Lights. Darkness. Shimmering retinal apparitions. She tries to recall who and where she is, but nothing comes up, not even her name. Confusion. Dizziness. Pain fills her head. Her mind is too weak to think. All she can do is probe her environment. A soft leather fills her back, and her stale breath fills the air. Her field of view is solid grey. She lifts her arm, but is stopped by a smooth metallic surface. She is trapped, and she can hear a muffled voice from behind the surface. Before she can begin to panic, the surface lifts away from her, and light floods her sight. The voice becomes crystal clear:
"Good morning! We would like to extend our thanks to you, the customers, for choosing PanStellar on this voyage. You have arrived at our destination, Origo: the cradle of Humanity, home of Sol, your new life. We are currently orbiting Jupiter at the Ulysses-Yar spaceport. You have been in suspended animation for 62 years; we congratulate you on completing this 11 light-year journey, and sincerely thank you for trusting PanStellar."
PanStellar. A bell rings. 62 years ago, you handed them a large sum of Tethys Frank for a placement on one of their outbound vessels. The first thing you remember from prior to waking up is the pang of guilt you felt parting with much of your savings.
Frank. Another bell. It is your family name. It is also the name of the most popular currency on Tethys, a planet orbiting Ross 128. That must be where you came from.
Jupiter. The crown jewel of the Origo system. Growing up on a lone planet, Ross and countless other stars were the only objects you could see in the sky. Origo was always known as the most elaborate system in the local cluster, comprising of several large planets and many moons dancing like clockwork, small trading vessels flitting around in search of low sellers and high bidders. Alas, the Ross system never left much opportunity for space flight. Such an elaborate cosmic dance remained a dream until PanStellar began offering budget placements on their interstellar vessels. Having 5 years of savings on hand and budget seats disappearing rapidly, it was now or never.
After debriefing, Frank steps through the exit of her designated shuttle into the spaceport. She finds herself in a large cavernous interior with shuttles littered around, each marked with PanStellar branding. The wall of the bay is adorned with elevator tubes, leading up to an observation deck. That must be where the rest of the spaceport is; everyone else is heading to the elevators, and so Frank follows. The bar and hotel facilities are fortunately not a long journey from the terminal, owing to regulations precedented by the United to prevent stations from being designed in such an obtuse manner that passengers have to spend more oxygen walking between points of interest, thus justifying higher life support taxes. During this walk, she happens upon a window overlooking another section of the station's bays. This bay has only one spacecraft parked on its floor, facing the far end of the bay. A single person is hauling large crates into the cargo bays of the largest spacecraft in the bay, a spaceplane. It looks a fair bit bigger than the shuttles Frank disembarked from; she'd have to say it looked half as long as a skyscraper is tall, and heavy enough to dent the floor if it was dropped from a small height. The front window just above the nose of the spaceplane looked tiny in comparison. She wonders how much it pays to load such a vessel, although the dejected look on their face doesn't give much hope. She does not see any other crew belonging to the spaceplane through the flight window or around it, and the registration code painted on its hull is almost worn beyond recognisability. The person hauling crates concludes, and makes their way to the lifts. Frank heads to the hotel, herself exhausted.
Within the hour, Frank is unpacking and preparing for sleep. Her room is small, but not cramped. Her bed is located next to the wall parallel to the entrance, adjacent to a large window overlooking space. It is here she captures her first glimpse of Jupiter, in clear view from her window; violent maelstroms of unfathomable scale contrast the flows and eddies circling the planet in neat beige and maroon bands, dotted by bolts of lightning that contrast against the dark hemisphere. Her head begins to spin. She could never have imagined such a view during her old life. She opens her suitcase and digs out a map of the Origo System she had bought at a gift shop, dotted with various points of interest and divided by political borders. Minutes turn into hours - she ponders this map, bringing herself to imagine the lives she could live on each planet and the points of interest she could visit. The map lists three political divides - the United, the Independent, and the Epoch. She knew of the former two, but the Epoch is new. She is reminded of how long she has been out and contemplates what else may have changed. The possibilities make her restless. She cannot sleep, and she gives up on trying to sleep. She once again makes her way into the spaceport.
"Whiskey."
The bartender takes the request. She returns with a glass of liquid that looks like whiskey. It smells just like whiskey. All but one of the senses agrees that it is whiskey. As it hits Frank's tongue, she realises that it is not, in fact, whiskey. Where pleasing chemical reactions should cause Frank to become flushed and lose her dexterity, there is a vacuum. Sober thoughts remain.
"What is this?", inquires Frank.
To wit, the bartender replies "Whiskey".
It is not whiskey. The bartender continues, "I know exactly what you find wrong. The United prohibits the distribution of alcohol. You will have to find your happy hour somewhere else. Is there nothing I can get you?"
Frank pauses for a moment. "Just directions. Where's the nearest place I can get actual whiskey?"
The Bartender jots a note down. It enters Frank's hands. It's the name of a station, a time, a price, and a gate number. Turning it over reveals another set of information.
"The shuttle bound for Cornelius station is the closest, that's a day's transit. If you're in the mood for somewhere more planetary, the other shuttle will take you to Marineres Valley on Mars, though that'll be a week."
Frank puts her best mind to this choice. Spending one week more in transit for a drink?
Someone butts in; "A week in transit for a whiskey? That's taking the biscuit, don't you think?"
It is the labourer who was loading cargo into the spaceplane. Their face is pale and sickly, foiling their pitch-black hair and longcoat.
"Greetings to you too." replies Frank.
"Surely you have better things to spend your money on than a booze cruise."
Frank retorts; "And you'd know that? You should know to mind other peoples' business."
The labourer scoffs. "You can't have a lot planned if your first order of business is taking off to find alcohol."
Frank scratches the back of her head. "Well, I do have plans. I want to explore this place. Eight worlds, just a hop and a skip away. Didn't have that back at home, just Tethys and various asteroids."
The labourer nods. "Not from around here?"
"Ross 128." says Frank.
"Ah."
Pause.
Frank realises how silly her question is, but with nothing else to say, spills: "So... Could you fill me in on the last 60 years?"
The labourer stares blankly.
She adds: "It's not exactly next door, Ross. I bet I've been in flight for longer than you've been alive!"
The labourer scoffs. "Your flight pulled in near the station just before I got here with my cargo. I had to wait for hours while traffic control sequenced the crew shuttles in to the spaceport before me", they complain.
Frank continues. "Yeah... If you do a lot of flying, I'm sure you're familiar with all the factions here. Like this Epoch. We've always been aware of the politics here back at home, on Tethys. I realise there were tensions..."
The labourer raises an eyebrow. "All I can say about the Epoch is that their regulations are a bitch and a half to me."
The labourer looks at their watch, leaves their tab and makes their way to the exit, but they do not reach it before a very good question occurs to Frank.
"Wait!"
They turn towards her.
"Do you know how much 10,000 Frank is worth here?"
The labourer scratches their forehead. "Frank? The currency?"
"Yes."
They shake their head. "Crashed. Thirty years ago. 10,000 will only afford you a few drinks here. I hope that's not how much you put into your savings."
Frank's stomach drops. Before she has the opportunity to ask anything else, the labourer is gone. Someone taps her shoulder - it is the bartender, asking for her tab.
It is now 7 P.M. 31st December, 2529. Frank knows this because a distractingly robotic voice emanates from her ceiling to alert her of the fact. She briefly ponders what determines the time of 7 P.M. in space, but she thinks nothing more of it and sets her mind on a question of true importance: where she is going to get her next paycheck. New to this world, she does not know where to find guidance, let alone convince an employer she is worth parting with their money. Directionless and almost destitute, she resigns herself to her hotel room for a night. During her walk back, she takes in the grand scale of the spaceport. The long street connecting the hotel and bars extends forwards and subtly upwards in a great circle. Ships and shuttles enter through a tunnel within the center column of the station and are taken downwards into the centrifuge; the large street she walks down occupies a small cross-section of the centrifuge, with windows dotted around that overlook the bays. She crosses the same window she spotted last time, and witnesses the labourer continuing to move crates into their ship.
Diary entry 1. Time: 11 P.M. 31st December, 2529
Square one. I have been asleep for 63 years, and the money I stashed for when I got here is worthless. The hotels in this system are mercifully free, but I am stuck here unless I can scrape up some money. I have no friends and no support. All I can do is look out the window and watch ships dock and depart.