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“I’m human,” I try to explain. “Remember how we were enslaved by the Hurlians for centuries? Humans have recently received additional restitution from the four sectors in the form of asylum and fast-tracking of citizenship on Omega 9. So, um, I request to be allowed to transport right now to Omega 9.”
The guard crosses his arms and asks the most important question. “And who is going to pay for this additional transporter trip?”
I make sure to smile wide. “I will pay for it. And the Gravian government will give me a resettled Indigent Species discount.”
The staff, the guards and the immigration official all gather to confer. Then the female approaches me. “This is acceptable. We won’t send you to the nunnery and instead we’ll send you to Omega 9 so they can deal with you there. But first, here’s the bill.”
I try my best to hide a smile. Of course nothing will occur until I pay. Gravians are deeply religious but still notoriously business minded. I knew if I offered to pay, this exchange would be fast-tracked. I barely glance at the invoice and tap my currency chip against the tablet and an enormous amount is transferred over. Even fifty percent off a transporter trip is still very, very expensive.
They wave me over, letting me know they are ready to send me right away. Perfect. I step on the transporter disk again, grateful to have gotten out of that sticky situation. Aliyah Garcia in a nunnery? I’d never hear the end of it. My sister would die laughing at the idea of me in a nunnery peeling potatoes.
When I arrive on the transporter at Omega 9 I’ll make sure request asylum and then all should be well. I’ll find a way to contact Jada and get to Tarvos. My troubles are about to end. All the time spent figuring out how to get away is paying off. I’ll be reunited with my twin and we’ll be safe.
And then the sequence starts. A tickle forms in my belly as my atoms separate and in a matter of seconds I’m beamed across the four sectors to my next destination.
2
Kryel
I’ve never been an honorable Hyrrokin.
I bend rules to suit my needs. Stealing from the rich and giving away to the…well, giving that currency away tomesounds reasonable.
My entire youth was one badly behaved episode of juvenile delinquency after another—questioning authority, growing and selling my own synth-drugs, constantly partying with friends, chugging fire ale and flash-flaming indiscriminately late into the night. Having fun was always more important than pleasing my parents or acquiring good grades. And I can’t even blame my teenage missteps on a traumatic childhood. I grew up in a comfortable house with hard-working and loving parents, a bevy of tight-knit siblings and an affectionate extended family. There were no dark secrets and hidden skeletons in our closets, just a nice family with one bad seed.
Me.
I’m the bad influence.
Other parents warned their offspring away from “that youngest Grindstone.” In my defense, I’m similar to my great-uncle Kryel, the infamous space pirate and black fish of the Grindstone line. I was the youngest born of five siblings, the last child my parents didn’t mean to have and as a bit of a joke they named me after Kryel.
Well, what did they expect?
Maybe it was preordained that I live up to my namesake.
“Hurry up,” the red-skinned, four-armed Surrelian prison guard growls, poking me in the back with a power stick. “We’ve got a timetable to keep. We are due to arrive in the middle of their daytime diurnal and we cannot be late.”
I sigh with resignation. I never meant to end up in prison.
Well, no one ever means to end up in prison, do they? But really, I never saw this coming. I was always so careful to not get caught during my stint as a high-end intergalactic art and jewelry thief and yet here I am. The worst part is I’m imprisoned on Detention Center: Zeta 149 for the murder of a rival thief, which is total bullshit. It never ceases to amaze me that after all my years of criminality, I’m locked up for a murder I didn’t even commit. This is exactly why I never went into peacekeeping as a career. The bribery and grift are ridiculous. Who are therealcriminals in this situation?
My family is so horrified at my perceived murderous behavior they’ve disowned me, and only my cousin Idun Grindstone of Team Molten Lava bothers to keep in touch.
All of this happened off planet, in intergalactic space, where the law is notoriously unkind and inaccurate. Trial by jury is often discarded. I was summarily thrown into Zeta 149, the most notorious prison in the four sectors, where they don’t bother to separate inmates by gender or try to stop us from harming or killing one another. I’ve been imprisoned here in this hell hole for the last year, living by my wits, my fists, and my flash-flames.
I can’t handle it anymore.
My cousin said he’s working on getting me free and a team of lawyers are supposedly investigating on my behalf? But I cannot rely on this faint hint of rescue. I haven’t even heard from anyone since I was thrown in 149 because I’m not allowed visitors.
But today is the first glimmer of hope in a dreadful situation.
I’m being sent to the Omega 9 space station for a sentencing hearing, with an actual judge? This is amazing news. Not because finally, after a year of wrongful imprisonment I’m seeing a real judge, but because they are taking me out of this damn prison to a courtroom on Omega 9, the exact location where I happen to have a secret safe room under an assumed name. Could this be more perfect? Prisoners are usually moved via carefully guarded transport spaceships; this is how I first arrived at Zeta 149. But I am right now standing on a transporter disk at the prison intake center surrounded by four Surrelian guards who are all staring at me with fear in their eyes.
They’re always scared of me here.
“Don’t try anything,” a guard growls, tugging on the energy band “handcuffs” around by wrists. He’s just removed the leg cuffs and extra restraints around my neck, for the transport.
“Uh uh,” I smirk back.
