Chapter 17: Homecoming with a Broken Star
Day 99 – 13:20 ship time
Burn complete, coast speed 42 km/s
Range to Haven-3: 1.1 million km
Ayla slept in the med-bay cot, a thin strap across her waist to keep her from drifting. The sedative patch had worn off an hour ago, but she stayed still, eyes closed, fingers counting invisible seconds. Tala checked vitals—heart rate 92, temp steady, bruises yellowing. The girl had not spoken a full sentence since rescue; only fragments: "forty-three," "the cage," "where is the leaf?"
Karl floated in, helmet tucked under an arm. He opened the breast pocket of his liner and produced the basil sprig Rios had clipped days ago—still green, still fragrant. He laid it on the girl's palm. Her fingers closed around it like a lifeline. For the first time her lips trembled into something close to a smile.
Outside the viewport Haven-3 grew from glint to wheel, solar blankets catching the red dwarf like hearth coals. Miguel worked comms, voice steady: "Haven-Three, Hearth-Hammer, inbound with survivor. Request medical stand-by and trauma bay warm."
Selene answered from Ops, voice thick. "Cone ready, airlock warm. We're waiting."
Karl throttled to 0.02 g, gentle decel. Every km closer felt like easing a splinter from skin.
15:45
Docking complete. Umbilical locked. Pressure equalised.
They carried Ayla through in a soft stretcher—zero-g rated, thermal wrap glowing faint. The station corridor had been transformed: LED strips set to warm amber, walls scrubbed clean, a hand-painted banner floating weightless—WELCOME HOME AYLA—letters uneven but bright. Rios had done the painting with nutrient dye and a steady claw.
Waiting beyond the iris: five adults and one bot. Miguel's eyes were red; Selene held a cup of warm broth; Jun clutched a data-pad loaded with children's books; Tala gripped a hypo of calm-down meds she hoped not to use. They formed a semicircle, giving space.
Ayla's gaze darted—frightened bird in sudden daylight. Then she saw the dome hatch beyond, green leaves glowing under grow-lights. She reached toward them, voice a whisper: "Garden…"
They floated her inside. Humidity hit first—82 %, scent of basil and tomato and wet earth. The girl inhaled like she had forgotten air could taste alive. Rios approached slow, offered a fresh sprig. She took it, pressed it to her cheek, and cried—soundless, weightless tears that orbited her face like tiny glass planets.
Karl backed away, letting the moment breathe. Selene touched his arm. "You brought back more than a body."
He nodded, throat thick. "She's the first. There will be others."
Evening became night. They ate under the dome—real food: lettuce wraps with rehydrated chicken, tomato slices sprinkled with salt, mint tea brewed from fresh leaves. Ayla sat cross-legged on a blanket, wrapped in a station hoodie someone had sewn small. She ate little, watched everything, counted leaves under her breath.
When the meal ended Karl stood, raised his plastic cup. "To the Echo—twelve voices we carry. To Ayla—voice we returned. To steel—may it remember the missing."
They drank. The basil rustled in circulating air, sounding like applause.
Later, med-bay. Tala recorded official notes:
Subject: Ayla Ortega (approx. 14 y)
Rescued from cargo cage, Vulture pirate vessel
Malnourishment moderate, contusions healing, PTSD indicators high
Recommended: light duties in garden, no sudden noises, count-permitting therapy
Count-permitting therapy—Tala's term for letting the girl count seconds, leaves, heartbeats until the world stopped screaming. She assigned Rios as companion; the bot never rushed, never startled, never asked questions.
Karl filed the rescue report to an open broadcast, encrypted with Meridian codes:
Haven-3 Custodian Log Day 99
Vulture hull destroyed, reactor cores slagged
Survivor recovered: 1 minor, stable
Evidence of trafficking: cores, children, crew
Buyer network unknown, investigation ongoing
Any lawful authority receiving: assistance requested, vengeance authorised.
He signed it with the station seal and the image of the basil leaf.
Night cycle – 23:50
Ops, lights dimmed
Miguel spread Echo's chip on the holotable. "We have engine curve, hull footprint, and now buyer manifest fragments. Vulture was middle-man. End-users operate deeper in cluster. We need intel."
Karl studied the starchart. "We go back in. This time we hunt buyers, not delivery boys."
Selene crossed arms. "Ship needs refit. Lance coils overheated during final burn. Armor took micro-pits. We need days."
"Days we give," Karl answered. "But not weeks. Every day they take more kids."
Ayla appeared in the hatch, blanket around shoulders, eyes wide. She held something—small, metal. She floated to Karl, opened her palm: a tiny star she had folded from slag foil. Voice barely audible: "For the next rescue."
He took it, throat tight. "We'll carry it into battle."
She nodded, drifted back to dome, Rios following like green-eyed shadow.
Miguel watched her go. "We fight for that star now."
Karl closed his fist around it. "And every star still caged."
He opened the paper log, wrote:
Day 99 – Survivor home. Evidence logged. War enters next orbit. Steel remembers, garden grows, star leads forward. Next burn in ten days. Target: buyers of children and cores. We are five, we are thirteen, we are however many it takes. – Karl.
Outside the viewport debris of Vulture had long dispersed, but Karl swore he could still see the toy star glinting among fragments—promise made of foil and will.
He whispered to the dark, "Count with me," and began a new interval—forward, forward—until every cage was empty and every echo had a name.