Chapter 1. Farther Than Rigel Itself.
Part 1
"Welcome to the Vagrant Waif station. Log entry – fuck knows what day it is. Start recording."
"Ethan, do it properly. Reports require concrete data, not your sarcasm."
I leaned back in my chair with an air of boredom and looked at my companion, who had merged into smooth, sharply angled lines imitating visually crossed arms. Across her angular proportions darted a crimson light, which in the language of holograms signified anger or indignation.
"Alright, alright. Don't be such a buzzkill, Skyla. Can't even joke anymore," I grumbled. "And quit with the light shows every damn time like we're in Stratosfera[1]. My eyes are glitching already."
"You programmed me this way yourself. Thank you, by the way – it makes projecting my emotional state much easier. Now, if you've finished acting like a child, let's start over. Previous log entry deleted," my companion announced in her trademark monotone.
"Over 8.5 parsecs from home," I sighed. "Got to see the fourth brightest stellar giant. Far enough out to glimpse some star clusters we can't see from home. Think they'll pay good money for a star?"
Filing reports had long since lost its appeal, yet I stubbornly kept sending them back to my homeworld. Even though no response could reach my ship beyond 2.5 parsecs out.
For twenty years I'd roamed the galactic expanse, searching for my place in it. Without success… so far.
"If you’re done with your self-flagellation, I’m logging off," the hologram stated flatly as she faded out.
Her usual way of reminding me that even a machine could tire of my endless monologues.
At first, Skyla kept asking: 'Are you actually talking to me, Ethan?'
'Hell if I know,' I'd deadpan each time, until the hologram finally stopped checking—her digital mind now hardwired to ignore my ramblings.
Swiveling in my favorite almond-shaped chair, I turned toward the left section of the glossy white wall where cosmoglyphs of me and everything I'd ever cherished were displayed.
The photos moved in truncated stop-motion, granting me seconds of nostalgia. In one frame, I was sixteen – the exact age I'd last stood on Kallinkor's native soil.
Kallinkor was once a thriving world, rich with life, resources, and civilizations. I remember as a boy how beings from other planets would flock to us. We hosted delegations, threw raucous celebrations, and every species presented something unique in exchange for our own goods. But over time, my planet fell into decline. To the rest of the Galaxy, Kallinkor became a somber reminder of what happens when you fail to maintain the balance between nature and your own history.
Blinking away the haze, I looked again at my sixteen-year-old self. There I stood by the massive starship I would later name Eliot, smiling. Back then, I truly believed I was making the right choice—that this fate-appointed mission would be thrilling and earn me my family's long-sought approval. What a fool. My family likely forgot me the moment the launch dust settled. Not that I blame them; on Kallinkor, every minute is a grueling fight for survival. We were slowly bleeding our world dry, and in our desperation, we peddled illusions to volunteers willing to hunt for replacement resources after seasoned crews had failed. Reflecting now, it’s clear we Kallinkorians weren’t the brightest. If veterans couldn’t succeed, why would a pack of starry-eyed zealots?
Screw it. Here I am. Smack in the middle of a vast Galaxy. Thirty-nine years old, and a Kallinkorian—or in other words, human. That’s what we call ourselves in casual conversation, anyway. Devilishly handsome, sun-kissed, and incredibly popular with women… Buy that? Yeah, didn’t think so. Truth is, I’m your average, run-of-the-mill Kallinkorian. And I have a pathological hatred for mirrors. Usually, Skyla has to tell me when it’s time to shave or fix the usual mess I call hair. Pretty sure I’ve got some grays coming in, but I’m not ready to confirm that just yet. I’ve still got unfinished business before I embrace the whole ‘wrinkled ass and dwindling libido’ phase of life.
