LELauri
patreon
Chapter 4 - Spacer Requiem
🕑 Added 2025-08-24 15:06:01 +0000 UTCHe groaned and went to wipe his hands down his face, only then realizing he was still fiddling with the good luck charm.
“Hey, man.”
“Ahh!” The orb went flying while Heath whipped around, to be confronted with a chagrined Carter.
“Sorry, thought you heard me knock. The hatch was open…” Carter let his voice trail off.
Heath waved his hand, as if he could push the explanation aside. “My fault. Wasn’t paying attention. Didn’t set an alarm. What’s up?”
“Yeah. Right. Anyway, I just wanted to say thank you. If you weren’t so quick with the medpacks, then, well…”
“Then Uncle Walt wouldn’t be the only one we’re booting into the local primary.” Heath regretted it the instant it came out of his mouth. A look of horror crossed Carter’s face, which morphed into pity, and then, surprisingly, a smile.
“Exactly.” He swatted Heath on the shoulder, causing him to sway. Maybe he should take a point or two in Toughness at his next level. “Anyway, thanks kid, I owe you one.”
“Not a kid. And you’re not that much older than me.”
That turned the smile into a full-blown grin. “You’re always a kid to the first crew you run with. I’ll leave you to it, but holler if you need help.”
“No need, I’m heading to cargo. I’m sure someone’s lounging around down there.”
He put truth to the words, and found himself in the bay a few moments later. It was the largest room on the ship, even though it was mostly empty. Walt had been a delver for decades to build up the initial funds for a ship, and then worked the Rim for even longer, hauling anything and everything between the more isolated settlements. That kind of success meant the quantum storage of the ship was large enough to hold almost anything, leaving the cargo bay open for crew recreation or anything else they needed.
Like a funeral.
There were climate-controlled options as well, for when they were shipping living plants that couldn’t survive in regular stasis. Or other things you wanted to keep cool. Firmly ignoring those implications, Heath made his way to the storage entrance. A small portal, able to expand when the cargo demanded it.
Following instructions on the will, Heath pulled up the storage menu. Most of it was grayed out.
“Loon, what gives?”
The silence he got in return told him everything he needed to know. The Wandering Loon was in tatters, even if her hull had held against the storm. Or maybe the Loon was in mourning too.
He bent back to his task. There were options for main cargo and private storage. Heath had been added to his uncle’s private vault as a backup, with very clear instructions that he would be swabbing the deck with a very small brush and no Class powers if he ever accessed it without permission.
This was the first time he would be opening it alone. With shaking hands, he made the selections to turn on the storage. The door next to him slid open in big starts, rather than the smooth glide it should have been, but it did open. The flickering light that filled the portal took longer than usual to resolve, eventually locking in as a clear pane, through which he could see his uncle’s private quantum-storage space.
The size of a generous walk-in closet, it was filled with rows and racks of everything from the mundane snacks his uncle didn’t like keeping in his rooms, to monster trophies from his early career. With a few more taps on the control panel, Heath brought out those items his uncle had willed away. And those he’d wanted sent to the afterlife with him.
A pile formed on the shelf built into the wall. Uncle Walt had left something for every Spacer currently serving on board, and Heath pulled them all out. By the time he turned around, the rest of the crew had gathered around a dull metal pod.
No one said anything as one by one, Heath carefully ferried each item to its new owner. Some gripped their bequests so hard they came near to breaking. Others cradled it in two hands, holding it close, and thankful Walt had thought of them. Heath wasn’t the only one hurting. Most of these people had worked with Walt for years.
When he couldn’t put it off any more, Heath rounded up the rest of the items in his arms and approached the pod. A narrow metal tube, every ship kept a few on hand. Nothing fancy, just a few thrusters to keep things moving in the right direction. The hatch opened when he approached, and for the first time, he was confronted with the face of his uncle’s corpse. A charred and scarred body that was achingly familiar despite the damage.
He’d spent most of the last day – when he wasn’t lost to oblivion – thinking of all the things he could say right now. Along with why it was only his uncle that was hurt from the magic striking the ship. None of it would come out past the lump in his throat.
“Goodbye, Uncle Walt,” he eventually managed to choke out. He nestled the favorite mementos in the crooks of his arms, slipped a sarilian cigar into his breast pocket, and a letter he had written out in his Uncle’s study into the dead fingers of the left hand. “Thanks for everything. Thanks for saving us.”
Heath stepped back and let the rest of the crew pay their last respects. A few more tucked small objects or scraps of paper in with the body. Most mumbled a few words the rest pretended not to hear. Masterson and Raquel spent the longest. They’d been with his uncle for ages on his crew, and had known him for decades before that. The pair had more memories with him than Heath did, when it came down to it.
When everyone had said their piece, there was only one thing left to do. Heath, Masterson, Raquel, and Alvaro, the head of the delving crew, picked up the pod and walked it to the airlock. Placed on a spring-backed section of the floor, it was all up to Loon now. Even with the minimal controls they had, this was possible, the procedure hard-coded into the routines of any ship.
When Heath gave the signal, the airlock cycled and Uncle Walt was shot into space. The crew trooped to the mess hall/recreation area and pulled up the external view on one of the wide screens. Masterson had been working hard to get even this much access. There they watched as the mana thrusters turned on and pointed the pod at the nearest star.
They sat in silence, observing until there was nothing left to see. Though it was his first Spacer funeral, Heath had known all the steps, when to speak and when to watch. The instincts lived deep inside, where his Class was etched onto his soul. He could have ignored it, but Uncle Walt was loved, there was no reason not to honor him as much as possible.
When the last person leaned back, convinced it was over, the atmosphere broke. Not into a full party, but the solemn part was over.
Now, it was time to remember.
“Here you go, kid,” Masterson said. At the same time, a tumbler of onyx liquor was shoved into Heath’s hand. “Only the good stuff for Walt.”
The man proceeded to launch into a story of his first haul on The Wandering Loon, somehow making a standard cargo-delivery run into a full comedy routine. It was a good thing Heath had heard the story before, because he spent the second half choking and sputtering after trying the liquor.
There was a reason Stygian whiskey was a special-occasion only kind of thing. Hands slapped him on the back and the next Spacer took up the torch, telling a story showcasing Walt’s roguish charm, or willingness to take a calculated risk.
Heath didn’t take a turn. None of the many memories with his uncle felt quite right to share. Adrift, he settled among the crew and listened, letting their stories buoy him up on a tide of whiskey. He vaguely remembered Carter helping him into his bunk before falling asleep.
The following two weeks were a trial. The whiskey was hidden away again, which Heath was thankful for most nights. Otherwise it was the same old same old as the Loon limped towards port, but in a mockery of their usual work. Most systems were still locked out of their control, and there was a gaping hole in the center of the crew that no amount of forced cheer or made-up chores could mask.
Heath crawled out of the access hatch after one such session, and marched resolutely towards the bridge. Most of the normal crew was elsewhere, their stations useless in the current state, but Raquel and Masterson were there, heads bent over one of the only functional view screens.
“I got the aux thrusters back online. Should be able to dock on our own if the station doesn’t have a tug to ease us in.”
“That’s good, kid.” Masterson sat back in his chair and turned to face Heath. “Real good. Didn’t think we’d get much more than the emergency break to work with.”
“Yeah, well.” He went to wipe his face then stopped, realizing his hands were covered in engine gunk. “Would be better if we had nav systems, but they aren’t just fried, they’re gone.”
“Astral storms can do that,” Raquel said. “Never really know what’s going to happen. Should be glad we weren’t using the nav when everything went to shit.”
He broke. The last two weeks he had done his best to keep going, because that was what Walt would have wanted, but he couldn’t hold back this time.
“How did this happen?” he asked the pair. “We missed a whole godsfucked astral storm.”
“Question of the century,” Masterson replied. “I’ve looked through the logs, every reading we took since jumping into the system. Nothing. One minute, we’re flying pretty, the next, the storm is there, too big and too fast to get out of dodge.”
Heath leaned against the broken pilot’s station, absently pinging [Ship Maintenance] to keep him from transferring any of his dirt. Some habits were hard to break, even if Walt wasn’t there to approve. “Random chance. You’re saying Walt died to a trick of fate.”
Raquel came over and clapped him on the shoulder, headless of the engine sludge. “Walt knew what he was risking every time he left a colony. You know it too, we all do. This life ain’t easy, bad luck has taken more than one Spacer ahead of their time. Wouldn’t give it up for anything. And neither would Walt.”
********
It took three jumps to get to the Madrigan system, each a terrifying exercise, praying the Loon got them through. The relief that spread across the ship when the system station came into view was a heady thing. The cheer was less forced in the few hours it took to approach. They had survived something few ever did, after all. This would be its own story, told over a drink with other spacers, somewhere down the line.
Heath was not feeling that same relief. The station had a shipyard, and that was about the only good thing he could scrounge up. He should probably be thankful this system was busy enough to have a yard at all, but gratitude was far down on his list of emotions right then. About half of it looked to be in disrepair, and the ships in dock were sad little things, patchwork creations of other ships’ scraps, held together by what Heath suspected was mostly hope.
The Loon deserved better. So did Heath, for that matter, he’d been training for years. By the gods, so had Uncle Walt. Everyone deserved better, but this was what they got. The grimiest shipyard on the outer Rim.
