Chapter Text
The field was hot. As usual. The flames and exhaust from the nozzles of the numerous ships undergoing repairs heated the air even in winter. As one of the chief mechanics and, much to his regret, the head of this department, Zizka, as usual, juggled as many tasks as he could. Heading towards the main hangar, he was conducting inspections and supervising the engineers, drivers, and simple laborers working on the ships in the yard. Today, there were only three ships here: the massive body of an outdated rocket, similar to Jan in age, and a couple of small passenger vessels. Dusty work, but not overly complicated.
Zizka hopped over a hose supplying coolant to the rocket and tilted his head back to look at its stern, causing him to successfully trip on one of the cracks burned into the concrete by the scorching sun and engine exhaust.
"Walking just fine, old man, watch you don't choke on your lunch spoon!" someone shouted from the ramp of that very ill-fated rocket.
"You better shut up, you damned devil!" Zizka shouted back at the red-haired monstrosity. "Better get back to work instead of slacking off, or I'll dock your pay again!"
"The labor inspectorate would love to hear you..." Devil sang out sarcastically.
"Just hearing your name would make them demand your firing themselves, you walking violation of labor regulations! Get back inside the compartment, I said!"
This time, the threat worked. Although Zizka understood perfectly well that Devil had probably already finished his cigarette (smoking in the yard was forbidden) and was just about to leave on his own, and wasn't actually scared by his old friend's threats at all.
As soon as Devil vanished from sight, a truck loaded to the brim with bulky parts drove past Yan. Through the kicked-up dust, Zizka couldn't even hope to make out what exactly was loaded onto it, but the parts were clearly smaller than what was needed for the ships in the yard today. Most likely, these were old parts from that shuttle he had finally managed to scrap for salvage yesterday. Sometimes it's better to give up than to try and repair the same vessel a hundred times, pouring manpower and resources into a bottomless pit, something the corporate types often failed to understand. Zizka had to trick one of the portfolio managers into coming to the station and literally shove him through the reactor access hole into the shuttle (the reactor itself lay in no less than thirty-two pieces beneath it) to finally get approval to scrap the "company property."
Speaking of scrapping...
Zizka turned around and, brushing off the dust raised by the truck, glanced at the distant hangar — a small one, located right on the edge of the station. Beyond it lay empty, cracked earth for miles ahead. Zizka headed towards it at a leisurely pace, bypassing the main hangar. He could still return to the work there today, and it was mostly routine anyway. But what awaited him in that other hangar was anything but.
Reaching the gates, he leaned against one of the doors and looked inside. The hangar was dark; work there had been conducted only two days ago, and no one had turned on the lights since. It was illuminated only by the sun streaming through the same opening where Jan stood. The light hit his back, and a long shadow cut the catastrophe inside in half. The ship could hardly be repaired — its injuries were too severe. A combat vessel, often used by mercenaries, had been torn apart by a meteor shower. It had been brought to the station in its pristine state from the Orion Strip, supposedly for repairs... But something here bothered Zizka.
He lazily pushed off from the doorframe and stepped inside. His footsteps raised small clouds of dust. The dust was unusual — a mix of terrestrial soil and crumbled meteoric rock that this ship had brought with it. Looking at the small mounds of cosmic sand, Zizka whistled. And yet, ordinary ships aren't transported using a special stasis field that would preserve everything inside motionless, untouched, pristine. Why would the company go to such expense? And for an ordinary combat vessel at that, not a large rocket, a liner, or even just a passenger shuttle.
Jan raised his eyes to the ship itself. Such models were rare. Not because they were expensive or old, but because they were so poorly designed that no one wanted them even for free. Mercenaries value speed, maneuverability, and firepower, for which they aren't afraid to sacrifice living space on a ship. After all, pirates, killers, and tax code violateurs aren't obliged to be transported in good conditions. This clunker, however, had a full three and a half decks. The top one was the navigation deck, the second housed a full three cabins and a small recreational area with a kitchen, and the entire lower deck was dedicated to a bulky reactor. Zizka tilted his head and squinted to make out the dirty, torn inscription on the ship's side. "What's so special about you... 'Stein'," he thought, when suddenly he heard muffled, quiet knocks from inside the ship. The hair on his neck stood on end, but before he could listen more closely, a bang on the hangar gates took his attention away.
Startled, Zizka jumped slightly in place and swore under his breath before turning around, ready to punch the—
"Oh... it's you. You shouldn't scare people like that, Mr. Bergow," Jan wiped the sweat that had broken out on his forehead and glanced at the ship again. This time, there was no knocking.
"My apologies for the intrusion, however we deemed the task at hand to be of such a delicate nature that we could only explain it to you in person," Otto von Bergow's words dripped with snobbery. He was the type of corporate suit Zizka disliked the most. If he even liked any of them, that is. Otto belonged to the old families, those who had money even before humanity ventured into space. There was a chasm between them, wider than the distance to Mars. Those like Otto had lost their humanity five generations ago. It was precisely people like him who were responsible for the crisis of 2132, when the reduction of workers' rights led to mass strikes across the system and numerous accidents on space routes, resulting in dozens of injuries and even deaths. When people stop seeing others as humans for the sake of profit, what are they then?
Oh well, a job is a job. Zizka cleared his throat and extended his hand to Otto.
"Good to see you, as always."
Bergow merely glanced at the offered palm with a raised eyebrow and took out a cigarette case to light up a smoke.
"Shall we proceed to business discussions immediately, hm?"
'I'm going to wring his neck by the end of this visit,' flashed through Zizka's mind.
"It's beyond repair. The ship, I mean. Meteor shower, I presume?" Zizka glanced at the ship again, his eyes tracing a deep gash on the stern. "Better to scrap it."
Bergow took a drag from his cigarette and exhaled a large, bluish-gray cloud. Through it, only his eyes were visible, seemingly glowing in the dark. Bergow's words emerged from his throat with weight, as if coated in thick, old oil.
"Repairs are not required. What will be requested of you demands only utmost secrecy and loyalty, as well as your personal execution."
The cigarette smoke seemed to encircle Zizka, squeezing him like a rope and making it harder to breathe.
"We do not require repairs. The company is not interested in the ship, only in what is inside."
"And what's inside?" Jan forced out, barely suppressing a choking cough.
Silence spread like a thick, viscous mass, absorbing everything in the hangar. Even the sounds from outside seemed to stop reaching inside.
"What is on this ship is company property. Under different circumstances, we would have conducted the inspection ourselves, however, the ship was discovered by state services, which obliged us to conduct the inspection according to procedure. Through negotiations, I managed to arrange its delivery to your station, with which we have a long-standing partnership history." Bergow took another drag from his cigarette and moved closer to Zizka. The smoke enveloped him completely as von Bergow spoke quietly: "I can trust you, can't I?"
"Of course," Zizka forced out. Sweat beaded on his neck, and his eyes burned — from the smoke and because he wasn't blinking, afraid to look away from the monster before him. "But what is required of me?"
"An inspection and reports on the items found on the ship. I'm sure you haven't forgotten how to conduct inventory and description. And I strongly advise you — do not overlook details."
"And what are you looking for...?" escaped Zizka involuntarily, something he regretted when Bergow shot him a look full of danger. This was not a man before him.
"I strongly recommend you do not concern yourself with that," Bergow took the cigarette from his mouth and threw it at Zizka's feet before pulling a small business card from his pocket. It was made of wood. It was the first piece of wood Zizka had ever touched in his life. Dead, mutilated to become a tool in the hands of a corporate suit.
"My card has all the necessary information. As we said, everything concerning this ship is an extremely delicate matter. Work on it must be conducted by you personally. All your findings and descriptions must also be sent directly to me."
Bergow placed a hand on Zizka's shoulder and leaned close to his ear. This close, Jan could see that Otto's eyes were artificial. A red fire burned in them, and behind the sclerae, one could barely make out moving mechanisms. How much of this creature was still alive?
"We will be closely monitoring your work process, and if anything deviates from the plan, the corporation will take care of it."
Bergow jerked back with such force that Zizka was forced to take a step back to keep his balance. Without waiting for a reply from Jan, Otto turned and headed for the hangar exit.
Zizka stood motionless, barely breathing, watching the slowly receding figure of von Bergov. When he finally vanished from sight, Zizka unsteadily turned towards the table with small equipment. His steps were uncertain, shaky, and the business card slipped from his hand, bouncing off the dusty floor at least three times. Reaching the table, Zizka leaned heavily on it and hung his head. He stood like that for at least a minute, though for him time seemed stretched — he couldn't escape that viscous oil, that smoke that had obscured his vision and constricted his throat.
Suddenly, with a cry, Zizka lifted and overturned the table.
Damn it! He had to go and take that bait! Of course, he thought his station needed the money, never stopping to think for a minute why they were paying so much for a simple repair. Fool!
But no! No! He did think, he did — and dismissed it. Closed his eyes, like any old, stupid crow, and look where it got him. Shackled by this Otto von Wishhewentandfuckedhimself.
Zizka abruptly dropped into a crouch and grabbed his hair. This is playing with death. God, what has he gotten himself into...
He jerked his head up and looked at the ship with a pained gaze. What kind of wreck are you?! What do you want from me?! Why did you have to land on my head!
"Stein" merely lay there, the same torn-apart entity, and looked at Zizka with a looming, patient gaze. In its belly lay secrets, secrets which only Jan would be privy to when he dared to step aboard.
He slowly rose again and moved towards the ship. Up close, one could see the traces of numerous wounds the ship had endured. There were small scratches and scars, mended by a skilled, caring hand. Breaches and gashes... Someone had loved the "Stein", loved this white cosmic steed.
Zizka stared into the black, dark hold. Silence. No knocks, no movement, as if the whole world had frozen in anticipation. And finally, Zizka moved and stepped over the threshold.