Deep Space Object 303815
Levat System
Tavari-Acronian Union Space
[REDACTED] [REDACTED][sup]th[/sup], 2199
Oran had wanted to be an art historian. But there were no art historians in space.
The call had come not unexpectedly, but still with great disappointment. Actually, it wasn’t even a call, it was simply a net message sent to him at 3 in the morning. “Attention Students: The College of Visual and Performing Arts has been dissolved by the University Board of Trustees. Please be informed that your admission to the University is hereby rescinded, effective immediately. Your admission may be reinstated if you inform the University of your intention to return under the following areas of study within the next 28 days.” The following list had been the absolute most boring list of majors he had ever seen.
The University of Zhrat was not the first University to close down its arts programs. In fact, it had been one of the last universities in the Acronis system to offer art history at all. The University had explained its actions by citing “lack of enrollment” and “decreased funding,” but you didn’t have to have a doctorate to know that the lack of funding was caused by a lack of government grants in the arts.
Still, the University of Zhrat was close to home, and it would have been foolish to chase after an art history degree at some other school when theirs were all done for anyway, so he picked a new major. If he couldn’t study art, perhaps he could make it – he selected Structural Engineering out of the hopes that he could squeeze some sculpture prowess out of it. He had done fine in math and science – he wouldn’t have been admitted to a college at all if he hadn’t. What was the worst that could happen?
Well, Oran said to himself as he recalled his absolutely brazen stupidity at age 18, you might just end up crammed on a practically microscopic glorified metal shoe box of a space station in orbit of a decrepit, useless hunk of metal that once might have been called a Slamgate, with fifteen different politicians and Navy Admirals and mad scientists breathing down your neck all hours of the day.
Of course, the pay was phenomenal. But he would really rather be a poor art historian.
Oran had ended up specializing in nanostructure engineering, somehow. It was pretty early on he learned he wasn’t going to learn how to make sculptures in an engineering program, but nanostructures were at least interesting. And, really, anything could be art, couldn’t it?
“Nio. You owe me a million Type Eights. Where are they?”
Today, the Admiral breathing down Oran’s neck was Dorai Nevat Kondrokai, whose Acronian accent was so thick he could barely understand her sometimes. Despite the fact that Nio, as a feline, was taller than her, somehow Kondrokai managed to make herself bigger than Nio and everyone else by sheer force of rage. She always seemed red in the face. It couldn’t be healthy.
“We have 800,000 and counting, ma’am. Our stocks of ruthenium are low and I can’t synthesize the nanomesh unless-”
“I don’t want excuses, I want one million type-eight tactical nanites. You have until 1800 hours.”
“Then you have until 1300 hours to get me a kilogram of ruthenium. If you really want things done quickly, we’re also going to need two or three more tungsten tips etched for the scanning tunneling microscope, do you happen to have any on you?” Oran was not in the military, and Kondrokai wasn’t even in the chain of command on the station. She was just… some sort of observer or something, sent from High Command. None of the actual soldiers liked her either.
Kondrokai narrowed her eyes. “How much ruthenium do you really need?”
Oran sighed. “To give us at least a little wiggle room… four or five hundred grams.”
“You’ll have it on Tuesday, and by then I won’t take any excuses.” She jabbed a finger up towards his face, her eyes just an absolute mask of pure, unfathomable contempt. But then, all of a sudden, she smiled. “I like you, Nio.” With that, she turned and walked away, ready to go terrorize some other poor sap.
Oran had absolutely no idea what had just happened. What a strange woman that admiral was. Of course, everyone was a bit strange on the station. The tight quarters got to everyone eventually. He had been here almost a year now, they had pulled him here right after graduating. He had managed to stave off the inevitable by going for a master’s degree, but the soldiers had knocked on his door just before he had been able to apply for the PhD program.
As much as he had wanted to strangle everyone in the College of Engineering, at this point he was desperate go back – to go anywhere. Anywhere but here, where his back hurt constantly because he had to crouch through every door frame, where people stepped on his tail at least once a day, where the only food they had suitable for obligate carnivore felines was the same three kinds of dried-and-reconstituted-fish on rotation day after day.
The station didn’t even have a name – it was that classified. Not that people didn’t know there were facilities in orbit of the Slamgate. They also all knew it was a Slamgate, despite the military insistence that it be called “Deep Space Object 303815.” The Slamgate didn’t work, and so the mission of the century was to make it work again. Everyone in the Union knew that was the goal, and yet the military made them pretend it was secret. Oran hadn’t been able to speak to his parents in months. They could be dead for all he knew. He could be dead for all they knew. It wouldn’t surprise him if the military had told them he was dead. That would be par for the course.
Silent and unknowing of its status – its practical reverence – from the Tavari and Acronians that orbited it, the Slamgate resisted all attempts at reactivation. It resisted just about everything, and it had for every one of the fifty-some years they had been trying. If you asked Oren, it was ridiculous – but he couldn’t really blame them. He wanted to see it reactivated too. He wanted to know what made the Slamgate tick – in that sense, they had made an engineer out of him after all.
It wasn’t his curiosity that kept him working, though. It was his drive for self-preservation. There was no way he was going back to school if he got booted out of this project. He didn’t want to think about what would happen. So he kept his head down – literally, because it would hit the ceiling otherwise – and focused on the nanites. He worked through lunch and may have even worked through dinner if they hadn’t tapped on his shoulder.
“I’m almost to 900k, give me just a minute,” he said to the finger on his shoulder. But then the finger was a hand that physically turned Oren around. He was looking face-to-face with more soldiers – but these were different soldiers. They were new faces, and they were in formal dress uniforms. The one in front, the one who tapped on Oren’s soldier, had gray, slicked-back hair and a menacing grin.
“Oren Nio?” The soldier’s voice was almost stereotypically gruff.
“Yes. Sir,” Oren said.
“Good.” The soldier smiled. “Captain Utor Neiran, TAN Alandar. I’ve got some good news for you. You’re coming with me.”
“I, uh… the Admiral wanted… nanites,” Oren said lamely. The captain only laughed.
“Too bad for her. I want them more. And I’ve got higher ceilings on the Alandar, it’s a heavy cruiser. Brand spankin’ new.”
Well, that was a desperately needed improvement, and it wasn’t like he had a choice anyway, so he nodded. “Alright,” he said. “Don’t have to tell me twice.”
All of the soldiers laughed, although it might have just been because the captain was laughing. “I like you, kid. Let’s get you some new scenery.”
As Oren followed the soldiers, he wondered if he was about to regret his wish to be anywhere but here.