It's Just Business

His dreams were, on and off, fairly normal things. Sudden falls to doom, only to wake before hitting ground, walking into work in the nude, that sort of thing. Only a few nightmares plagued him, such as the one about the faceless men who came to ruin his family's life.

His mother, Sarai, had looks that belied her profession; she was a miner, with a simple ship outfit for deep space extraction of minerals from the local asteroid belt. It wasn't much, but it paid the bills and from the stories he heard around the station, she was one of the best pilots seen in this sector for a long time. His father, Pol Surman, was by day a "marketing specialist" ... whatever that meant ... and by night, a raving bi-polar drunkard or gambler, depending on what mood took him.

The screams were inescapable, no matter how much padding he added in the form of blankets and pillows around his head, as they fought constantly. His dad continually drained any of the meager earnings that Sarai had managed to eke away. The station they lived in was Independent, but on the edge of Imperial space. One evening, after a particularly loud argument, there was a rapping on the entrance.

"Sarai Surman? Pol Surman? You are hereby ordered to arrive for departure at no later than 02:00 to your new master's home in Belarsuk. Your son, too, of course, as agreed upon by Mr. Surman, this evening."

There was another soft mumble, a click of the door.

Nic couldn't believe it. His dad had sold his entire family to the Imperials? He quietly unlocked his door. It squealed as it opened, and he saw his mother for the last time, "Go back to bed, honey. They aren't going to take you, ever. Don't come out, no matter what you hear."

Her soft, firm tone provided cold assurance, and a chill whispered along his spine. His father sat, very still, in his chair, barely illuminated by the service light from the kitchenette. He seemed to nod. Nic slowly closed the door, padded back to his bunk, and forced himself to sleep.

In the morning, there was a note on the kitchen table, and a dark stain on the floor near where his dad had sat the night before.

"No matter what you hear, know I will always love you. What I have left to give will be yours when you're ready, in one of the cold-storage hangars. I have to go away now, but if you keep looking to the stars, I'll be looking back at you. Love, Mom"

Nic later heard that Sarai had gone quietly at 02:00 into the service for a wealthy family in Imperial space, after paying off a debt on her husband and son. Pol Surman was found in low orbit around the station, apparent victim to drunkenly stepping into an airlock and spacing himself. What little money was left of the Surman estate went to providing for Nic until the age of 16.

Prologue

"My stubble itches."

This thought flickers across his consciousness. A giddy wave sweeps through him, from somewhere in the ancient parts of the mammalian brain, followed closely by a stabbing pain in his midsection.

Damn. At least two broken ribs in there, and is that whistling sound a broken seal?

If so, he won't have long to wait, among the debris that was his ship. A Cobra waggles its wings at him, taunting playfully as it jumps to frameshift. His cargo is gone. There's a piece of his old Anaconda's fuselage floating in a spiral toward a distant star, as if unable to give up the task for which it was designed.

His breathing is coming short and space seems to be contracting, narrowing to a smaller band. "Tunnel vision, perfect," he grumbles, wasting precious air in the process. And all he can think of, as his vision starts to blur, is how much he wishes he could reach that itch. His hands float up toward his helmet to try to assuage the irritation, as a bright light appears to draw him near.

All is inky blackness as his eyelids flutter to a close.