Chapter 2: Boarding Pass: Reality Check
The lower engineering corridors of Bay 12 were always an assault on the senses. The clang of heavy cargo being magnet-locked to decks, the hiss of pressure equalizers, the overlapping shouts of cargo masters and automated loader systems in half a dozen languages—it all blended into a constant, deafening roar. Jax navigated the chaos by reflex, his work boots finding familiar paths through the spilled coolant and scattered packing foam.
The Dead Star Marauder sat at the end of Gantry 7, looking like a fossil among the newer, sleeker rigs. She was all welded plating and patched heat shielding, her name stenciled in faded red across the blunt nose. The boarding ramp was down, a single dim yellow light glowing above the airlock hatch. He’d already completed the final pre-checks. Fuel cells at ninety-eight percent. Oxygen scrubbers cycling clean. Navigation core updated with the plotted course to their first stop, the mining outpost on Pyxis Minor.
He’d spent the last hour in a state of low-grade dread, imagining what kind of useless, finicky burden his high-paying passenger would be. He’d pictured her arriving in some delicate synth-silk travel suit, trailed by a floating porter-droid carrying three matching cases. He’d steeled himself for complaints about the lighting, the smell, the lack of a proper wet bar.
He was leaning against the cold bulkhead just inside the airlock, sipping bitter coffee from a chipped ceramic mug, when she appeared at the base of the ramp.
The noise of the bay seemed to recede.
She entered the ship this time wearing new gear: a cropped, light-grey technical jacket layered over a white fitted inner top, its reinforced seams and subtle blue status lights catching as she moved. The matching utility trousers sat high on her hips, segmented with armored panels and flexible joints that spoke of long hours on her feet, while sturdy work boots and a snug belt completed a look designed not to impress, but to function—practical, worn-in, and unmistakably made for life aboard a starship.
She carried a single, weathered duffel slung over one shoulder with an ease that suggested it wasn’t her first time. There was no porter-droid. No entourage. Just Rina Solis, standing in his airlock as if she belonged there.
Jax stared. The corporate princess from the Socara had vanished. In her place was… a spacer. Or a damn convincing replica. The gear wasn’t fresh-from-the-box; it had a suppleness, a few faint scuffs on the knees. She’d broken it in. She’d planned for this.
He looked at her, surprised, and probably longer than expected. "I see you're ready," he said, the gruffness in his voice covering his disorientation.
"Good, let's start flight preparation," she said, swinging her duffel down to the deck with a soft thud.
Then, noticing his look, she asked with a smile, "What? Didn't expect I can pull off the space traveler look?"
He didn’t like being bossed around, so replied with a smirk to test her: "No, just liked previous look better-- it showed more skin."
She seemed to be shocked for a few seconds, her violet eyes widening slightly. But the shock morphed into a calculated, mischievous understanding. She found a way to get back at him. "Just keep the climate control comfortable and you will see more skin," she said, unzipping her jacket halfway to show her rather small inner top. The action was deliberate, a flash of the pale fabric and the shape beneath. "I took few outfits with me," she added, signaling to the bag. "Yes, that one from the restaurant included. I like it." She winked at him.
The comeback was fast. Too fast. And it carried a charge that left a faint hum in the recycled air. She hadn't blushed or stammered. She'd upped the ante.
"OK, kid, you've got balls, I'll give you that. Maybe we'll get by, after all. Let me give you the tour of the ship."
She replied taking a step closer to him with a gentle nice smile, and he could literally feel himself drowning in those eyes of hers, the violet seeming to swirl in the ship’s ambient light. "I'm a woman. I don't have balls, you do," she said, her voice dropping to something almost confidential. She licked her lips, teasing. "But I'd prefer you keep them to yourself. Go on, show me your ship."
He turned, a reluctant grin tugging at his mouth. Balls. She had them, metaphorically. And she knew how to use them. "Right. Try not to get lost. Though, like I said, it's a small ship."
Though, like I said, it's a small ship."
"ALRIGHT—THIS IS THE SHIP’S ONLY WAY IN," Jax said, knocking on the heavy hatch behind them. He gave it a solid, metallic rap with his knuckles. "Pressure cabin. Docked, it's just a door. Undocked—never open it without a suit on." He gestured them down the short, grimy corridor. Its walls were lined with scuffed conduits and emergency patches. "Kitchen’s on your left."
He slid the door open with a harsh grating sound, revealing the narrow galley. The space smelled of stale coffee and recycled air. "Galley along the wall, table for four, that's the coffee machine—temperamental but mandatory—and the radio stays on." He spoke with rote, practiced motions, tapping each item as he named it.
Rina glanced around, her violet eyes taking inventory. Her eyebrows lifted slightly. "It's… bigger than I imagined," she said, her voice betraying a note of genuine, measured relief.
He smirked, a quick flash of teeth in his salt-and-pepper beard. "Everyone says that. Climate and oxygen only run when we're in here, though." He watched her process the implication. "Means meals are shared—saves power." The door slid shut again with a final click, sealing them in the corridor's dim light. He pointed across the tight passageway. "Opposite side is storage and the gym."
They stepped inside, the air immediately cooler and drier on Rina's skin. The room was a cavern of shadowy shapes—stacked crates, old machinery parts suspended in nets. "No climate of its own up here," he explained, his voice echoing slightly in the open space. "Too much volume, not worth the draw. Heat drifts up from the cockpit below, keeps it workable."
He motioned to a steep, open-tread staircase on the left. "Both of these go down to the cockpit—no walls, just open railings." A matching staircase stood on the far right. "It's a midlevel, sits right between this deck and the bunks."
They descended into the cockpit, a space so cramped the ceiling brushed Jax's head. The hum of active systems was a tangible vibration in the floor plates. Console lights painted their faces in shifting greens and ambers. "Air and climate are always on here," he said, dropping into the pilot's cradle. The worn leather sighed under his weight. "Lights stay low unless we're stopped. Your eyes adjust."
He then nodded to a wider, central staircase between the two upper flights. "That one goes down to the living deck." He led the way, their footsteps loud in the confined shaft.
He led the way, their footsteps loud in the confined shaft.
THEY DESCENDED AGAIN, THE SPACE TIGHTENING AROUND THEM. The lower deck was a tube of functional gloom, the air cooler and carrying the faint, damp-metal scent of the ship’s circulatory systems. “SLEEPING AREA—TWO BUNKS NEAR EACH WALL ACROSS EACH OTHER-- LIKE I SAID-- YOURS WITHOUT A CURTAIN BUT I'VE CLEANED IT FOR YOU”
He pointed to the left-hand bunk, a narrow shelf of gray fabric bolted to the wall. Its surface was bare, the thin mattress stripped of its usual layer of old flight manuals and spare parts.
"OH, YOU'RE SUCH A GENTLEMAN," SHE TEASED HIM. The lilt in her voice was back, but her eyes were cataloging the six feet of personal space that would be her entire world. HE COULD SEE SHE ACCEPTS THE RULES SO HE CONTINUED.
"LOCKERS, SHOWER AT THE FAR END." He gestured to a single narrow door. "SAME RULE AS THE COCKPIT: OXYGEN AND CLIMATE STAY ON, LIGHTS ONLY COME UP WHEN WE’RE NOT FLYING.” The directive was absolute. HE GLANCED BACK UP THE STAIRS, THE PILOT'S EYES ALREADY CALCULATING FLIGHT SEQUENCES. “THAT’S THE MARAUDER. SIMPLE LAYOUT, STRICT RULES—AND IF YOU REMEMBER THEM, SHE’LL TAKE CARE OF YOU.”
He watched her absorb it, the reality of the metal box she’d bought her way into settling onto her shoulders like a physical weight. She didn’t flinch.
SHE PUT HER BAG ON HER BUNK, the soft thud final. "OK, CAPTAIN. WHAT'S NOW?"
"NOW YOU SIT TIGHT-- YOU CAN TAKE THE NAVIGATORS SEAT IF YOU WANT-- WHILE I PREPARE THE TRUCK FOR FLIGHT". He was already turning, the pre-launch ritual pulling at his muscles.
THEY RETURNED TO THE COCKPIT AND SHE WATCHED. She slid into the navigator’s seat, her movements careful, her hands resting on her knees. The worn leather embraced her differently than it did him. WITH INTEREST AND ANXIETY NOT HIDDEN GOOD ENOUGH-- AS HE PREPARED TO TAKE HER ON A MOST IMPORTANT TRIP OF HER LIFE THAT WOULD LAST TWO MONTHS.
The ship began to wake up around them. A deep subsonic thrum vibrated up through the deck plates. Console arrays flickered to life, painting Jax’s profile in washes of amber and blue. His hands moved with a swift, unthinking certainty across the panels—tapping sequences, toggling switches, his eyes scanning cascading data streams.
"AT LEAST," SHE CORRECTED HERSELF IN HER THOUGHTS. The words were a cold anchor in her mind. It could be longer. Delays, detours, things he hadn't mentioned. Her gaze drifted from his hands to the vast, star-pricked blackness framed by the main viewport. It was no longer a painting. It was a destination, a chasm.
“Bay Control, this is Dead Star Marauder, requesting final departure clearance for Pyxis Minor routing,” Jax’s voice was different now, flat and technical, devoid of the earlier teasing gravel.
A crackle, then a voice. “Marauder, Control. You are clear for disengagement. Safe skies.”
“Acknowledged. Disengaging mag-locks.”
A series of heavy, metallic clunks echoed through the hull, each one a jarring physical sensation. Rina’s fingers tightened on her knees. The vibration shifted, becoming a steady, powerful growl. The gantry outside began to slide away, the bustling chaos of the Neon Sprawl’s docks receding into a schematic of tiny lights.
Jax’s hands closed around the control yokes. He didn’t look at her. “Here we go. Don’t touch anything. Especially that.” He nodded toward a large, red-guarded toggle on her side of the console.
The Marauder pivoted with a groan of straining thrusters. Then the main engines fired. Not a lurch, but a deep, sustained push that pressed Rina back into her seat, a firm, insistent hand on her chest. The station fell away behind them, shrinking with terrifying speed into a intricate web of light against the dark.
The pressure eased after a minute, leaving a strange, floating lightness in her stomach. The only sound was the omnipresent hum of the ship and the soft, rhythmic beep of a navigation marker.
Jax leaned back, rolling his shoulders. His eyes remained on the readouts. “First burn’s done. We’re on the lane. Five hours to the Pyxis transfer point.” He finally glanced at her. Her face was pale, but composed. Her violet eyes were wide, fixed on the infinite starfield.
“You can breathe,” he said, not unkindly.
She let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. It sounded shaky. “It’s… louder than I thought.”
“That’s the sound of not dying,” he said, a corner of his mouth twitching. “You get used to it. Or you go insane.” He unfastened his harness with a click. “Coffee?”
She nodded, not trusting her voice. The normalcy of the question was the most surreal part yet.
He stood and squeezed past her in the narrow aisle, his hip brushing against her shoulder. The contact was brief, impersonal, but in the closeness of the cockpit it felt electric. He smelled of engine grease, old leather, and a clean, male sweat.
As he disappeared into the galley, Rina stared at the stars. This was it. The line had been crossed. Her old life was a receding dot of light. Her new life was this hum, this smell, this man’s casual gravity. The vastness outside the viewport was no longer awe-inspiring.
It was hungry.