I could already picture it—Kell telling Pa about my plans with that worried look, like I’d lost my mind. And Father… he’d probably just stay quiet. He was always quiet. Kell would turn out the same in a few years, then the youngest, then Kell’s kids—if the planet’s air held out long enough to even breathe, let alone speak.
Our language was already considered crude by offworld standards. In another generation, it’d probably devolve into grunts and gestures.
I expected nothing from them anymore. Nothing from any of them. Right then, I realized—if I stayed, I’d become just like them. Confused. Powerless. Crushed under the weight of it all.
So I made my choice.
Kell didn’t want to come with me. That was his right—agonizing as it was—but I knew: if I didn’t leave now, I’d be trapped here forever. In this place where hope and future had long since withered away.
I was ready to fly. Alone. With the weight of my homeworld at my back and a brother who’d chosen to stay, scrubbing me from his Kallinkorian life like a mistake in the margins.
The only one who helped me back then was an old mechanic from my father’s workshop. He was weathered, thoroughly worn down by life, but his eyes burned with a quiet, knowing fire—as if he still believed the universe had a few good surprises left.
The mechanic led me to the ship, its hull scuffed but sturdy. "He's spaceworthy," he said, running a calloused hand along the plating. "Ready to take you as far as the stars go."
"I meant to fly him myself, years back," the old Kallinkorian admitted as I approached with trembling hands. "Kept putting it off—'just one more ship to fix,' 'one last good deed.'" His laugh was dry as asteroid dust. "And here I stayed." Then he took my hand and shook it—the way you honor someone about to do something brave.
"This ship’s got a hologram onboard," the mechanic said, tapping the control panel. "Programmed to assist. Just introduce yourself, give her a name—she’ll follow your orders. Might even become a friend someday, kid."
I didn’t know how to respond. It all felt surreal, like I’d stepped into one of the offworld tales Kell used to mock. But I’d come too far to hesitate now.
The old man snapped a photo of me—my face half-lit by the ship’s running lights—then popped the microdrive from his camera and pressed it into my palm. "For the road," he said, nudging me toward the airlock with a weathered hand.
"This ship’s got a hologram onboard," the mechanic said, tapping the control panel. "Programmed to assist. Just introduce yourself, give her a name—she’ll follow your orders. Might even become a friend someday, kid."
I didn’t know how to respond. It all felt surreal, like I’d stepped into one of the offworld tales Kell used to mock. But I’d come too far to hesitate now.
The old man snapped a photo of me—my face half-lit by the ship’s running lights—then popped the microdrive from his camera and pressed it into my palm.
"Move your ass," he barked, glancing over his shoulder. "Kell and your old man will be here any minute."
I spun on my heel and sprinted for the ship, my heart hammering against my ribs like it wanted out. By the time I scrambled onboard and whirled around for one last look—one final witness to my escape—he was already gone. Nothing but swirling dust where he'd stood, the ship's engines kicking up a storm that erased all traces.
I burst into the cockpit and immediately powered up the control panel. Thankfully, I knew this model. The screen flickered to life with a welcome prompt. I hesitated for just a heartbeat before typing the name—"Skyla."
Almost instantly, the hologram activated, bathing the cabin in an eerie blue glow. The system recognized my voice command, and the projection greeted me in a smooth, perfectly human tone:
"Welcome aboard, Ethan Kendes. Let's begin our journey."
I exhaled sharply as fear gave way to a peculiar lightness—the ship was climbing fast, tearing me away from everything I'd ever known. Father always said I'd never be a pilot. That I lacked the patience to command something this vast. Now I'd prove him wrong.
I slotted the flash drive into the console. The first cosmoglyph [3] flickered to life on the sidewall: there I stood by the ship, grinning like a kid. Its metallic hull reflected my silhouette back at me, distorted and alien—like a body I no longer recognized. The mechanic had captured me in that final moment when hope still clung to my bones.
Hope for what, exactly?
Back then, I truly believed a new life awaited me out there. Skyla and I—we were plunging into the infinite void, entrusting our fates to this vessel’s cold embrace. Where this path would lead, I couldn’t know. But one thing was certain: I wasn’t coming back.
The strangest thing? The ship's polished metal hull reflected my back with perfect clarity—but the mechanic who'd taken the photo was nowhere in that reflection. I stared at the gleaming surface, trying to make sense of it. The ship looked factory-new, its armor plating mirror-bright enough to catch every speck of starlight. So why wasn't he there?
I glanced around the compartment. Empty. Just me and Skyla, who'd powered down mid-configuration, her holographic presence temporarily dormant.
My hands settled on the yoke.
The confusion lingered, but with each passing second—as Kallinkor shrank behind us—that gnawing unease began to fade.
On the surface, it all made sense: the mechanic, the flash drive, his final words. Could it really have been just a coincidence? Had to be.
I tore my gaze away from the shimmering cosmoglyph and felt my pulse steady. Maybe I’d imagined it. Probably.
Right then, I made a choice—no more overthinking. Whatever force had dragged me this far wouldn’t let me hesitate now. All that remained was to trust this ship and its built-in hologram, which had, in a matter of moments, become the closest thing I had to company.
Yet in truth, I was alone. And I was free.
Free of that godsforsaken planet. Free of the people who refused to believe in change. Free of their complacency. Free, even, of the person I'd been.
As the ship tore through the atmosphere, leaving behind the bitter reality I'd once called home, I knew there was no going back.
But ahead—
Ahead, there might still be something worth reaching for. A chance to save myself.
And maybe, just maybe…a dying Kallinkor.
Chapter 4. The Stars Stay Silent About What’s Lost
The present is just a launchpad—the future, an endless horizon refusing to be fenced in.
"And I'm telling you—we go right. Left's already burned us. Your navigation skills are about as sharp as an Ice Cradle dancer at closing time."
I carved a crooked five-pointed star from hardened snow, glancing sideways at the idiots who'd been arguing for ten solid minutes about which way we'd come and where to go next.
"Enough. Shut it, all of you," I snapped, patience gone. "I know where we go next."
"Oh? Do tell," the bald one squinted.
"If we want this done fast, we play dirty." My voice left no room for debate.
"How dirty?" Tevin’s eyes bulged.
"You know how locals brew ‘tea’ from their dead kin’s bones, yes?"
"Vile," Rovan spat.
"Heard stories," Tevin nodded, suddenly pale.
"Ever heard how outsiders who melt a Coldborn on Blokays automatically become outlaws?" I let the crew chew on that.
"Wait—you’re suggesting murder?" Tevin gasped.
"We’re thieves, not butchers. Killing’s not in our code," the bald one muttered, shaking his head.
"Your code’s written in Frostbrew and worse," I laughed, voice dripping condescension. "But I’m telling you—this is the surest way."
"And how to pick who not to feel sorry for?" Tevin whispered, sniffle-nosed.
"Feel sorry for everyone. Always," I hammered out. "That's what's called compassion, boy."
"And who exactly are we supposed to compassion?" Rovan snorted.
"Got just the person in mind," I replied, striding toward the cavern square.
As we wound through corridor after corridor, the bald one caught up, clearly afraid to let me out of his sight.
"How long’ve you been spacefaring?" I asked, trying to cut the tension.
"Since 2486," the bald one shot back instantly, as if the number had been waiting on his tongue.
"And in all that time, never set foot on Kallinkor?"
"The hell for?" Tevin fell into step with us, butting into the conversation. "Rovan said our kind left crews to rot when things got tough."
"Say one more word—I swear I'll rip your tongue out and bury it in the snow," the bald man growled through clenched teeth.
"What's he on about?" I asked, genuinely lost.
The gaunt man seemed to shrink into himself, aging decades in seconds. His eyelids drooped as if he were digging through the depths of his own mind, dredging up the answer.
"Rovan and I served aboard the Stratos-7," his voice echoed through the empty ice corridor, and even Tevin fell silent—though he'd heard this story a dozen times before. "Heard of it?"
