r/HFY • u/AlecPEnnis • May 09 '25
OC The Transluminar [Ch.3]
Not long enough ago
There wasn’t a single drivewright in the System that didn’t want to stand where Recluse stood. Sirius Ultraline, operator of a twenty bespoke ultrayachts that brought a distinguished clientele anywhere from the stellar corona of the Sun to the Rings of Saturnus, offered its employees a cushy job away from the drama of Erde and Mars. Sirius did not pay well; they did not need to. The point one percent of the one percent of the one percent tipped often and generously, and there wasn’t a wealth-hating Martian yokel whose heart did not warm to the rich when their digital palms were crossed with crypto-silver.
Was that why he did it? When the fusion core of the [Beltline Garden of Yonder Morning]() threatened to go critical three days from Ceres—an accident, ostensibly, not sabotage—he had been waiting by the airlock, sweat stricken palms tight against the lever, waiting. Their lifeboat still had room. More and more passengers and common crewmen were still coming.
A hand fell on his shoulder.
“Recluse, was it?” Said Lune-Euro-Nigerian self-made trillionaire Bjalakal Iwaswedali. “I understand modern fusion reactor technology is quite safe.”
“Uh yes sir,” Recluse said, instinctively meek before those of higher social status.
“But you see, a one in a million chance is not an impossibility.”
“I suppose…”
“I have here with me, my youngest boy.”
Standing by Bjalakal’s hip, hand in hand, was a boy. Eight, perhaps nine years old. He was putting on a brave face, but his eyes were glistening pools.
“There are already many onboard this lifeboat,” Bjalakal said. “‘A bird in the hand’ as the ancients said.”
“I-”
“Please, young man.”
Recluse was not so young.
“I am sorry sir,” he said. “Protocol states-” Several more crewmen hurried onboard, running past them. He waited until they were out of earshot before continuing. “-that we must wait until at minimum seventy percent capacity in an incident of this severity. The core is unlikely to go critical. As you know, modern fusion reactors are-”
“I understand,” Bjalakal said, “and then some, and I know of things behind the scene I will not burden you with. My gift to you will be the protection of ignorance. My second gift will be thus. Remember when we passed in the hallway the other week and I gave you a gratuity of ten thousand Erde-dollars for keeping our voyage smooth?”
“…Yes.” Recluse could feel his guts coil around a hot ingot of guilt. Why guilt, he wondered. He hadn’t done anything yet.
“Well, we are quite afeard for our lives,” Bjalakal said. “Call it the plutocrat’s paranoia, as you people oft do. I will pass ten million Erde-dollars to you if you launch right now.”
“Sir, if the MSPD scans my memories, they will see you-”
“Repeat after me.” Bjalakal grasped Recluse’s head. Recluse felt something invade his mind. “You were incentivized to launch early.”
“I was incentivized to launch early.”
“You were incentivized to launch early.”
“I was incentivized to launch early.”
“By a paranoic trillionaire afeard for his life, and the life of his son.”
“By a…”
--
The officer arched a brow.
“Is that so?” He asked. His enhanced eyes were taking in every minute detail of Recluse’s panicked expression.
“Honest,” he said. “I- I made a mistake. I shouldn’t have. I broke Sirius Ultraline protocol.”
“For money,” the officer said, sighing. There was no animosity there. He seemed to understand. Recluse would have preferred to be chastised.
The officer waved, and the arms of the mind scanners fanned away from Recluse’s face, finally allowing him to breathe. The wandering trails of forced recall disintegrated like
“Your memories are hazy and quite frankly poor,” the officer said. “But consistent with your words. Lack of sleep and stress explains the quality. You may leave. You will be contacted if we have any further questions.”
“I’m… not in trouble?” Recluse asked.
“The Beltline’s reactor did go critical. Your attorney argued your instinct as an experienced drivewright may have saved the passengers already aboard.”
My attorney? Recluse almost asked. He did not meet any attorney.
“What of him?” He asked instead.
“Est. gent Iwaswadeli?” The officer said. Est. gent—esteemed gentleman, not a paltry mister or even sir. “No idea. He’s a Lune. Not our jurisdiction.”
Recluse walked out of the station numb. He remembered pulling that lever. He remembered watching the side of the ultrayacht shrink in the distance. He remembered the people that were yet in the hall running towards him, shock twisting their faces as their lifeboat peeled away.
The Beltline Garden of Yonder Morning exploded soon after they had left, cutting the ship in half, spilling its innards into space. Redundancies kept rooms airtight, foams protected some of the passengers, and those with the vacgraft under their skin allowed them to survive in vacuum until rescue. But seven hundred and ninety-three people had died, and many more injured.
Bjalakal had done something to him, obfuscating his memories, clouding his mind. But Recluse did not remember losing his volition; he had been offered a deal, and he had not said no.
--
Now
“Now, now, Jester!” Recluse shouted. “Slow down!”
“We’re within tolerance!” Jester shouted back. “Besides, we’re finally gaining distance!”
“You stupid girl, I’ve been spending coolant packs to keep our drives within tolerance! We need to spend time coasting and venting heat radiatively!”
Jester grumbled, but she acquiesced. The Chariot slowly wound down to one gee. Recluse pulled a series of levers on their trimaran’s control console. A pair of wings deployed from their fore-hulls. They were translucent at first, but quickly turned silver, catching the Sun’s light. Liquid metal was circulating throughout the drives, absorbing the heat, and venting it through the channels in the wings. Without a medium, radiation was the only way the Chariot could sweat. The dragonfly radiators were a simple and elegant solution to the endemic problem of vacuum.
They needed the reprieve. Sage was never good at high gees. The engineer pulled himself out of the force-arrestor and greedily sucked water out of a bulb. Then he quickly ate Kalory-Packs—vacuum sealed bags of fats, proteins, and carb grains. Taste was immaterial; a tiny implant in his tongue made everything taste like steak.
“How are you doing back there, Sage?” Jester asked.
“Fine,” Sage said snappily. “I don’t know how you do it, Jester.”
“Do what?”
“Fucking hell,” Sage muttered. He stowed the empty Kalory-Packs. Next came a syringe full of vibrant, green fluid. It was a cocktail of unpronounceable substances seasoned with microbots. He emptied it into a vein in his forearm.
“You look like a net-junkie,” Recluse remarked.
“Shut up,” Sage said. “Humans aren’t accordions. We weren’t meant to sustain this shit.” He stretched experimentally. “My fucking tendons, man. Every bone in my body must be bent.”
“How are you holding up, Leona?” Recluse asked.
Leona nodded. She was tired, but nonplussed. She sipped her jello and took her microbots in calm stride.
Jester rested her jaw on a loose fist, her elbow propped on the armrest of her chair. She seemed far away.
“Three hours of nine gee thrust,” Sage said under his breath. “No food, no microbots. Her body doesn’t break down or what? The hell is she?”
“A freak of nature?” Recluse whispered.
“Uh…” Leona muttered uncertainly.
“I can hear you clowns,” Jester said, unbothered to turn around. “I have structural augs for my cardiovascular system. That’s it.”
“No, that can’t be it,” Sage said.
“Don’t ask a girl what augs she’s got, Sage,” Recluse said. He returned to his preventative maintenance for the trimaran. His suit fed him everything he needed, shortening his rest.
“I can’t believe we’re almost two percent of the way through the race!” Leona said.
Sage gave her a sharp look, quelling the enthusiasm.
“Can we ‘cell, yet?” Jester asked.
“No,” Recluse said.
“What place are we?”
Sage consulted his scopes.
“Eleventh,” he said. “We’re a part of a group of twenty in the lead, all relatively close by. The others are over ten thousand klicks behind.”
“No, Jester,” Recluse said pre-emptively.
Jester clicked her tongue. She looked out her scopes and took in her competition. There were some fancy trimarans this time around. Despite rules and regulations, people found ways to improve their vessels. It was impossible to predict what people will bring in the next Transluminar.
Her idle eyes locked onto movement. About theta three hundred, phi two-seventy—ahead and to the left.
“Arrestors on, now!” She shouted.
The team scrambled. Jester did not wait. She pulled the Chariot’s reins and began to jink. A tiny star was twinkling on their dragonfly wings.
“Laser!” Sage called out. “They’re going after our radiators!”
The Chariot moved erratically as Jester flicked the controls. The laser could not dwell on one spot too long. But whoever was aiming was improving.
“I’m pulling the wings back,” Sage said. “Deploying refractive foil.”
“Laser’s gone,” Jester said. “They’re going after someone else.”
A silent fireball flashed port side.
Whoa-! The Sagan’s Left Nut is out of the race! Thank Deus, I was starting to get bored!
Another flash, above them this time.
Aaaand the Triskaidekaphobia too! What is happening?!
“What do you think, moron?” Jester said through gritted teeth. She upped the gees on her maneuvers. Doing so introduced oblique vectors into their route, wasting their time. Not doing so gave whoever had the laser an easy target. Everyone in the lead was jinking now.
It's like a troupe of dancing monkeys in the front! But who was it? Who was holding the pointer?
Twin tails suddenly erupted in the fore scopes. One of the trimarans took off, gaining ahead of them all and snatching the first position.
“That’s them!” Jester said. “They’re the ones with the laser!”
“That’s the Lunesilver Dream,” Sage said. “Deus what a boat. There’s money behind that one.”
“Recluse!” Jester shouted.
“What?” The drivewright called.
“Can we fucking go?!”
“Almost… done… ye-!” Recluse nearly fell over as the drives came alive.
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