Cracked Porcelain (12 page)

The dragon had been slain and the gate slung open.

With that bit of inconvenience swept aside, Maximillia reintegrated back into her diverted course. The classes proceeded, uninterrupted. She exploited every possible available minute of instructional time and sought out the comfort of the training pods whenever
the administration allowed.

In a bit of karmic justice, Angel Falls, seeking to remunerate Maximillia for her undo interactions with Bindinelli under the state’s watch, allowed her to pursue her educational aspirations with nearly unlimited admission. As a security droid stood watch in one of the classrooms, she sat enthralled in a training pod, soaking in the trickling data-streams. Her determination would no longer be deterred.

Weeks turned into months, months stretched into a year, and one year stretched into three. Her instructors considered her a savant. She earned her certification in half the time it typically would take students. Near the end of her studies she was informally teaching other fellow inmates. Word went up the food chain to the administrative heads of the parole board about her positive constructive development. She only had four months left on her sentence when she received word that the parole board was holding a special hearing in regards to her case.

The parole board had decided on her premature release under a special set of conditions which included mandatory enrollment into a work release program. She gleefully accepted. Of course, this “glee” was buried behind a cold, slack scowl. Her defenses had carried her through the hellish slog of incarceration, but her unexpected technical competence
—as illustrated in her relatively effortless cruise through the terminal repair course—was what paved the way for her freedom.

The fierce shell Maximillia had slowly enveloped around herself in lock-up was pried off when she had to say her goodbyes to Zenna. The both of them shed more than a few tears after they hugged for the last time. T
he tarian was set for release just a year later and Maximillia made Zenna promise to look her up when she hit freedom’s doorstep. In the reverse, the tarian asked that she find some happiness on the outside. Maximillia could see the look in Zenna’s eyes and knew exactly what she meant: This was the chance at a new start, one she couldn’t afford to squander.

Dak, her case worker, briefed her on the specifics of work release
: She learned of a major mining conglomerate called Amalgamated Metals that happened to have an open position for a terminal repair technician on an off-world orbital station called Samaran 17. It was an entry-level gig on a floundering station, but it was work, and it was legitimate. She graciously accepted.

As she was being processed out, she used the computer lab to research her new prospective place of employment. From the looks of the available technical schematics and the interactive 3D model that she navigated through, it was a shithole, but a sturdy shithole.

Technically, she’d be going from one massive, insulated, inescapable facility to another. At least her range of freedoms on Samaran 17 would be wider. She’d have her own living space, a steady flow of pay and access to hard liquor. It could have been much worse. For the first time in ages she was about to set foot on the greener pastures she’d been glaring at through an electrified force field.

Maximillia’s father, Gareth, was notified. With an uncharacteristic giddiness he visited his daughter in the out-processing ward’s cafeteria. Their reunion was
an auspicious one. He was in visibly high spirits, so proud of his daughter. She failed to quell the tears when she saw that he’d brought her some andrasian violets, a beautiful array of flowers that hailed from a vast tropical jungle in one of Arceus’ southern hemisphere regions. He marveled at the collection of body ink she’d acquired since the last time he’d seen her.

“Maxie,” he said, teary-eyed. “I know it’s been a long road, but you’ve been doing so well.”

She wiped a tear away from her cheek, eyes trained on the tabletop.

“You’ve had a rough ride,” a loving desperation
welled up in his voice. “...but you’ve earned this new start. I just want you to make the most of it. Papa wants you to be happy, you know?”

Maximillia nodded, reverting back into that little girl that used to sit perched on his workbench watching him repair yet another hovercycle engine. “I know. I just
—I’ve made so many mistakes. I’ve brought a lot of shame on myself and you.”

“No, no, no, honey,” he reached out, caressing her cheek. “I was never ashamed of you, sweetheart. I was just waiting for you to find your stride. I knew that once you found it you’d be fine. I think with this new job you’re going to find it.”

“I hope so.”

“I know so. I talked to one of the administrators. They said that your class instructors were really impressed. Extremely impressed. That’s what they told me.”

“By the end I was practically teaching the class myself.”

Gareth smiled wide. “I knew you had it in you, sweetie. You’ve never been off-world before, though. You ready for that ride to the skies?”

“I think so. If I get air sick, though, I’m puking everywhere. They’re going to know I was there.”

He smiled. “That’s my girl.”
 

***

Even with that veneer of unshakeable hard ass, the girl in her was shuddering as she was buckled into her seat on the shuttle and the engines started firing up
with a high-pitched whine. Maximillia had never been off-world, but her new job had her locked down on a massive, three mile-long hunk of oranium orbiting her home world. It wasn’t exactly a vacation in the tropics but it was better than Angel Falls. None of her old slum pals, the Bruisers, would be following her off-world, and the Tsen-Tzes were contending with enemies on all sides so she was home free.

Being legitimate was
n't something that came naturally to Maximillia so being thrust into adulthood was understandably worrying. She knew little to nothing about the station, the company, the routine, the workload or, least of all, her new co-workers. Was her department as automated as much as Angel Falls was? Would there be pimply little imps there trying to coerce her into sexual indiscretions at every turn? Would the station be any different from the Bruiser compound? From Angel Falls? She didn’t know anything about Amalgamated Metals but they were wise enough to give her the gig, so she figured they couldn’t be all bad. It was honest pay for a change.

For the first few months a good chunk of Maximillia’s pay was going to kick back to the state as per the terms of her probation, but she knew she could look forward to a sizeable income after her probation was over. That was more than could be said for most of her chums down on Arceus. She didn’t feel sorry for most of them. She did think about Taryn, though, and the hell
she was likely condemned to, having Chota’s spawn growing in her belly. She knew what her likely life course was going to be. She just hoped that Taryn would make the right choices. At least for the baby, if not herself. She knew Zenna could take care of herself, but she thought on her still.

Upon docking with the station, she wasn’t wholly impressed. In fact, she was underwhelmed. It looked like a floating trash compactor. The innards were little more than a
Petri dish for blue collar dregs. Sure, they were hard working dregs, not like the pond scum down on Mandra Bay, but dregs nonetheless.

When she stepped off the shuttle and saw the aimless waves of organics and synthetics surging through the
sparsely-lit terminal and into the core of the station, she could only sigh to herself.

It suddenly hit Maximillia:
She was going to be expected to actually produce results, on a daily schedule and for a paycheck. She had to be civil, follow a strict set of rules and be at the mercy of the beckon call of whomever requested her services. The whining uninitiated were going to be pestering her for help on a daily basis. It was then that she started to weigh the value of being on Samaran as opposed to being back at Angel Falls.

Maximillia spent the first few days going through an exhausting orientation process. She was taken to her new apartment, which was surprisingly extra
vagant when compared to her former residence. She started to feel as if she’d won some bizarre sweepstakes or perhaps had become the unwitting victim of a cruelly sophisticated gag. After being drug through the ringer she was finally given an afterhours tour of her department: through the docks, the hangar bay, the on-site server room and her own personal work station, complete with a workbench, tool set and her own terminals. Amalgamated Metals spared no expense at her accommodations. She learned she was going to be replacing an outgoing repair technician. Whether the last guy was fired or transferred, demoted or promoted was a mystery. She didn’t care. Their job was hers now.

Responsibility was a rare phenomenon she experienced little of. She’d grown used to carrying out the orders of others and being trapped within the strict regimen of uncaring architects; be it Mardo or the Angel Falls administrators, life was always planned for her. To some mild degree it still would be, but the new freedoms granted her were disconcertingly alien. When not on duty she was free to roam the massive dimensions of the station at her discretion, visiting the numerous business establishments and spending her earned uni-creds as she saw fit. She could socialize with any of the station denizens in any way she decided, yet she looked at each passing face
—regardless of its shape or unique configuration—with a particular skepticism.

When the state minder finally concluded his duties in giving Maximillia the station tour, he guided her back into her apartment, thanked her with a robotic zeal
, and left. She stood there in an incredulous fog, hovered over by the walls of her new abode. She waited for the next minder to walk in and assign her more orders but that one never came. She was untethered. As the realization set in that the umbilical cord binding her to the state had recoiled into the darkness she breathed a sigh of relief.

Maximillia collapsed back onto her bed, staring at the ceiling, and just imbibed in the sensation of free space orbiting about her. For the first time in ages she was alone. She slept softly.

***

Maximillia couldn’t deny that that first shift start stirred the flutterflys in her gut. Legitimate em
ployment wasn’t just handed out. She’d earned it. She threw on her work dungarees, which were laden with pockets for tools, as well as a pair of sturdy oranium-toed boots and a beige, curve-hugging tanktop. It was mainly utilitarian but a surprisingly fashionable look. Her arms were toned from her years inside Angel Falls and her once flat rear-end had bubbled outward into a scrumptious convexity. It didn’t hurt that her dungarees snugly caressed her rump; the duds instilled a passive self-confidence in her.

When she strolled into the department for the first time, she did so with a cocksure strut. One would’ve been hard-pressed to believe she didn’t hold majority ownership in the station. The tech repair office was her first stop.
The outgoing techie, Hamolde, greeted her with a cold sincerity. It was all business with him, but he had a way of making his efficient, impersonal delivery seem appropriate for the occasion. He lauded her on her accolades and teased Amalgamated Metals’ internal recruitment documents citing her reputation as a prodigious talent. He took her around the now bustling corridors to each of her co-workers: She met Archie in the repair bay, Marti in administration, Moto in sentient resources and j’Ahnatharius and Ko’Lokk in the docking bay. They were all harmlessly bland chaps as far as she was concerned.

Hamolde finally took Maximillia down to the transportation coordination office, where all of the data processing for incoming and outgoing freight was handled. Most of the hard math was automated, but there was an organic in charge of some of the loose data entry. He brought her into the office and there stood this soft, handsome young man with bright, clean eyes.

He stared weakly at her with a passive timidity. “Hi, I’m Cam.”

He extended a friendly hand, but she didn’t reciprocate. Seemingly spurned, he slowly withdrew his hand, his embarrassment clear from the crimson shade his face turned.

This “Cam” didn’t fit in with the crude, inhospitable surroundings. He looked too green, his skin too smooth and unblemished, his hair too thick and lustrous and his bluish eyes too uncharacteristically pristine and uncorrupted. Maximillia normally saw the scheming specter of some sinister machinations congealing in the eyes of the men she’d known. In his eyes she saw none of this. Instead, they radiated in a way she’d never seen in another man, not even her father. They were like pools filled with the color of a cloudless Arcean day. She was more disturbed by the sheer purity present there than the foul, corrupted shrewdness she was used to.

Maximillia’s physical response was less a conscious coordination of facial muscles and more an unconscious, trained reaction. He saw her scowl, yet her thoughts were far more wishful and detached. For the first time she’d looked into the eyes of someone even more uninitiated than she was that first night she met Mardo. She was used to being prodded by cackling, hairy, barrel-chested tyrants. He was just a boy.

She dared not confess this aloud, but at that moment, looking into his eyes, her heart skipped a beat. For the first time, the future looked bright.