Chapter 147

Cold.

That was the primary vibe currently occupying her soul. Her body was doing a frantic little jitter, and she felt like she was about to lose her lunch—assuming she’d actually had lunch, which she hadn't.

"Forty-four hours down... time for another hit of the good stuff..."

Marl was currently crammed into a personal escape pod, a space so tight it made a coffin look like a luxury suite. She tried to squirm and immediately committed a blunder she’d lost count of: she reached for the medical bag with her left hand. That was a problem, primarily because her left hand wasn't there anymore.

"...I really hate my life right now," she muttered.

Battling a wave of lethargy that felt like being submerged in molasses, she finally managed to snag the bag with her right hand. Having no arm from the elbow down was a massive tactical disadvantage, but thanks to some industrial-strength local anesthesia, she at least couldn't feel the tragedy.

To think I’d actually have to click the 'Amputation' tab today, she thought, her mind drifting into a drug-induced haze.

She tapped the "Amputation" section on the medical bag's touch-panel and began punching in her vitals and the elapsed time like she was ordering a pizza. A moment later, the bag spat out a medical seal. She slapped the thing onto her neck. The drugs hit her system instantly, making her heart do a frantic little tap-dance against her ribs.

"So cold..."

She shoved the medical bag away with zero grace, curled into a miserable ball, and stared out the pod’s window at the vast, uncaring void. Not because the view was particularly inspiring, but because her schedule was wide open and she had literally nothing else to do.

Her ship had been turned into expensive confetti forty-four hours ago.

Marl had headed to the front lines to stall the WIND, and honestly, she’d been a total badass. She’d commanded, she’d blasted, and she’d vaporized more WIND than she could count. Her tiny defense fleet had punched way above its weight class.

Her only real mistake was not being on the Plum.

While pulling a high-G maneuver to dodge a Large-caliber Cannon, she had reflexively relied on the muscle memory she’d built up on the Plum. But this ship didn't have the Plum’s ridiculously over-engineered BISHOP mechanism. The ship had responded with the sluggishness of a tired turtle, and well, that was that.

To add insult to injury, a stray bullet or a piece of space-trash had slammed into her escape pod. Marl tried to calculate the astronomical odds of being hit by debris in the middle of a vacuum, but her brain was too pickled by anesthesia to do the math. The Super Soft Iron hull had kept her from being vented into space, but the metal had buckled inward and turned her left hand into a pancake.

"Is that Wyoming Beta? Or is that W34273? Honestly, who cares."

The collision had also shredded the pod's "Important Stuff" department. Aside from being airtight, the pod was now basically just a glorified piece of Scrap Metal. She was only breathing because she’d managed to jury-rig the Life Support System using parts she’d ripped out of her communicator. Her Mechanical Engineering Gift had saved her life, but it also meant she couldn't call for a ride.

"Returning to the stardust... that person..."

She started humming a song from her childhood. Her foster parents claimed her biological parents loved it, but they might have been making that up. She’d tried to look it up on the Encyclopedia Galactica once, but the search results were a mess. Since she couldn't remember the tune, she was just whistling in the dark.

"Sparkling right here... how did the rest go?"

Marl flicked away a tear that was annoying her, watching with dull eyes as the droplet was sucked into the air conditioning. In zero-G, floating liquid was a death sentence—get a blob of water over your nose, and you’re dead. So, the pod kept a constant, irritating breeze blowing to keep the air "clear."

"Hurry up and get here... you big idiot..."

The Life Support System had fourteen hours and fifty-four minutes of juice left.

"Hey... you're joking, right? We're supposed to get in that?"

At the docks, a man stood within a massive, panicking crowd of refugees. A Rising Sun corporate lackey was gesturing toward their transport, and the man wasn't buying it.

"That's a freaking Rice Colony! You want us to fly away in a farm?"

His buddy chimed in, equally offended. The "ship" in question was a small space station designed for food production—literally a floating paddy field. The massive windows were all crudely taped over with silver sheets in a desperate attempt to keep the radiation from frying everyone.

"I’m staying here! I’m not dying in a giant bowl of rice!"

"Wait, hold on," the buddy said, reconsidering. "Don't rice plants need the same environment as humans? Maybe it’s actually habitable?"

"That’s not the point! That hull wasn't built to tank a Beam!"

"Sure, but getting shot at in a farm is still better than getting shot at while standing on this pier, isn't it?"

The men stared back at the Rice Colony. To call it "unreliable" was the understatement of the century. It looked like a very expensive way to commit suicide.

"Attention everyone! Please remain calm!" a Rising Sun employee shouted through a megaphone, sounding remarkably bored for someone in a war zone. "This small station will be protected by the RS Alliance escort fleet and delivered directly to the nearest Stargate!"

People were freaking out. Only a handful of the truly desperate were actually boarding the space-farms.

"If you’ve got a fleet, put us on the warships! Stop wasting time and start shuttling us out!" someone screamed from the crowd. A roar of agreement followed. The man with the megaphone—who was definitely not paid enough for this—didn't even flinch.

"Our data suggests the WIND will be knocking on our door in about eight hours," the employee said flatly. "We don't have enough warships to shuttle everyone in that time. We do, however, have a lot of rice stations."

The crowd went dead silent.

"Four Rice Colonies have already successfully jumped to the next system. It’s not exactly first-class, but it beats being vaporized. Any takers?"

The man didn't wait. He bolted for the Rice Colony. Within seconds, the entire crowd was charging after him. Nobody was complaining anymore. Suddenly, the giant floating farm looked like a golden ticket to paradise.

Sophia was currently using the professional salvaging skills she’d honed to keep her family fed to save total strangers. It was a weird feeling. She wasn't sure if she should be proud or just tired.

"Target secured. Reel it in!" she called out.

She hooked the wires onto an escape pod, just like she always did. The only difference was that this "scrap" had a living person inside, and her boss wasn't the Foreman—it was Teiro. Also, her new state-of-the-art spacesuit felt way better than her old, grease-stained rags.

[UNDERSTOOD. OCCUPANT IDENTIFICATION?] The ship’s system queried.

It was a routine they’d done dozens of times already. Sophia drifted to the back of the pod and plugged into the data port.

"Mark Tempus, age twenty-eight. Security Department... Good news! He’s alive. No physical trauma, but the sensors say his 'Mental Level' is in the toilet."

[...ROGER THAT. WINCHING HIM IN.]

Sophia was currently operating out of the Plum, hunting for pods that had zero chance of making it back to base. It was grim work; half the time, she was just recovering corpses. But she kept at it, fueled by sheer determination.

"Teiro-san..."

She heard his voice over the comms—he sounded like a man who had forgotten how to smile. Sophia looked down, her heart aching for him. They were saving hundreds of people, which should have been a win, but Teiro looked like he was attending a funeral. He hadn't mentioned Marl once since they’d started.

"Let’s get the next one! There are still people out there waiting for us!" she said, her voice firm and bright.

The comms were silent for a long beat. Finally, a small spark of life returned to his voice. [...Yeah. You're right.]

Teiro and Sophia worked until their eyes were bloodshot, rescuing 390 survivors and recovering 122 bodies. The survivors showered them with thanks before being whisked away to hospitals or back to the meat grinder.

The Rising Sun fleet’s stalling tactics worked perfectly. A few Rice Colonies were blown to bits, and they’d had to leave every Wyoming Station behind to rot, but they’d saved a staggering amount of people.

On paper, the operation was a legendary success. The corporate world was tripping over itself to shower Rising Sun with praise and "donations." The media was obsessed with the "Rice Colony Miracle" and Teiro’s "disruptive thinking." The donation money was already enough to build a brand-new station. Teiro eventually stood on a literal stage, broadcasting to the entire Alliance to announce the new construction. The applause was deafening. Teiro smiled for the cameras, looking every bit the satisfied hero.

But to Sophia, that smile looked like a cheap plastic mask.

It had been 110 hours since Marl’s ship had been vaporized.

That was nearly five days. The life support in those pods didn't last five days.