Yasmine never dreamed. Or, if she did dream, she never remembered what she dreamed: no thoughts, no images, not even vague feelings. She had been that way for as long as she could remember; perhaps, in her distant childhood, she had once dreamed, but she couldn't remember those dreams now, if she had. Instead, she slept deeply, her mind taking its rest rather than continuing to frantically think and imagine. Or, again, if it did, it did so without her knowledge.

The only time she ever dreamed was when it invaded her sleeping mind, trying to wake her up or get her attention. From the depths of her self-induced biological shut-down, it rippled the waters of her sleep with images of light, lightning, and stars speeding by too quickly to make out, echoing with thunder and a low roar that was all it had for a voice. She ignored it. When it threatened her with a sharp turn to tumble her out of her flight chair through an image of the same-- which wasn't even possible, given the way the cockpit was set up and her body was comfortably strapped in-- she continued to ignore it, for it was a hollow thought-image. They had long since run out of fuel, so it couldn't even attempt make good on its threat. Only when it threw into her sleeping brain the sound of her own scream and a deliberate stirring of adrenaline did she come fully awake, arched against the buckles holding her down, wide-eyed, and feeling ready to run a mile-- despite the fact that there was nowhere to run.

Falling back and trying to catch her breath, Yasmine shot the main computer monitor on the cockpit dashboard a little glare. "Where did you learn how to do that?" she asked it, feeling a slow ache in her muscles from constant inactivity. She'd long since learned to ignore the more powerful ache in her gut that told her it had been far too long since she'd eaten. Months... it had to be months, now, since she'd been launched into space and supposedly certain death. That death had taken a long time to come; Yasmine couldn't think of any reason why she was holding on to life so firmly, but she was, and she would extend her life as long as she could before submitting to the end.

There was no response to her question, but Yasmine had not expected one. Her one companion in the vacuum of space had no voice except what its engines and metallic parts could produce, and the readouts on the various screens were not set up for communications with the thing's pseudo-mind. It was, after all, only a large piece of machinery with some very sophisticated programming and an artificial aura. Still, it had learned how to manipulate her sleeping mind enough to startle her awake when it wanted her attention; perhaps it would learn more, as well. So far, all it could do was project with a weak sort of empathy and make its feelings known through how it operated, but Yasmine supposed there could have been more possible; it was, after all, still fairly new, and a prototype without peer. That she knew of, anyway.

"All right," she told it coolly, eyes darting over her readouts and fingers tapping a few commands to produce a few more readouts. "I'm awake, sore, and hungry, and using up air. Did you want something, or shall I go back to sleep?"

One of the readouts flashed, an answer to her question, and she focused on it. The long-range sensors had been on, in a passive mode that wouldn't eat up as much power, during her sleep, and they had picked up a moving object. A moving object that, as it sped closer and as the sensors switched into a more active mode, was producing an energy signature that signified engines of some unknown type. It was too regular to be anything else.

It had to be a ship!

Yasmine's own planet had only recently developed space travel-- recently as in, over the past fifty years or so-- and were still bound to their own solar-system. Except, of course, for Yasmine, who had been sent out of the system with enough force to free her and her semi-sentient vessel from any possibility of orbit. Even so, she knew what a ship's signature was like on a sensor array; even without knowing just what kind of combustion, reaction, or fuel source a vessel used, a pattern like that simply wasn't natural.

"Status report," she barked, and the status of her vessel and companion for the long trip through space spilled out onto a screen. They were either low or completely out of everything: fuel, power, air supply, rations, even hope, though that didn't come up on any screen print. Hope, at least, was amazingly simple to revive, and there was enough power for a distress radio call. Hopefully whoever this was could pick up a radio signal-- and could communicate!

----

Yasmine stepped off of the ship which had been her deliverance from what, if it hadn't stopped for her and her mech, would have been certain death, and onto the deck of a space station unlike any Yasmine had ever imagined, much less seen. She had spent the past week convalescing on the miraculous ship that had picked her up, working her muscles into usefulness, getting used to food again, learning a little bit about the universe she was now set loose in. It was much bigger than anyone on her own world would have imagined. This place, for instance, was called Star City, her rescuers' next stop and where she and her vessel were to depart their company; the name fit, for it was much more like a city than a station, and even at that, it seemed larger than any city Yasmine had ever been in.

And she had three days to explore it, get an apartment, and get a job to pay for that apartment, before the ship left.

She found out quickly, however, that exploring would take far too long; not only was the station huge, like a real city, but it was riddled with as many streets, alleys, and buildings as a real city, as well. Learning its intricacies would have to wait until she was settled in. Instead, she had one of her rescue ship's crew members, a veteran of the station, direct her to a sort of "newcomer's" shop, made just for people like her. Apparently a lot of people were arriving on the station-city from distant places, and questions were common. Because she could, she signed up for the next free tour.

That was where she'd gotten a shock that she'd been hard-pressed to conceal: the tour-guide was not human, like the majority of Yasmine's home planet. Nor was he an anthromorph, like herself, created by the human population and recently failed at obtaining their freedom. He wasn't even, like the few other creatures she'd seen on her brief moments on the streets between lift and storefront, one of the less imaginative looking aliens. Rather, he was a dragon. An orange and lilac dragon, in fact, who was positively bubbly in personality. Yasmine had never seen a dragon before, and for a moment upon seeing him was struck with the ridiculous desire to laugh-- entirely unacted upon, of course-- for even if she had thought dragons to exist, they certainly wouldn't look like that.

Silly-looking and shallow-seeming as he appeared, though, the dragon seemed to have quite a knowledge of the station-city. Yasmine spent a profitable hour and a half learning which decks held what, about the electro-magical lift system which apparently could take you anywhere from anywhere, about what sorts of things happened on Star City, and about just how very complex everything was. She would be hard-pressed to find a position where she could be of use, unless she learned more about the station quickly, or had a patient supervisor.

But, as she certainly couldn't go home, she would have to get used to the new places she would be traveling to. Or living at. This seemed as good a place as any, and if she wound up getting paid for menial labor like stocking shelves or tapping on a keyboard, she could live with that until she grew acculturated enough for a real job.

As soon as the tour was completed, Yasmine started her search for employment, making a mental note to return with a substantial tip from her first paycheck for the people clever enough to think up such a service for hapless new arrivals.

----

Two and a half weeks later, after that substantial tip was donated, rent paid for, and groceries bought, Yasmine found she had very little left over for anything else. Still, she had a roof over her head-- in the figurative sense, since anywhere one went on the station, one had a roof over one's head-- food to eat, and a place for her mech. The massive, dragon-shaped piece of machinery had its own half of the apartment, made for a real dragon, and spent most of its time "asleep", or at least powered down.

It was "awake" when she got out of the shower after work that day, the day after her first paycheck-- or, rather, first deposit of credit into her account-- had been nearly entirely spent, and glowing LCD eyes followed her as she drifted across the apartment. She ignored it and sank into a broken-down armchair that had some with the apartment, toweling off her fur.

Yasmine had yet to form and plans for the future, which was a somewhat uncomfortable position to be in. She had found employment, at least, and was being paid for work as a mechanic. Her rudimentary magical talent, she discovered, was actually a boon to her there; while magic was rare and difficult on her own planet, and next to impossible to combine with technology, things were different here. The behemoth of a mech she had been exiled with was the only magical-technological invention her planet had managed, and yet nearly everything here had a magical component. She had a lot to learn, but she was a quick learner.

The lack of a plan was more disturbing. She didn't think she wanted to be a mechanic forever; her combat skills, her tactical skills, her training would all fall into disuse, wilt away, get rusty. Battle and stealth were what she'd spent nearly her whole life taking part in, perfecting herself for, living for. She didn't want to think she'd wasted all that time, particularly since she'd already wasted all that time with her failed rebellion.

She couldn't go home. There would be nothing to go home to, even if she found a way to make it there in a mech which couldn't hold enough fuel to make it even halfway back. So she needed to start a new life here, hopefully one that would be less of a waste.

There was a rumble of not-quite-quiescent engines, a reminder of the other presence which lived with her. That artificial aura was very adept at reading her thoughts-- if that's truly what it did, and she wasn't simply anthropomorphizing it. She answered it, anyway, since she didn't have anyone else to talk to. "Yes, and one that has something for you to do, in it. Go back to sleep. I have nothing for you, now."

In answer, it lit up a computer monitor across the room from the chair she sat in, apparently connected to the apartment's system somehow or another. With a sigh, she got up to see what it wanted.

She ended up reading a long time, interest aroused, and the hints of a plan for the future began to form, inspired by what she'd found. Or, rather, what her far-too-intelligent mech had found, for her.

And it began with a hatching.

Chapter Two

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