July 5th, 2486 - Imperial Cruiser, ‘The Masamune’

Angora had never been religious, but as he stood in the bathroom flexing his new left arm, he felt the bug of superstition creep over him. He couldn’t understand why the universe had allowed him to regain even one of the limbs which, as far as he was concerned, he had deserved to lose. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath; that was just the superstition talking. The mirror glared back at him, with hard brows, beneath a jungle of untamed, matted hair. Carefully, he gripped an electric razor with his new thumb and forefinger, letting it dangle in front of his face.

‘A … Abiona. Ichiro’, he said, testing the words out in his mouth. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t said them before, but now he was going so far as to consider committing them to memory. He hadn’t had a reason to do that in decades.

The razor buzzed, and taking a deep breath, he gently guided it through his overgrown moustache.

*

Abiona brought the mallet down hard on the zombie’s head, a comical quantity of green, pixelated blood spraying out and painting the walls of the abandoned asylum. Ichiro watched the monitor with varying degrees of interest, as the princess flailed about in a pair of VR glasses, the bathrobe flapping and whirling along with her frantic movements. Ichiro relaxed, laying down on the couch and feeling the cold press of leather against the exposed skin of his back. He tried not to think about his fate. He knew well enough from anecdotal evidence what the inside of a galactic prison looked like.

The door opened with a quiet hiss. A young man, with long golden hair and a scar on his upper lip, cautiously entered the room, his white, rabbit-like ears half-folded. The crimson eyes scanned the room nervously, the prosthetic hand rose to stroke a non-existent beard. The smart, blue shirt and black trousers suited the young man’s well defined jaw, thin nose and serious brows.

‘You’re gonna’ want to see this Abiona’, Ichiro said, sitting up rapidly.

Abiona paused the game, flicking the VR glasses back onto her head. Her eyes widened with surprise.

‘Is that you Angora? I hardly recognised you’, she said smiling jovially. ‘Take a seat, we were waiting for you—we need to plan our next step.’

‘A-any ideas?’ Angora asked, his voice struggling with the first syllable.

Ichiro could tell that he was trying to make it sound natural, and it was unfortunately having the opposite effect. He did sound a little lighter—less gruff and more … the exact emotion was lost on Ichiro, so he ignored it. The Bungirban’s troubles where none of his business—he had his own troubles to deal with.

They sat at the dining table, set up near an exquisite oak bookcase in the corner of the room, furnished with various globes and animal bone trophies. It was very gaudy in Ichiro’s opinion.

‘I suggested Sanctuary—that’ll put us halfway between the Colony Worlds and Frontier Space, in case we need to make a quick getaway in either direction.’ Abiona said.

‘She just wants to see the city her favourite band’s from’, Ichiro groaned. ‘It’s not a bad suggestion though; this is an Imperial vessel, meaning our pursuers can easily track our black box. Assuming we don’t ditch the ship, we’ll need a less than reputable establishment to scrub the ship inside and out ... and Sanctuary City’s got the least reputable mechanics in the galaxy.’

‘Sounds like it’s settled’, Angora said with a sigh. ‘At least we have a goal now. A start is usually better than a stop.’

Ichiro agreed, subconsciously. The longer they remained stopped, floating in limbo, the more time he had to spend with his own thoughts.

‘We’re all in agreement then!’Abiona said, grinning widely, leaning forward and almost falling onto the table with excitement, her bathrobe sliding partway down her shoulders. ‘Next stop: Sanctuary!’

July 5th, 2486 - Imperial Cruiser, ‘The Hawk’

Olivia Mar Kolla sat down on the bed gingerly. The Imperial Cruiser, ‘The Hawk’, was a little smaller than she had expected, considering that it was the personal cruiser of a member of the royal family. Expectedly, it was lavishly decorated, the interior accented with gold trimmings on the white walls, and with various wall-hangings featuring the colour palettes from cultures of countless worlds. The double bed was a comfortable size, and would normally have belonged to Yared’s personal guard, but for the next few hours it had been given to her so that she could rest. She lay back on the red duvet, and stared up at the high ceiling. She felt a little more comfortable wearing her military uniform. Before she could close her eyes, the door slid open, and Akira stepped into the room. Olivia tried to sit up, but Akira waved a hand and said, ‘I’ll only be a moment, no need to make yourself uncomfortable.’

He let the door close behind him, and leaned back onto it. Olivia looked at him; his posture and furrowed brow suggested that whatever he was about to say was important.

‘Crazy couple of days, huh, Olivia?’ he said.

‘I suppose’, Olivia replied, her eyes shooting back up to the ceiling. Akira’s gaze was penetrating. ‘… but we’re doing what we have to. No amount of crazy is going to deter me from achieving our goal.’

‘I hope so … because it’s going to get a lot crazier’, Akira promised, his baritone crunching like gravel. ‘Be prepared, Olivia … my intuition leads me to believe that you could be a very valuable asset to me, and to the prince … just be aware that I don’t deal well with disappointment.’

Olivia’s blood ran cold. She heard the door open, but did not hear him leave. The door slid closed again. It took a few minutes before she was able to look in the direction of the door, and confirm that Akira Choganta had actually left. A shiver ran through her. His wording, the tone of his voice, his expression … what the hell was she getting herself into?

July 5th, 2486 - Imperial Cruiser, ‘The Masamune’

The day passed with the current occupants of the Masamune travelling between the recreational room and the bathroom, and occasionally the bedroom when Ichiro could no longer stomach the sound of Under-City Kings, blaring on the ship’s inbuilt speakers at various points throughout the day. He always returned quickly, a worried expression on his face that only Angora recognised. He knew better than to ask just yet. Whatever baggage Ichiro carried couldn’t be unpacked in an afternoon. Abiona and Angora played card games, an ancient human tradition older than the Wulver Empire itself; the goal here was to improve Angora’s dexterity with his new fingers. They watched television, openly laughing in front of each other for the first time, at the antics of a bumbling, sit-com sheriff on some sand-blasted frontier world.

*

When night fell, according to the ship’s natural lighting system, they returned to their quarters. In Akira’s room, Ichiro lay at one end of the bed, Angora at the other; Ichiro felt Angora’s foot brush the small of his back in the middle of the night, and remembering the Bungirban’s monstrous strength, fled the room and spent the rest of the night on a couch in the recreational room. Abiona was already there, eyes sparkling, glued to the stars beyond. They didn’t speak, but as Ichiro lay on the couch, he found that his eyes wandered into that void more than he would have liked to admit.