Chapter Text
He was the very quintessential image of a high elf. High cheekbones, sharp jaw and long straight nose. He was descended from the moon elves of Evereska or so his adopted father always told him. His perpetually sickly pallor and striking gold-flecked blue eyes and naturally stark white hair all supported his supposed pedigree.
It should be a point of pride that he was of pure elven blood. His people were so rare these days. Their ilk was so diluted into the general population that his long elegant ears were a novelty only in their length. Many a random street vendor or FTL-engineer was blessed with the tiniest hint of a point to their ears, hinting at some much diluted kinship.
Astarion barely remembered his conclave, spending only the first decade of his distant youth among the ancient remnants of his clan. No face in his lengthy, muddled memories was without line or sunspot.
His race was dying.
For two hundred and forty cycles he has scraped by, selling his body one way or another to survive.
In his first century and a half it was mine work, his unnaturally keen dark sight making him uniquely suited to spotting veins of faintly glowing magicite ore, the super conductive mineral that was vital for the operation of the massive interstellar cargo ships that traversed the local star systems.
Decades of hard labor destroyed his back and subsequently his savings. It’d been one expensive medical procedure after another to replace ruptured discs in his spine until he was finally out of healthy spine and in turn, credits.
Now that his strength was no longer an asset, he had to rely on his beauty. He was exotic. A rare delicacy. He could make more money with escort work than he ever did in the mine if he was in business for himself. He had the unfortunate luck to fall in with a bawdy house that had predatory contracts, and he paid more than half of his income for the privilege of simply standing on their doorstep.
It took him nearly a century to save enough to get out, another decade to complete the rigorous screening and training process to be accepted into the Weave Institute’s Guardian Program.
The mission was simple. He would be the sole crew member on a small colony ship, watching over the colonists and crew while they were in cold sleep on a journey to a distant corner of the galaxy. The trip would be longer than the human lifespan. Elves were highly sought after as Guardians. Their naturally longer lifespan made them uniquely suited to shepherding sleepers on decades-long trips. The longer the trip the higher the pay.
Travel in deep space was largely handled by advanced AI and synthetic humans. Crews of large ships and pleasure cruisers would primarily consist of these artificial lifeforms.
In cases such as these where the crew must be put in cold sleep, the Guardian program would provide an organic escort to ensure the safety of the passengers.
AI was largely mistrusted in recent years. The technology grew to a degree that it was often hard to discern whether you were speaking to a human or a sufficiently complex computer system. There were increasing riots and protests planet-wide. Yet still, skilled organic workers were being replaced by tech. Whatever made the giant corporations more money in the end.
Astarion now stood in the airlock of the most advanced sleeper ship he had ever laid eyes on, all sleek white bulkheads with light grey accents and smooth plas-glass windows. Not a sharp corner to be seen.
His stomach lurched as the doors slid open, inviting him into his home for the next eight decades.
A gently pulsing blue light on the airlock control panel indicated the shipboard AI was already aware of his presence. He was issued a small folding tablet and a wrist mounted holo-comm. Both items were already synched with the ship’s systems. A brief glance at the display on his wrist showed all systems green and ready to leave orbit.
“Computer?” Astarion tentatively addressed the ship at large. An affirmative chirp indicated it was indeed listening. “Can you show me the way to the bridge?”
No sooner than the question left his lips did a series of pale blue arrows appear, pulsing down the hall projected along the ceiling. “Oh- well thank you, computer,” Astarion huffed incredulously and shouldered his travel bag.
As soon as he stepped into the ship proper, he was aware of the deep continuous thrum of the ship’s FTL-Drive, a low cyclical hum pervaded the entire vessel, like the beating heart of a sleeping behemoth.
His high whistle echoed down the dim corridor as he took in his new home for the next eighty cycles. The curving hallways lit as he walked, soft cool light poured from long bars embedded in the crown of the rounded walls. He walked down a curving corridor with a long line of continuous windows. Toril, his home, loomed just outside like a green and brown marble, cast over a black blanket of stars. The synchronous orbit of the ship gave a view of the main continent.
A brief moment of fondness seized his heart at the site of the whole world spread out beneath him. It was followed by revulsion when he remembered what his life was actually like. He snorted and hurried along, following the glowing guidance of the computer.
The bridge was as sprawling and austere as the rest of the ship, all highly polished tiger maple wood paneling and plush suede seats at the controls.
Astarion set his bag down by the door and took a seat in the captain's chair. Poking at the glossy plas-glass display in front of him, he input his authorization codes for the computer to initiate undocking procedures, and the ship hummed to life.
The ship’s AI jumped to his screen, giving a running text commentary of disembarking.
Faster Than Light Drive- Online
Preparing for FTL jump one of seventy two
Now leaving Torilian orbit
A deep-seeded prickle of nervous anticipation crawled up his back. This was it. There was no turning back as soon as they left the star system. Everything about this trip was precisely calculated. Fuel. Food. Water. His physical and mental well being.
Any minor detour would have to be carefully logged and checked with the AI to calculate the possible detriment to the mission. Too large of a margin of error could result in his non-payment.
The low thrum of the ship’s core briefly quickened, and he could feel the inertial dampeners kick on to negate the rapidly increasing speed as they left orbit.
Once the ship was safely out of the star system and well underway, Astarion once again prevailed upon the computer to show him the way to his quarters.
The room was sparse but comfortably large. He had a small living area separate from his sleeping area with a private washroom: the height of luxury after the past few decades of washing in a communal bath and sleeping in the dingy corner of a shared dorm. The closet was small and densely populated with spare uniforms, one for every day of the week. All were the same drab grey with white accents, matching him to the ship. As if he was an accessory.
He stowed his bag, shoving his folding tablet into the roomy pocket of his uniform. He tapped his wrist comm and swiped through the projected display on his forearm. He had much to do before he could settle in.
Second order of business was to see to the Sleepers. He would need to familiarize himself with his little corner of the ship and plan his daily routine to care for the four hundred colonists in his charge. One hundred million credits per head for eighty cycles. This trip would set him up comfortably for the rest of his long life.
This group was bound for a lush green, semi-primordial planet far from the main shipping lanes of the central Federated planets. They were intent on building an agrarian society free from the rampant technology and war that spoiled much of Astarion’s home world. He couldn't give a tarasque’s ass-hair about why they wanted to reject tech and live like animals, as long as they paid him.
Each row of stasis pods was capped off by a holographic display that shone brightly, hovering above the capsules. A stream of vital statistics on each Sleeper continuously crawled across the display.
His folding tablet interfaced seamlessly with the units. Astarion checked them one at a time, noting any adjustments he made to their settings to keep them stable.
He wasn’t an engineer by any stretch of the imagination, but he was clever. The training he received from the Weave institute to work with this specific system made checking and adjusting the ten rows of forty pods a breeze.
He checked the chronometer on his tablet. Finished before dinner time. Excellent.
“Computer, if you would be so kind as to show me to the mess hall?” Astarion bowed with a flourish to the slowly pulsing blue light near the doorway.
He completed his Day-One checklist and was now familiar with the cryo-systems and the layout of this part of the ship. His confidence was buoyed by repetitive execution of his training. He was hungry.
The mess hall was quite large. The ship would likely function as a base of operations for the colonists when they reached their destination, giving them a safe haven in a possibly unforgiving wild environment.
Astarion put his palm on the scanner next to the food slot. A bright line of lights danced back and forth over his hand, reading his vitals. After a quick moment of rapid blinking, a nutritionally balanced meal, specifically tailored to his body’s needs, was served. A notification popped up on the wrist display in neat blue text, the same color as the little lights that followed his movements around the ship.
You are deficient in Vitamin A, Vitamin D, Iron and Magnesium. The proper supplements have been added to your meal allotment. UV exposure treatment is recommended. Beginning a prescribed exercise regime is also recommended. Details will be sent to your personal device for scheduling.
Astarion rolled his eyes.
Of course he was deficient. He wouldn’t have eaten at all most days if not for the kindness of the old man that lived next door to his run down, shared flat.
Astarion was pretty sure he acted older than he was, putting on a show of frailty and confusion to gain sympathy and support. He always had extra food and Astarion wasn’t above accepting handouts from old letchers that just wanted some company from a pretty face.
He carried it back to his room, attempting to navigate back from memory through the labyrinthine cross crossing corridors. The cavernous mess hall felt too open and vulnerable a place to sit.
He made a wrong turn at some point and looped back around to his starting point, standing at the entrance to the mess. He groaned in frustration, trying again. This time a helpful little holographic arrow blinked unassumingly right at the junction of his folly. He smiled softly and turned down the correct hallway, finding his quarters easily this time.
“Thank you kindly, darling.” He nodded to the little pulsing light by his door. The doors slid open automatically and closed behind him.
He perched on his bed, devouring his perfectly portioned meal and scrolling through the tech manual for the ship on his tablet.
It really was a fully realized town encapsulated within its winding halls. A network of password sealed rooms made up the center of the ship, all clearly labeled on the schematic.
Town hall, school, library- Astarion paused. The manifest detailed a sprawling collection of actual, physical books. He couldn’t contain a little rush of excitement over handling a genuine, printed and bound tome. The lightweight and terribly convenient tablets that were commonplace just didn’t compare to feeling the heft of a physical volume in one’s hands. It certainly couldn’t replicate the enticing scent of indelible ink and aging parchment wrapped in carefully prepared leather.
Just the faded memory of cracking open fluttering pages and inhaling deeply sent a shiver of simple pleasure down his body.
Maybe he could take a peek. Surely there would be no harm in borrowing a few, as long as he returned them before they reached their destination.
He lingered in the shower. It had been so long since he had an endless supply of clean and hot water to bathe with. He leaned his forehead against the wall of the narrow shower cubicle, allowing the steaming spray to pinken his shoulders. It wasn’t until he wobbled on his feet from nearly overheating that he turned off the tap and dried himself off, skin still steaming in the cool air of his quarters.
The ship’s water reclamation system would certainly be put to the test if he made this a daily habit.
Which he fully intended to.