The Call
Iris no longer found it strange that her closest companion was a GPS.
To be precise, it wasn’t a GPS anymore—not in the old sense of route planning or static maps. Officially, it was a PGI: a Personal Guidance Interface. The name never stuck. Iris had called it GPS the first time she powered it up, and the device had eventually stopped correcting her.
At first.
The PGI—GPS—had learned quickly that arguing with Iris wasted processing power. If it had shoulders, it would have shrugged and moved on. It was an advanced system with a neural architecture designed to adapt. Most of its adaptation came from long hours alone with a pilot who didn’t talk much to people.
The blue light blinked. A soft chime followed.
Incoming message.
“Who is it?” Iris asked without looking up. “And what do they want?”
“A transport request,” GPS replied. “Coordinates are… unusual.”
That got her attention. Iris straightened in her seat.
“Show me.”
The numbers appeared. She stared at them, then shook her head.
“This is garbage. I can’t go there. Why would they contact me?”
“The location exists,” GPS said. “I can confirm that.”
“That’s not the same as getting there. I’m not authorized to leave the Solar System. Where was the message sent from?”
“Origin matches destination.”
She exhaled slowly. “Request more information.”
GPS sent the query. The response arrived almost immediately.
“All details will be provided on site.”
Iris leaned back and stretched out in the pilot’s chair, setting it horizontal. She dropped one of her flight gloves over her eyes, blocking out the light.
“Forget it,” she said. “Wake me later.”
GPS waited three seconds.
“Technically,” it said, “the ship would only require moderate upgrades.”
The ship. Iris named it Driftline a few years earlier, when she had spent every last credit she had to buy it. It wasn’t a top-tier model, but over the years she had done everything within her means to draw the most out of it. And the ship had repaid that care.
Iris didn’t think of it merely as a place to live. When she flew it, it felt like an extension of herself.
But she had never been able to prepare the ship for interstellar travel. She had never managed to gather that much money.
“I don’t have a hyperdrive. I don’t have the money. And I’m not going anywhere,” Iris replied from behind the glove.
That ended the discussion.
At least on the surface.
GPS logged the interaction and ran probability models in the background. The variables suggested a high likelihood of follow-up events within the next few hours. While Iris slept, it continued calculating. The system concluded the request was insignificant.
It would later revise that assessment.
When Iris woke up, she felt strangely light.
For a moment, she thought she was still half asleep. Then she remembered—artificial gravity was offline to conserve power. She drifted slightly before anchoring herself at the desk and strapping into the chair.
GPS rested in front of her. It had a useful habit of staying silent unless addressed. Iris opened the message again.
Short. Impersonal. Clean.
The coordinates pointed far beyond the Solar System—farther than conventional travel allowed. The deadline was generous. Two months.
October 30.
Sender: Betha Corporation.
“I don’t get this,” Iris muttered. “Why me? No context. No explanation.”
“I researched the coordinates,” GPS said. “They correspond to a planet designated Eeva.”
“Eeva?” She frowned. “That’s… how far?”
“Approximately fourteen light-years.”
“And you suggested a ‘moderate upgrade’?”
“A hyperjump would be required,” GPS said calmly. “The ship could be modified. Executing the jump is another matter. Few pilots are capable.”
“And you think I am?”
“There are two options,” GPS continued. “You acquire the skill. Or you bring someone who already has it.”
Iris didn’t answer.
She had wanted this once. Long ago. Leaving the Solar System. Seeing what was beyond the approved routes and commercial lanes. She had started. She had planned.
Something always stopped her.
Eventually, she stopped trying.
A few good contracts. Enough credits to keep flying. That had become enough.
Later that day, during a routine transport to Earth, one of her passengers studied her for a moment too long.
“You’re quiet,” he said. “That’s not like you.”
She hesitated, then shrugged. “Got a strange message. From far away.”
“From who?”
“Betha Corporation.”
The man laughed. “They’re not local.”
“Do you know anything about them?”
“Not much. Nobody does. They’re based on Eeva. And getting there isn’t easy.” He paused, then added carefully, “Not for most pilots.”
Iris didn’t respond.
That evening, she sat at her desk, scanning the network. Modifying the ship wasn’t impossible. Just financially absurd. As for the jump itself—she hadn’t allowed herself to think that far.
A call came through.
Robert.
“Word is you got a message from Betha,” he said.
She frowned. “How do you know that?”
“I know.” A pause. “You really think you were the only one?”
Silence.
“I got one too.”
“What are you planning to do?” Iris asked.
“That’s why I’m calling. We should talk.”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” she said. “This takes money. A lot of it.”
“Money requires brains,” Robert replied. “And I have an idea.”
“I’m not interested.”
“Come over,” he said. “We’ll figure something out.”
“No.”
He didn’t argue. He just said, “Are you really going to spend the rest of your life hauling tourists and hardware around the Solar System?”
She said nothing.
“Come over. Now.”
The connection cut.
Iris looked at GPS. The device blinked once and displayed Robert’s coordinates.
She sighed. “Fine.”
Robert’s ship was docked at a lunar port. When Iris arrived and opened the hatch, he stepped out from behind a nearby structure.
“Good,” he said quietly. “We’re leaving. Now.”
“What? Your ship—”
“I know. Move.”
There was tension in his voice. Controlled, but real.
They didn’t look back.
As Iris’s ship pulled away, two men emerged from Robert’s vessel.
“He won’t return,” one of them said.
“That’s fine,” the other replied. “We’ll find him.”
