Inter Astra - short story, sci-fi

The constant, low roar of the dual engines filled the vast expanse of space around her.

The pitch darkness that lay ahead was minutely interrupted by what appeared as tiny pinpricks of light. When she was a kid, she imagined the stars to be small rips in an old god’s mask. The multi-millennium-old orbs of exploded gas had lost their appeal long ago, at least in her eyes. There was something more important to watch.

As her small shuttle crept onward and outward, deeper into the inky blackness that embraced her with open arms and bared teeth, her shoulders slowly sunk into the cracked leather of her pilot seat. She reached up to unbuckle her helmet, releasing her hair from the low bun she tied when she left the base. Placing the helmet by her feet, she tried to still her racing thoughts and recall her checklist. As the sound of blood rushing through her ears finally calmed, a ruined silence took its place and consoled her — the creaks and moans of her battered vessel kept her company as the adrenaline seeped from her pores straight into the stale, recycled oxygen around her. Glancing at the blank, silent radar to her left, she took a quick inventory of her fuel supply and oxygen levels. She had time, they had made sure of it. Straight on ‘till Exontero it would be, then.

Because she couldn’t go home. Not anymore.

With vitals accounted for, supplies re-stocked and auto-course enabled, an unstable inhale finally gave way to a slow, grounding exhale. Alright.

The pain in her left wrist would need attention soon, and the dried blood that settled beneath her ears was starting to crack when she moved her neck. As soreness began to settle itself deep within her muscles, she slowly lifted herself from her chair and made her way down the empty halls to the bathing cabin, the dull thud of her boots barely causing a disruption.

She removed the badges and pins lining her sleeves and collar before folding the standard-issued jumper, placing it next to the sink. She made sure the water was scalding by the time she lowered herself into the chrome tub, which itself was encased by metallic walls that provided a marred reflection of her person.

So she reflected.

The battle of Targon had bloomed with devastating accuracy. The orange and green planet had few alliances throughout its system, reliably sustaining itself with relative peace thanks to fertile fields and naturally occurring resources, which were controlled by the townspeople to ensure widespread equity. Though as the galaxy aged, so did the greed of man. Society had splintered, as it does — the Ultras took hold of all of Targon’s exports and imports. What had been controlled by the many became controlled by the few, and in a millennium, a simmering resentment began to fester like an untreated wound waiting for the scalpel's touch.

And then came the blade. Seemingly overnight — a trickle of resistance. Fleets of militants were tasked with flooding cities, markets and farms around the small planet to quell the swelling support of a rising figure. Programs called it a cult and dismissed its existence, with an unknown hand unwinding the constructs of their society one string at a time. And unwind it did. The Ultras grew furious as the few became the many, commanding the military to trace down this traitor without so much as a face to pursue, or a name to broadcast.

But Targon had been rotting from the inside out for years and years. Spoiling.

That’s why it had been a calculated decision to send the final storage vessel brimming with fuel into the chemical research facility at full speed. A straight shot through the center of the colossal base sent off what was beyond an explosion — it was an armageddon. A sentencing. The highly combustible atmosphere ignited instantaneously and spread like a plague, engulfing the dwarf planet miles at a time. Infectious.

The whole thing would be space dust come morning. Or night, she pondered, as she rinsed any remnants of debris and dust from her hair. She almost assuredly lost track of the hours as her mind lay captive in the space between seconds, when that final command traveled through the communication device and set forth this story into motion. There was no rebuke to the direction, no shouts of indigence or disapproval.

For the good of us all.

Her ship was the sole remainder of their fleet, given more than enough time to board and amble away from the destruction that would have bloodied its metal. The rest of them had gone down swinging, guns blazing and flags proudly on display.

Just as she had requested. A dignified conclusion to an unjust plot.

And they all had executed their part of the script flawlessly, she mused, with practiced choreography that could have made a trained dancer weep. With a glance at her discarded jumper, that flimsy piece of cloth that acted as her shield for so many years, she thought of the lithe, stolen fighter planes that bounded through low-gravity conditions with the utmost precision and control. The soldiers on the ground that had rehearsed their distraction tirelessly, ensuring that not one Targonite could prevent their impending day of judgment. Choreography.

So she had said, so it had been done.

And she had watched from high above as the flames grew. A passive spectator to the performance she had directed herself. Observing. It was persistent, it was beautiful. Like a final display of anger and rage to the Brutus that lurked among the stars. But she was above the stars, in her opinion. The god behind the mask. In time, it would be her image depicted in constellations throughout the galaxy.

With a steady inhale, she submerged herself beneath the steaming water and closed her eyes in reverence.

Resolution.

She couldn’t go home because there was no home to return to. She had made sure of it. And with time, her next home would welcome her with wide eyes and open hearts just as the Targonites did.

She would make sure of that, too.