Chapter 1
One
The constellations are the only constant. A phrase so ingrained into the fibers of my being that I cannot recall a time I didn't parrot the phrase back to the elders in greeting. But—respectfully, of course—what the fuck does it actually mean?
The Kosmos, our higher galactic order, preaches that the constellations are responsible for our intergalactic survival.
Each constellation provides unmatched energy, which our planet, Lunara, relies on.
Lunara is made up of the remnants of a shattered moon.
Jagged cuts split the uneven surface, with deep chasms beckoning the unknown.
The planet would be entirely uninhabitable if not for the energy provided to sustain our buildings and infrastructure.
The Kosmos, bless their existence, are the chosen beings who are entrusted with the maintenance of these constellations. Ridiculously important job, if you ask me. So it goes: as the galaxies spin, the constellations remain, and we live.
I traded in my meal ticket for today's lunch tray before slightly inclining my head once more to the elder serving.
Most elders choose to spend their remaining time pursuing more relaxing hobbies, but a few opt to serve in the Commons, finding the task gives them a sense of purpose.
Glancing down at the tray, I exhale through my nose in disappointment.
Beans, again. I push open the glass door with my shoulder and slide out into the courtyard, scanning across the enclosed glass area seeking an open seat.
Jada's pink-stranded hair calls out like a beacon in the sea of silver heads at the elongated slate buffet table.
I slide into the seat next to her as she removes the water glass she had been using to save my spot.
Catching the tail end of her conversation, I overhear, “.
.. thought he was just late, but it's been two days now—he still hasn't shown up.” Gwenda, our unit's tailor, shares with concern etched like fine lines on her face.
“Do you think he's missing, like that guy on Noctor?” Jada chimes in.
“Leo? Nah, Lenny's consistent. He's young and motivated. Maybe he's just sick.” Gwenda gives a one-shouldered shrug and returns to her beans. She's feigning nonchalance, but it goes against her nurturing personality.
Jada casts a sincere glance at her. “Gwenda, he’ll be alright.” Forever a Libra, keeping the balance.
“I feel like it’s my job to protect him. I care about the boy.” Her almost unnoticeable white strands shimmer as she speaks, looking like angel dust flecks sprinkled on her head.
“You’re a true Cancer, through and through.”
“You all need someone to take care of you,” a light smile returns to Gwenda’s face.
Jada’s laugh is light. “You’re right. What would we do without you?”
While all of us born on Lunara have silver hair, we are each blessed with a color to join our silvery strands.
Our hair color is magically assigned at birth, based on our astrological sign, and develops visual potency as we grow.
The color pattern is unique to each person.
For instance, the pink in Jada’s hair resembles chunky tiger stripes in her long waves, whereas my color only covers a thick portion of the left side of my hair, framing my face.
The rest of my short bob is left untouched—pure silver.
The Order has informed all units that our sign is a blessing from the stars and that the visualization of our sign allows others to understand our personality at its very core.
Everyone I know matches up with the characteristics of their Zodiac sign, so I guess the magical star blessing of our color code is justified.
Just as Jada's pink identifies her as a Libra, her character traits also reflect this. My yellow locks signify that I'm a Gemini. I’d like to think I’m a multifaceted jack-of-all-trades, so I’ll take it—not that I have much of a choice.
Someone further down the table leans forward to join the conversation, adding, “With so many people going missing, maybe he’s not sick. Not to be that guy, but I’ve heard some gossip around the unit that a bunch of other people from the surrounding planets have also disappeared.”
The unsettling comment causes a quiet tension to ripple down the table. No longer hungry, I place my fork down and gnaw on my lip. What if he's right and people are going missing? Lenny's so young—nearly seventeen. What if something happened to him? What if he needs help?
Jada mentioned someone else who recently went missing.
Would they run away and risk disobeying the Kosmos?
The units have a system, an effective one at that.
We all have a place. Our strengths are leveraged and strategically used at various stations.
We work together, rotating stations, creating and maintaining our livelihood.
It's a simple life, but one that is safe.
But if these individuals and Lenny didn't run away.
.. that means multiple humans have been taken.
There has never been a safety risk in the units before, at least not one as widespread and openly discussed as this.
Jada sighs loudly and dramatically rolls her eyes. “Not helpful, Artie.”
Artie throws his hands up in defense and turns back to his plate, while the table ever so slowly returns to their varied states of eating and quiet chatter.
“You look like you just crawled out of a hole.” Jada crinkles her nose in my direction.
A snort escapes me as I examine my disheveled clothes and dirt-stained skin. “I was assigned to the Gardens today.”
“Stars bless you for actually being decent at it. I swear I stopped receiving assignments there after killing off the crops.”
“It takes practice!”
“Nah, you're good at everything.”
The Kosmos has nothing to do with the hours I have spent honing my crafts, but I keep that thought to myself. Instead, I chuckle playfully, responding, “I am not!”
“You're unusually talented at everything you try. It's sickening.”
“But you are a truly excellent baker.” I nudge her shoulder with mine.
Jada leans her head into mine with a sigh. “Yeah, I guess I am, aren’t I? You’re good for a girl’s ego, Zell.”
“I have to get back to the Gardens. When I left, they were harvesting potatoes; hopefully, this means the end of our bean days.” We had a slow year of growth last year…
and the year before. Intergalactic vegetable harvesting is hard enough as it is, but our climate-controlled Gardens are supposed to provide optimal growing conditions.
Rations have been portioned as a precaution, but I feel more at ease knowing we have some bountiful harvests ahead. That, and I’m sick of beans.
“You enjoy; I’ll be dangling from the domes, window washing. See you after dinner?”
“Of course.” I gather my tray and backtrack through the Commons.
Jada has been my best friend for as long as I can remember.
We are as close as sisters, if siblings were a common thing.
Fertility and the birth rate have maintained a low but steady rate since I was a child.
The Kosmos lectured that the energy provided by the constellations is not sustainable in highly populated areas.
This is why our lives are blessed—we are defying the odds.
Older adults are even more blessed considering the life expectancy for meek humans living in space.
Not that we asked to live here. Most of us are a direct result of a breeding program enacted by The Kosmos.
The program was created to boost the population and ensure the continual production of resources required to sustain magical entities.
Most of those in this unit are in their twenties, like me, or in their thirties.
The breeding program offers “unattached creation,” resulting in offspring with no proper parents.
Some nights as I drifted off, staring at the stars, I would wonder who my parents were and if they thought of me.
But families don’t exist, at least they shouldn’t in the typical sense.
Jada is it for me—the only constant in my life, besides the constellations, of course.