She sat in the co-pilot’s chair, her posture rigid. For six years, she had been the rock the church of Negative Space was built on. She knew the load limits of every lift on Station 0-K. She knew the comm codes for every venue manager. She knew exactly how many credits it took to keep Banderos fed and Onda out of jail.
Here, in the black, she knew nothing.
She watched the starfield streak past the viewport. To her, it looked like chaos. To Jax, slumped comfortably in the pilot’s seat next to her, it apparently looked like a map.
He tapped a thruster control with a casual, almost bored flick of his wrist. The ship corrected its yaw with a mechanical groan.
Sonica gripped her armrests. Is that right? Is that the correct vector? Is he guessing?
She hated this. She hated that her life, and the lives of the four people she loved most, was currently in the hands of a man whose last name she had only learned three days ago. She didn't know Jax. She didn't know if he was a genius or a drift-happy amateur who was about to fly them into a navigation buoy.
In the back of the ship, muffled by the thin bulkhead, she heard McKenzie laugh. It was a loud, carefree sound. Banderos was singing something operatic and ridiculous. They were happy. They were trusting her to land the ship.
But she wasn't flying the ship.
She forced her eyes away from the terrifying void outside and down to her datapad.
She couldn't fix the engine. She couldn't navigate the jump. But she could land the gig. That was her job. That was the one variable she was supposed to control.
She hadn't waited until they were in orbit. In the frantic twelve hours between agreeing to Jax’s plan and boarding this rattle-trap, she had flooded the Perro Station subnet. She had sent press kits, demo files, and tech riders to every venue manager listed in the public directory. She had done the work.
Now, as they burned through the vacuum, the replies were finally trickling in via the comms buoy relay.
She tapped the screen, opening the first notification. It was from The Orbital Lounge, the high-end venue she had pinned her hopes on.
Ms. Hasan,
Officially? I have to decline. The Orbital Lounge has a strict decibel limit enforced by station engineering to protect the viewports, and your rhythm section—specifically the track 'Orbit Decay'—violates our vibration variance by 400%. My boss wants 'ambient synth-waves,' not structural damage.
Unofficially? I listened to the demo three times. It made me want to throw my desk chair through the window. That is a compliment. You guys sound like the engine room of a ship trying to break orbit.
I can't book you. I like my job. But please, let me know where you land. I need to hear that kick drum in a room that can take a punch.
Sonica let out a slow breath. Valid. Frustrating, but valid. It was a "No," but a "No" that respected the work.
She swiped to the next one. Jimmy's House of Music. A flashy spot.
Kid, you’re killing me here.
I sell spectacle. I sell chrome bodysuits, vocal modulators, and safe rebellion to tourists who want to feel edgy without spilling their drinks. You guys? You sound like grease, sweat, and bad decisions.
I can't sell 'Authentic' right now. The market wants polish. But between you and me? The polish is getting boring. The cracks are showing.
I’m passing on this gig because I can’t insure you. But keep the comm line open. In six months, when the kids get tired of the synths, you’re going to be the only thing that matters. Don't break up before then.
She gritted her teeth. Too early. They were too early for the market.
She opened the next one. The Apex Arena.
Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.
Ms. Hasan,
We don't usually respond to unsolicited submissions, but the Head of Audio flagged your file. He said it was the first time in five years he had to turn his monitors down.
We can't put you on the main stage. You have no metrics, no following, and no visual assets. The risk algorithm flags you as a 'Liability.'
However, I’ve moved your file to the 'Watch List' instead of the trash. You’re too big for the bars, but you’re invisible to the arenas. It’s a bad spot to be in. Find a way to prove the algorithm wrong.
She checked the status of the blast she had sent to the mid-tier clubs. The Neon Grotto. The Starline.
Ping.
A response. Instant.
She frowned. That message had gone out minutes ago. "Orbit Decay" was four minutes long.
She opened the message from The Neon Grotto.
Pass.
Sonica stared at the timestamp. They hadn't listened. They hadn't even opened the attachment. They saw a band from a resort moon with no agency representation, and they hit delete.
She felt a cold, hard knot form in her stomach. It wasn't just fear; it was indignation.
She looked at the red numbers on the console.
RENTAL REMAINING: 68:14:00
The clock was ticking. If they landed on Perro without a confirmed slot, they wasted time, they wasted the jumper hours. The plan, the entire, stupid, desperate plan, died.
She couldn't walk off this ship and tell her family she failed because a server deleted their file.
She looked at the contact list on her datapad. She scrolled past the venues. Past the promoters.
She stopped at a name she had sworn never to use again: Liam.
She had broken up with Liam years ago after three weeks of awkward, doomed dates, full of heavy petting, big expectations, and little actual passion. It was a relief when she ended it. It was even more of a relief when, sometime later, he unexpectedly moved to Perro.
Last she had heard, he was a waiter with delusions of grandeur. But he had a roommate in a house band. He had a back door.
It was a messy play. But looking at the "Deleted" notifications stacking up in her inbox, Sonica realized she didn't have a choice.
Her initial message was strictly professional. She explained their need and suggested, perhaps, there could be a finder's fee for him.
A reply zipped back immediately, sounding exactly like Liam, and his fee wouldn’t be money.
Sonica! Hey babe. It’s been an age! Yes, I can do you a solid. One of my roommates is the guitarist for 'The Static Drift.' They have a weekly show at 'The Black Star' on level 24. It’s one of the seedier spots, but the pay is alright.
I can convince the band to have a 'scheduling conflict' and give you this week’s slot. But, well, this is a massive favor. I'd like to catch up properly. No charge for the gig, just some quality time, you know? Let me know when you hit K-9.
Sonica stared at the screen. The financial cost was zero. The personal cost was astronomical. Liam wasn't asking for payment; he was asking for her. He’d leverage the band's desperation to secure the one thing she had denied him years ago. If she hadn't spent several hours in vain looking for herself, she would have told him to shove it out an airlock.
She looked at Jax. He was adjusting a dial with a calm, easy focus, completely unaware that their landing gear had just been retracted by the local scene.
Do it, she told herself. Pay the price so they don't have to.
She typed a single, reluctant reply to Liam, securing the gig, knowing that the price for the parts had just gotten a lot more personal.
She stood up. The 3-step stumble to the tiny lounge area might as well have been a kilometer for her to drag herself across.
"We have a gig! But it comes with complications," Sonica announced to the rest of the band.
Onda spun her chair at the copilot station to look aft. Jax remained at the pilot's controls, appearing utterly calm. Upon hearing the awkward tone in Sonica’s voice, McKenzie, Tré, and Banderos looked up warily.
Sonica laid out the facts as plainly as she could: The gig at 'The Black Star' was in a grimy sector of the station. The pay alone would make the trip a success. The complication was not money, but a date with Liam.
"He wants the favor paid in my, um, time," Sonica explained, her face set in a tight mask of displeasure. "He’ll secure the slot for us, but he wants to... catch up."
Banderos ran a hand through his hair, his features twisted to a scowl. "Ugh. I remember this guy. Total sleeze. So we have to agree to a very personal debt, or we fall back to plan B?"
"Plan B being busking on the transit levels, hoping for a legit cancellation, or cold-calling the other three hundred venues on Perro," Tré confirmed. "We waste two days, max out the jumper rental, and still might not make any money."
“Or I compromise my standards, and we go home winners," Sonica noted with a sad smile.
Onda looked at the fast-approaching lights of Perro Station. "You would have said no outright if you thought there was a better option. Blatant coercion pisses me off. What an ass. Urrgh. The clock is ticking. We came here for parts and a chance to play. If you’re alright with this date, then I can be alright with it."
"It's an ugly piece of business," Tré observed, summing up the tenor of the group. “Don’t let this jackass pull you down, Sonica.”
Sonica let out a long, deep, audible breath. She couldn’t be the gravity well that stalled their trajectory. Swallowing her personal dignity, she lamented, "Fine. I’ll make the arrangements. I’ll handle Liam, and the rest of you focus on the job. We get in, we play, we get paid, and we buy the parts. We are not tourists."
The final hour of the trip was in complete companionable silence. The panic that Sonica had been suppressing was replaced by revulsion and self-loathing. Those were familiar friends she could deal with. In time, with music. For now, things were going "well." Right?