Space Stations

Purgatory Station existed out at the fringes of the Qian Commonwealth. A little over a century and a half previous the Qian had come to Terra and told mankind that while humans had not yet expanded beyond their own solar system, they were close to discovering the secret of hyperspace travel. The Qian offered to make Terra a protected world and integrate it into the Commonwealth, and humanity had accepted the offer.

Qian technology, as it turned out, surpassed human invention on many fronts, and the station had been built using it to its utmost. Massive gravity generators had been focused on an asteroid and had compressed it until it became molten rock, perhaps even plasma.

Computers then manipulated the gravity to shape it, tunnel it, and recreate it into the shell they wanted. Factory ships arrived and began producing the parts needed to build it out. Before long—an eye blink in Qian terms, and less than a decade in human reckoned time—the station had come on-line and the Catholic Church had assigned chaplains to it.

Another warning tone sounded as the ship slipped into orbit around the rocky station.

The Haxadis pod shook, then lifted away from the Ghoqomak. This surprised Claire.

She'd been told that she'd have to transfer to one of the cargo pods to make her way to the station, since the starship was set for the quick resumption of the long run to Haxad once it had dropped the pods meant for Purgatory Station.

The Haxadissi hissed in surprise, then a viewscreen against an interior bulkhead flashed to life. A dark-eyed Qian female, petite and serene, appeared and bowed her head. She began to speak in Haxadissi. The ambassador hissed angrily, then slithered out, followed by her consort and the aide.

The viewscreen went blank before Claire could ask what had happened, but this did not discomfort her. She had been destined to travel to the station on a pod, and one was as good as another. She had long since packed her personal belongings and had stowed them in a cargo pod. Aside from one small bag still in her cabin, she was ready to quit the ship.

Returning to her cabin, she did catch a hint of the cinnamon scent of angry Haxadissi.

She'd actually smelled it fairly often, and caught herself remembering warm toasted cinnamon-raisin bread at breakfast with her family. She did her best to banish that memory ruthlessly, because homesickness so far from Terra would be impossible to cure.

The journey had taken her two months and she was truly ready for it to end. She had spent most of the time alone, which she didn't mind. Being a cleric meant folks didn't always invite her to join them for pleasurable pursuits, which was just as well because her refusal of same always seemed to suggest a moral superiority on her part. She didn't feel morally superior, just more focused on the spiritual than the physical, and few were the contemplative and spiritual distractions on starships.

She gathered her leather attachh and frowned at the designer label. Owning such a thing went against her sense of propriety, and buying it would have run counter to her vow of poverty. Her parents had given it to her as a going away present, so she allowed herself to value it for being a gift. This far from Terra, the label will be meaningless anyway.

Claire made her way down and forward, then through a hatchway and into one of Purgatory Station's large landing bays. Above and to the right she saw a gangway extended from an upper level and the Haxadissi making their serpentine passage across it, to be greeted by several Qian officials and other dignitaries. I can hear the outraged hissing from here.

“Father Yamashita.”

Claire's head came around, and she couldn't hide the surprise on her face. The man addressing her had managed to say her name correctly, mashing together the latter half of it. He stood nearly as tall as she did, his hair as white as hers was black and his bright eyes as blue as hers were brown. His voice came with a faint Irish accent that she found very warm and rich.

She nodded and extended a hand to him. “I am pleased to meet you. You are Father Flynn.”

He shook her hand heartily, enfolding it in a strong grip. The strength of it surprised her, as she guessed he must have had thirty or perhaps forty years on her. “Please, you'll be calling me Dennis or Flynn, that's customary between peers here.”

His steady gaze invited a similar offer of familiarity, but she held back. Flynn's genial greeting had blasted through the shell of serene isolation she'd formed around herself.

Claire suddenly realized that she was finally at her new parish, and that she would have to begin to deal with people, all manner of them. The enormity of that hit her and hit hard, shaking her.

She withdrew her hand from his grasp. “Thank you, Father Flynn. You didn't have to come greet me.”

“No? Sure and the Church has not suggested we're unmannerly out this far. Truth is, I almost missed you, since I was down to the bay where your original pod was coming in.