I mean, really.
I’ve seen Skyhub in the news. I’ve done virtual walk-throughs and flipped through holographic pictures and even—in one of my more inspired phases—drawn some Skyhub concept art. None of it compares to the feeling of actually being here. Not even close.
Skyhub is shaped like a wheel, with ninety-nine identical detachments situated around the outer ring and six separate spokes leading in toward a central axis. That focal point is aptly named The Hub, and though it was originally built for storage, over time it’s grown into something more like a city. On our way to the bar (using a high-speed AI tram that’s apparently achieved consciousness and runs on a schedule of its own making), wezipped from Detachment 94, down Spoke III, and into The Hub, where the scene opened up like the lid off a candy box.
I’d never seen so many buildings jammed inside a single space station. Or so many Legion members in one place, crowding inside cafés and mingling along the walkways, both with their own fleets and with others. I should have expected it, obviously, but the magnitude of the whole thing—the size of the Legion, the size of Skyhub—kicked me in the stomach. There are bars, restaurants, museums, theaters, all built in converted warehouses between neon billboards and tram tubes, and all intended to serve Legion members who are looking to blow off some steam between missions.
It’s excessive. And exciting. And apparently part of my new life.
Now, I glance around the bar (which, according to the sign over the door, is just calledBAR) where I’m standing with my beaker. Vera and Jester have probably only been gone a few minutes, though it feels like much longer. The patrons here aren’t only Starfield Fleet members (though there are plenty of them, easy to spot in their whites) but also a diverse mix of humans and other life-forms who either work on Skyhub or are visiting for business. The bar itself is dimly lit and jam-packed, everyone jostling for space.
Another slow minute ticks by. I toy with my lifestone, which hangs on a cord beneath my shirt, then realize what I’m doing and drop my hand. It occurs to me that this might be some kind of prank. Did Lament somehow get to Vera and Jester? Did they conspire to usher me out to a random tavern and then lose me in the crowd?
I know it’s unreasonable. I haven’t been deserted. Yet my throat goes dry at the thought, and I can’t quite stop myself from twisting around again, searching for Vera’s black hair, Jester’s tall, slim figure…
“Lose someone?”
I turn to see a woman behind me. Her face is flat and wide, her eyes nearly hidden under a massive brow bone, which is covered in fatty lumps that spread across her cheeks and down her neck.
My reflexive laugh is back, too loud in my ears. “I’m all right.”
“You look lost.”
“Just waiting for my friends.”
She grins. “Let me help you find them.”
“Um.” My smile feels strained. “That’s really not necessary.”
Our conversation is drawing attention from nearby patrons. I’m not sure of their species, but several also have overlarge brow bones and clusters of fatty skin tissue. Maybe it’s because it’s my first day on Skyhub, and I’m semi-lost, and I may or may not have been abandoned by my new fleetmates, but my heart ratchets, my hand instinctively dropping to my hip where my ray gun is holstered. It’s an old impulse, one my Academy officers spent years trying to train out of my system before it could get me into real trouble.
Like it’s doing now.
As soon as my hand connects with the weapon, the mood of the room shifts. I think of the quick pull of a zipper, all those interlocking teeth. Several nearby patrons come to their feet, their hands going totheirweapons, murmurs sweeping through the bar. I swear it’s not my imagination when the lights dim even further.
The woman bares her teeth. “I see your intentions are not entirely pure, Mr. Hartman.”
“My intentions—wait, how do you know my name?”
“Your fate has been written.”
“My what?”
“Keller, there you are.” Vera materializes like the Mother of Stars herself, Jester trailing close behind. It’s dizzying how quickly the bar snaps back to normal, weapons tucked under cloaks, gazes darting away. The lights brighten, the tension dissipating as if it’d never been. When I glance behind me, the woman is gone.
“Got the needle.” Vera raises the item like a trophy. “Let’s see if we can find a seat.”
My pulse is still too high, my neck hairs standing on end. Slowly, I peel my fingers off my ray gun. I’m about to ask Vera and Jester if they knowanything about block-browed strangers when I notice the object in Vera’s fist. “That’s not a needle,” I blurt. “It’s a syringe.”
Vera frowns. “Is there a difference?”
“Depends. Are you planning on jabbing it into my veins?”
“What?” She looks aghast. “No! It’s gelatin. These are gelatin shots.” She shows me, pressing the syringe into the top of her vial and sucking out the green sludge before squirting it into Jester’s mouth.
He smacks his lips, making a show of it.It’s a tradition in the Sixth to buy new members a gelatin shot, but of course, if you don’t want—
“No, no.” Relief—that they haven’t abandoned me, that it’s just gelatin, that I wasn’t attacked by a complete stranger who somehow knew my name—gathers under my ribs, making me weak and oddly giddy. “It’s good, I’m good. Do me next.”
