Chapter 2: Halcyon

The Halcyon colony was one of those places that emerged like vegetation on a newly settled, forgotten piece of space. In theory, it was a settlement based on the humanitarian idea of rebuilding civilization, but when it came to reality.... well, the reality was not much different from any forgotten hole in space.

From above, the mining colony resembled a rusty dust-covered crater that never ended its long career as an accuser of fate. All around stretched a huge complex of platforms, metal barriers, gnarled machinery and halls whose only role was to extract minerals. It was supposed to be a "friendly" spot where people, though banished to the background of the universe, had the opportunity to feel like pioneers, acquiring new resources and building a new world. And in reality, everything looked as if someone had been tasked with making the ugliest version of paradise, and, as luck would have it, they succeeded. And as in any colony, there lived those who were not in humanity's utopian plans.

Once upon a time, a long time ago, someone probably said that mining minerals in space would be easy. Well, now it was just a giant, rusty network of mines, full of illegal business and more violent than a typical morning at the office.

Between all these constructions, where every day looked like the latest version of a space "landing," in the pub on the lower level, sat Alex. Once again in the same comfortable position - at the bar. He had had enough. Enough of the colony. Enough of his life. Enough of all the mining, which made him feel like an unhappy robot who had been wiping dust off the same metal surfaces every day for 12 years.

The pub he was in was one of those places that could have become a cult, if only someone remembered its existence. "Perdition" - a name the bartender probably chose without much thought, because after all, who would feel like reaching for any ideals in this place?

It was a post-apocalyptic style pub, where everything looked as if someone started building a housing development, then forgot the whole thing and chose the worst possible design for the place. The bar looked like something created from a failed attempt to combine the interior of a spaceship with a nightclub booth. The ceiling was so low that some of the guests had to crouch down to avoid hitting their heads on the frail structure. In the corner, on a large screen, endless commercials flew by in the style of: "Make a living in the mines! Profit and freedom!" And on the bar counter, in addition to alcohol, snacks awaited that looked more like pieces of failed culinary experiments that some avid chef found challenging. Outside, the same dead wind was blowing, which brought no hope for better days.

Alex was just sitting in this one of the gloomiest pubs on Halcyon, with an inherent empty glass in front of him, its contents changing every few minutes. Semi-conscious, with a sense that tomorrow would look the same as today. At first glance, one might think he was an ordinary man, one of many heading for failure in space. But to those who knew him, he was more than that - a veteran, who, by the way, had nowhere very much to return to.

His clothes - a tattered shirt and work pants that had undergone more repairs than anyone in his life could imagine - gave the impression that he was not only the oldest, but also the darkest corner of this colony.

The leather armchair in which he reclined was so worn that it could be pulled out as if it were a thin piece of cloth that the owners had certainly not washed in several years.

He looked like someone who no longer had the strength to correct his hairstyle - black tangled hair, as if someone had measured out exactly two minutes to sloppily shake it up. There were wrinkles on his face, which were not the result of aging, but rather of being a military man for a long time, then a hired mercenary, and now.... now just someone who simply rode through life on autopilot. His eyes? Well, these were dim, exhausted, but they still shone as if something more dangerous than sheer boredom was shining through them. Age, you'd like to know. But given his appearance - one would assume he was about forty years old. A body that looked trained, with that elegant, balanced posture of a man who years ago learned the limits of physical ability - and surpassed them.

A former soldier who for thirty years fought body and soul in one of the bloodiest conflicts humanity has ever had to offer - the 30- year war that ended all hopes for any simple definition of "peace." After the war, after hundreds of battles, there was no place in Earth Utopia for people like him. Alex was the one no one wanted. Too cold, too brutal, too easy to forget, yet too difficult to ignore. A man with a face that bore scars not only on the outside, but especially those that burned inside him. He was like a predator who, though devoid of fangs and claws, still felt hunger. A hunger for battle, a hunger for endless rebellion.

And now... here he was, in this forlorn pub on Halcyon, in the nooks and crannies of the colony, among people who had come here from Earth, thinking they would find something new, but were really just duplicating old mistakes. He sat there, trying to fill the void that was born after the destruction of everything he had ever believed in. And he did what he knew how to do best - drink, fix things, smuggle in what he needed, and wait for someone to finally remember that people like him still exist, though they don't really have anywhere else to go.

He rolled up the sleeves of his worn shirt, the material of which had so many holes that it might have seemed more like a relic of time than part of his clothing.

- Hey, give another one! - he threw to the bartender.

The man looked at him for a moment, as if trying to solve the latest quantum problem, and then reached for another bottle of some strange liquid that might resemble alcohol, but it might as well have been something he accidentally found under the sink.

The bartender, whose face looked more like a map of an aging galaxy than a person. He already felt used to such customers - those who look for answers in the bottom of their glasses, and then even deeper, in the nooks and crannies of the walls of this basement full of dirty windows. The last time someone tried to spout some philosophical theory about life here? Good question. Most customers had only one thing in mind: where to pour more alcohol into themselves.

Alex watched this bartering ritual with unparalleled patience. It was sort of part of his daily routine. Alcohol, silence, a few nonsense conversations with the locals - who seemed more interested in admiring their own damaged bodies than in any form of reflection on their own existence - and solitude again. Solitude was his comfort zone. He was used to it as a developed habit. Only that at the moment he felt it wasn't enough. That something was missing.

- So," he murmured in the bartender's direction, as if trying to draw out some deeper truth from him, "well, you know, something has recently occurred to me that in this colony life is one big movement towards self-destruction. And yet we humans love self-destruction, don't we?

The bartender just shrugged his shoulders and handed him another drink, which Alex immediately tilted, as if hoping that maybe this time he would find the answer to all his questions in that glass.

- I always wonder," he said to himself, as if he was trying to solve the riddle of the universe, or maybe just to force himself to interact with reality in some way, "how long can we sit here without understanding why we are actually here? No, I'm not talking about this pub - rather, I'm talking about this whole.... colony. What have we learned here, other than how to make a big hole in the ground?

The bartender looked at him only for a moment, as if the bit of irony in Alex's words was at best just a yawn. Then he went back to his work, though there was little joy in doing it.

Alex took a sip of the drink, feeling the bitter aftertaste fill his mouth. He swallowed with difficulty, trying not to think about how tired life in Halcyon made him. Here, in this desolate mine of cosmic disillusionment, oblivion was the only answer to the question of what to do next.

- What's your plan, Alex? - asked the bartender, handing him another glass. The bartender had the makings of Alex's personal assistant, which meant they had known each other a long time, because the bartender could sense his mood a mile away.

Alex looked at him for a moment, as if the question was already so old-fashioned that it did not deserve an answer. He smiled, but it wasn't a real smile. Rather, it was a mask he had developed over the course of the war - the outside was meant to mask the inside.

- The plan? - he replied, looking into the glass as if it had the answer to everything. - The plan? I don't have a plan. I have a daily routine. That is enough.

And again he was surrounded by the intoxicating smell of alcohol, dirt and unpleasant sounds: laughter, noises, loud conversations, shouts of those who could not yet stand the stagnation.

Alex poured another sip down his throat, as if he were trying to drink the entire weight of his life in one gulp. The bar, in which he was in, could be quite a reference point to a forgotten town in some desolate corner of the Earth, where half the poor, if they still remembered what it meant to have an education.

The smell of old wood, mixed with the unpleasant odor of industrial alcohol, lingered in the air, as if the pub was about to become the last place where people found something that could be considered "normal." "Normal" in the sense that it was the worst bar in the entire Halcyon colony. But that, as it turned out, was enough.

The bartender, to whom Alex would probably entrust his own life only if he didn't have to look at his dirty shirt, approached the bar with the unmistakable look of an understanding dog that was sick of looking at people, but had no other occupation. The middle-aged man, with graying hair that looked as if it had been combed only by force, acted as if he knew everyone who had ever crossed the threshold of this bar. It was as if he had not only seen the endless interruptions in the lives of his guests, but had actually lived with them - and knew that this was the last thing people wanted to remember.

- You know that if you keep getting so drunk, you'll eventually end up at the bottom," the bartender said, correcting the cup, which looked more like something he found in an old dumpster than an everyday object. - And this is no metaphor.

- Well, yes... - replied Alex, blinking one eye, as if trying to remember what they were talking about a moment ago. - But, I don't know, it's probably not the worst place on the planet. You know what all those others who live in this "utopia" do? Murder. Lies. Manipulations. Betrayals. Smothering everyone.... But the worst part? They think this is normal.

The bartender made a strange face, as if considering whether to ignore Alex or simply offer him another beer, which seemed more reasonable at the moment.

- You know, if you want, I can give you someone to talk to," he added with feigned concern. - Maybe you could use some talk with a woman about hope, the future, you know.... something like that. Although... from what I can see, so far you only talk to your own demons.

Alex smiled grimly. Demons. Good. He had more of them than the population of Halcyon, and each of them was bigger, louder and more stubborn. No wonder he never stopped being friends with the bottle.

- Demons, hm? - He made a gesture as if he was thinking about the word. - You know, I once had a ... hmm... a friend who said that a demon is nothing more than a guy who can't stand his morning coffee. So you know, don't worry. I don't worry about them.

The bartender sighed, and his gaze wandered around the bar as if he was hoping for a miracle. Well, even he knew it wasn't there. What was left was survival and another bottle. They both knew each other.

- Well, okay. Maybe you're right," the bartender shook his head. - But you know, sometimes you have to find something other than drinking to see that you're here at all. There's more to the colony than forgotten memories of the war.

- Cologne is not only forgotten memories," repeated Alex with irony, correcting his shirt, which he no longer remembered. - The colony is actually forgotten memories that try to make you believe that they are something more, because they smell nice and have a good landing in Orbit. You know, on this planet, in all this, the most important thing is that no one notices that it's all one big.... swamp.

The bartender shrugged his shoulders, somewhat resigned. After all, he didn't have another job to do anyway. So, since he was already here, it could go on for another hour or two before Alex finally reached his final decision: to leave.

Behind the bar windows, nothing could be seen but the endless lights of the colony and the fog rising from its surface, which only grew with each passing day, as if Halcyon itself was trying to escape from what it really was. Against the backdrop of the rusty skies, more ships were beginning to land, a little too noisily for such an area, as if they themselves had something to hide.

Alex looked at the bartender as if the man had just uttered the dumbest thing he had heard in three years. When the bartender made a suggestion, he realized that the man probably really had no idea what real life in the colonies meant.

- And, okay, so be it. What do you imagine that I will be rescued here by some of your.... ekhm, lady psychologist? - Alex muttered, turning the glass in his hand as if it were an artifact of an ancient civilization. - You're proposing that I screw around a bit with some chick who, first of all, has forgotten her own life, and secondly, will advise me on how to live in the process? Come on, man.

The bartender, seeing no problem at all, pointed his finger toward a somewhat hidden part of the bar, where, it seemed, there was a bit more than just alcohol. At least more than in the rest of the tabernacle, which could be considered a "place with soul" at all.

- You know," he began, as if he was revealing a great secret, "she not only gives .... well, "what you need," as you say, but she will also listen, understand. And so I think to myself that maybe you really need someone to finally put all these things in your head. After the war, after all these years, maybe it's finally time for someone to tell you that this is not the end of the world, but the beginning of a new one.

Alex burst out laughing, which made even the bartender have to wonder for a moment if this was definitely a good reaction. Alex was already in a state that he would probably giggle even at his own funeral.

The bartender seemed slightly amused, but didn't care. He only cast a glance at one of the women on the table next to him, who was trying to find some more interesting way to impress the lone traveler, who clearly had no intention of going where she was inviting him.

- You know, she has talent, seriously. And yes, maybe she won't solve all your problems," the bartender added with a wider smile that looked very artificial indeed, "but sometimes you need to tell someone to be with you.... I don't know, understanding, so that you don't end up with a bottle of booze for the rest of your life. Maybe she can help you understand why you long for something that doesn't exist. Or, you know, why you're still sitting here when everyone else has long gone.

Alex blinked and shook his head, as if trying to remember the last time he felt that something in this world made sense. He didn't recall. He sat in the same place he always did. He had lost track of time. He was 62 years old, but there was still something in his eyes that reminded him of a forty-year-old - maybe it was that damnable dislike of the world he was walking around with, or something even worse: self-loathing.

- Listen- he began, shifting his glass to the other side of the bar. - I'm missing something here. No, it's not about sex, even if.... - he looked in the direction of the girl he met, who was now smiling wider at him than before-but something deeper. Something that lies here inside," he pointed to his chest, as if he acutely sensed that after forty years of life mistakes, some things can be felt not only physically, but also metaphorically.

The bartender shrugged his shoulders, feeling that this topic made no sense in their conversation, but something about Alex still intrigued him. He just felt that the high-end guy simply didn't believe in his own life, which had the curious consequence of making him drink bourbon at six o'clock in the morning. But he didn't ask the question, because he knew the answer would sound like Alex was already too far gone to fix anything.

In the meantime, as the conversation died in half-words, they simply fell silent. Alex went back to looking at his glass. And in that silence, for a moment, he felt as if everything around him was just one big collection of things that had little value - and he himself became just a silent part of that absurdity.

The bartender glanced again at the clock on the wall, then at Alex, who was looking at his drink as if it were more than just a drink in a glass vessel. He usually looked that way when he was trying to figure out why it all didn't make sense. Because, he said, all this life in this colony was some kind of strange travesty. The walls of bars like this one were basically real-time TV screens - blinking, shaking, full of questions no one wanted to ask.

- I know you don't want to sit here for the rest of your life. But everyone here does. I'm just asking, what about you? What would you do if you had the option to get out of this pile of shit you're drowning in? - asked the bartender again, sitting down on the bar stool and drawing in a deep breath.

Alex sighed heavily, still looking at the glass, as if she could answer him. Later, he broke the silence.

- Well, I guess I would have done what I learned in the war," he finally replied, as if it were a matter of course. - I would find the nearest exit, kill everyone who would get in my way, and then? Then I would find another way to kill myself. Just so I wouldn't have to experience it again.

The bartender looked at him for a moment. He agreed with him - no, not really - but he knew that Alex didn't mean it in a literal sense. He wanted to express all his frustration this way, as if life in this colony didn't make any sense anyway. He wanted to leave, but didn't know how to do it.

In the background, a holographic "Happy Hour" advertisement flicked on the wall above the bartender, showing two attractive smiling women, harkening back to a time when ads were the answers to life's most important questions. It was as if what was most valuable in life was literally being sold out at every corner.

- That sounds like a plan, you know? - the bartender chuckled with a slight smile. - Just think it through properly. Death may be easy, but it's not always understood by others, and we don't want that, do we?

Alex looked at him again, but no longer with the same irritation as a moment ago. Yes, he was tired, discouraged, as if every word uttered by that bartender, every smile in that place that made no sense, made him feel more alone than ever before. But still, at the moment, he didn't want to admit it. Not in this place. Not now.

- Death? - he quipped, smiling to himself, and then for the first time in a long time he felt something that might resemble true irony. - No. I just wanted to understand why we were in this fucking place.

The bartender only nodded, but said nothing. Words were unnecessary at the moment, because Alex knew that whatever he would say here now would not change what he had in his head. So instead he just took another sip, as if trying to understand what was going on, but at the same time he knew that what he was looking for would never be given to him anyway.

- Do you have what you understand to be something that will save you? - asked the bartender.

- What? - Alex turned his head, still not knowing exactly what he was asking.

- Do you have any faith that life just has meaning? That this damn colony that stands on this shitty planet will finally get you off? - The bartender looked at him as if this was a real conundrum. - Maybe it's time to start changing that. Or maybe it doesn't make sense anymore?

Alex, as befits a soldier, decided that he would not think long.

- You know what," he began, and realized it again. - Maybe everything we do here is just one big machine. Everyone is playing at being an adult, and then in this game they forget that once there was no war. Everything was really important, then it went sour and no one fixed it. But I, for example, am here now. And so, I don't know what it means, but maybe there is a solution in it.

Instead of answering, the bartender smiled slightly, nodding as if to say, "Wait, it's not over yet."

Before he could answer, however, the bar door rapped loudly and a noisy group of miners burst into the room. They all looked as if they had just returned from a tour of underground hell - faces dirty from dust, clothing torn and stained, and in their eyes was painted the typical mix of fatigue and disregard for everything around them. Their stride was sure, if a bit wobbly from their earlier drinks. They opened the door unceremoniously, as if they entered this bar every day - or perhaps they actually did.

They ran up to the bar like a herd of rabid donkeys, interrupting in half a word the conversations that were still going on in the corners. They had the makings of a bunch of hungry hyenas who look at nothing, think about nothing, and their bursts of laughter and unfunny jokes bounced off the walls like a timid echo.

Each of them reached out for cheap local spirits - their smell was a mixture of distillate, sweat and dust, making Alex question why he was still breathing at all. And yet, despite the fact that his nose felt like running away from his face, he clung to his glass of bourbon. His beloved, cheap, mulled pig, which, though it tasted like robot piss, was the only thing in this bar that didn't let him down.

- Oho, look who's sitting here! Our hero, Mr. "life is war"! He probably spent the entire war washing dishes in the canteen!- thundered one of the miners, with a face as if he had just invented sarcasm.

Laughter rang out like an alarm siren in a mine. Alex felt as if someone had thrown a bucket of cool sand in his face. "War hero" - it sounded like a joke at his expense, although just a moment ago he had hoped to get through the evening without major drama.

One of the miners - wearing a company sweatshirt that read "Inferno Mining Co." as if it were a medal for excellence in incompetence - approached him with a broad smile.

- Well, what, did your veteran medal for bravery get lost, or did you leave it in a pawn shop for another flask? Tell us what it's like to be famous. Is it true that in the war you were a master barrel polisher? You must miss those shared moments with the boys. - He chuckled, and then unceremoniously grabbed his glass and started waving it around.

Alex stood up slowly, with a look on his face, as if assessing whether the guy was worth even one second of his attention.

- Do you know what I'm missing now? - He asked, looking at the glass. - Bourbon. Now, genius, put it down.

The miner, in an act of outstanding courage and absolute lack of sense, spilled the contents on the floor. Alex looked at the spilled piss, which was his only companion in this place, and then at the guy, as if he had just made a decision that would change his day. In an instant, he snatched the glass from the guy's hand, with a swift movement turning it into a slightly more functional tool - something he had hitherto associated with a short sharp movement in combat.

The next moment, as if he had set off some internal spring, Alex moved with momentum. The first blow landed in the stomach of the nearest miner, who nearly bent in half. Then, before he had time to react, Alex hit the jaw of the next one. The sound of impact resounded. The third miner didn't even have a chance to perform a dodge, because Alex, still poised, but full of hatred, smashed his nose with one precisely aimed blow. The glass was gone, and its remains splashed on the floor.

- Never touch my things again. - Alex looked at the three miners, who were now lying on the ground, groaning in convulsions. Their playful banter had turned into a real tragedy - and a tragedy that was caused only by Alex, because this time he wasn't going to let anyone cross that thin line.

The miners were no longer funny. Instead of jokes, only the sound of breathing rang out, as if their breaths were one collective expression of realization of what they had just learned - and Alex, looking down at them, was reminded of what really means to survive in this brutal, soulless world.

As expected, the bartender approached slowly, unhurriedly, as if all this was an everyday occurrence. There was a slight flash of concern in his eyes, but he said nothing. Instead, he looked at the broken glass, at the bodies on the floor, and then at Alex again.

- Phew. I knew nothing good would come of it," he chuckled calmly.

Alex shrugged his shoulders, searching around the bar for another sip of his favorite drink. Usually he was more balanced, but not this time. Today he would not be provoked. The last thing he had left was that damn glass.

He left the bar, pushing open the wooden door, which creaked like a disgruntled ghost. The night air of the colony was thick, damp and permeated with what could be described as a mixture of burnt fuel, copper and moral decay. The street lamps, half off and half flickering, cast a cold, yellowish light on the metal walls of the buildings that brought out only the outlines from the edges of the gloom. Every surface, from the tattered posters advertising "The True Taste of Earth" (which was a lie) to the soiled windows of neighborhood stores, seemed to be covered with an oily, iridescent tarnish.

Somewhere in the distance there was the low hum of mine machinery - the tireless workers of this dead planet. The streets were almost empty, except for the occasional clatter of the heels of someone foolish enough to live here, or desperate enough to try to survive.

He paused for a moment to fire up a cigar - one of those cheap ones, with a taste reminiscent of old shoes dipped in molasses, but strong enough to force his lungs to rethink his existence. The smell of smoke quickly mingled with the night air. He pulled a bottle of bourbon from his pocket, which he rolled from behind the bar without much ado - compensation for a lost evening and a spilled glass. He took a solid sip, letting the frothing liquid run down his throat.

The neighborhood was as forlorn as its inhabitants. The buildings - rectangular, built of cheap metal - formed narrow, almost claustrophobic streets. The curbs were cluttered with toolboxes, abandoned waste containers and a few wrecked vehicles that seemed to be in the process of endless decay. In the background were tall mine towers - bony, predatory structures, as if someone had taken them out of a horror movie about a mechanical apocalypse.

Alex slipped his hands into his jacket pockets and headed toward the motel where he was staying. The "Aurora" motel was as cheap as its name was ironic - no auroras shone over this forgotten patch of the galaxy. The building stood alone, with a shabby facade and a neon sign that hadn't worked for years. It was more like a prison than a house, but Alex was fine with that - the fewer questions, the better.

When he turned the corner, he saw her. She was like a phantom in this still landscape - a woman of such unearthly beauty that for a moment he forgot where he was. She was wearing something light, almost ethereal, that accentuated her slender figure, but was also functional - perfect for a traveler. Her skin seemed to glow in the faint lamplight, and her hair, sleek and shiny, cascaded down her shoulders.

She was standing next to the carpenter of the motel - an older man in a torn suit who looked like he had spent his entire life fixing things that never worked. She was talking to him, and Alex noticed that the carpenter looked as dazed as himself. The woman seemed to be asking something, gently gesturing with her hand, whose fingers moved with a dance-like grace.

Alex slowed his step, trying to understand what she was doing here. In this place, beauty was not something that appeared randomly. And if anything, it certainly had a purpose. He took another sip of bourbon and inhaled a cigar before moving toward the motel entrance.

Alex stopped a few steps away from the couple, leaning nonchalantly against the wall of the building. The artificial light of the neon sign cast strange shadows on his face, accentuating the wrinkles around his eyes and his expression of annoying, perpetual fatigue. He took another puff of his cigar, puffing the smoke toward the ground, and then grunted quietly to get his attention.

- If you are looking for someone to fix your generator, the carpenter is the right man. If you're looking for someone who knows where to get a drink in this hole - that's me," he chuckled with a smile that was closer to a grimace than an actual expression of kindness.

The woman turned around slowly. Her gaze was at once cool and penetrating, as if she could scan him thoroughly with a flick of her eyelids. Her eyes were an intense green, almost luminescent, as if they didn't match this gray reality at all.

- What if I'm looking for someone who can keep a secret? - She asked quietly, but her voice had a strange power in it that caught Alex off guard.

The carpenter, who was standing next to him, grunted nervously, wiping his hands on his dirty overalls. He looked as if he wanted to evacuate before the situation got any weirder, but the woman held him in place with her eyes.

- Please, answer me. It's important," she said, in a tone that allowed no objection.

Alex scratched the back of his neck, fiddling with the bottle of bourbon in his hand for a while. He was curious - or perhaps more interested, since curiosity was always too much of a luxury for him.

- Secrets? In this place? - Alex raised his eyebrows. - Secrets don't have much value here, because people are too busy surviving to talk about them. But if you're concerned with something that requires exceptional silence, I'll say this: I'm like the grave. Unless someone pays more.

The carpenter, as if on cue that this was a good time to withdraw from the scene, walked quickly aside muttering something about how "the job won't do itself."

- I'm looking for someone who knows about people and places. Especially those that don't officially exist," she said, measuring him with a glance. - Can you be such a person?

Alex parried a laugh, but it was not a pleasant sound. It was more like a dry cough.

- I can be, as long as it doesn't bring me to the scaffold. But honestly? You don't look like someone who should be looking for such people in such places.

- And you don't look like someone who could be useful," she replied, smiling barely noticeably. - And yet I'm trying.

Alex took another sip from the bottle, assessing her with his eyes. That she was beautiful was one thing. But that she had something about her that made people prefer to get out of her way - that was much more interesting.

- All right," he finally threw in. - What's your name, princess?

The woman came closer, and the light revealed fine lines on her face, something that looked like scars or marks that could have come from old wounds.

- Astra," she replied briefly.

Alex looked at her with new interest. The name sounded too.... pure, too poetic for someone who had ended up in such a hole.

- Well, Astra," he said, throwing the cigar butt on the ground and crushing it with his shoe. - Tell me what you're really looking for. But be warned: if it's something stupid, I'll leave you to the mercy of the place.