On the Night the Stars Mock, the Marionette Falls in Love - A Back-Alley Puppy Longs for the Stars

A blurry figure appeared on the scanner screen. Deep in his chest, something tightened painfully. Kafka sat huddled in the corner of a dim cargo bay, arms wrapped around his knees. He'd rubbed the screen with the sleeve of his tattered, patch-covered work clothes so many times it was smeared with grease. The palm-sized patchwork scanner—cobbled together from salvaged scrap parts—was his one and only treasure. "...Good. You made it through another day." The Astral Express's transit data. Fragments of intercepted communications. And a grainy, low-resolution photo of the legendary huntress Kafka, who rode aboard that very ship. Gazing at these things was his daily ritual. The Scrap Belt. A 200-kilometer stretch of debris-strewn space, far off the main shipping lanes. Decommissioned ships and broken satellites, dumped here for centuries. A galactic garbage dump where the Administration's patrols only came a few times a year—and where Kafka lived in secret. Hundreds of stowaways and criminals made their homes in the abandoned ships here. No one had a legitimate transit permit. If the Administration caught you, it was up to five years in detention. The ship Kafka had settled in was a particularly dilapidated mid-sized transport vessel's cargo bay, commonly called the D-7 Wreck. The power was barely siphoned from the remnants of solar cells, so the lights were always dim. The heating was faulty too—the room temperature hovered around ten degrees at best. His breath misted white. His bed was just a cargo-securing hammock, and his blanket was full of holes. But that was fine with him. He gently touched the frayed red bandana on his left wrist. It was an imitation of the red thread he'd heard about in rumors about her. The legendary huntress Kafka—someone who shared his name, someone living far above the clouds. He'd never even met her, and yet, for so long now, he'd been nursing a one-sided love for her. (*I know it's stupid.*) Kafka narrowed his slightly drooping brown eyes and sighed. His messy black hair, tousled from sleep, swayed with the movement. He curled his thin, frail body even smaller, hunched his back, and peered into the scanner again. "Kafka"—this name was his only connection to her. It was a name Silver Wolf and the others always teased him about, but to him, it was a treasure. The Astral Express. A legendary interstellar vessel that roamed the galaxy. A colossal train-shaped ship, 1.2 kilometers long, said to appear wherever phenomena related to Stellarons occurred—practically an urban legend. It was almost unthinkable for an ordinary person to board it. Kafka had learned she was on it through a communication he'd intercepted by chance. Tinkering with machines was his sole source of confidence. Jarilo-VI—a frozen planet on the galactic rim, where he'd survived by living in an underground city and fixing broken mining machinery. On that freezing planet, with an average temperature of minus forty degrees, he'd simply repaired machines in silence. He had nothing else to be proud of. (*At the very least, I want to ride the Astral Express.*) But he couldn't get close without arousing suspicion. A stowaway like him, approaching a legendary ship like that—he'd be detained in an instant. (*In that case...*) At the very least, he'd protect that person from the shadows. He'd made that decision three months ago—the day he'd stowed away from Jarilo-VI and arrived in the Scrap Belt. Ever since, he'd been intercepting communications with his scanner like this. Just confirming she was safe today. That was Kafka's entire world. The scanner beeped a warning. The communication module's output was dropping. It might freeze up again. He needed to scavenge parts. He retightened his tool belt around his waist and stood up. He'd go to Crossvane Relay Port. About six hours by the small craft he'd found in Junkyard Zero. If he cut through the Dust Lane, he'd reach a major galactic shipping intersection. In Vine Alley, behind that colossal station, he should be able to find scrap parts cheap. Thinking that, he set out—and that was the beginning of his misfortune. --- Crossvane Relay Port—a cylindrical station, eight kilometers in diameter and twelve kilometers long. Its commercial district boasted over two hundred restaurants and general stores, with a permanent population of 120,000. Daily transient passengers numbered 30,000. True to its name, the Crossroads of the Galaxy, it was always overflowing with a motley crowd. But Kafka wasn't heading for the glittering main concourse. Behind the commercial district lay a labyrinthine back-alley district spreading like vines—Vine Alley. It was cramped. The passageways were only one or two meters wide, twisting into a maze. A gray zone where the Administration's surveillance cameras didn't function. Five thousand smugglers, information brokers, and fugitives lived here, and the air always smelled of tobacco, synthetic liquor, and machine oil. Kafka managed to visit several small junk shops, trying to find the communication parts he needed. "...Nothing." Everywhere was either out of stock or charging extortionate prices. He had at most fifty Galds on hand—about five thousand yen in galactic common currency. Not even enough for ten synthetic nutrient blocks. He hung his head and wandered aimlessly through the alley. His footsteps were swallowed by the damp floor. That's when it happened. "—How many of those fragments have you gathered?" A voice. A chill ran down Kafka's spine. The voice leaking from the back door of a bar was unnervingly calm, yet held a fathomless coldness. A small establishment converted from an old cargo container—the sign read "The Rusty Stopper" in faded lettering. A place tucked deep in Vine Alley, with a capacity of maybe fifteen. The owner was a taciturn old man with a prosthetic hand, and cheap synthetic liquor cost three Galds a glass. There were rumors it was used for information exchange on the Vespa Network. Kafka pressed himself against the wall. His heart hammered loudly. (*Crap, this is something I shouldn't be hearing.*) He knew that, but his legs wouldn't move. Holding his breath, he activated the scanner with trembling hands. The communication interception function—if it was just recording, he should be able to manage at this distance. "We've managed to extract three from Port Nihil. Two more, and the plan becomes viable." "Ah, excellent. ...And what of that route data? Have you acquired it?" Voices he didn't recognize. The second one was oddly polite, with a tone like someone ordering wine at a high-class restaurant. But that somehow made it even more terrifying. "...The Astral Express's route data. The encryption is strong; we've only managed about sixty percent so far." Kafka's fingers stopped. The Astral Express—did they just say that? "That will suffice. If we stimulate multiple Stellaron fragments simultaneously, a chain reaction will occur. A region spanning several planets will be devastated." His breath caught. Stellaron fragments—shards of unknown energy crystals scattered across the galaxy. They were collecting them? A chain reaction? Using the Astral Express's route data? "I wonder what faces our former comrades would make if they learned of this plan. The Stellaron Hunters claim to protect the Stellarons, but in the end, they merely monopolize them. If that's the case, let them all rot. That is the only sincerity one can offer the galaxy." Kafka swallowed hard. His legs were shaking violently. Stellaron Hunters—officially, a specialized group that collected and neutralized Stellarons across the galaxy. They numbered maybe two hundred members at most. You couldn't join unless you had the aptitude to touch a Stellaron without suffering mental contamination. Society treated them as "necessary hazards." A Hunter had defected and was planning destruction? (*In other words, this guy's a traitor.*) That much, he understood. He had to run. He knew that, but he panicked. His left foot hit an empty can, and a clatter echoed through the alley. "...Hm?" The back door slowly opened. Kafka froze as if bound by invisible chains. The man who emerged was tall. The first thing that struck him was the white hair, slicked back. His left eye was a mechanical prosthetic—it seemed to have a Stellaron fragment embedded in it, glowing with an eerie light. His right eye was black, quiet as a deep well. He must have been around 188 centimeters tall. He was lean, but even through his clothes, Kafka could see he had a wiry, toned physique, and he stood there with a long black coat billowing around him. The corner of his mouth slowly curled into a smile. "Oh my, a little puppy." His voice was gentle. But it made Kafka's blood run cold. (*No good. This man is bad news.*) Someone was screaming in the back of his mind. Run, run. But his legs just trembled, refusing to move a single step. The man who'd called himself Zenon glanced at the scanner in Kafka's hands, then smoothly extended a finger. "Eavesdropping. How distasteful." The moment he touched it—the scanner's surface began to rust before his eyes. The silver casing turned reddish-brown in an instant. Then, with a crackling sound, it crumbled into dust. "Ah... ah..." Kafka fell back onto his rear. His legs had given out; he couldn't stand. This was "Stellaron Corrosion"—the ability Zenon activated through the Stellaron fragment in his prosthetic eye. It oxidized any matter he touched at a molecular level, turning even metal into scrap in seconds. Rumor had it, it worked on organic matter too. What would happen to a human if that were the case? Just thinking about it made him nauseous. "What could someone like you possibly do, even knowing this?" The man kept smiling as he nudged the broken scanner with the tip of his shoe. "The Vespa Network—a beehive. Small nests, scattered bit by bit across every sector. Information trading, smuggling, contract assassination. That is my organization. Unregistered scum like you are the lowest-grade components in this world. Resist? Report it? Are you going to tell the Administration? A stowaway?" Kafka couldn't say anything. Of course he couldn't. Because everything the man said was true. He didn't even possess the "Interstellar Citizen ID" issued by the Interstellar Navigation Administration. He couldn't legally work, reside, or travel. The unregistered were the dregs of society. "Hmph. A waste of time." Zenon turned away, looking bored, and vanished into the depths of the alley as if melting into the darkness. Kafka stared blankly at the rusted remains of his scanner. Let everything rot. That man had called it his aesthetic. A Stellaron chain reaction—theoretically, it could devastate a region spanning several planets. If he succeeded, what about the Astral Express? What about her? (*I'm scared.*) He wanted to run away. He wanted to forget everything and hole up in his wrecked ship. He was powerless garbage from the start, so he should just do nothing. But— (*If I do nothing...*) He'd regret it. That much, he knew. --- By the time he returned to the D-7 Wreck, it was already night. Outside the Scrap Belt, distant stars glowed faintly. In the corner of the cargo bay, Kafka began repairing his broken scanner with trembling hands. "...I'm such an idiot." He felt like crying. The corners of his eyes burned. The scanner was practically junk. Most of the circuits were corroded. The data was almost entirely wiped. But—the recording module alone had miraculously survived. He pressed play. "What could someone like you possibly do, even knowing this?" Zenon's mocking laughter echoed through the dim cargo bay. He played it again. And again. "There's no way I can do anything." Saying it himself made him even sadder. Of course he couldn't. He had no power, no money. No organization, no allies. And above all, no courage. (*But.*) He switche

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Episode 1

Name: On the Night the Stars Mock, the Marionette Falls in Love
Author: Novelia

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