Chapter 5
Torian stayed awake long enough to see the Destitute enter a wormhole.
(Apparently, they were everywhere, but the trick was determining which wormholes propelled a ship to its proper destination, and which ones spit a ship so far from home, the crew would die trying to return. Which, to be fair, sounded pretty fucking dangerous for humans, given past history.)
“Is this common knowledge with the CSS?” Torian asked as the Destitute positioned itself seamlessly in front of a wormhole.
It looked like a small black hole, tiny enough that Torian would never have seen it otherwise.
She took a deep breath, preparing for a “brace yourself” moment, but the auto-navigation eased the ship inside without breaking speed.
She expected flashing stars, a common portrayal in the space-exploration fantasy vids her family used to cram together on the couch to watch. Instead, it was just darkness, like the stars winked out all at once.
It was a bit unnerving.
Moss replied, “Contrary to popular belief, I am not an all-knowing system. My archives are limited to nylarian culture, and whatever I can glean from various destinations and conversations. I have limited experience with the Confederation of Spacefaring Species.”
“Aren’t you an alien creation?” Torian swallowed a yawn, sorting her thoughts. “I figured any alien starship would know of them.”
Moss sounded exasperated. “I know of them. The CSS was established roughly seven millennia ago. However, they were not recognized as the ruling majority until the nylarians stepped down from that role five millennia ago.”
Torian picked out that word: nylarians. The creators of this ship, she guessed?
It was odd that she’d never heard of them, but then again, humans had only arrived in this galaxy three thousand years ago.
All Torian had ever known was the CSS on the outskirts—and humanity, tucked away in their private solar system.
Moss kept talking: “Considering the nylarian influence in guiding the CSS in those early years, it is safe to presume they do know of wormholes. But my files for that organization are outdated, so I can’t confirm it. You would be best to ask these questions of a tou’siil.”
“I’d love to, but tou’siil very rarely even visit this solar system.” Torian recalled her interaction with the dock worker, laughing at her for even hoping to meet a tou’siil. Humiliation spread across her chest, warming her cheeks, even though that encounter was long since finished.
Celise used to roll her eyes and say, No one replays conversations in a panic quite like you, and Torian couldn’t even find the energy to refute it.
To distract her brain, Torian pushed off the pilot’s seat. According to the auto-nav, it’d be another eight hours in this wormhole—and frankly, the lack of a view outside the front window was unnerving.
As she headed down the stairs, contemplating bedtime, she dared to ask, “What … ah, what happened to the nylarians? You said they’re long-lived, but I’ve never heard of them.”
As she walked, Moss shifted its conversation to the speakers in the main living area. “They left.”
“Left where?”
“Unknown.”
Torian winced. “Then your previous owner was a nylarian?”
Moss was silent for a long while. “Yes. But he isn’t worth my processing power.”
It had said something like that before, almost the exact same phrasing. Not worth my processing power. Was it some kind of undercurrent program, a code Moss developed to avoid thinking of painful memories?
Torian didn’t want to pry.
Instead, she cleared her throat. “Well, I barely slept last night because I was too excited for Starship Day. I might go to bed.”
“Is Starship Day a human holiday? I will make a note of it. I presume it’s a yearly occurrence?”
Torian poked her head into the starship’s version of a fridge, which was just a door inset into the bulkhead of the starship.
Inside, it was chilly, but that didn’t stop a nasty scent from filling the air.
Whatever was in here, it had rotted decades ago, and all that remained were unidentified husks of various produce.
She made a face and found a towel folded nearby. It was stiff, but she shook it out and began wiping down the mess. Moss may be responsible for life support, but it clearly had no hand in food preparation or general cleanliness.
“Starship Day wasn’t supposed to be a recurring holiday …
but now it marks the day we met.” She paused, contemplating that.
Even if—wait, when—she passed the entrance exams on Rhymarra, she could still take trips in this starship between work weeks.
“After meeting you, it’d be fun to celebrate every year. ”
Silence.
Did she overstep? Torian hesitated, glancing at the camera nearby. “Would you like that?”
There was another pause. “I do not celebrate holidays. Moss is moss, no matter how time passes.”
“Holidays don’t have to mark change. They can just be a quiet moment to remember things from the past, or be grateful for the present.
” Torian tossed the rag in a presumed trash can—a small metal container which was, thankfully, empty.
She closed the fridge and stepped instead to the cabinet, which was sparsely stocked with a variety of food from multiple alien suppliers.
A few of them were human-approved, according to their labels. Made sense, if this alien was traveling through their solar system and shopping at their markets.
None of it helped her, considering how old this food apparently was. She pushed it all to the back of the cabinet, and then went to the cargo bay to pry her food crate open.
Moss sounded introspective. “If the purpose of Starship Day is to remember our meeting … I would not mind celebrating. But that presumes you will not abandon me like he did.”
Torian stilled, feeling suddenly sad for Moss. “I’m not leaving,” she promised. “This is my home too.”
Maybe it was her imagination, but the lights on the starship seemed to warm in color. “I accept this,” Moss said.
“Good,” Torian replied. Inside the food crate, she’d received everything she’d ordered.
Several essentials—protein packets, fiber cookies, multivitamins—were crammed underneath a plethora of nonessentials: vacuum-sealed bread, containers of her favorite teas and coffee, chips, cereal, preserved milk.
No one said she couldn’t enjoy her trip through space, after all.
(And Celise wasn’t here to bitch about her poor food choices, so … win-win.)
Torian loaded up her arms with as much food as she could carry and brought it back to the kitchenette.
There was something pleasing about moving into this starship properly, and she proudly shoved her food in front of the ancient alien cans and bottles for easy access.
Then, she chose a very nutritious dinner of pancakes.
She mixed the batter, then fumbled for a pan to place over the small heating element. While it heated, she changed topics: “This might sound weird, but how did he, ah … make you?”
“He did not make me. I grew myself, as all moss does.”
As an afterthought, Torian ducked back to her duffel bag to retrieve the chocolate Bartlet had given her. She’d only had pancakes with chipped chocolate once before, but it wasn’t something she’d ever forget.
A perfect meal for the first night on her very own starship.
As she grabbed a knife to cut the chocolate pieces into smaller chunks, she said, “He must have modified you somehow. Moss doesn’t just … become intelligent.”
Moss’s voice was stiff. “Moss is very intelligent. Humans just don’t listen. My moss colony originated on the nylarian homeworld of Verdaan. My spores took root on this ship when he landed there, because I wanted to go somewhere new.”
“You wanted to explore?” Torian repeated, just to ensure she heard it right. Did other plants want to explore? Was the calathea in Celise’s clinic desperate to see the galaxy?
The thought was almost laughable.
Almost.
“Well, explore, but also, there is competition on Verdaan. Lots of types of moss. They’re very judgmental. A part of me is still on that planet, but that colony isn’t connected to my central system now.”
Torian poured the batter onto the pan, checking the temperature to ensure it wouldn’t burn.
But the nylarian heating element—which was sleek and black, and only seemed to convey heat to the pan, not anywhere else—was working beautifully.
She tossed the chips of chocolate in, grinning as they sank into the batter and began to melt.
“Did you like being on this ship? With him?” She wanted to ask his name, but also didn’t want to upset Moss.
He was clearly a touchy subject.
True to form, Moss took a long time to respond.
The pancake batter was beginning to firm at the edges before it said: “Yes. He was my first non-flora friend. He developed sensors using organic materials, which connected to my new moss colony. Over time, I was able to replicate those sensors in every new gametophyte. Then he created my central system, which allowed me to verbalize this new data.”
A living computer—a true masterpiece.
Torian loaded the pancakes onto a plate, then slid into the seat at the small dining table. She poured some artificial syrup over it—apparently Rhymarra had real syrup, but that was a distant dream on the colonies.
She took a contemplative bite, savoring the rich taste of chocolate. Her words were muffled by the food. “Do you miss him?”
“No.”
The response came fast, with almost too much force.
A living computer with abandonment issues. She felt bad for Moss, forced to stay here alone, wondering where its only friend went. Torian was already starting to dislike the alien who’d owned the Destitute.
“Do you miss Celise?” Moss asked.