Thane

NOTE: This may not be the final revision, published form may vary.

The Meru star’s blue glare, diffused through the alumaglass panels of the terminal’s upper dome, shimmered off the hulls of a hundred ships like spectral fire. Some polished to a mirror sheen, others burnished and scarred, but Thane barely registered any of it. His attention, his entire being, was focused on one thing.

The Phoenix.

There she was. Waiting in bay E29, as far from the grand central spire as you could get without wandering into the jungle. She was the color of midnight ash, slashed through with streaks of crimson that caught the starlight like blood on a blade. Twin engines slung low beneath wings spread wide. She was the type of ship that dared space to try and catch her. More than a ship, she was his. His past sins, his near-deaths, his regrets, and his rare, stubborn hope—all carried between the stars by that metal framework. He’d lived in her longer than he’d lived in any single place now. She was home, one that didn't have haunting memories.

"Still standing," he muttered to himself, the words a half-prayer. His voice was drawn out, too long without rest and many shattered dreams.

Beside him, Taz moved like a shadow refusing to solidify. Despite the tall frame and eye-catching red skin that shimmered like mineral-rich clay under the Meru light, people drifted around him, seemingly unnoticed. Thane's eye caught the watch worn above wrist wraps; it gave Taz the look of someone who'd once followed schedules but no longer cared for them. Scholar? Merc? He really wasn’t sure, and he didn’t like that.

He spared Taz a more discerning glance, then his eyes turned to scanning the distant sprawl of gantries and scaffolded platforms glittering with nav beacons and antennas. “Where’s this stealth frigate of yours?”

Taz didn’t look his way or break stride, just pointed his chin subtly toward the far side of the middle ring, where an old skeletal docking arm clawed into open air. “Already here,” he said. “Bay C13. The Night-Mare awaits.”

The name sat wrong in Thane’s gut. It sounded like a pirate's fever dream and seemed a little too theatrical, sort of like Taz himself.

A pause bloomed between and around them, a strange lull in the terminal’s endless motion. Then the tide of movement found them again, and the silence fell away like a breath held too long. They wove through a pack of cryo-workers, all glazed eyes and sweat-slick skin. Their suits hung around their waists, half-on and half-forgotten. Freeze-lag made them sluggish, dazed. Thane grimaced but kept moving.

“I need to swing by the Phoenix first,” he said, pointing towards his ship and stepping around a cargo cart leaking some kind of iridescent sludge. “Grab a few essentials. Change of clothes. Med kit and such.”

“Fair. By the way, are you still carrying that sidearm you stole back at the lounge?” Taz asked. His gaze never drifted from their path, but Thane caught a curl of amusement beneath the question in his voice.

Hmmm, Thane thought, then shot him a questioning sidelong look. “You really do your homework, don’t you?”

“I do when I work with people who might get me shot.”

That earned a quiet scoff from Thane. At least he’s honest.

They walked in silence for a few steps, the clamor of the terminal washing over them again—intercoms barking out departure schedules in five languages, loaders clanking, engines roaring to life, someone screaming cheerfully about a buy-one-get-one deal on something he couldn't quite make out.

“You always this cryptic,” Thane asked, “or is it just with me?”

Taz’s smirk was barely a twitch. “Mostly with people who ask too many questions before they’ve earned the answers.”

“Cute… You got a whole monastic warrior-poet thing going, huh?” Thane said, waving his hands about.

That stopped Taz cold, for just a moment. His voice, when it came, was stripped of humor. “No, just someone who’s seen what happens when trust is given too freely.”

There was a dark undercurrent to those words. Not a threat, Thane sensed, just a wound that hadn’t scarred right. He knew that tone well. He owned the same one, best not to press.

They reached the edge of Bay E29, and the Phoenix loomed before them. A frigate from a half-forgotten war. A burn-scar along her port side—the meteor strike from over Haven. Maintenance drones scrambled over her like ants, patching damage with a kind of manic efficiency.

“She’s not stealth-capable,” Thane said over his shoulder, keying his palm to the access panel. “But she’s got soul.”

Taz stopped a few steps behind and looked her over. His expression was unreadable. “She looks like she’s been through hell.”

Thane nodded in appreciation. “She has, and she earned every scar. But under this brash exterior, is a high-tech, modern ship”

The access ramp hissed down with a breathy hydraulic sigh. They stepped aboard as it closed behind them. The air inside was stale in the way that only lived-in ships could manage. The faint musk of recycled air and sweat. He paused just inside the first hatch, letting the familiar sense of the ship settle over him like an old coat. The lights came on a second later, reacting to his biometrics; warm white strips overhead.

"Welcome back Thane, who is our company." An AI voice came over the speakers.

"Sparrow, this is Taz. He and I will not be staying long."

"Very well, I will keep the maintenance teams working until you are finally ready to depart." 

The room was chaos in the shape of utility. Survival rations were stacked beside pressure suits, mismatched and sun-bleached from long days on unforgiving worlds. Weapon crates; some open, some sealed with old military-grade biometric locks, lined one wall. A few medkits hung lazily from a tether, swinging just slightly with the airflow. Old posters clung to the bulkhead—one for a now-defunct racing league, another with a pin-up of a smiling ship tech from the colonies closer to Voidborn space. A cracked visor lay atop a crate, the inside spattered with dried blood.

This really has become my life, Thane thought. A go-bag in room form.

He moved quickly but decisively, operating on muscle memory while his mind drifted in that strange in-between space. Focused, but not calm. Without a second thought, he peeled off his torn shirt and tossed it into a corner with more force than necessary. He stood there a moment, bare-chested under the light, aware of Taz’s scrutiny. The pale lines of old scars slashed across his skin like topographical maps of violence. He looked down at his left hand; smooth and matte-black, it gleamed faintly—the cybernetics blended flawlessly into his flesh. Trexor had done some fine work with this, rest his soul.

Taz sat down on one of the weapon crates, watching silently. There was something about the way he did everything—still, quiet—but his eyes were sharp as blades. Thane felt like Taz wasn't just watching his movements, but reading him, analyzing every gesture.

He pulled on a fresh nano-lace weave shirt that clung to his form like a second skin. Then came the vest—black, armored but flexible. Finally, he grabbed the battered mag-pistol Taz had mentioned, tossing it to land with a dull thud beside a heap of old gear.

“Junk weapons,” Thane muttered as he opened the cinch straps on his bag. “Didn’t want my enemies getting any ideas with them.”

“You assume your enemies are stupid,” Taz said.

Thane gave him a sharp look, but it wasn’t hostile. More intrigued than offended. What is it about this guy?

He crossed the room to a secure case, black and fingerprint-locked, tucked beneath a half-disassembled panel of ship wiring. With a soft click-hiss, it opened. Nestled in the padded interior was a pistol that looked like it had been pulled from a museum, then overhauled by an assassin. A squared frame, integrally suppressed, matte black finish. It was artisan work. The slide was etched with a coiled snake wrapped around a sunflower—a strange, contradictory image, elegance wrapped in lethality.

“Now this—” Thane murmured, almost reverently, as he lifted the pistol and turned it in the light. “This is Lucy.”

He holstered it at the small of his back in one fluid motion.

Taz’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Old world craftsmanship with modern murder.” Thane heard no judgment in his voice, just an understanding.

Thane moved next to a long cabinet embedded in the far wall. He flipped the latches, and it opened to reveal a compact arsenal—blades, rifles, old tech. Most of it scavenged. All of it lethal. From the back, he drew a carbon-steel machete, heavy and wide, its edge lined with a laze blade mod. The grip bore faded carvings; tribal and intricate, more art than function.

Taz’s gaze moved over the working of the blade, then back to Thane. “I’ve seen that pattern before.”

“Really? Where?” Thane asked, dropping it into his pack.

"On a cane sometime ago. Can't remember the person's name."

"Maddox Ward?" Thane asked.

"Yeah…" Taz trailed off lost in thought.

"Good guy, he… gave this to me for services rendered."

Thane stopped for a moment, standing in the middle of the room, surrounded by weapons and memories. A feeling settled over him—half ready, half resigned. This was his ritual. This was the real preparation. Not the loading of guns or the sharpening of blades. It was rebuilding the mask. Reconstructing the man the Oasis expected him to be. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, holding it, then slowly exhaling.

“You were military, yeah?” Thane asked, moving over to cinch his pack shut.

Taz’s response came after a thoughtful pause. “A long time ago. Before I came to the Oasis. Never much one to take orders.”

Thane snorted. “And now you’re what? A rogue archaeologist with a cloaked ship and a head full of secrets that would make most governments blush?”

“If you want to put that on a poster, sure.”

Thane looked up at him, sharp now. “Not sure I trust that… or you.”

“I know,” Taz said simply.

There was a stillness before Thane slung the bag over his shoulder and exhaled. “Alright,” he said. “Let’s go.”

They walked together, stepping down the Phoenix’s ramp with the grace of men who had done things like this too many times before. Thane paused at the bottom, gave his ship one last look.

“Why’d you name it Night-Mare, anyway?” he asked, gesturing vaguely toward the skeletal arm across the starport. “Sounds like something a fringe pirate would slap on their engine cowling.”

Taz’s eyes stayed fixed ahead. “Neither did I name it, nor do I think it chose that name for humankind. Maybe you could ask it while you’re onboard.”

Thane raised an eyebrow at that. “Hmmm… cryptic again. So rules on your ship? Let me guess—no shoes on the command deck, no questions about your past, and absolutely no tampering with the drive core?”

Taz’s smirk widened just a touch. “There’s a list, alright. But I haven’t committed it to paper. Let’s keep our discussions strictly professional for now. For instance…” He glanced sidelong at Thane, a sharper tone entering his voice. “Why are you so intent on this manhunt?”

Thane’s jaw tensed. Here it comes. He took a breath, slow and controlled, but it didn’t steady him. The memory was a scar across his soul, and speaking it aloud always reopened it.

“It’s a saga as ancient as the stars themselves,” he said, “A vendetta born of the deepest betrayal.”

"Dramatic, but go on."

Thane turned fully, stopping in his tracks, his eyes burning. “Six months ago, I came home. My front door was open. And just… silence.” He paused, his jaw flexed. His cybernetic hand curled into a fist, the motion smooth, eerily human. “Their deaths. It was a personalized message, written in their blood.” He looked up, meeting Taz’s eyes without blinking. “I will find them. And I will make them pay.”

Taz’s gaze didn’t move from Thane's. But his nod—slow, solemn—held a deep sympathy that Thane recognized, an understanding for lives taken away too soon.

“Look, Thane,” Taz said, “I think we got off on the wrong foot. My apologies.” He extended a hand. “Consider me your ally in this. We’ll follow every lead Guido left you.”

Thane looked at the outstretched hand for a second. It was not an offer of friendship, but a promise of partnership, and he could see in Taz's eyes that he meant it. Thane shook his hand.

“Alright then,” he said, his voice a little rough. “Let’s go find your Night-Mare… and mine.”

The starport's pulse shifted subtly as they neared this edge of the complex. The crowds thinned, ships grew stranger, sleeker, and more elaborate. Thane knew these vessels didn’t declare their presence on standard logs. He saw it then, and knew this had to be the Night-Mare.

She loomed like a shadow given shape, docked at bay C13. Her hull drank in the Meru star's light, a matte midnight skin that seemed to absorb reflection entirely. There were no markings or serials, but she was unmistakable. Her silhouette was predatory—more animal than machine. The lines of her hull were organic, and that made Thane’s instincts perk up. A shape guided by life not design, maybe.

Her gangplank was unfurled like a tongue of black glass.

“Behold the Night-Mare,” Taz said beside him, his voice hinting at reverence and respect. “Our chariot among the stars.”

Thane stood still a moment, staring up at the ship. She doesn’t just fly, he thought. She stalks the stars. A ship that makes you promises… Follow me, and I will take you where no light dares go. Impressive.

He stepped onto the gangplank. The material was not a metal he knew of, absorbing his footfalls like it didn’t want anyone to know he was here. The moment he crossed the threshold, the atmosphere changed. The air was denser than outside or even on the Phoenix. It had the familiar scent of recycled oxygen, but carried undertones of spice, and another botanical? Almost like—

“Lavender,” Thane muttered.

Taz gave a short nod. “It helps with stress adaptation. The Night-Mare prefers it.”

“Uh-huh, the ship prefers it?” But before Taz could answer, a voice rolled softly from further down the corridor.

“The infamous Mr. Brekker,” she said flatly. “Welcome aboard.”

A tall figure stepped to where Thane could see her. Her movements were measured like a dancer on a private stage. Her skin was azure blue. Her night black hair was tied back in a utilitarian ponytail, and her eyes, like glacial ice; seemed to measure Thane in the span of a breath. She didn't smile at him, just a nod of acknowledgment.

“Thane,” Taz said, a note of gentle command in his voice. “This is Sheila. She will show you to your room. I have a few things to take care of, the least being a change of clothes. I’ll meet you in the observation deck.”

Thane hesitated. He didn’t like being handed off. Didn’t like not knowing the layout, not having immediate escape vectors. But he nodded anyway.

Sheila stepped forward, her hand extending. “May I take your bag?”

Thane almost declined, but something in her eyes, the clarity of her gesture, gave him pause. And before he could second-guess it, he handed it over. Her fingers brushed against his hand; cooler than a human’s, a lighter touch than they should’ve been. But there was strength there, he sensed, a coiled restraint in the way she moved.

“I’ll take you to your quarters,” she said. “Do you have anything that requires extra safeguarding?”

Thane shook his head, but his thoughts lingered on the fact that he’d actually given her his bag. That wasn’t like him. “Nothing sensitive,” he replied.

She made a curt turn, and Thane followed. The corridor breathed with an ambient glow, shifting subtly as they passed, as if responding to proximity. There were no seams in the paneling. No doors in sight. Just the gentle lull of a ship at rest, its engines like a great heart beneath their feet.

“So…” Thane began, if only to break the silence. “What’s the accommodation situation like? You got bunkbeds, hammocks, or—gods forbid—cryopods?”

“Modest for some,” Sheila said without glancing back. “Luxury for others. The Night-Mare can tailor quarters based on biometric readouts, your gear profile, or even your desires.”

“…The ship can tailor the room?”

“Yes,” she said.

Thane considered that, his face contorting for a brief second. That was either cutting-edge tech or borderline myth. Adaptive architecture wasn't unheard of, but never this subtle. Usually there were panels, modular connectors, something visible. But here?

The wall to their right shimmered and a door simply appeared, sliding open with a whisper. Inside was a compact sanctuary. A king sized bed rested against the far wall, bedding neatly pressed in navy and gray. Another room adjacent to that had a desk. Beyond that was what appeared to be a full size bathroom, with sleek fixtures and mirror-lighting. On the table near the window, a small plate of fruits and a carafe of water rested like an offering. The walls pulsed faintly with a calming hue. It reminded Thane of the early morning sky just outside of Kapsofi, when he and Alice would do a breakfast picnic. He shook the memory from his head, continuing to take in the room.

“I’d be grateful if you’d place my bag on the bed,” Thane said.

Sheila complied, setting the bag down with care before stepping back. “If you require anything,” she said, “just ask the Night-Mare.” And with that, she turned and walked out. The door sealed with a sigh.

Thane stood there a moment, listening. Sheila… the Night-Mare… Taz. All a paradox of sorts… I need a shower.

He peeled off his clothes as the water heated. The mirror caught his reflection, and for a second he just… looked. Tired, he thought. Not old, I'm just worn at the edges. When I find them, Alice, then I will rest, then I can join you. He stepped into the shower. The water hit his skin like absolution; hot, relentless, easing his mind. He scrubbed harder than usual, like washing would make him forget that hell he walked into six months ago… the scent of blood… her last pleading look.

Dressing slowly, he grabbed the machete from his bag, every motion a ritual. His revenge would come. He honed the edge of the blade, his thoughts drifted back to strange interaction with Sheila.

“Umm… hello, Night-Mare?” he said aloud.

A moment passed, then a voice replied, “Mr. Brekker, how may I assist you?”

“What’s the deal with Sheila?” he asked, setting the machete aside and then checking the slide on his pistol. “Does she usually have the emotional range of a glass of water?”

He thought he felt the ship shift, like it had laughed. “Sheila just lost a very difficult chess game to me. She’s… shall we say readjusting her ego.”

“You… play old earth chess?”

“Among other things, yes.”

Thane nodded slowly. “I will need to add that program into Sparrow, my ship's AI. Could I get a copy from you? Maybe you could do an AI vs AI chess match to see which is better."

"I can get you access to a number of chess like programs, but I myself am not artificial."

"Umm, sorry, I, uhh, meant no offense. So… Sheila mentioned the ship… you, can reconfigure the room?”

“None taken, and correct. I have begun adapting it based on your current inventory, biometric feedback, and presumed preferences. Would you like to suggest a layout you prefer? Something open, perhaps, or from your past?”

“Surprise me,” Thane said, looking around the room. “And tell me—how do I get to the observation deck?”

“Left out your door, proceed straight down the hall, then take the first staircase upward. Your destination is at the third level, Mr. Brekker."

Thane made a face. “Great… stairs.”

“Taz prefers stairs. He believes they are a grounding influence while in space.”

Thane sighed, holstered Lucy at his back, attached the machete to his waist, and stepped into the hallway. The corridor ahead stretched in elegant silence, curving slightly with the ship’s hull. Subtle lighting traced the seams where floor met wall, pulsing gently with a rhythm Thane couldn’t place. It was almost like the ship was breathing. He ran a hand along the wall as he passed. The surface was smooth like skin stretched over a wall. If he didn’t know better, he’d say it responded to his touch. It reminded him of a dream he’d had once: drifting through a nebula while something vast and alive watched from just beyond sensor range.

Yeah, he thought. This ship was definitively alive.

Ahead, the stairs awaited. Wide, arching, lined with soft, underlit panels, a mural made it look like you were ascending into the heavens itself. Thane grunted, shaking his head. “Quaint.” He started the climb.

At the third level, the corridor opened and Thane stopped cold. The room unfolded like a cathedral of stars. Glass walls swept overhead in a graceful dome, offering a near-complete panorama of the expanse beyond. Black dusted with stars, nebulae smoldering in the distance like burning oil, and the slow drift of satellite trails far below them. He realized that the Night-Mare was in orbit; he hadn’t even felt the shift.

He approached the windows slowly, noticing the soft, tactile carpet—luxury-grade stuff, not what you’d expect on a ship named after a bad dream. Plush couches flanked the space beneath the windows, and a bar—sleek wood and polished obsidian—waited in the middle of it all. It was opulent, but not garish. Almost like a monument to silence and reflection.

Thane approached the glass and stared out at the endless, unknowable dark. The Andromeda galaxy spun around him, impossibly vast, impossibly indifferent. This is what I missed, he thought. Not the seedy underworld. Not the smuggling runs. The stars. The moments of stillness. That's what you gave me Alice, a safe haven in my stormy life.

Yes, the Oasis stilled for us, came a haunting voice. Instinctively, he glanced around, looking for her. He always wanted to believe he'd see her, but knew it was most likely some form of psychosis talking.

Frustrated, he moved toward the bar, letting his hand run along its surface. Bottles lined the shelves behind it—some crystal-clear, others dark and mysterious. He saw Terran scotch, Oasis firewine, something purple that might’ve been from the Solas Estates. Taz’s collection seemed well curated. Knowing what little he did of Taz, Thane guessed, every bottle here had a story.

He selected one with an old Earth style label—Ardbeg, pre-Haven collapse edition. Slowly poured two fingers into a lowball glass. The scent hit him immediately: smoke, sea, and burnt citrus. He raised the glass toward the stars and whispered, “To the journey ahead, Alice… and the reckoning it demands.” He took a sip, it burned, smooth and perfect.

He was settling into one of the curved couches when Taz entered.

“Ah, you’ve arrived,” Taz said, crossing the deck with unhurried steps, poured himself a measure of something amber, and took the spot across from Thane.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Thane said, raising his glass slightly. “Helped myself.”

“By all means,” Taz replied, sipping his own drink. “Hospitality is sacred aboard the Night-Mare. Though it’s rarely so well appreciated.”

Thane eyed him. “Bet it is nice to have a palace behind a cloaking field?”

A faint smirk played across Taz's features. “Life's little pleasures.”

They both sat in silence for a moment, gazing at the stars. Thane turned toward the tall, quiet presence that had entered behind Taz. Sheila stood like a statue near the stairwell, watching, assessing, her expression unreadable to him.

“Forgive me,” Thane said, raising his chin. “But… does she speak more that a few words?”

Taz answered without looking. “She does. Fluently. But she prefers to choose her words with care.”

Thane raised an eyebrow. “Funny, I tried to engage her earlier. Really didn't get much.”

Taz sipped his drink again, looking over the brim towards Sheila. “She’s… discerning… But honestly, she is brooding right now, she lost a game to the Night-mare.”

Thane nodded slowly. “Is she a crew member? Or more like… a steward?”

“She is one of my oldest friends, literally,” Taz said.

"A lover?"

Sheila walked over cutting the conversation off. “The Night-Mare just informed me, the telemetry has been updated,” she said. “We are within active sensor range of the Kishar base. Satellite spoofin' complete. I am uploadin' visuals now.”

The lights dimmed slightly, and the windows shimmered. One by one, live feeds overlaid onto the starscape: satellite views, infrared mapping, transponder tags pinging through the void.

The base came into view. Sitting in a crevice with steep rock faces. Heavily fortified with a shielded perimeter. It appeared to have one active landing area capable of supporting four frigates. There were two unmarked freighters at it currently. Ringed around it all were defense turrets that moved in slow arcs.

“This is our target,” Taz said, setting his glass down. “Entry is by ship…or foot only. We’ve cloaked past their long-range sensors, but any approach will have to be fast or clever. Preferably both.”

Thane stood, approaching the projected image. His eyes scanned it, his mind shifting into a more tactical gear. “Too many point defenses for a full frontal approach.” Studying the maps some more, he turned to Taz. “I think you drop me off outside their base and then dust off to high orbit.”

“Alone?” Taz raised an eyebrow. There was something in his voice that Thane couldn't quite place.

“Yeah, I’ll go in. Use Guido’s codes. See if I can access anything from inside. If things go to hell, I’ll signal for extraction. Otherwise, we keep it quiet.”

“Risky,” Taz said, turning and giving a wink to Sheila.

“I don’t do safe anymore,” Thane replied.

“We have a better idea." Sheila stepped over to the displays and changing one of them. "Already made a profile for you. You'll go in as a logistics and supply coordinator, temporary contractor is all they know. Background and social links have been forged to match intercepted files. These credentials will hold, unless someone already knows the man you’re replacing.”

“And that is a slim chance,” Taz added. “Sheila rerouted the real contractor. He's halfway to a blacksite in the Hesperia system by now.”

Thane gave a grim smile. “Then I guess I’m hired.”

Sheila turned, moving her hand across the display changing the data. Larger than life his cover identity, flight logs, contact names, passcode phrases flashed up to the screens. He muttered one aloud: “The Blue Beau.” His eyes darkened with memory. “That was my dog's name.”

“Well Mr. Dale Korrin,” Sheila said without a trace of irony. "That should make it easier to remember."

Thane took a long moment to read the dossier. The identity was airtight. Fabricated down to medical records and biometric drift, it looked real enough to fool a thorough scan. Which meant it would work—if his nerves held.

He looked up at Taz. “I’ll guess I will need a second. An assistant, something plausible.”

Taz raised a brow. “You asking me to play your sidekick?”

Thane’s smirk was all mirth. “Trust me, you'll look good in subservience.”

“Fine. But I’m not fetching coffee.”

“He’s never fetched anything in his life.” Sheila finally smiled.

Thane nodded. “Let’s do the flyby. Send the credentials, make the call. We’ll go in quiet.”

“Already done… Dale. The coordinates are locked. Night-Mare has the descent vector plotted. They’re expecting you.”

“So if they do recognize that I am not this Dale Korrin guy, do you have a back up plan?” Thane asked.

“Well,” Sheila said smiling, looking away from Thane and meeting Taz's stare. “We burn that place to the ground.”