Alberto Cruz sipped his warm drink with full confidence, a moment of peace in all the mayhem that he has to endure each day. He was not up to this: Cruz only wanted a comfortable life in the outskirts of Malta, smelling the grass and feeling the wind, wandering around the vast plantations. Working as voluntary on the fields, like the forced labor does, was considered almost an option for him; if it was not for the unilateral decisions that Dons make in those fields. In many cases, Maltese traitors are dealt harsher than slaves, so making a crime to reach that line of work could be messy; ending up in Carinea, instead of a plantation. Without even considering a simple transfer request and filling his mind with non-sensical thoughts, Alberto did not stand a chance to change his life at all, a coward not only to himself but also to his peers, as he frequently thought to himself.
During the break, he heard a couple of women having a heated chat:
“…and I told her SNIFF THIS ONE, ESCORIA! Ha ha…the blood spilled all around the floor with that last shot. It was amazing, a good one. Yes, that was my last date with a Zoner.”
“Amiga, if I wanted to be seduced with this…You already got me, right? No need for that. Let’s hope that our own next encounter does not end like your awful and cheesy story.”
“It won’t, I promess.”
The couple of Outcasts embraced to each other, their bodies merged and profound kisses reflected their chaotic emotions. Cruz, looking at the distance, was baffled; unsure if glad or terrified by the duo, displaying the passionate act or the apathetic acceptance for the most devious recklessness. Either way, he looked to the rest of the grand facility. He was in an open area, surrounded by pathways, buildings, people and noises. Sit in the middle of Il Riposo del Viaggiatore, a robust food place with colorful chairs and tables, Alberto Cruz waited patiently for the other members to arrive; ready to meet up a couple of Hyperspace members for an important task. The crowd was mostly composed by technicians, guards and slaves; these last ones escorted to their mandatory works.
“¡A trabajar, basura!”
An enthusiastic slaver yelled the group of chained people; while these last ones travelled slowly to the next docking area for whatever exhausting ordeal they had to face soon. Impregnated by excruciating pain and desolation in their eyes, the forced labor did not share the same energy as the owner, as they struggled to breath; sweated living corpses walking to their imminent doom. Cruz almost laughed at the dichotomy of such place, an irony of life where pleasure and misery can be seen at the same time; where human condition weights as light as the wealthiest and daring hands decide. He felt comfortable in his current position once again.
The general infrastructure resembled the constructions in Malta, steep and tall, buildings incrusted in the rock. Scaffolds can be seen everywhere, as the already occupied asteroid is constantly being transformed. Alberto looked at the several Sabres and Rapiers flying around, emerging from the hidden landing pads, ready to traverse the exit and beyond. A cacophony of smooth engines, super alloys bending and people urgency can be heard throughout the complex; a space fortress that never ceases to operate.
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