Chapter Two: The Pale Dawn's Light

The small white sun beat down against the shade clothes and the shuttle. She blinked open her tear-encrusted eyes and sat up on the floor of the engine room, yawning. She was dirty, tired, and very stiff. Turns out sleeping on the metal grate of the ship’s floor wasn’t comfortable. “Fancy that,” she murmured to herself, grunting upon standing up. She glared down at the Aetherium Flux Wormhole Drive and rubbed her back. “Why the hell hadn’t Volkov had a manual on board? You’d think…” but all the signs were there… his skin and eyes were yellow-hued with red spidery veins on his face. His stomach was very large, and he had scratched several different itches within the meal period they shared, before her hasty departure. She wasn’t medically trained, but back on Earth, living in the suffocating systems of collapsing capitalism, she saw it often enough in her socio-economic class. Liver Failure. She thought of the flask of home-brewed vodka she found stashed in the emergency kit. He had talked of leaving Earth one day… “He must have meant to die out here somewhere.” Her gritty face fell, and she closed her eyes somberly, reflecting on her escape from the Planet Eaters and from Earth itself.

Sighing, she nodded her head, “Right,” and walked into the bathroom for a soothing, hot shower. Afterwards, she made a cup of instant coffee for herself in the galley, a treat despite its bitter taste. She was sitting on a chair outside under the shade cloths by her growing garden. A few little tendrils were peaking out of the sandy dirt already, and she felt a pang of hope. She held the warm mug in both hands and looked up at the empty purple sky, wondering how her boy was doing back on Earth. She wondered if the group had kept him; there were other orphaned children in the hodgepodge group of invasion survivors. She leaned back, relaxing in the simple metallic frame and imagining her son in an arctic colony of humans, thriving with “the village” taking care of him. She wondered if he’d recognize her if she ever got back home. Her heart screamed silently inside of her ribs, and her grey eyes flushed with tears. She sniffled and made a promise to herself, there on that metal chair, on the heap of a dry, dusty rock, wherever the hell she was in the cosmos… she would return home. She will see her baby boy again.

With determination renewed, she grabbed a ration bar back in Gram and went back to the Aetherium Flux Wormhole Drive. Sighing again, which she realized had become quite normal for her, she looked at the small aftermarket interstellar drive. The A-drive doesn’t move ships through space; they step through doors. At the heart of the system are Aetheria Crystals, synthetically created from rare Aetherium Ore forged in the violent scars of dead stars, crushed protoplanets, and ice‑locked gas‑giant moons. Because every piece of Aetherium is quantum‑linked across the multiverse, the drive uses those crystals as both key and compass, opening temporary wormholes between points already tagged by Aetherium signatures, be it natural ore, orbital beacons, or other ships’ crystal cores. There’s no messy time dilation, no years stretching between jump and arrival; just a brief, seamless passage from one place to another, as long as both ends are anchored in the network.

Humans navigated that network using the Cartography Core’s database that verified and mapped all natural Aetherium‑tagged locations, as well as artificially tagged systems. Ship crews also enlisted their own data into the Core’s system, uploading fresh beacons, new deposits, and any dangerous routes, helping chart the sparse, branching web of safe passage through the emptiness of space. However, there was still a vast number of untagged solar systems that the drive could not reach. Those places remain off‑grid, silent, and slow, reachable only by long‑haul drives over several years by the Cartographers, people brave enough to drop the first crystal beacon and light the way.

She clicked on the head lamp that had been mixed in with the tools and investigated the drive. It was sleek, 8 inches tall and wide, and about 2.75  inches deep. It was partially square with rounded edges at the top, and partially round at the bottom. There were only a few buttons on the outside and a tiny window peaking into the small compartment, currently blackened by smoke. She first checked that the wires were  intact and had an electric current flowing through them, then pressed the buttons one at a time, hoping it would open the compartment. It didn’t open on her first try or her second. Before taking a screwdriver to the side of the compartment and ripping it open, she made one last attempt, but held each button for about 20 seconds. With the second button held down, the compartment whirred open. She was happy at that because she had been worried about causing more damage to the already inoperative drive. Peering  inside, she shifted the headlamp for better lighting. In the middle of the ringbox-sized chamber was a smoke-blackened,  fragmented Aetheria Crystal.

She'd never seen an Aetheria crystal before, except in the media feeds and educational books. This was not how it was supposed to look. Aetheria Crystals are  about the size of a thumb joint, smooth and faintly faceted, with a cool, dense surface that feels heavier than Earth stone. It glows with a soft, shifting light, pale blue at rest, blooming into faint violet when energized, its inner veins pulsing like a captured heartbeat just beneath the crystalline skin. What she was looking at was a completely dead, fragmented crystal. “Fuck” she said out loud under her breath. “Of all the god damn things that could have broken… FUCK!” She stood up and kicked the panel of metal wall plating the drive was attached to, creating a loud clang against her steel-toed boot. The sound echoed through the room and down the halls of the craft.

She had already looked in the engine room lockers  and chests when she did the initial inventory. The crates in the small cargo hold had already been searched, too. In fact, the whole fucking ship had been stripped bare by her in her desperation for survival. No spare crystals, not even a chunk of unrefined ore anywhere on board. She had no clue how expensive the crystals or ore were on Earth, but she did understand that the ore itself was pretty rare, and rarity meant hefty prices. Volkov more than likely couldn’t afford a backup, and probably didn’t think he’d need it for his one-way trip. The crystals usually last a human lifetime or more, though.

Collage of a rocky planet with a shuttle, telescope, and sparse plants under a vast dark sky with several galaxies in it by Rachel Beeson Art.

Her memory wandered back to her last escape from the Planet Eaters. They had found her when she was reaching Earth’s orbit and started attacking. Fluxjumps were never supposed to be done in orbit, but she was in an old rust bucket, and they were a technologically advanced race from another galaxy. She punched the A-drive right there, with a view of the shrinking oceans and burnt forests of her home planet. And then… she remembered coming to awareness, crashed on this accursed dust heap. “They must have fired on me as the drive was engaging,” she thought. Her whole face slouched into resignation. “That’s it. I can’t ever get home,” and she cried heartily, leaning on the engine in the middle of the room, the purr of the electronics masking her soft, sad sounds.

Hours later, she was back outside, the faint drips from the Skydrinker Mesh getting closer together, as the evening became night, and cool air set in. The flask was in her weakened grip, and she was coughing hard after pouring some of the swill down her throat. She stared up at the stars, turning her circumstances over in her mind. It had never been easy. She was a single mother in the working class, trapped by societal systems not made for her gender or socio-economic class. The collapsing capitalist society humanity found itself in had made Earth a patchwork of half‑functioning systems. Official markets still existed, but more humans traded in barter, favors, and data‑shares than in currency. Towering corporate logos still glowed over dead cities, but the companies behind them were hollowed out, fighting to keep their last few data centers and orbital assets from collapsing.

Gas stations double as grey‑market hubs; apartment‑blocks run on private, patched-together power‑grids; and everyone knew the real economy was the one that happened off‑the‑books. The old rules were still in place, superficially written up to hide corporate greed and the dehumanization of workers, but the truth was written in alleyway graffiti, black‑market comms, and the quiet, stubborn ways people kept feeding, sheltering, and protecting each other when the governments stopped  pretending to care. The one thing still alive and well was humanity, at least in 80% of the population, otherwise known as the working class.

“There's got to be a way…” She thought and grabbed her pad linked to  Babushka‑Zarya’s database. Looking over the inventory, she saw there was a decent stash of older planetary survey probes, the electronic screen’s light glowing on her freckled face. “Huh.” Getting up from her seat outside, she went to have a chat with Gram, her nickname for the Babushka‑Zarya.  The poor girl was a battered, medium‑sized transport with a hull scarred by old repairs and slapped‑on patches. Her lines were more workhorse than hero, yet somehow still dignified. She hummed with the tired but steady pulse of electromagnetics and coolant, and a blend of rust, coffee, and ozone clung to her air like a well‑worn apron. Inside, she felt like a cramped, lived‑in house in motion; warm, cluttered, and stubborn, every patchy weld and frayed cable had been left in place because it still worked, and the ship herself refused to be thrown out. To Volkov, she was the grandmother who carried the first light out of the darkness. She had been the embodiment of hope to him.

 “Babushka?” she asked out loud, weirded out by the sound of her croaking voice. “Yes?” the AI replied. “What were those planetary beacons going to be used for? Does this ship have the capabilities to launch them?” Her voice was dying due to lack of use, and she tried to clear her throat. “The beacons Lev brought on board are for surveying planets for minerals, food, water, signs of life, and so forth. A preliminary survey, if you will.” Her artificial voice was soft yet a bit cold. “Although Lev did bring parts on board for the beacon launcher, he had not completed the upgrade.”  She made a confused face, “Who’s Lev?” “My owner, Lev Arkadyevich Volkov. Where is he, by the way? Are you crew?” “…Volkov… is dead, Babushka ‑Zarya. I am so sorry.” Her Western-American accent hit hard when attempting to pronounce the Russian names. “I… I guess I am your captain now. There isn’t a crew...” “Oh.” She didn’t know if she imagined or actually heard extra whirring and a cooling fan click on somewhere internally during the lengthy conversation pause. “Please update the crew logs,” the AI’s voice came suddenly from the speaker on the console. “I will, but first, umm… Does your database contain data on the parts required to build and install the probe launcher?” “Yes. Do you want me to walk you through the process?”

Working through the night, still mildly wired by the instant espresso from the day before, she built a probe launcher. At first glance, it wasn’t pretty, but it was up and running, connected to a computerized port Gram could control. “Not too bad,” She said to Gram. “Thanks for the directions and help.” One of the nice things about the communal space she had been a part of back on Earth was the free skill classes. You couldn’t get a job with them; the job market was pretty much non-existent anyway, but the idea had been to teach each other skills to help the community. Folks with all sorts of skills would teach anyone willing to learn. These skills included programming, basic engineering, sewing, weaving, welding, gardening, small animal farming, and so much more. She, herself, had taught a few cooking classes and mass-distributed cheap but nutrient-dense recipes. She looked down at her ugly welding beads and chuckled, adding, “I’m sorry for my shoddy workmanship."

Grunting and moaning, she rolled out of her bunk in the crew quarters later the same morning. She decided this called for another cup of the black, bitter, plastic-tasting espresso, along with the usual half ration bar, and went to the Control Cabin. After a few buttons were pushed, the probe portal slid open, and the first probe was launched into the planet's orbit. Chewing on a stale bite of ration, she duplicated her button pressing, and another probe launched into space, past the first one. “Right. That will give me an idea about the system I am in and of the planet I am on.” She had 20 probes, minus 2 now, and updated the inventory. She didn’t want to think about the almost improbable probability she landed on a planet with Aetheria ore, but who knows. Now, she had to wait. She hated waiting. Waiting meant nothing to keep her distracted from being overwhelmed by emotions.

Her bag was light when she had fled her community on Earth. She had mainly packed things for her son since he was a growing boy. She was in need of more clothes. Boots flopped to the floor, clanking amidst two clothing piles in the captain's room. She was stripped to her undergarments and was trying Valkov’s clothes on, keeping the ones that fit ok enough. The others were going to be altered so that all the fabric was kept, but still wearable for her. When that was done, she decided to move into the captain's quarters; it was only fitting. She remembered she had to update the crew manifest. She felt like it didn’t really matter, but her ship’s AI had asked for it, and it was something to keep her mind busy. By the end of the day, she had her clothes, new and old, washed, folded, and in a small closet in the captain’s room. She had also washed the bedding, “better safe than sorry,” she thought to herself, and tried to decorate the plain coldly metal room.

At the control console, she found the crew manifest with a single name listed, Lev Arkadyevich Volkov. She somberly cleared the name from the field and typed in hers. Quietly, as to respect the dead, she checked the probe timing again before going off to bed. The planet had another 4 hours to go, and the system-wide one wouldn’t be done for another few days. With Babushka-Zarya’s help, she had programmed it to start with the closest planet to the sun first, and then move outward, skipping her planet. It would transmit information back to her using the planet-orbiting probe as a network link. That night, she cried herself to sleep again.