1 - Space Kirin
“SCK-173, call sign Waste Peddler, you are cleared for landing at docking pad seven.” There was a pause, followed by a telltale laugh from the crackly-voiced pony. “Welcome to Cypress Station, captain.”
The starship captain clicked his end of the comm-link off, and tapped back through the holographic interface. The station operator’s voice had hardly faded before the vessel was once more filled with sound. His cloven hoof held its place, hesitating on the selection he’d made. He closed his eyes, and listened for a moment. Flat-lipped, his hooves returned to the flight controls.
“That’ll do.” Searing Cold hadn’t heard this song in a while.
The engine thrummed amid the metal corridors behind him, contesting the music for control of the airwaves. He coaxed the slow-firing thrusters into a roll, aligning the ship with the veil of one of the many docking bays carved into the side of the mountain-sized station. His eyes caught on the queue of ships phasing past the magical shield, and he plot his course accordingly. A set of indicators among his instruments warned him that a ship was pulling in abnormally close behind him, but he was in no hurry: his freighter had the mass to outclass the clear-as-day greenhorn.
Still, he ordered his ship forward with a boost. It replied with a rumble, and a guitar.
Cold glanced away from the canopy glass, once again raising a hoof to traverse his immaterial interface. A distinct tone rang out above the music, and the screen flashed with text: “Automated Docking: Enabled.”
The interface flickered off as he stood from his seat, landing on all four hooves. He gave one last check out the window just to be sure. Beyond the confines of the pressurized ship interior, he could hear jets of impulse reverberate through the hull as the computer made minute adjustments to his nigh-perfect alignment. Satisfied, he turned to the central access hallway.
Faster-than-light was never easy on his bladder.
In the midst of carrying out his business, his earpiece whined. A groan left him. He tapped the device. The music reverberating throughout the ship cut out, usurped by the buzz of a freshly opened comm-link.
“Boat’s as cute as ever, captain.”
Cold was suddenly reminded that his ship could probably do with a fresh coat of paint. Then again, the ‘rusting hulk’ look worked wonders at dissuading ‘unauthorized’ scans.
Unfortunately, it didn’t do much for the authorized.
Cold made his way over to the lavatory sink. His voice was reserved, though he was tempted to make his malice immediately known, if only for this pony. “Hello, Mister Ripshot.”
“Officer Ripshot.” He was on the clock. Great. “Hauling any illicit cargo this time?”
“Never have, never will.” Cold looked into the mirror, and tugged at the portion of aquamarine coat below his eyes. Cold had already felt the urge for a drink, but now it came on twofold. He sighed. “You gonna be riding my flank about that every time, now?”
The joviality behind Ripshot’s voice dimmed. “You’re just too quiet. I don’t like it.”
“I’ve got nothing to hide.”
“All of you say that.” A tinny alert klaxon came on the earpiece. “This scan is authorized and enforced by the Cloudsdale Quadrant Concord. Please comply,” Ripshot announced clearly. It was slightly undermined by the previous unprofessional exchange.
Cold closed the faucet. “Don’t make me call up port authority and report one of their officers for species profiling.”
A snort came through. “You’re looking too deep into it, Cold.”
“Based on previous encounters in the black, I’d hardly say I’m out of line.”
“Yeah, sure.” A pause. “You’re clean. Be seeing you, space kirin.” There was a certain pleasure in knowing he’d pressed this pony’s buttons. “Enjoy your stay at our station.”
Cold closed the comm-link first.
He ran a hoof through his mane, steering clear of his red, curling horn, and breathed. Soon, silence loomed.
Wincing, he clicked his earpiece, and the music roared to life where it’d left off. He turned it down a few levels. He trot back into the access hall, and then into the bridge. The automated pneumatic doors sealed behind him with an inaudible hiss, even without the music blaring.
Cold could see that the computer had since taken his bulky vessel in through the docking bay shield veil. As if the garish, metal skeleton of the bio-inimical facility was anything worth shrouding. For the stations closer to the Equestrian Core Worlds, their bays were fitted with projectors that simulated a planetside landing of sorts. It was a vanity made affordable for those well-within the reach of the Crown; they were traditionally sourced from royal edicts and funding. Cypress Station had none of that: it was green only in name.
Searing Cold wasn’t a stallion of vanity. He thrived on the isolation from amenity.
But he really wanted a drink that hadn’t been in vacuum.
Settling back in the pilot’s seat, he allowed the docking computer to finish pulling off the landing. The landing gears wound and ground beneath the vessel while it descended. He didn’t have to do much: he kept his hooves on the controls, ready to take over if need be. A lurch wove through Cold and the Waste Peddler when they finally touched down. While on the outside the ship constantly seemed on the verge of splitting at the seams, it was sturdy enough to weather higher-than-advised velocities when it came to landing, and Cold trusted himself to keep the internal components monitored and maintained. Planetary outposts were rougher in that regard, but those were few and far between in the Cloudsdale Quadrant.
The plating of the docking pad hummed as electricity and magnetic attraction took over. For his part, docking was complete. While the station’s mechanized clockwork pulled the ship in through an internal airlock and into the pressurized shipworks below, Cold disabled the docking computer and most of the other subsystems necessary for spaceflight. He stood and made for the captain’s quarters, which was down in the passenger cabin, closer to the heart of the ship.
At his quarters, he pressed into the hoof-shaped notch on the door, and turned. The slivers of metal that made up the door simultaneously sank and rose. The mechanism was practically an antique, but when the ship had undergone refurbishment, he’d decided to keep it. The passengers he sometimes ferried always commented about it, and he liked talking about it. It was a welcome distraction from the tourist trouble they usually posed. He stepped into the room, and it sealed behind him.
He’d also heard that the hesitation put on by an uneducated pony at those kinds of doors was the difference between life and death in boarding situations. Not that he had ever had an interest in dealing with those: the last thing he ever wanted was a potential fight on his hooves. Cold curated his clientele thoroughly. He was a starship captain, not a security detail.
It was also why the passenger cabin was empty on this particular voyage.
Grumbling, he suppressed his recent memories, and focused on getting prepped to leave the ship. Walking on firmer ground would do him good.
A few minutes later, Cold found himself lowered by the personnel elevator of the Waste Peddler. He stepped off the ship and onto the station, breathing in the fumes of plasma torches and thaumological welds. Behind him, the elevator ascended as it was pulled back into the ship. Reaching into the undercoat of his steel-toned jacket, he retrieved a small yellow tablet, no wider than two hooves, and no thicker than a heavy novel. His red horn lit, and the PDA chimed brightly before coming to life. It had barely finished its startup by the time he was connected to the station’s services. With his horn’s tactile magic, he navigated swiftly through the device.
The public station contacts list connected directly to his earpiece. There was a moment of standby, and then a click in his ear. He cleared his throat, and put a little energy into his voice. “Mister Mill, your delivery from Opinicus Anchorage is now on-station.”
It was a routine interaction. Anypony who was on the public list was a vetted and trustworthy contact. No nonsense, just business. They held a brief bit of discussion over access to his cargo bay, which was solved easily enough: specialized rigging on his ship gave workers access to only where they needed to be, and if they went any further, the station Concord in charge of this section of Cypress would be there. Unlike most stations, Cypress’ security had a preference for the visitors that fueled the local system’s economy. Other stations took care of visitors, sure, but the heightened security response times were something Cold would never turn down.
With one side of his hold’s cargo secured for transport, his time on Cypress was off to a great start. Cold glanced to the PDA to check the station-time—it was nearing evening—and pocketed the device again.
His coat prickled, and he looked around. The massive bay was fit for eight-ships about the size of the Waste Peddler, and a few dozen more for smaller vessels. The platform extending out toward his docking pad branched off from the main platform, where station crew, visitors, and sightseers—mostly young locals—were clustered. There were a few populated commercial businesses here, but all things considered, it was a fairly quiet chamber.
He peered back at the ship. The venerable blue brick loomed. It was motionless, save for a few tracking beacons of red, green, and white, each occasionally blinking. The magnets and electricity that had latched onto the landing gear had been cut off once the pad had reached a resting position. The sole sound that came from the ship now, was the occasional spine-tingling hum of the Sparkle Drive, its housing on the ship’s underbelly having opened on coming into contact with a magic-saturated atmosphere.
Once more, his ears swiveled in the direction of the Waste Peddler. He frowned and coughed. He reached up to his earpiece. If he wanted to get out and into the station proper, he was going to need music to get him moving.
With a fresh playlist assembled, he began trotting to the main platform. It wasn’t his first time at Cypress, so he knew each docking bay had the same general layout. Most notably, there was a subterranean personnel-bus that would take him up through the guts of the industrial sector, across the residential districts, and to the city at the center of the mountain. It was fast, free, and always there. In a way, Searing Cold and the main bus of Cypress Station weren’t too different from one another.
Except he never did it for free.
“This shuttle is now arriving at Cypress Central.”
Cold shivered, earning himself an odd look from the mare seated on the opposite side of the car. He had never found comfort in synthetic voices, and the voice of the bus was particularly jarring. The shakes disappeared, and he offered the mare a little smile. Her look evaporated; she smiled back. Then, the car slid to a stop, hailed by the grinding squeal of the mag-brakes. Both Cold and the pony stood, as did the rest of the ponies among the moderately filled car, and they started for the exits.
Cold was immediately assaulted.
He clicked his earpiece off, and let the music of the city speak for itself. The sound was like warm fire to his ears, searing and brutal in its delivery. The structure of the surrounding asteroid, which had once shielded a humble ‘Cypress Outpost’—decades before Cold’s time—bounced the bubbling concoction of life back into the fray. To his ears, it was a wondrous reprieve from the bitter, unnatural volumes that filled a ship interior.
Behind him, the bus grumbled, then sprang forward a few hooves when the heavy-duty brakes unclamped. Soon, it was accelerating down the track, delving back into the sub-city tunnels. In front of him, the primary commercial and administrative installations of Cypress frothed with a completely discordant cacophony: the evening air was filled with plenty of wandering souls, some working, many hardly. Most of the buildings were open, as was usual for a station that saw day-and-night business, but whether or not you had access was a different story.
Not too far from Cold, a pair of pegasi that had arrived on his same bus were arguing ardently about which sky-lane to take. He almost pitied them; flying in the city was heavily regulated, and always congested. Having apparently come to a conclusion—announced with a friendly smack of a wing—they lifted their wings and flit upward. Watching them soar fired Cold’s mind into an analogue of Equestrian history: he reflected on the time when the pegasi were the veritable starships to the earth-bound. Back then, they had soared when nopony else could.
Piloting automatically into the city streets, Cold’s mind drifted to dreams of winged-flight.
Technology had conquered the boundaries, but it could not replace the pegasus.
That reminded him of something else. Stopping briefly on a purple-backlit street corner—the exotic shade cast by a neon advert above—he reached for his PDA. Instead of navigating for the public contact list, he scrawled through a personal list of his own creation. His magic halted, and he stared at the device’s screen. Heaving a breath, he brought a hoof, and physically sent the comm-link request. His earpiece crackled, sounding with a centuries-old dial tone.
She always picked up quick. For him.
“Cold?”
He cracked a smile, and looked out across the street as he spoke. “Hello, Holly.”
There was a light gasp. “Hello to you, too, captain,” the mare giggled. “Let me guess, you’ve got some goodies for me?”
Cold squeezed his eyes shut, easily visualizing her. “Of course. You know I always have something for when I’m in your skies.”
“Oh, you.” She was definitely blushing. “Anything minotaur? Ponies have been selling me out on Minos brands for the last few weeks!”
“I’m glad to hear it.” He was. “Unfortunately, no, I don’t. But…” he trailed.
“Go on,” she whispered. She was cradling her own device closer, now.
“I do have some Griffonian wine.”
“Oh? Oh, Cold…”
“And I’m not planning on any trips for the foreseeable future. I figured I’d spend some time in station. Maybe run into some pretty pegasi.”
“…Maybe even tonight?”
He opened his eyes. The neon sign above him had shifted to an electric blue. Around him, the city dimmed. Artificial sunset had come. “I’d like to.”
Holly leaned away from her device. “Work?”
“Full cargo bay.”
She sighed in his ear, and it left a pang in his heart. “Working late, huh? I know the feel. As much as I’d like… a midnight visit, from such a wonderful stallion, I have my own orders to ready for fulfillment tomorrow.”
Cold stared into a small band of young ponies as they rounded a corner in front of him. “I’m proud of you, Holly. Don’t let me get in the way of your work.”
“I know you are. We’ll talk soon, okay?”
“Of course.”
“Goodnight, Cold. I’m happy to hear your voice again.”
“I’ve missed you too, Holly. Goodnight.”
They both waited, but there was nothing more to say.
Cold closed the comm-link, and slid the PDA away. His eyes went to a young earth pony colt, who’d split from the crowd to trot up to him. The captain raised a brow, but stood his ground.
“I like your illusion, mister!”
Cold cocked his head. “Illusion?”
“Your horn!”
His horn? He held a hoof up. A peek told him it was still the same horn he’d run with for nearly three decades.
“And the scales! You’re totally looking like a kirin, right?” The colt positively beamed. “Those guys are awesome!”
“Orion!”
The colt’s ears swiveled backwards, and he rolled his eyes. “C’mon, you never let me talk to ponies!” he yelled as he turned away, merging back into the group.
The stallion who’d recalled the colt gave Cold a light grin. “Yup, that’s my rude nephew. He’s right though, that is a pretty good illusion. Anyways, have a good night. Sorry to bother you.” He caught up beside the colt and nudged at him, half-playing, half-berating.
Cold was acknowledged simply by the rest of the ponies, but soon forgotten: the group continued on their own path through the city. The street corner returned to its former emptiness, save for the kirin captain. The most he had to offer in the place of the silence was an amused snort.
Still, it was about time he went back to business. He checked on the fading sunlamps hung about the sky of sterilized rock: it was thirty minutes before the night fell into full swing, and he’d barely made it to his first stop. Tugging at his jacket with a flick of magic, Cold started at a purposeful trot. That drink would have to wait.
No matter where you went in Cypress Central, you could do it on hoof. Automotive transports were banned from civil use, but electric roads were still laid out for Concord responses and other emergency vehicles. The latter of the two was much more uncommon thanks to the safety systems installed in every installation, as was standard with the more-populated sections of the station. Just as unnecessary, Cold didn’t have to go out of his way to get to the small corporate and privately-owned businesses that he traded with, but he found that being physically present fostered goodwill with his partners. Ponies still liked being around others, even in a digital age of communication and cooperation.
Close to midnight, he stopped for a bowl of street-fare. It would tide him over until he returned to his ship.
Stepping off the main bus for the last time that night, Cold walked evenly. The crowds had thinned out: just the working ponies remained. With only a few ships in-bound and out-bound, it left the docking bay quieter than ever. Approaching his ship, he could spot the bits of levitating scaffolding and tools left behind by the Waste Peddler cargo bay. He wasn’t surprised; it was almost its own kind of protocol to let the station gear naturally drift back to the supply stations. It was certainly more work-efficient for each crew to avoid cleaning up for the next.
A quick interaction with the docking terminal at the end of the bridge had the elevator descending. He stepped aboard, and watched the world disappear below him. His shoulders slumped, and he tapped his earpiece a few times, idly rummaging through several music tracks.
An awkward clunk shook the hull.
Cold blinked, and cut the music.
The platform rose completely, settling flush with the interior of the ship. The doors slid open, and he stepped out, listening. The hull squealed, and from somewhere…
No. Above him.
A metallic crash rang out, and he slammed into the floor, hooves splayed, belly-first.
And the iciest hoof he’d ever felt pressed sharply into the small of his neck.
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Over the moon seeing this finally go live. Still such a great, worldbuilding-rich opener. It's going to be one hell of a ride
A promising start to what looks to be a fun romp through a gritty-not-grimdark sci-fi setting. I shall continue!
Dang. The atmosphere here is spectacular. The way everything is described paints an excellent picture and there are lots of little one-off interactions -- stuff like Cold's interaction with the mare on the bus, "Technology had conquered the boundaries, but it could not replace the pegasus.", the note that ponies still prefer being around each other -- that make what could've been a gray, depressing world feel bright and friendly and distinctly ponyish.
Along with your lone Captain, methinks you're a tad inspired by Firefly.
I really love the way this reads so far. Always've been a bit of a sucker for realistic sci-fi settings and this looks really cool. Also, really great writing to describe the scale and grit of the station while also showing its development.
Feels like something straight out of a mix of Elite Dangerous and SS13 or FTL.
also I know what a klaxon is now.
Reminds me of a certain spacefaring game in a bit too many ways... ;)
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I’m happy this intro had that kind of resonation. I really did want to set that tone.
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Definitely more inspired by the worlds of games, and less-so by shows!
This is an interesting start. I'm looking forward to reading the rest of this story.
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Thank you for reading, and for all of your comments! I hope you thoroughly enjoy it.