Fate

By Rebecca Morgan

It isn’t every day that fate gives you a second chance. Most days she seems content to let the stars direct the courses of time and space—punishing humans for going past their limits. Today is different. Today is a day you don’t throw away.

I, Captain Anton Carrick Stansy IV, stand at the helm of my spaceship Faulkner, gazing at the gray salt planet in front of me. Thryria. The place that infiltrates my dreams. With loss. Failure. A sister long gone.

The piracy that continues without retribution. All for the sake of gray salt.

The hum of a healthy ship vibrates under my feet. Stars and galaxies untold blink outside the windows. But they’ve long since stopped taking my breath away. Each one is a quest. A check. A mark. One step more.

With confidence, I push the transmit button and wait. Static.

“This is the spaceship Faulkner. Requesting permission to dock for repairs in exchange for a trade.”

A gentle whish sounds as the doors open to my command center. The heavy tread informs me that Rork, my reptilian first mate and friend, has entered. I have few friends, anyway. Human or otherwise.

“Everything’s ready, Captain.” Rork joins my vigil. “The contact vessel’s left.” He shudders. “Nasty people, the Thryrains. They seem keen about our shipment of zebra meat from Earth.”

“They have enough salt to make the meat edible,” I answer drily.

“They also said they know about you, and not to cause any trouble.”

No humor is in my laugh as I tear my gaze away from the planet to meet Rork’s. “Do they now? We’re about to wreak some havoc. The crew is in place, hidden?”

Rork nods, his green and blue scales shimmering in the soft, wavering light. “Yes, Captain. Though not happy about the accommodations.”

“No one backed out?” I would never admit—not even to Rork—that that’s my greatest fear. Perhaps it’s my reputation that prevents me from keeping a faithful crew. Fate has something to do with that ill thing, too.

Rork studies me with his golden eyes. “They don’t favor us as a Trojan horse—committing sabotage and escaping… hopefully. No matter how much the Thryrain’s are hated, your crew thinks you are… deranged with your ban of Thryian salt. Given its flavor, a few would have liked to pinch a few grains off the Thryrians’ clothes.”

I open my mouth. Close it. “You too? The mission, I mean.” I’ve heard the whispers of my crew, past and present. But only Rork knows why I loathe Thryian salt. Let the rest whisper. I’d show them and fate that a Stansy did what he set out to do.

“Success is unlikely, Captain, but I understand your need for peace.”

“It isn’t for peace,” I snap, kicking the table in front of me. A sharp bolt of pain races up my leg and I hold back a curse as the lie hangs heavy in the air between us.

This is more about satisfying the hate that has been festering for so long in my heart.

Years as a galactic fugitive have come with a price. And I have the scars to prove what happens when every move isn’t calculated and delivered with precision.

A crackle buzzes on the intercom, startling both of us. Rork presses the admit button. “This is the Faulkner. First Mate Rork speaking.”

More static, and a male voice cuts through. “Spaceship Faulkner. We have reason to believe you have a stowaway on board. We want her returned at once.”

Her. The word tears through me like a knife. Shock races to meet it.

Rork gives me a look of surprise and I gesture him away. “This is the captain speaking. We’ve yet to make landing—”

“The perpetrator was on our contact vessel. Return her when you land.” The static fizzles out.

My hand falls away like lead. Breaths come in short painful gasps as I run to the hold that reeks of meat. Shoving away boxes like memories, looking for what I know I won’t find. Shouts of panic erupt from my crew as I empty cargo. Topple away the stacked boxes of my plan. They watch me tear about the hold like a madman.

A cry of distress sounds as I shove away the last box from a corner. There she is. Our stowaway. Wearing the uniform of the mines, gray and lifeless as the planet itself. I study the girl, whose purple eyes—the color of galaxies and just as vast—study me back.

Static sizzles like hot coals and the voice comes through again. “Faulkner, you are cleared for landing. Report on the stowaway.”

I reach out a shaking hand to the wall and press the intercom. “A moment. We are looking.”

Silence. The hum of a healthy ship makes up for words I cannot say.

“I’m Anton Carrick Stansy IV, Captain of the Faulkner.”

The girl stands slowly, and I feel a jolt flash through me at how much she looks like my sister. Maybe my memory is taunting me. Or worse, stars forgive me, I’ve forgotten.

“Please, Captain, don’t send me back,” she whispers softly, her voice low and hoarse, heavy with fear and desperation. I can see the bruises and cuts. Scars. But the memories behind them still linger in her haunted gaze.

Fate is taunting me with whom I couldn’t save. Anger burns fresh. Sorrow cuts low. Resolve settles in me.

“Prepare for super-launch,” I order Rork. My gaze falls on my crew. “Move.”

I slam my hand on the intercom, relishing the pain it brings. “Captain to Thryria. I’ve found your stowaway. If you want her, come and catch me.”

This is my second chance. My chance to make up for the day I failed my sister.

Fate is a funny thing, giving me this unexpected chance for atonement. Peace settles in my heart.

And I, Captain Anton Carrick Stansy IV, smile.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Rebecca Morgan has been writing stories since before she could read—or at least, she thought she was!  All these years later, she is definitely writing, having written three novels and countless stories and poems. Rebecca aims to write stories that heal and bring healing through the written word. Besides writing, Rebecca loves cooking, reading, journaling, blue oceans, and salsa. She lives in the South with her family.

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