First Flyght – Chapter 10

Space. Clouds. Bright sunlight and blue skies.

Our descent down to Concord City in Marcelo’s shuttle is a quiet affair. Thinking back, it’s been at least two years since I was on Palo Alto. Last time I was here was with my mom, Skylar and Aunt Fusako (big surprise there) for a girls’ weekend at a resort to the north of the city. One thing to love about this planet is its beautiful weather, chic cities, advanced technology, white sand beaches, and crystal clear turquoise water. It’s only second to Laguna, the high society and luxury island planet just closer to this star. I’ve only been to Laguna once. My family saved our money for vacations in our solar system.

Saved its money, and now it’s all gone.

I clench my fist in my lap as Marcelo’s ship navigates to the Concord North Spaceport.

“Everything okay?” he asks, glancing over at me.

“Sure. Fine. Great.” I don’t sound convincing.

Palo Alto’s only moon is Avenal, and it winks on the horizon. Avenal is basically a massive chunk of metal that will be mined to the end of time. I’ve seen movies that take place there, dark film noir about people living under domes and in underground cities. A tolerable place to make a living. An awful place to die. But those that stick it out have pensions that place them back on Palo Alto or Sonoma. Sonoma is this system’s major farming world, but its three moons make weather control unpredictable and challenging. Their output is far lower than Ossun.

Marcelo folds his arms across his chest and leans back in his seat.

“I was wondering if you have any plans for side businesses while we search for your relationship network and haul freight?”

As if my stomach couldn’t sink any lower, it bottoms out around my knees. “Uh, no. I thought that the” — I swallow, trying to force the words down, not out, but they come up anyway — “extra consorts and their income would be enough.”

I can barely hear Marcelo’s sigh across the short space between us. “You have to make three point three million credits this year, Vivian.” His stare bores into me as I flinch from his ghostly punch to the gut. “That’s profit on top of your expenses, and you’re going to have a lot of overhead between fuel, maintenance, food, salaries for your staff —”

I hold up my hand as our shuttle hits a turbulent patch of air and lurches. I can’t deal with the shuttle and the reality of my situation at the same time. My stomach is not made of iron.

Marcelo continues in quieter, soothing tones. “You’ll need another way to bring in money besides what we can accomplish here.”

“I was planning on growing produce to help offset food costs,” I say, thinking of the equipment we brought onboard. Equipment only I know how to use and set up, yet here I am about to have a spa day and interview for a job I’m less than qualified for.

Marcelo blinks a few times. “That’s a good start, I suppose. Do you have any hobbies or side interests that could be more… profitable?”

My face falls. Hobbies? Side interests? What are those? For the last three years, since I returned to Ossun after my degree in finance was complete, and I had left Rio alone and heartbroken, I had only studied or taken care of the farm.

“Ummm.” My voice cracks as I try to come up with something, anything. “I love animals? I could probably breed pigs or angora rabbits or choose something exotic from Rio that people are always dying for, like those domesticated raposquirrels.”

Every celebrity seemed to have a raposquirrel lately. They’re a native animal to Rio that looks like a fox and squirrel hybrid. One of the cuter animals to come off the planet. But most things native to Rio inspire nightmares, not hugs and kisses. I once found a two-meter long-horned dragonsnake in my bed when I foolishly left the window open while at class. I had to call the campus police first who then contacted the Exobiology school to come and trap it. They were happy to snag a prime specimen to study. I was just glad to have it out of my room.

“Okay, well, that’s something to consider,” Marcelo says, his voice kind. Every moment with him makes me think he’s one moment closer to firing me as a client.

“Would you like to visit with friends while on Palo Alto? I could make room in the schedule for an excursion.”

In my head, I groan. Friends? What friends? “No. I don’t have any friends on Palo Alto. One of my cousins lives here, but I just saw her a few days ago.”

“No one you want to see?” He’s pushing, but I can’t tell why.

“Nope.”

Ugh, Vivian. Why do I have to be so dull? I rub my tired eyes and sigh. I have to become more interesting, fast.

“We have a full schedule today,” Marcelo says, changing the subject, “so I hope you got a lot of sleep last night.”

I don’t answer. I slept fitfully if at all.

“Do you have any preferences for what you want to do with your hair or wardrobe?”

I shrug. “Does it matter what I want?”

Marcelo sets the shuttle down on our landing pad and powers down the system. Once the panels darken, I release my seatbelt and grab my bag to go.

“Vivian,” Marcelo says, and the insistence in his voice stops me. “Working with a reluctant or unhappy client is one of my biggest pet peeves and the main reason why I terminate a contract. Your happiness is my number one top priority.”

I dig deep in my reserves of energy to conjure up my stone face, the one I put on for every decision that’s out of my hands. I presented this face when my parents decided it was best for me to concentrate on the future of our farm instead of the violin. This face also served me well when I broke up with Ken. My organic chemistry professor saw this expression in full force when he gave me an incomplete because I wouldn’t touch his dick. Yes, I also presented him with the stone face when he was marched off campus after I reported him.

Marcelo, though, is a tough customer. Whether he’s witnessed it all before or he’s just crazy empathetic, he can see right through me.

“Listen.” He grasps my upper arms in his strong hands and tries to look me in the eyes. I look away. “Your mother isn’t here. Your aunt isn’t here. Neither of them are making these decisions now. It’s up to you. You can make this go any way you want it to. So think about that this afternoon as you relax.” He squeezes before letting go. “I have plenty of reading for you to catch up on while you’re in your treatments. Just a little studying. You’re not the first person I’ve coached through a Flyght interview, and you won’t be the last either.”

He turns to lead the way out, and I snap out of my stupor.

He talks a big game, but I know better. I am not in charge here.

“Great. I’m looking forward to more studying,” I mumble, following behind him.

“Ah, good. I knew a summa cum laude like you could handle it.”

—-

A little studying?

Is he kidding? He must’ve been.

My eyes cross as I try to concentrate on the documents projected in front of me while a young man beats my feet into submission. The lists of regulations are kilometers long and incredibly detailed. I need a law degree as well to figure most of this out. Surely, I don’t have to know all of this, do I?

Flight paths, jump ring terms of service, payment options, customs disputes, and arbitration — I skim the list and hope I never need any of this stuff. Really, how hard can it be to pick up a client and their cargo on one world and drop them off on another? Shuttle services have been the norm going all the way back to Old Earth.

But there’s something about Flyght and the way it works that appeals to smaller businesses. They pay into a system that gives them discounts over time, and it turns out to benefit both the shipper and their client. Each ship, crew, and client goes through a vetting process to make sure everyone is legitimate and trustworthy, and Flyght backs everything up with insurance. Too many ships have been highjacked and too many clients have been airlocked for the free market to appeal to anyone who wants to keep their shirt and their life.

The burly man scraping the callouses from my heel sighs as he listens to the stories of the guy next to him. This one’s been on too many dates with women who won’t call him back. The other one is boasting of this place up the street that has the hard to find ‘black market’ hot sauce everyone is raving about. His words, not mine. I clear my throat, and they both stop talking.

Thanks, boys. I’m trying to concentrate here.

Marcelo’s notes are clear. I’m to go into the interview with our documentation in order, testify I’ve read the terms and conditions of Flyght and that I will abide by them, and then answer any questions they pose. Even though most ship captains are bound by a non-disclosure agreement, he has it on good authority the Flyght executives will ask me about my prior experience, my family, my education, and who I know and have worked with in the past. I’m to play off my higher education, my family’s long-standing good credit, and the fact that I’m a hard worker.

As I’m looking at the list, I realize I never told Marcelo about my connection to Ken Mata, CEO and Founder of Flyght. I assumed my mother or aunt must have mentioned it somewhere along the way, but he didn’t mention it. That’s the reason I’m here, right? Because of my connection? Mom didn’t deny it, but she didn’t say she was relying on Ken either. Maybe this has nothing to do with him. Skylar said they chose Flyght because it was still open to new contracts and had better remuneration terms.

I close my eyes and push out a sigh of relief as the man attending my feet massages them. Will I make it through the interview without seeing him?

Disappointment washes over me unexpectedly. Was I hoping to see him? I scoot my butt back in the massage chair, uncomfortable in my own skin. I was hoping I’d see him, wasn’t I? Shit, Vivian. Did I not learn my lesson the first time? I’ll never forget how much I wanted Ken to stay, even when I pushed him away. The struggle nearly broke me in two, and it was quite some time later before I dated again, rather unsuccessfully.

“Ms. Kawabata, please relax,” Mr. Foot Massager pleads. He has my rigid foot in his giant hands. “I promised Mr. Silva you would leave here pampered and in good spirits.”

Then you promised too much.

But I relax my foot, anyway.

I’ve managed to get myself into a situation I would never put myself in otherwise. My original plan was to graduate, find a husband on Ossun, grow old and have kids before I ever saw Ken again. Preferably, I would’ve been happy to die without seeing him again. I still feel all the embarrassment and regret from letting him go. It was one of the worst decisions I ever made. I don’t want to see him again. I want to hide far, far away so I don’t have to face him and face my failures.

It’s possible I’ll be lucky enough to avoid him. He’s probably too important for these entry interviews, off in his C-suite doing things CEOs do. And since Marcelo doesn’t mention Ken once in his notes, I doubt he wants me to get an old relationship involved in the process. A relationship that’s better left buried in deep space has no place in business negotiations.

Yep. I’m confident I can avoid Ken. Super confident.

“That’s better,” Mr. Foot Massager says, practically cooing at me. I sink back in the chair, grateful Marcelo has kept me out of Ken’s hair, through no meddling of my own. “Okay. Now we’ll color and dry, then you’re off for your massage and haircut.”

Excellent. I’ve already had all the extra hair plucked, waxed, and shaved from my body, and my teeth have been cleaned and whitened. By the time my hair is done, I’ll be able to head back to my hotel room and fall asleep early in my luxury bed after eating three meals worth of food from room service.

I nearly laugh out loud. Marcelo said I’d exercise more. He said nothing about eating any less.