It has been nearly fifteen years since the Agade departed from its orbit around Mimas. A long and arduous journey lies behind it, from the moment it left Saturn’s moon to its present position. The Agade is one of only a few dozen ships built and launched by the followers of the Diaspora. The Diaspora is an idea—a model—conceived by Samuel Shimizu almost a century ago. Its foundation, according to its adherents, rests on human nature itself.
Although humanity successfully populated the entire Solar System, it found itself unable to transcend the limits of technology and physics. A stagnation began, one prescribed by the very laws of physics.
Shimizu, however—looking back over human history, from the first journeys out of Africa to the discovery of America, from the construction of the first space station to crossing the boundary of the Solar System—believed that humanity needed constant expansion to ensure its survival. One reason, he argued, was simple: the more widely a species spreads, the better its chances of surviving, both thanks to its adaptability and because the impact of natural catastrophes becomes less catastrophic when distributed across vast distances.
To Shimizu, humanity resembled an animal trapped in a cage—the cage of physics. A cage whose permanently inhabited frontier extends beyond Pluto’s orbit, while its exploratory domain stretches even farther, past the very edges of the Solar System.
And so Shimizu’s idea took root in the hearts and minds of the overcrowded worlds and stations of the Solar System. This vision became a creed: humanity’s survival depended on further expansion. Yet no state or organization within humanity’s sprawling territory showed the slightest willingness to develop such a plan. On Earth, across the planets, moons, and asteroids of the Solar System, even on the free-floating stations drifting through open space, thousands of states and corporations competed—or merely struggled—for profit, or simply for survival. The notion of planning a monumental journey that would yield results only decades later, and even then mostly as a headline, stirred no one’s enthusiasm, much less loosened any purse strings.
Thus the followers of the Diaspora turned to their own wealth and influence to pursue their goal. Hundreds of millions of believers pooled their resources to create the foundation for the project: they bought shipyards and mines, trained specialists under the ideology of the Diaspora, and prepared to begin the great endeavor. These followers were not driven by material gain or social prestige, but by faith—a belief that, through Shimizu’s vision, they were ensuring the survival of humankind.
It is difficult to imagine what kind of catastrophe could wipe out a species that has already settled a significant portion of the Solar System—and whose three-quarters no longer even live on their homeworld. Yet this very notion bred complacency in every government, organization, and corporate empire—though not among the followers of the Diaspora. They did not know the precise answer either, but they believed in the necessity of expansion, and that was enough.
Expansion, however, was not without danger. Even though distant star systems and their planets could be observed, nothing guaranteed their ability to sustain human life—nor even that they were reachable at all. The distances across open space were immense, and although humanity had mastered travel at the speed of light, this was far from sufficient for fast journeys. As a result, most proposed voyages would last for decades, sometimes stretching beyond a century. Such journeys were long, and every one of them would be one-way.
Thus the followers of the Diaspora identified the most promising star systems, and once the ships were complete, they slowly began to launch them.
Every ship was enormous, and the Agade was no exception. It stretched two thousand two hundred metres in length, built in two great, distinct sections. Attached to its long central body were three wing structures, three cargo blocks, and the engines—each one fixed in place with massive supports. The ship’s longest segment housed the propulsion systems and the storage for essential materials. This section alone measured sixteen hundred metres, and extended a further two hundred metres aft due to the three vast cargo blocks nestled between the wings, each of them six hundred metres long.
The wings themselves were peculiar features—never intended for manoeuvring in space, nor for atmospheric entry, as the vessel had been constructed in orbit and was incapable of landing on any celestial body. The forward third of each wing, thicker and reinforced, held airlocks and docking stations—hundreds of them—and served as storage for the smaller craft used for landing and short-distance travel. The remaining two-thirds provided space for several hectares of solar panels and a sail mount on each wing. With the silver-coloured fabric unfurled, the giant vessel could transform into a graceful solar-sailer. Inefficient, perhaps, but economical: upon entering a star system, it allowed the speeding colossus a simple, low-energy means of propulsion.
The ship’s other main part was the cylindrical fore-section, nearly eleven hundred metres long and roughly three hundred and sixty metres in diameter. Into this cylinder the rear segment extended several hundred metres. This was the heart and soul of the vessel. Outwardly, the cylinder appeared as a massive shell of metal, dotted with tiny service craft, structures, docking hatches, and storage containers. Yet its primary function was to shield the interior, for within it lay the three rotating habitation modules, whose motion generated artificial gravity.
These three modules housed the crew and passengers. Each measured eight hundred and fifty metres in length, three hundred and twenty metres in width, and ninety metres in height—twenty-nine decks in total. Every module was fully capable of self-sufficiency, and each held more than two thousand inhabitants. Altogether, nearly six thousand people travelled aboard the Agade, the majority—around four thousand two hundred—devoted followers of Shimizu’s philosophy. The remaining eighteen hundred were refugees from the slums of various stations or simple labourers whose task was to maintain the ship and serve the faithful.
While the followers of the Diaspora sped into open space with renewed hope and conviction, the rest had joined the crew for only one reason: the chance to escape. Escape from hunger, from war, from the lives they had been born into.
Among these people was Nikolas Lantos, born on a small, remote station orbiting Uranus. He was only fourteen years old when he decided to join the Diaspora’s great undertaking. Though he was not a believer himself, a penniless boy had few better options. In exchange, his role aboard the ship was far from desirable: he was trained as a mechanic—specifically in hull maintenance. Six days a week, eight hours a day, he worked in a pressure suit, repairing damage sustained by the outer shell. It was perilous work on a vessel that had been accelerating for nearly fifteen years and would reach the speed of light in roughly three more. That was why the cylindrical shell surrounding the habitation blocks was essential: it prevented small debris from puncturing the living quarters.
For this labour, maintenance crew were granted what passed as premium treatment: seven hundred credits a month and a single-occupancy cabin with its own bathroom—a rare luxury—though the room itself measured only nine square metres. The price for this privilege was a high mortality rate. Five or six deaths occurred each year; in the worst years, one per month. It was the most dangerous job aboard the Agade.
Nikolas, however, had grown entirely accustomed to this life. At twenty-nine, still young by most standards, he was nonetheless one of the most experienced mechanics after more than a decade and a half aboard. He had watched many friends and colleagues die, and he had gradually resigned himself to the possibility that tomorrow he might be next. He did not harbour lofty dreams about arrival. The journey had already lasted fifteen years; in three more, the Agade would reach its target velocity, travel at that speed for thirteen years, and then undergo another eighteen years of deceleration. He would be sixty-three by the time they reached their destination—if they found anything there at all capable of supporting human life. The odds were slim, and so when his work was done, Nikolas simply lived for the day.
His seven hundred credits a month were far more than the mechanics’ average income of four hundred, though still nowhere near the thousand to twelve hundred average paid to the faithful. Yet on the ship’s service decks, this was already considered a small fortune. These decks housed the roughly eleven hundred passengers who did not follow Shimizu’s teachings, segregated to a degree in the lower levels. Above them lay two expansive decks filled with gardens and growing plants, where birds and other small animals offered a fleeting semblance of the Earth that once existed.
Higher still were the food-production levels and the decks reserved for the followers of the Diaspora: schools, communal spaces, and living quarters. These upper sections were spacious, bright, and well-equipped, with multiple rooms, private kitchens, and bathrooms. In contrast, the living areas for the service crew—with a few exceptions—shared bathing facilities and relied entirely on communal kitchens and canteens.
After that day’s shift, a young, attractive woman came to see Nikolas. She had long dark hair and amber-brown eyes.
— Glad to find you alive again, — the woman said with a smile.
— Well, you know, Selena, that’s how it’s been for the past fifteen years, and that’s how it’ll be for the next fifteen. Unless I find someone else to keep me company on my lonely evenings.
— And whom would you find instead of me? Marija, perhaps? Or Penelope?
— Maybe. Heard anything about them lately? — Nikolas asked, teasing.
— Oh, keep provoking me. I’ll charge you for that just like I do for the rest of the time. — she replied.
— I’m not paying by the hour anymore. You’re staying until morning — do I get a discount?
— Not today. I can stay three hours, then I have to move on.
— Then please, step into my castle, miss.
Selena stepped into the cramped cabin, which was still far more spacious than the standard single rooms reserved for mechanics and higher-ranked service crew.
— If you knew how much I envy you for this, — she said.
— Yours can’t be that bad.
— Six beds in a tiny hole. It’s plenty bad.
— Come over to the mechanics’ quarters then. Or marry me, and the two of us can share this palace.
— Tempting thought. But what would become of my other clients?
— I’m sure Marija and Penelope could take over the rest.
— They’d be delighted, no doubt. But enough joking — I have to move on. Although, as agreed…
— …a hot, lonely shower before and after. Of course. Make yourself at home, like always.
That was all Selena needed. She slipped out of her grey-blue jumpsuit, then out of the white shirt and underwear beneath it. Her beautiful, hourglass-shaped body and long black hair glinted under the cabin lights as she stepped into the tiny washroom. Nikolas, wearing his robe, sat down on the edge of the bed, took his grey cup with the black rim, and sipped from it in thoughtful silence. This is going to take a while, he thought. Selena liked to make the most of the rare days she could spend with him — a private shower was a luxury she could scarcely dream of.
On the service decks, one’s provisions depended on the value of their work. As a mechanic in hull maintenance, Nikolas played a direct role in preserving the Agade and protecting the lives of everyone aboard. Selena, on the other hand — and many men and women like her — existed out of necessity. Their job was to tend to the physical needs of the service crew. It was a comfort-oriented role, not a vital one.
Like Nikolas, Selena had joined the Diaspora project as someone with nothing. Though older than he had been — she was already sixteen — poverty had forced her to do whatever was needed to survive. To her, the Diaspora offered the same thing it offered the other eighteen hundred members of the service class: a stable, predictable life, and a dubious, one-way future.
Selena, after a long shower, stepped out of the cabin half-dried, her hair still damp. Nikolas rose from the edge of the bed, staring wide-eyed at the pale-faced woman with red lips and amber-brown eyes.
— What is it? Cat got your tongue?
— No. Just admiring you.
— As if you didn’t get the chance once every week.
— What can I say? You’re beautiful every week.
Selena gave him a playful smile and let the towel slip from her body. The beautiful woman stepped closer, slid a hand beneath his robe at the chest, and with a gentle motion let it fall from his shoulders. She moved even nearer, her hands gripping his shoulders as she wrapped a leg around his waist. Their lips met in a heated kiss, and they fell back onto the bed together.
The Agade’s population was distributed across three habitation modules. Nikolas lived in Module Three; all three modules were designed for identical purposes, housing the ship’s passengers. Their layout was the same as well: each contained a separate section for the service crew, isolated from the rest of the vessel. These sectors could be left only for work or with explicit permission. The three modules functioned like small, self-sustaining cities connected by bridges — and the service sections were like cities within the city.
Conditions were largely similar between the service crew’s quarters and those of the faithful, but a single key difference shaped how the service crew was treated: they were not believers — at least not when they boarded. A few tried to adopt the Diaspora’s faith in hopes of one day leaving the service sector, but such changes were rare. Whoever stepped aboard in one role remained in that role.
Before departure, the faithful underwent genetic testing to select those most suited for reproduction. They received work assignments and multi-year training before setting out for the stars. The service crew also underwent examination, but in their case the Diaspora saw them more as expendable labour — necessary to ensure the faithful’s journey toward their goal.
Though many duties across the modules were similar, an important distinction remained: the faithful were not restricted to hazardous work. While only they could serve in security roles, among the mechanics they supplied only engineers and supervisors; the dangerous tasks fell to the service crew. And although the service sector did include its own doctors, engineers, and teachers, on the Agade — as on every Diaspora vessel — they were still considered second-class citizens.
If they survived the journey, they might give life to a new generation and thus advance the project, as Shimizu’s vision required. Everyone boarded in their designated place, was born into that place, and would die there as well.
The ship had two commanders: one spiritual, one military. Aboard the Agade, the captain was Kamil Richter. Like most of the crew, he was a follower of the Diaspora, and thus of Shimizu’s teachings. He was the commanding officer of the ship’s personnel, including security staff, and in certain matters held authority over the passengers as well. Tall, broad-shouldered, and resolute, he had been forty-one years old when he first stepped aboard — already a veteran of several wars. Now he was fifty-six. Even at departure he had counted among the oldest on the crew, though few of the younger ones expected to survive long enough to see the journey’s end. This was doubly true for Richter.
The ship’s other commander was the spiritual leader, Mother Oksana Daria Shin, Shimizu’s living representative aboard the vessel and the Agade’s sacred overseer. She was one of the select few entrusted with this role across the Diaspora fleet. She served as the leader of the travelling faithful and, like the captain, wielded authority even over the crew in certain domains. Together, the captain and the sacred overseer formed the absolute ruling pair of every Diaspora ship, complementing one another.
Shin had been born into the faith, the daughter of a wealthy family devoted to the Diaspora. She was the third child—and youngest daughter—given to the movement with the express purpose of fulfilling this role. From her earliest years she had been raised to serve aboard a vessel. At the time of launch she had been only twenty-four, though already supported by two decades of strict training. Shin was an Asian woman with black hair and black eyes. Her face was determined and beautiful, her gaze allowing no contradiction. Years of discipline had forged in her a sternness of her own. Now nearing thirty-nine, she was still far from Richter’s grey-haired state, but faint lines had begun to appear on her face, sharpening her still-striking features.
The evening passed in the grand hall of Module One. Hundreds had gathered to celebrate the latest news. The first ship, the Babylon, would reach the deceleration phase within months, marking the halfway point of its journey — at least from their perspective. The Babylon had launched nearly fifteen years before the Agade. But by the time its message reached Earth — delayed by the gulf of multiple light-years — it was already deep into its slowing phase. And by the time the reply travelled light-years more to reach the Agade, the Babylon had spent additional years decelerating. Life’s cruel joke: it would take decades yet for word of the Babylon’s arrival to reach the Agade, and only then would they learn whether the ship had found what it sought — or found nothing at all.
Shin understood this was not a disadvantage. She feared the era she prayed she would not live to see. The program had been running for thirty years; according to the plan, one or two ships launched annually. By now, perhaps forty vessels travelled through deep space. The followers of the Diaspora knew that this number existed not because all ships were expected to succeed, but because only by sheer quantity could they hope that a few might fulfil the mission. The journey was long and treacherous; the ships ventured where no one had gone before, far beyond the reach of any possible rescue. They knew that, like the Agade and the Babylon, every vessel carried an entire human civilization in miniature — enormous by human standards, yet from the perspective of the universe, little more than a speck of dust drifting alone.
If a ship reached a planet several light-years — or light-decades — away, there was no guarantee that the world, despite all distant measurements, would prove suitable for human life. For such cases, there were contingency plans: each of the three cargo blocks contained mining machinery, dismantled factories, and vast quantities of materials and equipment — some meant for repairs aboard the Agade, some for potential construction on a planet’s surface. And if that, too, proved impossible, the equipment could be used to build new stations. When Plan A failed, there was always a Plan B.
Even within the Solar System, orbital stations had nearly severed their dependence on Earth — yet at such staggering distances, complete independence was still a risk. For a station to detach fully from a planetary body, other stations were required. As population grew, specialization became essential: food-production stations, manufacturing stations, medical stations — and as many of each as possible, since the more existed, the less disastrous it was if one or two failed. Redundancy was everything; without it, the entire system was fragile.
The Agade carried roughly six thousand people and another twenty thousand embryos. The population was already growing. Children were born among the faithful and in the service sectors alike, ensuring that even if the first generation did not live to see the destination, the next would be ready to continue the mission. Indeed, within two decades of arrival, all embryos could be brought to term and raised. In less than twenty years, the six thousand aboard could expand into a population of thirty thousand, scattered across several dozen small stations — enough to secure humanity’s foothold.
If no habitable planet awaited them, this was Plan B. It would also provide time — centuries or even millennia — should the chosen world require intervention or partial terraforming. And if the Agade ever sent back a positive report, the Diaspora would launch new ships within a century. But that depended entirely on good news.
Shin knew — and feared — that if the news were grim, if reports spoke of lost ships or unreachable destinations, despair might follow… and with it, the doom of the Agade. Privately, she prayed she would not live to see such a day. Nearly forty ships were likely travelling now; with luck, only a handful might achieve their goal.
But today was a day for celebration. The project had reached a milestone: the Diaspora, and the first vessel itself, for the Babylon had already travelled well past the halfway point of its journey.
— Ladies and gentlemen! — Shin called out from a podium, lifting a glass of champagne high. — Now that we are all gathered here on this wonderful day, it seems like the perfect moment to drink ourselves a little under the table.
Laughter rippled through the crowd.
— We’ve been locked together on this ship for nearly fifteen years now, and if today isn’t an occasion for it, I don’t know what is. She smiled. As many of you have already heard the rumors: yes, the Babylon, the very first of our ships, has begun its deceleration phase and thus reached the midpoint of its journey… years ago. And although this also means that what we celebrate today was celebrated years ago aboard the Babylon, and then again years later on Earth, that should hardly stop us from looking into the bottom of our glasses.
— A long road lies behind us, and an even longer one ahead. Longer than the Babylon’s journey — and we are still years away from reaching full speed, let alone deceleration or the halfway point. This crew has faced greater challenges than the Babylon ever did, and it fills my heart with joy to see that, after so many years, everyone continues to excel, and everyone remains committed to fulfilling our role in the Diaspora and honoring the legacy of Samuel Shimizu.
— So I would like to thank you for your steadfast work over the past years, and to wish peace and success for the years to come. Let us raise our glasses to the Babylon, which paves the way before us, and to the Agade, which could not be what it is without your hands to guide it. To the Babylon! — Shin lifted her glass.
— To the Babylon! — echoed the crowd.
— And to the Agade!
— To the Agade! — came the response again.
Shin stepped down from the podium amid loud applause as music slowly began to fill the hall. She turned right, intending to avoid the celebrating crowd by slipping along the wall, hoping to find a quiet corner away from the festivities. Unfortunately for her, the plan failed: only a few steps from the wall, Captain Richter appeared.
— A bit bloodless, and short, — the captain remarked.
— I hoped it would be enough. Not too much, not too little encouragement.
— Yes. Fifteen years is a long time… and so many more lie ahead. I don’t want to see order break down aboard this ship.
— Is there something you wish to discuss?
— If you don’t mind.
— Come.
With that, they stepped through the nearest door into the corridor.
— What happened?
— I don’t think this celebration is a good idea.
— People need it.
— And what happens if, in a few days, we receive bad news?
— You can’t know that.
— The Babylon is entering the most dangerous part of its journey. It must flip its direction at nearly the speed of light and spend the next fifteen years braking with its main engines. No one in history has ever done such a thing.
— I’m fully aware of that.
— Yes. And that’s the problem. If the Babylon fails, then the next ship must attempt it. And if that one fails, then the next, and the next — the Nippur, the Asur, the Nineveh, the Arbela…
— Richter. There are almost twenty ships between us. One of them will succeed.
— If it is possible at all.
— If it isn’t, then there’s no point worrying — we’ll die as well.
— The Babylon’s crew may already be dead. What will we say if that message reaches us?
— Quite simply, we won’t announce it.
— And if it comes out? Then all of this meant nothing. Dr. Manolis agrees with me. It is far easier to hold a sober memorial after bad news than to announce: “We apologize, but everyone we just celebrated is dead.”
— This was an opportunity to lift the crew out of their daily routine and improve their morale a little.
— But it will backfire if the mission turns out to have failed.
— I’m not going to argue with you about this. Do you have any other concerns?
— Yes. Another burning fuse — one that we managed to snuff out in time.
— Indeed?
Leaving the festivities behind entirely, Shin and Richter made their way toward one of the upper rear levels of Module One, adjacent to the highest of the service decks. Inside the chamber, six uniformed guards stood watch — members of the ship’s security force. Directly opposite the entrance stood a glass-walled room, the guards’ observation booth, while along either side of the hall four doors lined the walls.
— Officers on deck! — came the command, and all guards snapped to attention.
— At ease! — Shin said, beating Richter to the order that should technically have been his.
Richter shot her a brief, warning glance, but Shin’s expression remained perfectly neutral. The captain stepped forward.
— Show us the prisoner!
One of the doors on the left opened.
Inside the small cell hung a tall, thin man, his arms bound to ropes descending from the ceiling. Sweat covered his body, and blood still trickled from the wounds on his face. He could no longer support his weight, hanging bent and limp in the restraints.
— This is him? — Shin asked.
— Yes, ma’am, — one of the guards replied. — His name is John Morena, waste sorter in the service crew.
— Not a pleasant job, — Shin noted.
— No. He held this position in the construction sector. Mostly worked with metal scrap.
Shin, dressed in her ornate ceremonial gown, stepped into the cell and circled the bound prisoner with slow, deliberate steps. She examined the weakened, tortured man carefully.
— I know the service crew is here only because they had no other choice, and that the mission hardly concerns them… but still. Why would you risk this? More than six thousand people travel on this ship, and order stands only a single step from chaos — life only a step from death — every single day. We will likely be confined within these walls for the rest of our lives. So tell me. Why?
— Order? There is no order here — only the illusion of it. The truth is, the weapons held by the security staff are the only thing keeping people in line.
— Is it truly that bad? — Shin asked.
— Many are starting to break. These tiny cabins… living a whole life in a few square metres… We’re not snails, meant to live and die on a patch of ground.
— No, you’re not. You’re leeches, feeding off one another, — Shin replied coldly. — You simply hasten death.
— Hasten it? We’re here to die. Last month three from the service sector were killed. Two from Module One, one from Module Two. One of them was my closest friend.
— My condolences, John. But through their sacrifice all of us may live — you, me, and every passenger on this ship.
— Turn back! I’m begging you… — the bound man pleaded.
Shin cast him a contemptuous glance.
— We cannot turn back. Not anymore… and perhaps not at all.
For a moment, the captain’s face stiffened as he scanned the security guards, gauging their reactions.
— We were given a task. We must save humanity. We cannot turn back, because that would be failure. We must walk the path before us, whether we like it or not.
— It is not a path for all of us, — the man whispered.
— It became yours the moment you signed your contract and stepped aboard the Agade. There is no escape, no return — only the destination, and nothing else.
— And if there is nothing there?
Shin paused, but her face showed not hesitation — rather a determination stronger than at any point in their conversation.
— Then we must build it.
With that, Shin turned and walked toward the door.
— …but we will do so without you. Throw him out the airlock.
— What? Why? I’ve already told the guards everything!
— You are a rat — and we do not bring rats to a new harbour.
— No! No! Please! — the man screamed as two guards released him from the ropes and dragged him out of the room.
Shin turned to the commander of the guards.
— There is no turning back and no doubt. There is Shimizu’s path, and there is the goal. That is what we must reach. We serve humanity.
— Yes, ma’am!
Richter and Shin stepped out into the corridor.
— No turning back — success or death, — Shin said to the captain once no one else could hear them. — For now, we don’t even know whether, at this velocity, we could reverse direction without the ship swinging out of control or tearing itself apart. So we can only go forward until proven otherwise. If the Babylon was destroyed, that might still work to our advantage. What would the crew want? We cannot turn around. The only place we can go is ahead. For the time being, Captain, the fate of the Babylon is irrelevant to us for years to come. We must reach the halfway point of our own journey — and if, by then, we learned we could turn back, it would still be an enormous risk.
— That is one way to look at it.
— Have you identified everyone Morena named? — Shin asked.
— Yes.
— And does he pose a threat?
— No more than the usual.
— Very well, Richter. Proceed as you always do. Quietly and elegantly, as far as possible.
— Understood.
Nikolas lay stretched out in the bed while Selena sat on its edge, an electric pipe in her hand, a pale stream drifting from her lips. She had already showered and dressed.
— Aren’t you exhausted yet? — she asked.
— Exhausted?
— By this journey. We’ve been here fifteen years.
— We knew that from the start. They told us what to expect.
— Knowing and experiencing are not the same, Nikolas.
— I’m used to it by now. I had no hope back home. Here I have a home, food, work.
— You could die any day.
— That would’ve been my fate back home too. Penniless and alone. I wouldn’t have lasted this long — I’d likely be dead already. Here, at least I know where I’m going. There’s no doubt. And death comes for us all sooner or later anyway.
— Don’t you want more from life?
— I’ve accepted my place, Selena. I don’t regret my choice. Even when I wonder, now and then, what might have been… I still cannot imagine anything better than this.
— I see.
— I was born, I lived, and I will die. There is nothing more — and believe me, of the thirty-eight billion people alive in the universe right now, all but a handful will walk this same path.
The girl stared ahead for a moment. Her face stiffened; her eyes showed she had drifted into deep thought. Then she spoke.
— Well, you certainly managed to dampen my mood at the end.
— Sorry, but you brought up the topic.
— Yes. You’re right about that.
She rose then, feeling Nikolas’s hand close gently around her arm.
— Selena. The ship moves in one direction, but we still have some chance — however small — to change our lives aboard it. That much is still ours.
He brushed her arm softly with his thumb. Selena smiled.
— Yes, Nikolas. Maybe someday. But I haven’t accepted everything yet — and I won’t force this fate on anyone else. She leaned down and kissed him. Take care of yourself.
— You too, — he replied, and the woman stepped out of the cabin.
The next day unfolded just like any other. The service crew worked in alternating shifts: continuous four shifts of eight hours, or two shifts of twelve, or six days of ten-hour shifts — always according to the needs of their assigned section. Nikolas and the exterior mechanics worked in the four-shift system, though every effort was made to give them as much free time as possible. Monitoring the ship’s hull for damage was essential, but so was ensuring that the workers were always at their best.
At the start of each shift, the mechanics gathered at their designated points; these gathering stations were usually located within the service sector, though much of their work extended well beyond it. After roll call, the doors opened, and the service zone connected with the levels of the Diaspora faithful. But this freedom was not as simple as it appeared. Only a few doors linked the two sectors, and each was guarded to ensure that neither side could simply wander into the other. This was standard procedure on all Diaspora ships.
The main reason was the protection of the faith and the mission: the fear that the ship might be endangered by those who were not fully committed to Shimizu’s cause permeated the thoughts of the leadership. Thus, when the service crew headed to work, they did so under a supervisor drawn from among the faithful — and with a security escort as well.
This shift brought together the usual team: Nikolas, Roland — a tall, thin young man in his early twenties — and Jonas, calm, gentle, always smiling, now in his late forties. Both were excellent maintenance workers, and Jonas — like Nikolas — had nearly fifteen years of experience behind him, making him a seasoned mechanic and a hardened survivor.
Roland, however, was a little different. He had not been selected for the mission, nor intended to board the ship at all; he had been barely eight years old when his parents smuggled him aboard. After launch, they hid the boy for half a year, mostly inside the ventilation shafts. Only after those six months did they admit what they had done. The punishment was simple: Roland’s father was reassigned from Block Three to Block One, separating the family. Though only a few hundred metres stood between the blocks and Diaspora members could freely move between them, for the service crew any crossing was strictly forbidden.
Since Roland was still small at the time, they decided he would work with his mother. She too was a mechanic — a network technician, or “mole,” as the crew called them. Their work involved maintaining the electronics within the ship’s vents and maintenance tunnels. These were tiny, cramped passages, so most moles were women, occasionally children — as Roland once had been.
They worked together for several years, until the small blond boy grew into a young man nearly one metre eighty-five tall. By around sixteen, he no longer fit into the tunnels, so he was reassigned to hull maintenance. That had been six years ago; he had accumulated a fair amount of experience since, yet he still had not shed either his greenness or his loud temperament.
At the start of the shift, Nikolas and the others received their supervisors for the day. As the door opened, Roland groaned.
— Great. It’s that asshole Mikael again.
— You two could be friends, — Jonas joked. — He’s still got eggshell stuck to his backside just like you.
With that, they set off. They crossed the rear side of the third habitation block and took a freight elevator toward the ship’s central sections. Diaspora vessels were essentially divided into two critical regions: the habitation blocks — permanently inhabited, generating artificial gravity through rotation — and the docks, storage bays, and engines, all located in zero-gravity environments. The elevators and tunnels were the passageways between them.
The hull-maintenance crew had to make this transition daily, because the ship’s outer shell — the protective sheath isolating the rotating habitation blocks from open space — was rigidly fixed to the central structure. Thus their route took them from the habitation blocks down to the ship’s axial section — around which the blocks rotated — then aft toward the midsection, and finally back up to the shielded hull. For a ship over two thousand two hundred metres long, it was a significant distance, much of it navigated in zero gravity.
After reaching the shielded outer hull, the crew headed for the designated zone and the storage area reserved for maintenance personnel. The necessary equipment was packed into large crates designed to slot into magnetic rails along the long corridors, preventing the several-hundred-kilo containers from drifting uncontrollably through zero gravity. Once they reached the airlock of their assigned work area, the three mechanics began suiting up.
— Hey, Nikolas? So… how was last night? — Roland asked.
— Peaceful.
— Don’t tell me Selena was warming your bunk again.
— Is that jealousy I’m hearing? Grow up, Roland.
— Have you proposed yet? — Jonas asked.
— It’s… developing.
— Might be worth trying someone else too, don’t you think? — Roland grinned from ear to ear.
— You wouldn’t understand, Roland. You’re too young. Nikolas is in love, — said Jonas with a fond smile, grey hairs glinting.
— In spirit he’s just as old as you, Jonas.
— Listen to the little runt talk back, — Nikolas chuckled.
— I’m just saying — in our section alone, there are nearly a dozen and a half girls doing what Selena does. A little variety never hurt. And if you insist on falling in love, try someone in cleaning or the kitchen… though Annabelle in the other shift is a gorgeous woman. Though I’m pretty sure she’d prefer me, — Roland muttered, blushing.
— Ugh! — Nikolas and Jonas groaned at once.
— The little runt has set his sights on Annabelle.
— What? What’s wrong with that?
— She’d eat you for breakfast.
— Doesn’t sound so bad, — Roland replied.
— Brave one, isn’t he? — Jonas said, glancing at Nikolas with a grin.
— At least she’d teach him some respect, — Nikolas said.
— A doormat, — Jonas corrected. — But he could use that, the little runt.
— Enough with the “little runt” already!
— Enough! — Mikael barked.
Mikael wasn’t much older than Roland and had likely never spent more than three hours in a suit in his life. Despite this, he had been assigned as their supervisor. He was not a friendly young man, nor did he seem to like his job particularly.
— Sorry, boss. We were just talking about ladies and love, — Jonas said. — Your wife and little one, how are they?
Mikael shot him a sharp, warning look.
— Are you ready? We’ve got plenty to do today.
— We’re ready, boss, — Jonas replied.
— Then into the airlock.
— Yes, boss, — Roland said.
The three men, suited up and carrying their equipment, stepped into the airlock. The door slid shut behind them, and decompression began. Even inside the suit, the popping pressure in their ears was clearly felt.
— Ugh, I hate this, — Roland complained. — I can’t even reach my ears.
Nikolas and Jonas merely exchanged a look and smiled.
After decompression, the outer hatch opened, and the three men stepped into open space. For safety, they secured themselves to the hull with tethers and magnetic boots. Once everything was prepared, they began their work.
The Agade was an interstellar vessel — the fourth in its line, the NSP–4 class. These ships were new in the history of humankind: the first ever designed for such journeys. Over the past thirty years, eight variants had been developed; the Babylon belonged to the NSP–1 class. Every few years the design was refined, though little could be changed about the fundamentals. It took nearly two decades for any of the vessels to approach light-speed. The Agade was no exception.
It had been accelerating for over fifteen years, now sustaining eighty percent of the speed of light. In another three years it would reach its target velocity: ninety-nine percent of light-speed. According to the Agade’s flight plan, it would maintain that speed for roughly three years before, like the Babylon, shifting to a deceleration phase lasting eighteen more years.
Even now, however, the Agade ranked among the fastest human-made objects ever constructed. Its relative velocity was two hundred and forty thousand kilometres per second — fast enough to circle Earth six times in a single second. One of the greatest dangers at such immense velocity was space debris colliding with the hull — the protective shell shielding the habitation modules. The hull-maintenance crews were tasked with locating and repairing the damage such impacts caused.
The danger of the work stemmed directly from this: while outside, not only did they risk being torn away from a ship hurtling forward at two hundred and forty thousand kilometres per second, but they were also exposed to debris. Even a single grain of dust, striking at that speed, could rip a limb from a body. Most deaths among the maintenance crew were caused by these fragments, against which there was virtually no defence. It was widely said aboard the ship that every maintenance worker eventually died this way — and the more times one ventured outside, the greater the odds that they would never return alive. Sometimes only luck kept a person alive out there — not skill, not experience.
Every step of the work was nerve-wracking. Deadly motes of dust and pebbles hurtled past them at tremendous speed, and drifting clouds of gas in space could tear a person free of their tether — or shred them to pieces in the blink of an eye.
They were six and a half hours into their shift — their third spacewalk of the day. They were positioned along the rear section of the shielding hull: Jonas in front, Roland about thirty metres behind him, and at the very back — farthest from the others — Nikolas, standing at the hull’s edge.
The young man gazed along the colossal aft section of the ship: the wings stretched for kilometres, glimmering blue beneath their solar panels; the enormous cargo blocks — hundreds of metres long and wide — held the materials and machinery needed to build a new world.
Around them, the stars stood motionless in the sky, as if the ship were not moving at all, but hanging still at the centre of the universe.
— We could wrap up for today, — Roland said over the radio.
— What’s the hurry, runt? — Nikolas asked. — We’ve still got almost an hour and a half.
— I’ve got a bad feeling, — Roland replied.
— Maybe Annabelle will finally say yes if you work up the nerve to ask her, — Jonas teased.
— Well, in that case I understand the feeling, — Nikolas laughed, and Jonas joined him.
— No, seriously, guys. It feels like too much is flying past the ship.
— Nothing’s hit us, — Jonas said.
— Don’t you see it? The way it streaks by?
— No. And even if something were flying by, it’d be doing it at two hundred and forty thousand kilometres per second. You’ve got no chance of seeing it.
— Relax, kid, — Jonas said gently.
At that moment, a sudden explosion shook them.
Debris and dust burst beside Jonas, throwing him away from the ship.
— Jonas! Jonas! — the boys shouted as the emergency alarm on Jonas’s suit screamed through the radio.
— Jonas! — Mikael’s voice cut in. — Respond! Jonas, do you hear me? Are you alright?
Long seconds passed. The cloud of dust and shattered metal swept past the ship, and only Jonas’s flailing suit could be seen — still anchored to the hull by his tether.
— I’m here, — came at last a faint, weak voice.
— Jonas? Are you alright? — Mikael asked.
— Yes, sir.
— Any injuries?
— I don’t feel… maybe just some ringing in my ear.
— Sir, debris struck the hull right next to Jonas, — Nikolas reported.
— Is his suit damaged?
— Hold on… — Jonas said. — No. He switched off the alarm. — The suit isn’t leaking. The impact shoved me off the hull, and when both magnetic boots lost contact, the emergency alarm triggered.
— You’re certain you’re alright?
— Yes, sir. The impact knocked the wind out of me for a moment. The tether saved my life.
— I understand. Return immediately. Jonas! Nikolas! Finish what you started, then pack up and head back. I’m cutting the shift short.
— Sir… if you allow it, I’d like to help the boys finish…
— No, Jonas. You come in now.
— Understood, sir.
Jonas used his tether to pull himself back toward the hull, and his magnetic boots latched onto the surface once more.
— I don’t know how you pulled that one off, kid, — he said to Roland as he trudged toward him on the heavy magnetic soles.
— He’s got some kind of built-in danger sensor in that head of his, — Nikolas said.
— Whatever it is, next time we listen to him.
— No kidding!
Roland said nothing — only felt a quiet surge of pride at the praise, and relief that Jonas had survived…
Then another explosion.
The crate beside Roland erupted in a burst of shrapnel — a massive cloud of debris that nearly tore Nikolas away as it blasted past him.
— Roland? Are you alright? — Jonas asked.
— Yes.
— Stay still! The debris cut your tether — only the magnetic boots are holding you. Grab the railing!
— Nikolas! Are you okay?
— Close call, but yes.
— What happened? — Mikael demanded over the radio.
— Sir, another impact. The tool crate was torn apart, and Roland’s tether was severed.
— Understood. Roland, secure yourself with the backup tether. Everyone drop what you’re doing and get inside!
— Yes, sir, — Jonas replied.
But the moment he spoke, hell broke loose.
Suddenly dozens of impacts rippled across the ship’s hull. Massive clouds of dust and shrapnel burst forth, swept away in an instant by the ship’s unimaginable velocity.
A new alarm shrieked through the radio.
— Guys! — Roland shouted.
— Roland! What’s happening? — Mikael demanded again.
— I—I don’t know. I can’t see anything!
— Jonas! What happened? Answer me!
In that moment, Nikolas noticed that his own tether had been damaged. Quickly, he clipped himself to one of the large winches mounted along the hull’s edge. Then he looked up — and saw Roland.
— Sir, Roland isn’t secured to the hull!
— What?
— Yes, I see him, — Jonas added. — His foot is caught in a railing, but neither his boots nor his tethers are attached.
— Roland, do you hear me? — Mikael asked.
— Yes, sir.
— Don’t move, Roland! — Jonas warned.
— Roland, I can’t see your position from here. Do exactly as Jonas says! — Mikael ordered.
— I’m coming, Roland, — Jonas said, inching toward him in the heavy magnetic boots. — Don’t move.
— I’m not… — the boy whispered.
Then Nikolas spoke:
— Watch out! Impact!
A new cloud of dust and debris erupted behind Jonas, racing toward them. The shockwave drove Jonas to his knees. Roland’s foot slipped free of the railing — the only thing still anchoring him to the ship. In an instant, he began to drift toward the rear of the hull — beyond anyone’s reach.
Nikolas saw it happen — saw the trajectory — saw the impossible distance. He was too far to catch Roland before he drifted past the hull’s edge…
But he was in exactly the right place to do the next best thing.
He disengaged the winch’s lock, letting the suit automatically take control. One powerful push from the hull’s edge — and he launched himself after Roland, firing his maneuvering thrusters.
— Nikolas! — Roland screamed, seeing him approach as he tumbled away from the ship.
Nikolas accelerated hard, steering himself into Roland’s path.
— Roland! Grab on!
They collided nearly two hundred metres from the hull’s edge, and managed — barely — to catch hold of each other.
— Roland! — Nikolas called to the shaking, crying boy, but he gave no answer. — Roland! — he repeated sharply. — Attach your suit’s tether to mine!
— Y-yes, sir…
— Nikolas? Do you have them? — Mikael asked.
— Yes, sir. I’ve got him. We’re secured to the main winch — about two hundred metres off the hull.
— Understood. Boys, leave everything where it is and get inside immediately. That is an order!
— Copy that, sir, — Nikolas replied.
— You guys okay? — Jonas asked over the radio.
— I think I… peed myself, — Roland muttered.
— Didn’t you hook up the waste tank in your suit? — Nikolas asked.
— It’s already full…
The boys let out a shaky laugh, releasing the last of their adrenaline — when Nikolas suddenly froze. Over Roland’s shoulder, on the far side of the hull, he saw something strange. Something — accompanied by a faint burst of air — seemed to shoot out of one of the airlocks. It appeared only for a few seconds, a tiny silhouette darting between the wing and one of the cargo blocks before vanishing entirely.
That looked like… a person, Nikolas thought.
Once the team returned to the ship, they removed their suits.
— What happened out there, sir?
— I don’t know.
— The monitor should’ve flagged the debris cloud.
— It was likely only a minor cluster. Just a few pebbles.
— Just a few pebbles? — Roland asked.
— The system only signals if the debris field is large enough or dense enough. These were probably remnants from some wandering comet’s tail.
— That isn’t comforting at all, sir, — Roland said, still shaken.
— It wasn’t meant to be. There’s nothing to be done in cases like this. If every system were perfectly accurate, your job wouldn’t be so dangerous.
— The kid’s danger sensor works better than the equipment, — Jonas remarked. — Next time we listen to him.
A few minutes of tense silence passed as everyone calmed down.
— Sir, — Nikolas began. — I think I saw something on the other side of the hull.
— What?
— While Roland and I were drifting… something shot out of an airlock. Strange shape — but it looked human.
— Human? Are you sure you saw that?
— It was far, sir. On the far side of the hull… but I think so.
— Too far. Probably debris tossed out, or something that struck the edge of the shell.
— I don’t know, sir.
— It wasn’t a person, that’s impossible. But it could signal some structural damage. I’ll report it to Central.
— Yes, sir.
The men packed up their remaining equipment and headed for the nearest medical facility. There, the doctor conducted a thorough examination. Jonas showed signs of a mild head injury; Roland displayed symptoms of shock. The doctor recommended three days of leave for Nikolas, and eight for Roland and Jonas. Afterwards, they were escorted back to the service crew sector.
Roland’s mother was already waiting — she had been informed of the incident.
— Are you alright, my son? — she cried, wrapping him in her arms.
— Yes. I’m fine.
— Your boy has good instincts, ma’am, — Jonas said.
— Thank you, gentlemen, for bringing my son back.
— No need to thank us, — Jonas replied — but the woman kissed both him and Nikolas on the cheek anyway.
— Even so, I thank you.