Sawyer regarded the man beside his brother. In his late thirties, with dirt brown hair and eyes, the man’s pale, splotched skin hung from his too thin body. He shoved the black-rimmed, thick glasses back onto his nose and smiled up at Maverick over their edges. Sawyer held back the anxiety he felt at the relationship between his brother and the older man. Somewhere between genius and insane, one would find Carl Morgan.
Diagnosed with Alien disorder only a few days after his arrival on Flamouria, Carl proved the exception to the norm – veering toward illogical, eccentric, and disruptive rather than savage. Showing no signs of violence, he was released under his own care. Many felt sorry for the once brilliant scientist’s fall from sanity, allowing him to live in the abandoned storage building unbothered.
Sawyer crossed his arms and widened his stance before he addressed the defiant teenager. “You need to return the fuel cells.”
Maverick’s angst showed in his posture. “Why? They weren’t using them. They don’t care about having them; they just don’t want anyone else to have them.”
“To live a life of wait is a slow death; to live a life of purpose is a slower death.” Carl nodded with a smile, happy with his obscure line. “We gave them purpose.”
“It wasn’t your place to give them purpose,” Sawyer’s comment held more meaning than the usefulness of fuel cells.
“The kid’s right.” Wil’s earlier amusement faded into cynicism at the mention of the Administration. “They were never going to use them. They’ve been sitting there since they were dropped by the TSS months ago. The only reason they’re filing for them now, is so Earth will reimburse them for the loss. They get to file for a supply drop and Mav and Crazy Carl get to play with their ship. Win, win in my book.”
“Not helping,” Sawyer mumbled, his eyes flashing at his friend’s choice of sides in the argument.
“All I’m saying,” Wil claimed, raising his hands in defense and shrugging his shoulders. Sawyer didn’t fault his opinion; he knew Wil would be thrilled with the knowledge of Maverick breaking into Admin property for the fact it was his father who would be impacted by the event. Wil was the epitome of reluctant elite, his opinions and values conflicting – sometimes violently – with his Senior Administrator father’s materialist stance. It was one such violent encounter a year ago which landed a beaten and dejected Wil on Sawyer’s doorstep. After a sleepless night of conversation, their previously casual friendship developed into a deep respect and appreciation for each other. Sawyer considered the man his brother as much as Maverick.
“What are you doing?” Wil addressed Carl, who began moving restlessly around the table picking up and replacing parts while Sawyer’s thoughts rambled.
Carl moved around the room with increasingly hurried and unconnected movements, stacking his papers on the table before moving to a shelf unit next to the entrance and shuffling the items it contained. He moved to a pile of parts and tools, rifling through them with jerking movements. His hand shook, his steps stuttering across the cracked floor, clearly disoriented and anxious.
“Is he okay?” Wil questioned Maverick, nodding in Carl’s direction when his initial question received no response.
“He’s been like this all day,” Maverick attempted to hide his concern behind a shrug, but Sawyer saw through the façade.
“Hey, what are you doing?” Wil repeated the question with more inflection, gaining a moment of the frantic man’s attention.
“Something,” Carl blinked furiously, as if coming out of a trance, and opened the large, floor-to-ceiling door on the far wall.
A familiar, childish wonder filled Sawyer as the lights flickered on in the massive hangar Carl revealed. Larger than the shuttles high-class Admins used for personal travel and the transports the Terran Space Station sent with cargo and crew, the ship filled the five-story shelter in height and width. She showed her advanced age, deprived of the sleek lines and edges of modern crafts, but kept her skin well. When first discovered, scorch marks marred her belly, two broken fins paralyzed her back, and a crimson hue bloodied her hull. While her complexion hadn’t changed, the scorch marks were gone – replaced by the same red as the rest of her body – and her fins were smaller, upgraded prostheses. Two boosters sat at her hips, arching toward where he stood ogling her backside. A cannon adorned her head, gleaming black and dangerous against the matte covering the rest of her. The only other shine was across her nose – below the mirrored panels of the bridge – untouched by age or fade of the years she’d slept in the hangar: Anastasis.
Her freight door was opened, taking up the first two stories of her hind end and acting as an access ramp to her cargo hold. Wires, tubes, boxes, and parts littered the inside of the storage area, creating a maze of materials only an unstable mind could navigate.
“Come on, brother, don’t you ever think about it anymore?” Maverick’s tone softened, his eyes glazed with possibilities. “Getting off this dead rock and starting over somewhere? Traveling through the Verse?”
“I don’t have time for fantasies anymore, Mav,” Sawyer’s response chilled the wonder in his brother’s expression – the same wonder Sawyer recognized in himself, but didn’t dare focus on. Sawyer didn’t relish denying Maverick’s innocent excitement, knowing he hated their birth planet and dreamed of escaping its atmosphere. Memory flooded his senses, reminding him of childish dreams and desires. Sawyer shared the same dream for years before finally accepting his station. Sawyer and Maverick were denied the same rights as transferred citizens; the restrictions of Earth and Flamouria’s governments on transfers between worlds didn’t allow natural born Flamourians many options.
Sawyer and Maverick met Anastasis while exploring the boundaries of Alpha Sect soon after their arrival, eight years earlier. They sat in her burned
