C.D. Cohen-Felton

Chapter 1

For the third time in his life, Ulysses thought he was going to die.

For nearly fourteen hours he’d floated weightless in the cargo hold, in a gap between the transport containers and the wall of the shuttle. After the harrowing, turbulent takeoff, the long reprieve in zero gravity would have been almost pleasant—except that every time the shuttle made a slight change in direction or speed, his body was thrown against the metal boundaries of his hiding place. In his haste to conceal himself, he’d forgotten to engineer a way to strap himself in.

The random bursts of kinetic energy had only given him a few bumps and bruises—nothing serious so far—but in the last few minutes they had grown increasingly violent. As he bounced from one wall to another, he realized it was just a matter of time before he broke his neck or smashed his head.

He cried out in pain as his hip crashed into a bolt that protruded from one of the containers. Feeling miserable, he wondered what lunacy had prompted him to accept this job, so dangerous and full of unknowns. He grimaced at the irony.

This was supposed to save my life and secure my future. If I die now, I’m going to feel very foolish.

He felt his weight increase as gravity slowly kicked in. He knew what it meant: the shuttle was in orbit around Olympus, preparing for its final approach. Once its trajectory was aligned with the station’s plane of rotation, the shuttle would spiral inward, adjust its velocity to match the space station’s spin, and—if all went well—clamp onto the airlock of the docking bay.

He braced himself for a wild ride.

It started sooner than he expected. The shuttle plunged. The walls creaked and groaned as they fought to break free of the tightening vortex. He too groaned, as he struggled against the forces that bore down on every square inch of his being and pressed him against the floor. The air whooshed out of him, and he felt like a bug squashed by the heel of a giant boot.

* * *

The first time Ulysses thought he was going to die was twelve years earlier, when he got caught stealing from one of the largest and most dangerous criminal organizations in the world. He had no idea the mansion he had just broken into was their local headquarters; he thought it was some rich family’s urban castle.

He’d taken out the alarm system without difficulty—he was pretty good at electronics, and the setup was surprisingly basic, which is why he had chosen that particular house. When the lights came on, he realized why the owners weren’t concerned about security. He recognized the face of the man holding the gun, and knew he was in big trouble.

A local hero, the gangster was an example that anyone, no matter how humble their origins, could attain wealth and power. Ulysses had often dreamed of meeting the man face to face—but not in that way, getting caught stealing from him.

Rather than break down, apologize, and plead for his life—as most people would have done—he gave the man a confident smile, and proudly displayed the small bag of diamonds he had found in a secret compartment under the desk.

“Look what I found,” he said with exaggerated glee. He shook his prize triumphantly before the incredulous eyes of the gangster. “Do I get the job?”

Ulysses had learned long before that false confidence, personal charm and the element of surprise could get him through most conflicts when escape wasn’t an option. “Put on your brave face,” his mother used to tell him whenever things were looking hopeless. In general, it got him through a lot of difficult situations.

The gangster narrowed his eyes as he pointed the gun at Ulysses’s forehead. “What are you talking about?”

“It’s an audition,” Ulysses said. He folded his arms and tried to look smug.

The man hesitated, then lowered the weapon. “How old are you?”

“Sixteen,” Ulysses lied, puffing out his chest. He was actually fourteen, going on fifteen. “Old enough to know that I’m good, but I can’t get very far on my own. I’m ready to step up and work for you.”

And so they took him in, and a few days later gave him a real test. He passed with flying colors—more out of sheer luck than skill, but they didn’t know that, so they fast-tracked him through burglary school and handed him over to Markus.

Markus reminded Ulysses of the pirates from the old adventure stories his mother used to read him before bedtime. He was covered in tattoos, walked with a limp and was in a foul mood all the time. The first thing he said was that Ulysses was part of his crew now, so he’d better obey orders. “The penalty for disloyalty is death,” he announced.

The second thing Markus told him was that he’d better not screw up, ever. Screwing up was considered the same thing as disloyalty, for all practical purposes.

That’s how Ulysses began his career as a corporate burglar. It had never been his intention to join a criminal organization, much less a pirate’s crew; but at the time it seemed like a good way out of his predicament, and once he started he just went along with it.

Since then, he’d found himself in a tight spot a few times, but he was good at thinking on his feet, and was usually quite lucky as well. Every time he got into trouble, he always managed to find a way out. He remained loyal, and never screwed up.

Until his last job, when he got caught stealing the prototype from Avalon Corp. That was the second time he thought he was going to die—and he still didn’t know how it was going to end.

* * *

Ulysses groaned, not quite fully awake. A light was flashing: an urgent message on his wristscreen.

Go now. You have about sixty seconds.

He stared at the message. He knew it was important and that he had to act quickly, but he wasn’t sure what exactly he was supposed to do.

He felt bruised, sick and disoriented. Then he remembered where he was, and the panic gave him a much-needed jolt of energy.

The shuttle’s docked. I have to get out of here before they start unloading!

He wondered how long the message had been flashing on his wristscreen. Probably not long—they tended to disappear after just a few seconds.

I still have time.

Boosted by adrenaline, he clambered up into the narrow gap between the containers and the ceiling. As he inched his way forward, the heavy pack encumbered him and made the space even tighter. Even so, he was glad it was strapped to his back—otherwise he might have forgotten it, and the mission would be over before it had started.

A few seconds later he was in the center of the cargo hold, blinking into the narrow shaft of light that poured in from above.

Shit. They’ve opened the hatch already. How long was I out?

As he put his hand on the ladder, a vibration on his wrist alerted him to a new message.

Someone’s coming. Keep out of sight.

He went to the rear of the shuttle and ducked behind a pair of transport cages, which held the largest collection of matching suitcases he’d ever seen.

Squatting as low as possible, he studied the luggage while he waited. Another wealthy family was leaving Earth for the safety and comforts of Olympus. He wrinkled his nose in disgust. The entire set of suitcases, trunks and trolleys was made of genuine leather. The luggage itself looked priceless; he could only imagine what the contents would be worth.

“Hey, Charlie!” A voice came from above, just outside the hatch. “You gonna help, or what?”

The reply was too faint for Ulysses to hear.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” the first voice said. “Shouldn’t we unload first? They always say—” Again, the response was too far away for Ulysses to hear. “All right. Whatever. But it better be fast. If any of them complain...”

The voice faded away, and Ulysses released the breath he’d been holding. He looked at his wristscreen, waiting for a new message to arrive. A couple minutes later it appeared:

Last chance. You have about ninety seconds.

That should be more than enough. While preparing for this part of the mission, Ulysses had done it consistently in half that time.

He ran to the hatch and climbed up the ladder into the vertical tunnel above. Panting from the exertion, he emerged in the airlock between the shuttle and the station. It was exactly as he’d seen it in the simulator: a low, brightly-lit rectangular room with two open hatches on the floor, one for the passengers and one for the cargo.

He fixed his eyes on the wide door at the far end. That was the entrance to Olympus. He tried to run, but only managed a loping gait. His stomach lurched, and he had difficulty moving forward in a straight line. Keeping as far as possible from the passenger hatch, he made it to the door and stumbled into the hallway.

Almost there. How much time do I have?

He ran down the hall and turned into the first opening on his left. The vast cargo bay was filled with shipping containers and transport cages, ready to be loaded into the shuttle for the return trip to Earth. Not a soul was there to see Ulysses come in.

He sensed, rather than heard, a murmur of voices just down the hall. He sprinted across the cargo bay to where the hatch was supposed to be, hoping he hadn’t lost his sense of direction. He gasped, both in surprise and relief, when he found it. It was exactly as he had practiced in the simulator. For once, everything was going to plan.

He threw open the hatch and stumbled down the ramp, almost tripping over his own feet as he pulled the door shut behind him. He kept running until he was deep inside the bowels of the space station. As he fell to his knees to catch his breath, a grin spread across his face and he resisted the urge to shout.

The journey was over. He’d made it. He was on Olympus.

Chapter 2

Emily pressed her forehead against the giant window and gazed out at the world spinning slowly beneath her. From where she stood, in high orbit above Earth, it was beautiful. Storm clouds covered the planet’s surface, and a hurricane was making its way across the ocean at an imperceptible pace. Its dot of an eye stared back at her, unblinking, as it plotted its course of destruction.

She wondered what it would be like to live on an island and be caught in such a storm. Once, when she was young, she had put her head inside an air duct in the Factory sector, just to feel the wind on her face; the hot blast ruffled her hair, roared in her ears and pressed so hard against her face she had thought her skin was going to peel off. A hurricane, she figured, must be a similar experience.

She closed her eyes and pictured herself on a beach, feet planted firmly in the sand. Arms outstretched, she leaned into the gale.

“Emily! What are you doing here? The shuttle’s docked already!”

She turned to find her boss, Werner von Breyer, gaping in disbelief.

The hotel director had been on edge lately, on account of all the cancellations. Today he was especially tense—probably because of the riots on the company base that everyone was talking about.

“Yes, Mr. von Breyer. I was just on my way now.”

“Well, what are you waiting for? The whole idea is for you to be there before they arrive, so you can greet the guests as they come out!”

“Yes, Mr. von Breyer!”

For his benefit, she sprinted down the walkway toward the arrivals lounge. Once out of his sight, she slowed down again. She would still have to wait for the de-boarding procedure to begin, and that always took at least half an hour after docking.

* * *

Emily greeted the first guest with enthusiasm as he entered the arrivals lounge. “Welcome to Olympus, Mr. Jenkins!”

As if on cue, Mr. Jenkins doubled over and retched. Not for the first time, evidently—the barf bag he was clutching looked far from empty. Unable to squeeze out anything more, he coughed weakly and spat into the bag, as spasms rippled through his body.

Emily cringed but said nothing, not wanting to cause him any additional embarrassment. As he bent over and made gasping noises, she studied the spots on his bald head, which bore a striking resemblance to the Windward Islands of the Hawaiian archipelago.

She couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. Her colleague Melissa, on the other hand, clearly derived pleasure out of his discomfort. She glanced at Emily with twinkling eyes, her lips curled in amusement. “All yours,” she said. The handoff complete, Melissa disappeared back through the airlock to bring out the next guest.

Confused, Mr. Jenkins blinked at Emily.

“Please, Mr. Jenkins,” she said. “Have a seat, just over there.”

He took an uncertain step, then careened dangerously. Emily intercepted him before he fell and guided him to the first row of chairs.

“You’ll feel better soon,” she assured him. “It just takes some time for your body to remember how gravity works.”

Emily wondered if she would get sick like that on the shuttle trip to Earth. Not that it mattered much, she decided—starting a new life on the planet’s surface would be worth it, no matter how much she puked.

A wave of anxiety washed over her. The return trip to Earth was scheduled to depart in less than twenty-four hours, and Emily still hadn’t told her mother she was leaving. She hadn’t made any arrangements yet to secure her place on the shuttle either, although that shouldn’t be difficult—with all the cancelations at the hotel in recent weeks, there would be plenty of seats available. The real problem was her mother.

She didn’t have much time to think about it. One by one, Melissa brought the guests out of the shuttle and Emily escorted them to their seats. After Mr. Jenkins came the young newlyweds, Mr. and Mrs. Valentine, who huddled together exchanging animated whispers. Their excitement was fun to watch; everything drew their attention. According to the briefing Mr. von Breyer had prepared, their honeymoon on Olympus was a wedding gift from a distant relative, and they were new to the luxuries and routines of the privileged class.

They were followed by the other married couple, Dr. and Ms. Politov. In contrast to their younger counterparts, the elderly pair sat together in the second row wearing expressions of bored complacency, as if they had seen it all before and were no longer capable of being impressed.

The recently widowed Ms. Faber was the last passenger to disembark, and the one with the most hand luggage. A short, heavyset woman with a thick neck and droopy jowls, she refused Emily’s offer of assistance and sat herself at the far end of the front row. She placed her overnight case and matching handbag on the floor, and the duffel bag on the seat next to her.

The arrivals lounge was an auditorium with capacity for over sixty people. Today there were only six new arrivals, and the empty seats were impossible to ignore. As Melissa began her welcome speech, Emily felt like she was in the final performance of a poorly reviewed play.

Melissa smiled coyly at the guests, her back arched slightly in an alluring and well-practiced pose. She had what some called “exotic beauty”—a tall, slender figure with smooth brown skin, frizzy golden-brown hair, and shockingly blue eyes.

“My name is Melissa Pratama,” she told them in her charming accent, which was always more pronounced when she said her own name. “I’m a concierge at the hotel. This is my colleague, Emily Grey.”

Emily gave a brief wave, but Mr. Jenkins was the only one who acknowledged her presence. He gave her a warm smile, then shifted his gaze back. The others were too enthralled by Melissa to waste more than a quick glance on Emily.

“I hope you had a fun trip up here,” Melissa said with a sly grin.

Of course, that was a joke. The voyage to Olympus was torture: a chest-crushing three-gee liftoff, followed by fourteen hours of weightlessness, violently interrupted from time to time with bursts of acceleration. The worst part was the alignment with the station’s spin just before docking—a guest once told Emily it was like falling off a cliff and landing on a roller coaster.

“Now that you’ve finally made it here, I’m sure you’ll find the accommodations out of this world”—here Melissa paused to collect a few polite smiles—“with all the amenities and comforts you’d expect from a five-star hotel. Of course, there are more than five stars here. The views...”

Melissa’s voice trailed off before she could make her usual crack about the astronomical prices. Her eyes followed the two pilots as they emerged from the airlock. One of them gave Melissa a subtle wave, and her face brightened.

“Um…Emily here will walk you through the safety procedures, then she’ll give you a quick tour of Nine, the hotel sector. Is that okay, Emily?”

[continues]