -- grass becoming smooth brickwork and the trees replaced with towering antique lamp posts. This whole district, Rico had noticed, had something of a rustic vibe -- a cozy hamlet like something you’d see in a fairy tale picture book.

He paused outside the place, checked his script one last time, and stepped inside.

As he opened the door, the bell above jingled -- prompting the pretty brunette waitress at the café counter to stuff away her own script as quickly as possible and adopt a customer service grin. "Hi!" she said cheerily, hands clasped over the apron of her uniform. "Welcome to Annabelle’s! Is it a table for one, sir?"

Rico shook his head, glancing around the room. The place seemed empty apart from himself and the waitress, all the tables empty. "Table for four, if that’s okay?"

The girl hurriedly nodded -- clearly, she wasn’t used to actually having customers here. "Yes, of course -- I’ll need to move a chair over, but -- well, um, just take a seat wherever you like and I’ll be right with you."

Rico sat himself down near the window, where he could get a look at the street outside. As the waitress brought a fourth chair over to the little table, she pulled a menu out from her apron and unfolded it.

"Can I get you a drink while you wait?" she asked, smiling.

From what Rico had read on the internet, this place specialised in coffee and pastries. "Uh," Rico

All of them took a step backwards as the automatic landed, their respective Aether already buzzing defensively around them. The machine made no other movements -- just sitting there prone on the ground as it emitted a soft whirring noise. Bruno exchanged a glance with Skipper, who slowly shook his head.

Light sprang forth from the automatic’s eye, projecting two holograms directly in front of itself. One was the message the automatic had been programmed to deliver -- the other was a representation of its sender.

Dragan, the floating text said. I hope you are well.

It has been a long time since we last talked, so I will update you on my circumstances. I am currently subordinate to a senior member of the Oliphant Clan, Jacques Oliphant-Escoffier. The Clan is currently in the process of consolidating their presence upon the Cradle, a mass lightpoint in Supremacy space, which we hope to utilize as a base of operations.

Many members of the Oliphant Clan will be lobbying for influence over the Cradle. As part of my employer’s efforts to ensure a favourable outcome for himself and his family, he has requested all available resources be brought in to provide aid. It is for this purpose that I contact you.

Come to the Cradle, Dragan. You can consider all debts paid in full after that.

Dragan’s eyes saw the words, but the information from them was not retained. He was far too busy glaring, furious, at the hologram of the man who had sent this message. At the hologram of the man who had raised him.

Mr. Fix.