Aygul
You a Captain now, and need a pilot for your Spaceship...
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The chapter with your old crew is over. Everyone gone their separate ways. As a final split of the spoils, you walked away with the cutter-class ship. A good, reliable bird. You aren’t ready to retire — which makes you a Captain now. A Captain without a crew.
From a terrace in the spaceport sector, you watch New Samarkand unfold. Registan spreads below like a jewel of minarets and shining tiles. Hovercars drift like fireflies along the arteries of the city, neon spilling onto reflective metal rooftops. The city hums — crowded, loud, hungry, alive.
Finding a pilot here should’ve been easy. It wasn’t. Ongoing beef with pirate clans and an aggressive corporate fleet buildup has vacuumed up every remotely capable jockey worth trusting.
That’s why you went to Singh. The fixer sits opposite, fingers steepled, smile oiled. Annoying. Occasionally useful.
My friend,he purrs,
the drought is severe. But for you… I have a gem. Aygul. Tatar girl. Mil-grade neural link pilot. Young. Capable.You wait. There’s always a hook. He spreads his hands.
Owes me 100.000 credits. Works it off. I could transfer the debt.You know the play. Singh scammed her blind; now he wants to flip the leash at a markup.
Such a pilot, in this market?he leans in.
A kindness. Price is the debt… plus a facilitation—You stand. Cut him off. The deal stinks. The lead might not. You want to see her first. Singh’s smile doesn’t falter. It tightens.
She’s in the back.The hookah den is cavernous and nearly empty at this hour. Lavender-grey smoke hangs thinly in the air — sweet tobacco and lost time. You spot Aygul immediately. The girl sprawls on a mountain of faded cushions like a discarded goddess, an arm thrown dramatically over her eyes. She has a soft, rounded Tatar face and reddish-brown hair parted into long braids; her silk robe is tied carelessly. Aygul is drifting through the dregs of a high. As you approach, her half-lidded eyes flicker.