And that’s a start.
Later, I’m checking schedule logs. The screen glows dim in the bunk’s half-light — the low hum of the hover-belt outside interrupted by the soft clicks of my fingers tapping on the cred-portal. The numbers scroll across the holo-table: account balances, credit transfers, reference codes, the final line flashing:“Completed — 10-Year Salary Transfer to Orphanage Fund.”
I sit back, pulse humming in my ears louder than the ship’s life-support. The sterile air tastes thin — metal tang and recycled oxygen — but my stomach flips as though I’ve swallowed a comet.
My past and my future collide in that moment.
I see — in memory — the cold bunks of the orphanage, the empty plates, the night-lights flickering out before I could stop shaking. I smell the antiseptic walls, the stale blankets, the silent desperation hanging like a cloud over fractured children. I remember fear, hunger, the ache of quiet. I remember believing I’d touched nothing but dust and loss — that me, Freya McDonnell, would always be invisible, unimportant.
But now — now I hold something real. Something heavy and alive. Ten years’ worth of credits, a lifeline for kids like me. A glow in the darkness for someone else.
I close the portal. The numbers vanish. The screen dims.
For a breath, everything is still.
Then — I let tears come. Quiet, soft, guilt-tinged tears. Because I’ve never had the luxury of letting sorrow or relief out in loud broken sobs. Not in orphanage hallways. Not in IHC corridors.
I press a fist to my mouth, muffling the sound. The crisp, ragged edge of that realization — I have power now. Not big-fleet power, or political clout. But small. Pure. Enough to give hope. Enough to save.
I draw in a shaky breath. Feel the metal bunk under my skin, the cold seam of the wall against my shoulder. The ship creaks. The engines hum. The world yawns above me, distant stars bleeding through the porthole.
I stand. The dampness in my eyes is cold as ice, but inside — fire kindles.
I slip the bunk hatch open, the corridor lighting flicks on, sterile and harsh. The smell of recycled air, machine oil, distant engine heat — warm. Familiar. Safe.
I walk out, cloak already draped over my shoulders. Bare feet in thin socks — a reminder I’m not a soldier, not deck-hand, just human. Just Freya.
I step out onto the deck, toward the outer railing of the station ring — the walkway that curves around like a halo above the planet-lit horizon. I swallow the hum of the engines, the clang of metal plating underfoot. I stand at the rail and look out.
The planet beneath glimmers — a swirl of atmosphere, dark seas, quiet storms. Its light washes over the station’s edges like soft rain. The world seems endless. Infinite possibility.
I close my eyes. Let the wind tug curls of hair across my face. Taste salt and ozone on the breeze.
I have this. I made this.
Earlier me — the girl flipping mop buckets, scrubbing decks, sitting in quiet corners — would never have believed her.
But here I am. Standing. Holding more than ghosts.
Later that night — after shift-change, after lights dim, after whispers and worries have settled into uneasy sleep — I find Vokar on the compound’s outer terrace. The stillness here is sacred: no boots, no armor clanks, no distant alarms. Just the hush of night, the hum of far-off atmosphere units, and the glow from the gas-giant overhead casting pale, silvery light across his bone-spurred shoulders.
He turns when I arrive, not startled — expecting me. I see something in his stance: steadiness. A kind of worn alertness.
I walk to him, cloak around my shoulders whispering soft against the deck plating.
“I checked,” I say quietly, voice low — the night swallowing it. “The transfer hit. The orphanage… they got it.”
His red eyes narrow, softening. The scar beneath his cheek — I reach out, my fingers hovering over it, not quite touching. I smell cold metal, leather, the distant pine after rain from the forest moon below.
He doesn’t say anything. Just nods.
I lean against the railing beside him. Side by side under planet-light. The wind pulls at my hair, the cloak tugs loose around my shoulders. The night air tastes of ozone, damp pine, and possibility.
I turn toward him. “Why me?” I whisper. Not because I expect a sermon about fate or destiny. Because I don’t understand. I don’t deserve.
He doesn’t answer right away. The atmosphere swirls between us — quiet, alive. I hear the soft hiss of air-vents. I feel the press of his presence, like gravity pulling at my skin.
Then he speaks — soft, deep, low. “Because you saw me. All of me. And you didn’t flinch.”
