Voidborn - A Sci-fi LitRPG

Malan stepped away from the cool grey metal of the Miotov and sighed deeply, the slightly stale air of his respirator mask filling his lungs. He had chosen this penance, but that didn’t make it any less miserable. Beneath him, as the micro-thrusters of his suit took him out into the dark abyss of space, the gas giant R18-34C shone pearlescent blue and purple.

It was otherwise unremarkable, but for the crimson swirl of lighting and stormwinds slowly roving its surface like a marble. A Celestial Storm, one of the most frequent celestial phenomenon in the galaxy, and yet one humanity knew almost nothing about. Malan could see the pulsing of blood-red energies, and even this far up in orbit felt the soft shiver of its power across his skin beneath his suit. The monitoring and study of the storm was the reason for the existence of the Miotov, and for the presence of the small team of technicians maintaining the research station in this dull backwater system.

“Staring’s not gonna get the dish scrubbed any faster, shithead.”

Beric’s reedy sneer filled his helmet through its small speakers, breaking the grip the storm had on his focus. Malan blinked, surprised to realise he hadn’t been breathing.

“Fuck off, Beric. You want it done faster, do it yourself—if you can find a suit that fits you of course.”

Big words, but not ones he could back up, and Beric knew it. “Make your jokes while you're safe out there all you like. You’ll get what’s coming.”

There was an expectant pause as Malan manipulated his thrusters to take him around the outside of the station towards the enormous sensor array domes aimed towards the planet and its storm.

He heard Beric scoff, the disdain in his voice deepening. “That’s what I thought. Spineless, worthless trash. See you back on board.”

The comms crackled as they closed, and Malan could almost picture the sickening, smug superiority on Beric’s face. He was a bully and a coward, as most bullies were. Had it been any of the others, Malan could have stood up to him easily enough, but Beric was different.

Beric knew who he was.

Trying to put the return journey out of his mind, he focused his attention on the Miotov and its sensor arrays. The vessel itself was an orbital research vessel, probably a few centuries old at this point, made up of a patchwork of cold grey and dirtied white metal panels, evidence of the multitude of repair work over its long service. Inside wasn’t much better, and its continued operation was down entirely to the expertise of those on board, and their ability to continuously repair and restore old and outdated tech.

Placed at its head, was the reason anybody even bothered to make the effort. A vast sensory array made up of a trio of dishes all angled towards the storm on the planets surface below. They were impressive bits of kit, able to collect data and readings from Celestial energies, like those of the storm below.

Problem was, R18-34C came with a bastard of a debris field, with enough particulate to get caught and smother the dish. The heat the dish created caked it on, and if left, would ruin the sensors. On larger, better funded operations, remote-piloted skimmers would be able to periodically clean the surfaces with precision lasers. On the poorer funded ops, small cleaner crews would go out and clean them manually.

On the Miotov, however, it was down to Malan alone.

It was awful, back-breaking and dangerous work, and his willingness to do it alone and save the others the trouble was a large part of the reason this crew had taken him on board. For the last three years, this had been his life. Four days across a week cleaning the sensors tiny section by tiny section just to keep them functional, then another three doing whatever menial, shitty tasks the others could think of that they didn’t want to do themselves.

The work had him miserable and exhausted, bored and constantly demeaned and looked down upon, and he deserved nothing less.

He reached the cool white of the first sensor dish with no issues, and his feet magnetically clamped to the surface. Two thirds of the dish had been cleaned by him over the past few weeks, leaving only a square of filth and grime still attached. With another small sigh he bent down onto one creaking knee to steady himself and took out his cleaning tool.

Malan found the rhythm quickly. The tool fired a soft white beam of low-powered energy in a fan pattern. It wasn’t strong enough to damage the metal, but knocked away crusted on dirt and filth well enough. All he had to do was move it back and forth, gradually covering the entire surface area to be cleaned.

It was physically tiring, and left his mind entirely unoccupied, with little to do but torture himself with the past.

After the first hour, he was tired. By the third, he was desperate to find any distraction at all from his own thoughts. He found himself drawn once again to the Celestial Storm below, unable to peel his eyes away from its gentle pulse and swirl, and the feel of its energies reaching out into space. He’d always felt them, but these last few days they’d grown in strength, and Malan had been unable to stop himself from gazing out at the storm as it seemed to call out to him in return.

After another four grueling hours, he dragged his heavy, aching body through the Miotov’s airlock and decontamination chamber, before beginning the fiddly task of releasing himself from his suit’s litany of zips and clasps and safety locks. By the end of what had already been a fourteen hour work shift, he was clumsy and fumbling, drawing out the already long process as his eyes swam and threatened to close on him.

They nearly had when the blow to his stomach forcibly ejected the air from his lungs and left him sinking to his knees, gasping. A booted foot to the back sent sharp spasms of pain through his body, and sent him face first into the smooth metallic floor of the changing rooms.

He felt a hand run its way through his hair before gripping tight and yanking him upright. Malan might have cried out had it not been for the lack of air in his lungs. He found himself staring, vision spotty, into Beric’s cold, grey eyes.

“That’s for your back talk earlier, shithead. You talk to me like that again, and everyone will know exactly what you are, understand?”

White hot shame washed over him, both at the humiliation of the situation, and of the reminder of what he had done. Beric’s smug smile twisted into an expression of ugly fury, and his free hand backhanded Malan viciously, though the older man never let go of the tight grip on his hair.

“I expect an answer when I speak to you,” he hissed. “Do. You. Understand?”

“Y-yes,” Malan mumbled through a fat lip and a mouth sticky with the copper tang of blood.

The smile slid back into place. “Yes sir.”

The shame burned hotter than ever, until it was something else entirely. He had talked back—that had been stupid. But he was nearing the limit of what he could take. Malan was better than this man. Stronger. Smarter. Better at his job. Better than this. Only, the thing that made him angriest of all was that he wasn’t. Beric was a miserable, barely competent coward, but he hadn’t made the kind of mistakes Malan had.

He had never killed.

Anger and pity and self loathing boiled over, and escaped Malan’s mouth in the form of two words and a glob of bloody spit straight into Beric’s face.

“Fuck you.”

Beric dropped him like a sack of potatoes and staggered back, disgusted groans muffled by the desperate wiping of blood and saliva from his face. Malan tried to scramble away on leaden hands and knees, but he already knew there would be no escape from the consequences this time.

The first boot landed directly between the sixth and seventh rib on his left side, and the second caught him right on the hip bone. He cried out as pain lanced through him, and tried desperately to curl his body up as best he could.

“That’s right, cower you waste of fucking oxygen,” Beric rasped, voice low and dangerous. “I’m gonna make you regret ever drawing breath before we’re done here.”

Blow after blow rained down, boot and fist, until Beric had worked off the anger and he finally left, panting and smug, spitting down at Malan’s trembling from before he did so.

It was a long time before Malan moved again, and when he did, it was inch by inch as each tiny movement brought fresh waves of agony. He could tell by the stabbing pain in his side each time he took a step towards his quarters that one of his ribs was broken. That was unfortunate. The bruises and cuts could be dealt with medical paste, but hiding a broken rib was going to be… unpleasant.

All of these however, were problems for tomorrow. He staggered through the deathly quiet halls of the station, the white walls all blurring together amidst the exhaustion and pain, only certain he was going the right way thanks to three years of muscle memory.

The doors to his quarters slid open mercifully quickly, revealing sparse quarters with only a bed and a small cabinet that he kept meticulously clean. He sank into his bed with a hiss, and dimmed the lights to reduce the effect of their glare on his ringing head. He didn’t turn them off completely, however.

He left them just bright enough that he could shift painfully and stare at the lone picture on his desk. Him and his parents together with his sister, all happy and together at home. This single act hurt worse than any of the beatings and petty tortures Beric had inflicted upon him. It was not here as a comfort. It was a reminder of why he was here instead of aboard a Coalition starship pushing the boundaries of humanity, protecting people.

A reminder of the family his actions had destroyed.