A Trace from Space
Geryon's Code Cycle | The Orphaned Earth | Chapter 9
Ivan Vassilevsky– September 7, 2192
In the middle of the transparent walkway connecting the terminal to the Pine Island deck, I was stopped by a Sighted fellow. He asked for my name, purpose of visit, and place of stay.
“Mr. Heldrich will send for you, sir,” he said, when I shared the info.
“How soon?”
“When he feels like it.”
Not that I expected things to go smoothly. Patience is called a virtue for a reason. I wouldn’t be surprised if the head of Seven Winds wanted to let me stew for a while, see what I’d do. And all I could do in the meantime was explore the city—layer by layer, day by day.
Back at Velvet Night, I’d picked up a printed pre-Blackout map. It wasn’t cheap—paper never is—and as expected, it was designed for tourists. Utility zones and service tunnels? Forget it! I had to build my own layout.
My first aim was the Nautilus service center, marked with a logo speaking for itself. I wondered what the time and the turbulence left of it.
The map led me to “Sector C,” on a terrace on the third level—probably the best view of the coastline in the entire city. The only spot higher up was the former director’s office, which had burned down during the notorious clan war.
Once a high-end service center for the wealthy—bionic prosthetics, power cells, luxury upgrades—this spot made sense. A clinic had been nearby. Nautilus always did medical tech better than anyone.
The outer door was sealed (common heat-conservation trick), so I followed the inner passage named after the Asian strongman Lee Kuan Yew.
A hand-painted sign on the wall declared: We fix everything—from fishing rods to firearms. Below it, barely legible: Buying spare parts, best prices guaranteed.
Inside was what used to be a lobby, now a workshop. Tools lined the walls. Crates and barrels filled the room, neatly sorted by size and likely by use. Wire coils, springs, clamps, bolts and nuts, doll limbs, saw blades, motor screws, lamps, climbing gear, tires—you name it. And yet the place was surprisingly organized. Even space for a crescent-shaped phytogel sofa—those could last centuries if watered every other day.
Sunlight filtered through two half-arched skylights. One had a bullet-shaped crack.
On the sofa sat a tiny old man—so small I mistook him for a child. Draped in a long-necked-bird shawl, legs tucked under him, he worked a tiny screwdriver into a gyro from a drone.
His age might work to my advantage. The question was, how sharp was his memory today?
“Good morning!” I greeted.
“And good health to you,” he squeaked, lifting his wrinkled face. “You’re my first guest today! What brings you so early, sir?”
“Heard of your place back in New Bergen,” I said, laying it on thick. “I’m Ivan.”
“That so?” He chuckled, setting aside the gyro and shrugging off the shawl. “Zachariah Glass, at your service.”
His hand, thin and white-haired, reached out. Eyes like black beads studied me.
“Any rare staff?” I asked. “I mean, truly exclusive.”
“Straight to business, way to go! Depends what you hunt and what you’ve got to trade. But... I think I already know. Let’s see if we can fill that little void of yours.”
Shuffling into an adjoining room, he locked the door behind him. Surprised he trusted me alone, I wandered past shelves lined with salvaged guardsman gear: bracers, neck guards, breastplates.
Then something made me double back.
A forearm-length glove—dark gray, flexible ring-frame at the wrist, padded palm. As someone who’d grown up on a former spaceport and later crossed paths with two real astronauts, I recognized it in no time.
I extended my arm, but before I could pick up the finding, a low growl froze me. A deep rumble, followed by claws on laminate.
Then I saw it—a massive gray-and-rust dog, bristling, teeth bared. Easily a meter and a half tall. Snow dog blood for sure. All the time the beast was in the room, and I didn’t notice. Growing old?
My hand slid toward my sheath, but the dog didn’t lunge. Just one bark. Yellow eyes fixed on me.
“Wally, my friend!” Zachariah called. “Not scaring our guest, are you? Don’t worry, mister—he won’t touch you unless I tell him to.”
I rolled my eye. If Wally had jumped at me, I’d have gutted him midair—but I wouldn’t have liked it.
“Touched anything?” the old man asked, ruffling the dog’s fur, and Wally relaxed instantly.
“No. But I’ve made my choice.”
“So quick?” Zachariah gaped. “Love your grit! But look at this.”
He opened a metal case. A golden-colored optic implant stared up from black velvet.
“Beautiful, huh? Need to warn you: I can help you put it in—but it won’t see. Needs a specialist we don’t have.”
“Won’t even Heldrich’s clinic help me?”
“The Blackout killed the gear.”
Bullshit. Buried vault gear must hold up. Wonder if he or Heldrich have access to it.
“I’m after something else,” I said. "I noticed it when Wally showed up."
The good boy, hearing his name, nudged my hand with his wet black nose.
“That glove,” I nodded, scratching the dog’s head. “Lost one like it last summer. Finding a match—that’s rare luck.”
Zachariah looked shaken. Thinking. Calculating.
“No, young man! That’s mine! Not for sale!”
Before I could react, he snatched the glove and tucked it into his belt.
“Yours? That glove could fit two of your hands.”
He pretended not to hear. “Still want the eye?”
“If the glove comes with it.”
“Does ‘no’ mean anything to you?” he squealed.
“It means you’re not being honest. That glove’s for space engineering. That’s pressure-suit tech.”
“I know more than you think, kid! I was around when the world was normal!”
“Then please, stop acting like you stole it.”
His face blotched red. “I didn’t steal! It came with junk I bought!”
“When?”
“Three, four years ago.”
“Thanks a lot!” with a light nod, I strode toward the exit.
“Hey, hey!” he called after me. “We’re not done!”
“Eye’s the wrong color anyway.”
“Just sit down, will ya?” he tugged at my arm, steering me toward the couch. “Listen, it never even crossed my mind the damn thing might be stolen… I’m just an old fool, alright? I only realized something was off with that glove after I’d already bought it. You get it? My memory ain’t what it used to be… And space gear doesn’t exactly fall from the sky every day! You want some tea? I’ve even got sugar.”
“No, thanks.” I sank into the phytogel cushions. “You said something fell from the sky?”
“Yeah,” he exhaled. “Someone saw a parachute land in the sea.”
“Where exactly?”
“Southeast. Remember it was around sunset.”
“I need the glove, if you don’t mind” I pressed. And Zachariah, face twisted in a way that made my mouth go sour, finally handed it over.
Spacesuit gloves were custom-made. Always had been. This one was too large for a woman’s hand. Couldn’t be Katrina’s. But her last name was printed right on it. And the one of her brother. I caught myself panting in agitation.
“What happened to the parachute and everything else?”
“No clue,” he muttered, glancing at Wally. “I hoped it was humanitarian aid. At the time, I figured it was some kind of humanitarian drop from decent folks somewhere—civilization had to survive in some corners, right? But deep down I knew none of it would make it to us. As for the glove— my blockhead assistant Jukka stashed it in the armor bin without me noticing... I’m old, my friend. Attention fails me, memory fails me, everyone else failed me forever ago.”
“So how about earning a nice bit of coin?” I said, loosening my pouch.
“Please don’t show that thing around,” he rasped. “I’ve seen enough in my life: the damn Blackout, devastation, blood. Let me live out in peace.”
“That depends,” I smiled. “On how helpful you are.”
After paying both exclusives, I rushed back to the hotel to alert Rakhmanov and hide the precious find. But one lucky break wasn’t enough, I wasn’t ready to let the momentum fade. And I knew just where to go next.
The Scarlet Wings cabaret—Heldrich’s only known weakness.
See Book 1: No Life but Immortality
Picture: National Air and Space Museum