CHAPTER 1
Sixteen hours earlier
If Torian had to pick a fatal flaw in her personality, it was relentless optimism.
For example, she optimistically thought that they could find dozens of skilled tradesfolk to move onto Vaesa—the nylarians’ derelict space station—and help her restore it to its ancient glory.
The reality was that no one believed Vaesa existed, hidden as it was inside the bubblegum-pink dust of the Kialoa Nebula. Especially when the Kialoa Nebula was a known starship graveyard, and convincing these captains to risk their lives for a rumor was shockingly difficult.
Torian tried to reassure them that their starship would be fine, because starships only broke down inside the nebula when the space sirens decided to attack, but that wouldn’t happen, because the space sirens were friendly now and actually worshiped one of her friends—
That was usually when those captains cut radio communication. Torian couldn’t even blame them.
Thus, the morning of The Incident, Torian was deep into her backup plan: fixing the entire fucking space station herself to prove that it would be a great place for folks to live, and to hell with anyone who thought otherwise.
Nasra found Torian in the midst of that new goal, gently—but determinedly—clawing soil out of a flower bed before delicately—but determinedly—planting a new bulb into the space.
“You will be beautiful.” Torian hissed the threat.
“Ah. Am I interrupting?” Nasra cast a glance at Celise, who had found lemons yesterday near one of their farming towers, made lemonade, and was now spectating Torian’s fury from a comfortable wooden chair nearby.
Celise waved a hand, pushing a colorful toothpick umbrella out of the way to sip from her swirly straw. “Nah. She’s going through something.”
“You could help,” Torian said, elbow-deep in soil.
Her sister laughed dismissively—which prompted a short, rough cough. But where Halyon’s disease had once rendered Celise nearly unable to breathe, a genuine death sentence, now she only had intermittent asthma and the scars on her lungs from decades of poor air quality.
Which meant Celise recovered far too quickly, regaining enough air to cheerfully tell Torian, “Oh, I couldn’t possibly. Bad lungs, you know.” She took another sip of her lemonade, which Torian was strongly suspecting might be spiked.
“Where the hell did you get a swirly straw?” Torian grunted, diving back into the planter box.
“Mom had them. Came with the umbrella.” Celise leaned back in her chair, kicking up her feet on the edge of the planter box. She tilted her face toward the kerrac tree’s canopy high overhead, offering a contented—if shallow—sigh. “Been saving them for a nice vacation.”
Torian glared. “You’re supposed to be researching a cure for your disease.”
“Well, Voranthir’s an ass.” Celise waved a hand. “This is more fun.”
It was incredible, how fast her sister had fallen into relaxation once there wasn’t an entire neighborhood relying on her. Torian couldn’t figure out if that was good or annoying.
As Celise sipped her lemonade through that stupid swirly straw, Torian settled on “annoying.”
Meanwhile, Nasra fidgeted nearby.
Nasra wasn’t human; she was a tou’siil, an aquatic alien species connected through a hive mind. That meant, when Nasra’s eyes were sparkling (like they were now), tens of thousands of tou’siil from her home planet could watch life through her eyes.
Which meant tens of thousands of tou’siil were watching Torian and Celise bickering.
The sudden realization of that had Torian’s cheeks burning, and she pushed away from the planter box, wiping soil from her arms as best she could. “Ah, did you need something, Nasra? You or … anyone else?”
She was still figuring out the etiquette around addressing a hive mind.
Nasra, luckily, waved it off. “Apologies; I didn’t want to interrupt.
” A teasing smile slid across her humanoid features.
She had a flatter nose, gills along her neck, and fins that were currently folded against her legs.
Her webbed feet were wedged into sandals that tied around her ankles, and she bounced on her heels. “It’s like a hive drama.”
When Celise and Torian gave her matching, perplexed stares, the tou’siil laughed brightly.
“A hive drama is similar to your daytime vids. Dramatic entertainment.” She tilted her head, listening for a moment. “Yes! Your pods!”
Torian buried her head in her hands. Celise sipped from her lemonade, shielding her eyes as the sun crept over Verdaan, bathing the space station in light. “I’ve always wanted to be a reality pod star,” Celise mused.
“I thought you always wanted to be a doctor,” Torian said.
Celise smirked, lifting her glass. “Well, I’m already a doctor. Might as well explore the entertainment sector next.”
“There goes the space station. What’s the medical prognosis for abject humiliation?”
“Fatal, most likely.”
“Great.”
Nasra giggled, murmuring to the hive. “I know. I know! I also thought we’d be exploring a nylarian historical site, but this is so much better. Tell your friends. Nasra Sal’zirettex has the best stream.”
Torian’s cheeks colored, and Celise laughed out loud. Torian shot her sister a glare before forcing a smile for Nasra. “What—ah, what did you need, Nasra? Can I help with something?”
“Oh, yes!” Nasra folded her arms resolutely. “My townhome smells weird.” Those words settled between them.
Celise sipped her drink, eyes flicking between them. Nasra didn’t seem inclined to expand, but her eyes sparkled like a dozen distant galaxies.
Torian parsed her thoughts. She rubbed her forehead, finally settling on: “This is an incredibly advanced space station, pumped full of oxygen by the galaxy’s most advanced life support system. What the hell do you mean, it ‘smells weird’?”
Nasra’s blue skin flushed to a shade of purple. “My townhome is coming along beautifully, but the last couple weeks, it’s developed … a smell. We all agree.”
“You all—the hive?”
“Yes.”
“They can smell what you do?” Torian raised an eyebrow.
Nasra laughed. “Oh, by the Book, no. But viewership is up; I’m getting quite good at explaining things. They’re postulating a sewage pipe has fractured?”
Sewage pipes. Even on an advanced alien space station, excrement had to go somewhere.
Celise snorted a laugh. “A plumbing disaster? I can’t wait to see this. You know. From a respectable distance.”
“You’re not invited.” Torian waved her off, wrinkling her nose in disgust. “Okay, Nasra. Is it a constant smell, or does it come and go?”
She felt stupid even asking. She’d studied as a solar engineer to try and gain citizenship on humanity’s single terraformed planet, and attempted smuggling, security, and piloting on the side, to various degrees of success. She was not, in fact, a plumber.
But hey. Torian could be flexible. Hopefully.
“It comes and goes. We have different waste removal systems on my home planet, but I spoke with Dutch, and he said it’s possible the venting system that expels sewage gases is backed up.”
Torian groaned. “Lovely.”
“Far from it,” Nasra said cheerfully. “Moss assured me it is quite unsafe to breathe.”
The residential ring of Vaesa’s central dome had hundreds of townhomes curving in a gentle circle. Torian suddenly imagined what might happen if all of them had backed-up sewer gases. In a contained dome, that’d be a catastrophic mechanical failure.
Moss would be so pissed if it messed with the station’s newly improving air quality.
“Did … did you talk with Lyric? They’re a mechanic.”
Nasra shifted now. “I think my hive connection makes them uncomfortable? They said they couldn’t help. More specialized in human starships, not alien space stations.”
“They’re actively helping Dutch transfer Moss to a new central system,” Torian pointed out. “That’s why they moved.”
Nasra shrugged helplessly.
Which meant it all came down, yet again, to Torian. She sighed, pushing past her reservations. It wasn’t fair to pawn this off on Lyric, anyway.
“Okay, let’s go check it out.”
Nasra grinned. “Do you mind if I keep streaming for the hive? Everyone is so engaged in Vaesa’s renovation. It’s quite the … ah, how do you humans phrase it? Fixer-upper?”
Torian wanted to crawl into a hole and never, ever come out.
Tou’siil were the standard of intelligence in the galaxy; they meticulously recorded knowledge inside their revered Book, and through the hive, their emissaries could access that information in a blink.
Considering their honored reputation with humans, “fixer-upper” made this even more embarrassing. Worse, Torian couldn’t even argue it. Vaesa was incredible, but they’d found more failing mechanical systems and crumbling buildings than advanced nylarian technology.
Which might explain why Dutch was nowhere to be found during a plumbing emergency.
Torian forced a smile and said the one thing she really didn’t want to: “Sure. It’s fine if they watch.”
Because at the end of the day, it was vital that Nasra keep her viewers. The tou’siil were limited to a certain number of emissaries off their home planet. If Nasra lost popularity, they might recall her.
That’d be like losing a galaxy’s worth of answers in a day.
“Wonderful!” Nasra shifted seamlessly into hosting mode, listening to questions no one else could hear.
“She’s going to take a look, so get ready.
Who has the pages on nylarian plumbing?” A pause.
“They’re bare? That can’t be right. Although I suppose we never had reason to ask while they were around. …”
Nasra strolled toward her townhome, and Torian started to follow. Celise cleared her throat.
Torian glanced over her shoulder. “What? Something else to say?”
But her sister had that knowing look, one eyebrow raised, lips pressed into a thin line. “You know you aren’t personally responsible for the state of a nylarian space station, right?”
“Yes,” Torian replied stubbornly. “Obviously.”
It wasn’t convincing enough. Celise set down her drink, leaning forward in her chair. She had dirty-blond hair, a stark contrast to Torian’s light brown, but their features were similar enough that no one could mistake their relation. Celise narrowed her eyes.
“Torian.”
“What, Lise? I’m doing the best I can.”
“No shit. You pulled all-nighters for years trying to save the money to buy a starship and bring me to Rhymarra. Now we’re here, and I’m doing well enough, and you’ve moved on to a new project.”
Torian crossed her arms. “Making this space station presentable so folks move here isn’t optional. If we don’t create a colony on Vaesa, we can’t stay here. You won’t stay here.”
“I’m coming around,” Celise said drily, lifting her lemonade. “This place isn’t half bad, and it’s nice to take a break.” Now her tone shifted into serious, I’m-a-doctor mode. “You should try it sometime.”
“Torian?” Nasra called.
“Coming!” Torian scowled at Celise. “Maybe you should spend less time preaching to me, and more time working on a cure with Voranthir. He and Zen are the only ones who stayed behind for a reason.”
Celise’s expression immediately soured. “Yeah. As if him losing the chance to go to a fancy draic event on their home planet was my fucking fault.”
“Tell Zen, not me. I’m busy with plumbing.” Torian rolled her eyes and started after Nasra. Sarcasm dripped from her voice. “Good luck, Doctor!”
Celise flipped her off.
But as Torian climbed into a maintenance hatch below Nasra’s apartment, covering her nose against the strong septic smell, she grudgingly admitted to herself that it would be nice to take a break and let someone else handle this shit.
(Literally.)
But what happened when there was no one else? Torian didn’t have an answer to that.