space

Domi stretches. Muscles flex, release, and pull ribs wide, then collapse close together, tines on a fork all in a row. Their eyes sweep over the flight controls, collecting the data they need to analyze how many more isolated breaths they can take until their lungs begin to burn with underutilization. Domi has trained for this scenario, the sensation of breathlessness a familiar one. Runners did this all the time, ferrying messages across treaty lines to those who needed them the most. Notifications of food shipments in one system could have massive implications in another. Knowledge of troop movement was standard as well. This though, this is more specialized. And this is Domi’s first direct contact with the other side. Flex. Release. Breathe.

Two minutes. Where is the damn contact? The thought drifts through Domi’s mind as they begin to stretch out their shoulders, holding one arm to their chest with the other, wincing as the joint satisfyingly popped, a soft sound swallowed by the blips and whirrs of the pod control panel. Recalling their training, Domi begins to shallow their breaths, and flicks the temperature control switch down another notch. Hell, they can take two. Delicate clouds form and dissipate under their nose as the short puffs of breath meet the cold air. They let their mind wander back to their body’s response to their breath, trying to become aware of the cold air traveling through their sinuses, warming, making its way to their lungs. Savoring the feeling of their chest barreling with each draw. Domi’s hands dance from the controls to their orders. 

Meet Serpentine contact in the shadow of the Diora Line. Ghost out and wait to pass the enclosed. Do not connect to any port, you must not be followed. Return in one piece. May all the stars light you home.

Daring a sigh, Domi attempts nonchalance in the pod seat, a hard plastic, sterile in use and construction. This Serpentine better show their scales soon, or they would have to pry the data stick from Domi’s corpse. Domi tries not to check the oxygen gauge, focusing instead on ticking their fingers up and down and one by one, keeping the digits mobile in the cold. Their lungs begin to prickle, and Domi represses the urge to bug their eyes and gulp the air. Lids slide closed and Domi imagines slipping their mind into an envelope, the envelope falling into the wrong hands. All their memories of the Runners, their training, past missions they flew, the taste of cafe de olla. A sharp hiss interrupts Domi’s thoughts, and their eyes fly open. A short tube has connected to the entrance to their pod, lights indicating a successful traction seal. Domi flicks the switch, and the doors slide open, revealing their contact. A blast of oxygenated air hits their face, and they lap it up like water. Flex. Release. Smiling, Domi slides over the data stick. 

Breathe.