Broken orbit, p.1
Broken Orbit, page 1
Broken Orbit
Stars Without Borders - Book 1
Grace Ann Hansen
Grace Ann Hansen LLC
Copyright © 2025 Grace Ann Hansen
All rights reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Cover design by: Grace Ann Hansen
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Foreword
I - Shadows of Midreach
Dockside Ghosts
Trial by Engine Fire
Whispers of Conspiracy
A Closed Delivery
The Network's Reach
II - Trial by Fire
Quiet Spaces
The Betrayer’s Signal
Half-Legit
No Easy Roads
Shared Grief
III – Fracture Point
The Price of Silence
Crossfire
Void-CrawL
Burned Clean
IV – Echoes of Hope
The Revelation
Breaking the Silence
The Unsent Message
Broken Orbit
Acknowledgement
About The Author
Stars Without Borders
Books By This Author
Resources
Grace Ann Hansen
Foreword
As a writer, I am drawn to stories of identity, resilience, and transformation. My work is informed by my own journey, and my goal is always to craft narratives of hope that give a voice to marginalized characters navigating immense challenges.
My first series, beginning with "Ellie's Voice," is a very personal exploration of finding that voice. But as I wrote, another hero was taking shape in my mind.
This book, "Broken Orbit," is her introduction.
Her name is Rae Jacobs, and she is the star of the "Stars Without Borders" series. In many ways, Rae is the woman that I wished I could have been for most of my life. Brave, Resilient, Moral, and a hero.
While Ellie's story is an internal one about finding identity, Rae's is an external one about what you do with that identity once you have it. She is an "unlikely hero" in the truest sense, not a superhero, but a person who, when tested, finds the bravery she never knew she possessed.
Rae Jacobs is part of my world, a strong female role model I am so proud to write. I really hope she becomes a part of your world, too.
Welcome to the "Stars Without Borders."
Grace Ann Hansen, October , 2025
I - Shadows of Midreach
Chapters 1-5
Dockside Ghosts
One-Way Passage
The airlock hummed, a low, steady breath that was neither welcoming nor farewell, but a simple, metallic sigh of passage. It felt like a threshold. Behind me was a life I had meticulously dismantled piece by piece; ahead, a future stretched, vast and unknown. Midreach. A sprawling monument to a life I'd both lost and found. Every corridor, every recycled breath of this station, held ghosts: the echo of Lena's laughter, Maya's vibrant questions, Eli's eager footsteps. This place was a mausoleum of sorrow, but it was also my crucible.
My fingers rose, almost instinctively, to the subtle curve of my jaw, a quiet miracle carved from bone and will, a testament to the facial feminization surgery that had finally aligned my outer self with my inner truth. The skin was smooth, the lines softened, undeniably mine. The estrogen implant pulsed gently beneath my skin, a constant, intimate hum in my lower abdomen. It was a quiet assertion of the woman I was, the body I had painstakingly built, piece by painful piece, from the wreckage of my past. It was a daily, physical affirmation, a fierce, private victory.
I touched the small, silver Star of David pendant under my shirt, its cool metal a comfort against my skin, a tangible link to my mother. She was one of the few who had always seen me, who had encouraged my journey, her love an unbreakable thread in the fabric of my reinvention.
Rebecca Ann Jacobs. The name felt like a prayer, a whispered promise to the void. It was more than a new identity. It was the foundation of the life I was building, day by day, choice by choice. I was finally living, truly living, as myself. The loneliness of this departure was profound, a vast, echoing silence as I stepped away from everything familiar, everything that once grounded me. But in that silence, I found a fierce, quiet joy. I was whole. Finally, and even in the face of the immense, cold void outside, I felt a calm sense of purpose, an unyielding resolve. I stepped into the airlock. I was ready.
* * *
A Battered Welcome
The shuttle's recycled air smelled of protein slurry and burnt capacitors. Virex-3 Station materialized outside the viewport. It was a battered, skeletal structure clinging to a cold, nameless rock. It was not a station designed for permanence, more a sprawling, improvised junkyard grafted onto an asteroid, slowly succumbing to the harsh realities of deep space. Faded signage, rusted handrails, and defiant graffiti patched its surface like old wounds. They proclaimed messages of rebellion against corporate control or crude, desperate pleas for aid. We passed the "Rusty Cog" bar, its neon lights flickering erratically across walkways where shadowy figures moved, their faces obscured by the perpetual gloom of the station's lower levels. The air, even through the shuttle's filtration, carried the sharp tang of overheated gravitic coils and the metallic grime of deep space. It was a scent that promised endless repairs and forgotten incidents. Near the bar, mangled machinery lay discarded in pools of black oil and rust. It was a testament to countless forgotten incidents, to ships broken beyond repair, to lives abandoned. The station decayed, slowly surrendering to entropy, a monument to forgotten dreams and a stark warning of corporate neglect.
Bay Six was ahead, its designation barely readable beneath thick layers of grime and neglect. And there it was, Indira.
She was a beast of a ship, a heavy freighter, built for hauling tons of raw minerals and finished goods across unforgiving sectors. But even from here, her hull looked battered, a veteran of unseen wars. Scars marked her plating like a roadmap of forgotten battles. Each dent and scrape testified to a hard life. I touched a hull crack as we docked, the metal cold and rough beneath my fingertips, feeling the vibrations of her stressed frame. A low thrum, almost a heartbeat, came from her AGFD (Advanced Gravitic Field Displacement) coils, a deep vibration that resonated through the shuttle's floor. Her internal systems groaned, a symphony of minor failures that only a trained ear could discern: the whisper of a misaligned conduit, the whine of a failing patch-job, the tell-tale hiss of a slow coolant leak. Indira was damaged, clearly needing a mechanic. I felt a pull towards her, a kinship with something broken that still fought to fly.
A figure stepped from the shadows near the ramp, illuminated by the harsh bay lights that hummed and flickered, casting long, distorted shadows. He appeared young, possibly in his early twenties. His shoulders were hunched, perpetually braced for a blow. He clutched a datapad tight in his hand, his green standard-issue uniform several sizes too large, its sleeves drooping past his wrists, as if he were trying to disappear within the fabric. Denny Kael, the Loadmaster, I presumed from the manifest Vos had sent. He was eager, naive, and anxious—a kid. A familiar ache, a ghost of Eli, tightened in my chest. Eli, always trying so hard to be useful, always seeking approval.
He cleared his throat, his voice reedy and uncertain in the cavernous bay, amplified by the harsh acoustics. He gestured vaguely toward the airlock, then dropped his hand, knuckles white around the datapad. A faint, jagged scar, partially hidden by a stray lock of dark hair, ran along his jaw. This slight imperfection made him seem even more vulnerable. He seemed eager, almost desperate to please, and a quiet protectiveness stirred within me, surprising in its intensity.
"Rebecca Ann Jacobs?" he asked, his voice high-pitched with nerves, a slight tremor underlying the words. "I'm Denny Kael, Loadmaster. Captain Vos sent me to help you get settled."
"Just Rae," I said, my voice softer than I intended, a deliberate choice to put him at ease. "Lead the way, Denny."
He nodded quickly, almost a bob, then turned toward the airlock. His shoulders remained hunched, his posture a testament to years of making himself small, of trying to avoid attention. A faint, cloying floral scent, strangely out of place amidst the ozone and grease of the spaceport, permeated the recycled air. It tugged at a distant, unsettling memory, a phantom presence that made my skin prickle.
I exhaled slowly, adjusting my grip on my duffel bag. My hands, usually so steady, trembled almost imperceptibly, a private tremor that only I would notice. The deck trembled, Indira's engines groaning, a low, persistent growl that spoke of deep-seated stress. The task was here. The ship was here. My new life had truly begun, a fresh chapter written on a battered vessel.
I felt a chill, not from the low temperature of the docking bay, but from the sudden, stark reality of it all. The engine's drone deepened, its pitch subtly shifting, a mechanical groan that seemed to echo my own internal unease. Denny led me into the airlock, its metal gleaming under the flickering lights. The outer door hissed shut, sealing off Virex-3's noise and grime, a definitive break from the past. The inner door opened, revealing a utilitarian corridor, flickering fluorescent lights
"This way," he mumbled, motioning down the corridor with a vague wave of his hand, his gaze darting from me to the walls, then back again. "I'll give you the quick tour. Vos wants new crewmembers to know their way around. It's mostly corridors. And a lot of pipes."
He managed a small, strained smile, clearly attempting to be welcoming, and I returned it, a flicker of genuine warmth that surprised me with its unexpected appearance.
As he pointed out junction boxes and conduits, naming them with rote memorization, his voice a nervous monotone, I did not truly listen to his words. Instead, I felt Indira's shudders, her subtle quivers, and deep rhythms. Her systems sounded tired, her vibration off, like a discordant chord in a symphony. The deck tremor traveled through my boots. It was a constant, low drone, full of unseen stresses, of hidden problems begging to be solved. This ship groaned with slow decay, and I, a mechanic by instinct and trade, translated its melody, already cataloging the repairs that would be needed. A faint, almost imperceptible groan came from the deck directly beneath us. It wasn't the sound of stressed metal, but something heavier, a shifting weight that didn't belong. The thought sent a shiver down my spine.
As we passed a small, open alcove that served as a galley annex, I saw a young woman, her back to us, meticulously polishing an old, tarnished navigation display. Her movements were precise, almost loving, as she buffed the metal to a faint sheen. She was humming a soft, unfamiliar tune, and her voice, light and clear, carried easily in the quiet space.
"Just a few more good runs, Den," she murmured, still polishing, not looking up. "Then we'll have enough. A small transport. Just you and me. Away from all these corporate zones, eh? I've been studying the old jump designs from the Archives. Imagine a ship that can bypass all their regulated lanes! We'll be free."
Her laughter bubbled up, light and unburdened, a vibrant sound in the dim corridor. Denny, walking slightly ahead of me, gave a quick, almost imperceptible nod towards her, a small, private gesture that confirmed she was his sister. A sharp pang went through me. Her laughter echoed Maya’s and Eli’s own hopeful dreams and twisted a fresh ache in my chest. Such hope felt terribly vulnerable here. A cold dread settled over me.
"And this is the main cargo bay access," Denny announced, his voice a little louder now, as if proud of this particular stop.
We entered a large, cavernous room, its metal scarred and empty racks looming like skeletal giants. The air in here smelled distinctly of organic rot and a sharp, acrid solvent from past freight. This disturbing combination made my stomach clench. Perhaps something biological, or worse, something that had once been alive. I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the recycled air.
"We're loading for the next run in a few hours," he said, pulling up a manifest on his datapad, his brow furrowed in concentration. "It's standard freight. Nothing too exciting, just… a few thousand units of what Vos picked up this cycle."
He scrolled through the data, his brow furrowed in concentration, completely unaware of the implications of the numbers.
I looked at the display over his shoulder, my eyes immediately catching the numbers. They were a series of digits that spelled trouble to my trained eye. The fuel calculations were low, dangerously so for a projected multi-leg haul across potentially turbulent sectors. Indira bled power through conduits and patch seams that had not been properly sealed, a slow, methodical drain on her lifeblood. This was not a software glitch; it was a fundamental mechanical flaw, a slow bleed that would inevitably leave us stranded. I noted the numbers, mentally running diagnostics and planning the necessary recalibrations and repairs. A cold unease settled in my gut. This felt like more than just neglect. It felt almost deliberate, a slow, methodical weakening. The thought made my gut clench.
"Crew quarters are down this deck, too," Denny continued, oblivious to my calculations, his voice still reedy. "You're in Bay 4. It's… well, it's cramped. And utilitarian. But it's yours.”
He offered another small, nervous smile, clearly attempting to be welcoming, trying to make me feel at home.
My toolbox clinked softly at my side, its familiar weight a comfort, a tangible link to my skills, to my purpose. I slipped a hand inside and wrapped my fingers around my wrench, its cold, smooth handle fitting perfectly in my palm. Tools were dependable. Tools were predictable. They did not lie. They did not judge. They simply broke, and I fixed them. The deck trembled again, a deeper beat, reminding me the ship was old, her systems tenuous. The smell of ozone sharpened, mixing with the persistent, unsettling floral scent, a bitter note against the drone of the ship. The engines droned, a low, ominous growl, a constant reminder of the precariousness of our journey. I focused on the wrench, its tangible reality, its promise of repair. This was my new beginning. And I had a bad feeling about it.
* * *
Lines Drawn in Grease
A flickering fluorescent light, aged and stuttering, illuminated the scarred metal table in the briefing room. Chipped paint peeled from the edges of the table, exposing the raw durasteel beneath, and a faint scorch mark, a relic of some past, violent incident, marred its surface. The display console at the head of the table glowed with anemic, sickly yellow light, casting long, distorted shadows that danced with the ship's subtle tremors. The air was stale, thick with the cloying sweetness of Vos's cheap cologne, and the bland, lingering aroma of rehydrated beans, the crew's staple diet. The table felt cold under my palms, a known chill that echoed the truth I often clung to: machines were predictable, tangible, unlike people with their complexities and hidden depths. The low thrum of my estrogen implant pulsed gently in my lower abdomen, a familiar, internal anchor. I forced myself to focus. My body was a tool, a vessel. It would serve. I would not let the discomfort distract me from the living, breathing humans in this room.
Vos sat at the head of the table, clutching a chipped mug in one hand. Its contents were opaque and steaming faintly, a mystery. In the other, he held a datapad, his thumb rubbing a restless rhythm on its casing, knuckles white with a strain mirroring the ship's barely contained tremor. His worn, half-zipped flight jacket, perpetually smelling of stale coffee and burnt wiring, seemed fused to his skin, a second skin of tireless toil. His sharp, assessing gaze swept across them, pausing on me for a fraction of a second, an unnerving prickle, as if he could see past my carefully constructed walls, past the new name, past the chosen face. He moved with a coiled tension. He was a man perpetually braced for the next disaster.
Denny hunched over his datapad at the far end of the table, his grip so tight his knuckles whitened, trembling faintly. His gaze darted nervously between the screen and the other crew members, then settled, almost pleadingly, on me, seeking a silent reassurance I could not yet offer. He tugged a loose thread on his uniform sleeve, fidgeting, a subtle, nervous ozone scent clinging to him, an odor of anxiety. His sister, Elara, who served as the loadmaster's assistant and doubled on food preparation in the small galley, was just leaving, her face holding a faint frown. She glanced at me as she passed, a slight smile touching her lips before she ducked out of the briefing room hatch. Mik Koba sat opposite me, cross-armed and scowling, meticulously polishing a wrench. He looked at me, a flicker of disdain in his eyes. He tightened his grip on the tool, a silent assertion of his seniority, his territory. I sensed his unease, his jaw working silently, a muscle twitching in his cheek. A custom-forged tool, its metal dark and heavy, holstered at his hip, spoke of his pride and professional territory. His rigid posture and meticulous polishing suggested he saw me, a newcomer, as an unwelcome disruption to his established order.
Jaime Velasquez leaned back against the bulkhead, a casual swagger in his posture that seemed almost defiant in the grim atmosphere. A half-eaten bag of roasted space-peanuts rested in his lap, forgotten for now. He surveyed the room with an amused, almost bored expression. Yet his light eyes held a flicker of sharp observation, betraying a mind far more engaged than his posture suggested. He popped a peanut into his mouth, chewed slowly, then tossed the shell, missing the waste bin by a good meter. He smirked when our eyes met, a challenge and an invitation in his gaze, a hint of something more than casual amusement. I wondered what depths lay beneath that easy surface.
