Stellar Rein is an episodic Sci-Fi racing series set in The Stellar Universe. This is Episode Two: Second Wind.
This Episode can stand on its own, but if you would like to read the series opener, Episode One is linked here.
Press Play to hear a fully cast voice-over performance!
Episode Two: Second Wind
Ibra collapsed onto the bed of his rented trailer and stared at the ceiling. He pulled an old emerald feather from his jacket pocket and clutched it against his chest. His free hand balled into a fist and pounded down onto the stained mattress, scattering dried flakes of dust from his glove.
The walls of the scentless trailer hummed from outdated tech within. Ibra forced himself upright. He glared at the I.S.C. terminal near his bed, sighed, then reached for the receiver.
These rent-a-slums only invested real stacks on the pricey interstellar communication lines. The amenity earned the hotel owners significant kickbacks. It was his first I.S.C. call. On his aunt’s ranch, he used the Code-Switch to tap out messages across the stars. It was easier on his wallet’s stacks, but lacked spirit.
Ibra pulled out his Civ Card. The I.S.C. flashed and scanned. An input for coordinates displayed. His finger lingered over the screen. He took a deep breath, then entered Aunt Marayah’s ranch coordinates. The receiver hummed and whizzed with jumbled cosmic frequencies; ship chatter, planetary hums, and remnant whispers from the Big Bang.
“Inter-System Communications connecting. Please hold,” the operator’s purposely detached voice chimed in.
“Quetzle… you dummy,” he muttered, then spun the feather as he pinched the stem.
“Connection made. Please hold.”
An audible crackle came through, followed by a crack and a pop. Ibra sighed into the receiver.
“An I.S.C call?” Rafel’s voice came through in a harsh whisper, “Ibra… where are you?”
“Hey, Cuzzo!” Ibra forced a laugh.
Rafel cut through, “Ibra, where?”
Ibra shut his eyes, “Vos System II.”A pause lingered.
“One season is all we needed. Just one —”
“It’s always one season, Raf!” Ibra clenched the receiver. “There’s always something that needs doing. This was my chance.”
“Why do you only think about yourself? When are you going to make a sacrifice for someone else? It’s always someone else making the sacrifices for you!”
“That’s a lie! Look at me and Quetzle.”
“When did Quetzle say he wanted to be blasted light-years through the galaxy for a stupid race?” Rafel whispered.
“It’s not stupid!” Ibra shot up from the edge of the bed. “He loves it, Raf. I see it when I look into his eyes.”
“It’s in your eyes. His dumb eyes are reflecting yours.”
“Don’t call him dumb. I don’t care how dumb he is.”
“I said they reflect yours.”
Ibra sucked his teeth, “Shut up.” He fought back a smile then sighed, “How’s Marayah?”
“She’s pissed!” Rafel whispered, “You didn’t even have the courtesy to argue with mom. You just left,” Rafel sighed. “You hurt her. After she sacrificed so much of the ranch to take you in.”
Ibra pinched the bridge of his nose, “I’m an idiot.”
“We know,” they both smiled.
“I’m sorry,” Ibra said.
“You should be saying that to her. But she doesn’t want to hear from you right now.” Rafel said.
“Raf, you know I had to come. I had to commit. I’m tired of racing around the ranch, talking about dreams that I never chase. I don’t want to be like dad.”
They were both quiet before Rafel broke the silence, “When do the races start?”
“Oh, uh…” Ibra’s heart skipped a beat, “Qualifiers were today.”
“Did you at least win?”
Ibra closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
“Well…”
BZZZZZT!
The trailer door buzzed.
BZZZT, BZZZT, BZZZZZT!
Ibra spun around and yelled at the door, “Who!”
“Is this the Young Quetzle residence?”
Ibra raised an eyebrow, “Raf, hold on.”
He hopped over to the door and stumbled over his boots that he’d kicked off in the middle of the room. Then the door opened with a hiss that covered his gasp.
Uncomfortably close to the door, in a regulation metallic jumpsuit, stood a clone mannequin. Servant drones that were mass-produced on a bio-industrial printing press. They were made hairless with central gems embedded in their foreheads to distinguish them from the common population. This mannequin’s gem was red: private property.
“Does this look like a stable?” Ibra leaned against his doorway, like he had seen rogues do in movies. “I’m Ibra, his jockey.”
The mannequin stood smiling, without blinking. “My apologies, jockey. An error has occurred.” Its eyes rolled back mid-reset. “Young Ibra! You have a summons to the Upper Quarters.”
Ibra groaned. Young was an honorific of the aristocracy. It stemmed from a fixation with youth that seeped into their every interaction.
“Not now. I’m on a call.”
“My apologies, jockey. Young Ibra! You have a summons from the Upper Quarters.”
Ibra sighed, “Fine. Give me a minute.” He waved the mannequin off and turned back into his room. The door clanged shut behind him.
He picked up the receiver, “Raf, I gotta go. I’ll send you a Switch later.”
“What? We just got on?”
“I have to go, Raf.” Ibra clicked the receiver into its catch. “Waste of good stacks,” he mumbled as he slipped the feather into his jacket pocket. The door hissed, and he stepped out.
“Young Ibra! You have a summons from the upper quarters.” The mannequin hadn’t moved.
“Let’s get whatever this is over with.”
The mannequin made two sharp ninety-degree turns, then marched down the dusty streets outside the stadium in a perfect straight line. Ibra followed but kept his distance.
The air in the lower quarters was heavy from the stench of animal musk and dust. Spectators and crews bustled through narrow streets under the three moons illuminating the night sky. Insect-kin groomed their antennae under a canopy tent. Men with genetic and cybernetic modifications exercised. Exotic pets darted through the streets and guarded stalls as folk from all over the inhabited galaxy traded overpriced snacks and junk beside the trailers.
The mannequin’s presence parted the crowd like a fault line cracking through a city, clearing their path to the stadium elevators. At their arrival, a couple hurried off. The doors opened, and they stepped in. Ibra leaned against the wall as the elevator scanned the mannequin’s red gem. The gem glowed, and they rose.
Ibra stared at the back of the mannequin’s head. It was standing with its nose almost touching the doors.
“What do they want with me?”
“Young Ibra! You have a summons from the Upper Quarters.” The mannequin’s words echoed off the doors.
Ibra rolled his eyes. The elevator came to a smooth stop, and its doors slid open.
They stepped out, and a pleasant breeze swept through as Ibra looked over the rails. He studied the racetrack from his new vantage point. Behind him, sealed viewing rooms connected to suites and offices lined the Upper Quarters.
“Young Ibra! We have arrived.” The mannequin scanned its gem against the door, which opened without a sound.
He followed the mannequin into the suite and was greeted by an aroma so lovely it made him sneeze. Bio-spliced flowers lined one wall, their leaves stretching towards the artificial sunlight that illuminated the room. Embedded in the opposite wall was a massive aquarium. The underwater forestscape was a masterwork, teeming with alien hydro-flora. Ibra scanned the water for movement as he walked past, but found none and kept walking.
At the far end of the long room stood a solid, smooth metal desk, flanked on both sides by curved chairs draped in living fur blankets. Living fur, another product of the bio-industrial printing press, was grown with cloned fur and tissue for natural warmth. Ibra wondered if the blankets bled when torn, and he shuddered.
The mannequin gestured to a chair. Ibra glanced at the shaggy brown fur on the chair and winced. He crossed his arms in defiance and to hide his goosebumps.
The wall behind the desk gaped open. Ibra flinched. A curly-haired man stepped into the room dressed in a black silk suit with silver magnetic buttons up to his thin neck. He bowed his head to Ibra as the wall resealed behind him.
In the next breath, he spread his arms wide, “Welcome, Young Ibra!” His voice was large for his frame and clear. “It is a thrill to meet the most compelling jockey of the season.”
He locked eyes with Ibra; the man’s violet eyes exacerbated the uncanny youthfulness of his face. It was an intense, studious stare. Ibra thought of the “mud gazers” on his aunt’s ranch. Ambush predators within mud pits that spied on cattle before they snapped and drowned their prey.
Ibra lifted his finger to greet the man. His arms remained crossed.
“Please take a seat. Don’t wait on my behalf.” The aristocrat gestured towards the seat.
Ibra glanced at the fur, “I’ll stand.”
The man sat on his fur-draped chair behind his desk, stroking the fur with one hand and flicking open a paper screen with the other.
“Do you have any idea how much an I.S.C call costs?” Ibra spat.
The man stared at him. His youthful face showed a hint of crow’s feet. “Covered! And any future calls as well.”
Ibra stuttered. “Wha — Why? Why am I here?”
The man gasped. He tossed the paper screen onto the desk, then jumped up from his seat, “Yes, manners! This is just so thrilling.” He stuck his chin out, “Marquis Ostran Ki’alem of the Numa system, and Chairman of Drift Station Inns.”
“A pit-stop hotel between stars buys a name that long?”
The Marquis choked. “Yes, well, we serve a crucial function.” He theatrically cleared his throat, “Young Ibra, it is important to understand that where there is a problem, a need, there is opportunity.”
“And a sales pitch.”
“Expansion!” Ostran exclaimed. He picked up the paper screen and flipped it back onto the desk. The screen flickered and revealed a map of the inhabited sectors of the Milky Way. Antiquated house-shaped symbols representing inns displayed their locations. “We have cornered the market, Young Ibra. A success-driven plateau that will inevitably invite entropy.”
Ibra scratched his head, “What do I have to do with entropy?”
“Sponsorships, Young Ibra. The winners of the qualifiers get drafted by a sponsor to support their race expenses.”
“But I lost.”
“Yes, but you lost spectacularly.”
“Uh… thanks.”
“You lost because you caught the bait. I thought that was impossible! If you had a quicker recovery, you would have qualified.”
“So I’m a great loser?”
“An exceptional loser! You see, I wish to bring attention and grow a new audience for Drift Station Inns. The other twenty sponsors are well-established and pick from the qualifiers. To get my foothold, I secured a position as a sponsor for the wild-card. And that,” Ostran spread his arms out, “is where you come in.”
“There’s a wild-card?”
“Fast, but not so studious. I can see why you lost.” Ostran quipped.
Ibra uncrossed his arms and pointed at Ostran, “Hey, I have heart!”
“Oh yes, you certainly do!” The Marquis grinned and stood with one foot on his chair. “The established sponsors wouldn’t risk their reputations on a wild card, but to a hopeful sponsor such as myself, the wild-card holds an opportunity.”
A knot tightened in Ibra’s chest. He slipped his hands into his jacket pocket and stroked his feather. “Why risk your void hotels on me?”
He leaned in. Ibra was losing focus. “Young Ibra, you and,” he paused to read the paper screen. “Que — Quetzle! Ran an incredible race today.” Ostran lowered the paper screen. “Say what exactly is Quetzle?”
He gripped the feather tight, “I’m not sure. I found him… as an egg. We’ve been together ever since.”
Ostran stared into Ibra’s eyes again, “Fascinating,” he said flatly, then returned to his pitch. “You two are tremendously fast. However, lack of discipline ended your opportunity. But discipline can be learned.”
The Marquis sat down and grinned. He was more tired than someone with his youthful face should be. “Now we meet here, both with a need. You lost your chance to enter the tournament. And I need a wild-card entry that can get me in better standings with the Board of Competition.”
He crossed his legs, “Stem or Civ?”
“Civ…” Ibra could barely respond, the tightness in his chest now paired with a lump in his throat.
Ostran slid the paper screen over with a contract displayed. “Scan your Civ. That’s our ticket in.”
His eyes shimmered, “It’ll make a hell of a story, Young Jockey. Victory snagged by an overzealous mount, only to have a chance of redemption. You win this wild-card race, and the money you make from the betting alone will be enough to support you until your first official race. But if you somehow keep winning, I will cover all expenses personally. You have a story. And stories bring customers.”
Ibra was dumbstruck. He had rushed aboard the first ship leaving home, his mind was preoccupied with chasing the opportunity to race and keeping Quetzle safe during travel. He hadn’t even taken the time to study the tournament.
“What’s the catch?”
“Catch? The catch is, you’d better get control of that mount, fast. There’s another hopeful sponsor. You’re up for a head-to-head. And you can bet your saddle that the other jockey won’t waste their second chance.”
Ibra’s knees weakened and trembled. His head spun. He wanted to sprint out of the room. But a thought came back to him. I don’t want to keep talking about my dreams. He braced himself against the chair, his hand sinking into the living fur. It felt warm and… comforting. He slid his other hand into his pocket and stroked his feather.
“OK.”
“OK, what, Young Ibra?”
“OK. Me and Quetzle… We’re in.”
“Scan your Civ, Young Ibra.”
Ibra scanned his Civ Card, and his signature pinged onto the sheet. The Marquis snatched up the paper and thrust it into the mannequin’s chest.
“Stellar!” Ostran stuck out his hand, “We seal the deal like men, Young Jockey.”
Ibra shook his hand. The mannequin escorted him back to his trailer and stood by as he walked inside.
“Young Ibra! Your race is in three days. Remember to rest and refuel at your nearest Drift Station Inn.”
Ibra fell into his bed. He lay on his side, staring at the wall. Tears welled up, blurring his vision as he gritted his teeth to hold them back. He clutched his feather, the first feather Quetzle shed, then cried himself to sleep.
- Ibra
- Rafel
- The Clone
- Ostran
- ISC
Special thanks to everyone who contributed!
Will Ibra’s training be enough to win the wildcard?
Who will be his opponent?
What strange mount will they ride?
Tune in to Episode 3: The Wildcard
Stellar Rein Episode 3
Ibra and his mount Quetzle race in a head-to-head race for a shot at a Wildcard position.
Scandals of the Royal Engine
“His wife was having tea with the King, and he didn’t even know about it,” Meridith whispered to Liane over the clattering of kitchenware.
This is totally cool and I can feel the passion that went into this.
Really well done bro! I'm IN the book!
Cool plot too :)