Chapter 12
The cargo bay door opened, and a burst of clean, Rhymarran air slammed into Torian.
Any misery at her conversation with Moss faded as she inhaled deeply.
The air was so crisp. The Destitute and Vaesa both held a hint of humidity, but here, everything felt fresh.
Terra Nova University had been built against a mountain range, but on the sunny, southern side of it.
Grassy, sloped plains gave way to thick pine forests that climbed up the mountains’ jagged sides.
She smelled it all in the air: dust and water, pine needles, all tinged with an earthy scent she couldn’t place.
Magnificent.
She must have made a longing noise, because Moss immediately spoke overhead.
“Don’t be fooled. My atmosphere is superior to this.” It sounded petulant. “Human skin will flake and itch without proper humidity. Those trees hardly produce pure oxygen to the caliber of moss.”
Torian snorted, even as a person with a clipboard approached the docking ramp.
“I love your humidity, and your moss,” she whispered.
“Keep the ship safe for me.” Before, it had been more of a general statement, like telling the family pet to watch over the house.
Now, it actually meant something—because now, Moss had control over the Destitute’s systems.
“I will not allow anyone access.” It sounded smugly gleeful about the ability.
Torian flicked two fingers in goodbye at one of Moss’s cameras, then drew a deep breath. Hopefully, her eyes weren’t red from crying—she couldn’t afford that now. She set her jaw, determination settling into her chest.
Eleven percent. She’d faced worse odds.
Resolutely, Torian clipped a leather bag around her shoulder, one that had been stuffed in her duffel bag until now.
It held all the evidence Torian felt she would need to test: files of her performance at school on Colony 13, years of exam results, preliminary practice test scores.
But to better her chances, she’d also added some more emotional items: images of Celise growing up, her colony medical degree, her official diagnosis, testimonies from her patients about her service-oriented spirit.
All set, Torian strolled down the dock to meet the University representative halfway. The person appeared no-nonsense, with short hair and a clipped expression.
Torian channeled all of her Amelia-like confidence, but kept things polite and formal.
She offered one hand to the representative.
“Captain Torian Razner, owner of the alien starship Traitor. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” Their translators could handle multiple languages, but accents still shone through.
Torian hoped hers wouldn’t be too off-putting.
The representative looked unimpressed. “We do not shake hands on Rhymarra. It’s unhygienic.”
Oh. Torian slid her hand into her pocket, her cheeks warming. “Apologies.”
She should have expected it, but their outfits on Rhymarra were very different than anything Torian was used to.
This representative wore a long, flowy skirt, and billowing sleeves embroidered with green thread.
(Skirts in general were bad ideas in space, but billowing sleeves were also an impractical use of cloth.
Too much fabric, too much risk of indecency if they lost gravity.)
Their necklace appeared to double as their name tag, a metal bar stamped with Dess Philona, BtD. Pronoun class: they. Maybe Torian was imagining it, but that necklace looked like pure ionite.
That’d be so absurd, if it was.
Dess cleared their throat, suspicion tinging their tone. “We weren’t prepared for your visit, Captain Razner. Which professor did you coordinate with?”
Eleven percent meant Torian wasn’t above lying to meet the right person, and a career in smuggling made it easy. “I spoke with Headmaster Nuun.”
Then, she waited, sweat beading down her neck.
Hopefully, that “botanist” line hadn’t leaked into this exchange.
She had to say something to be approved for landing, but she wasn’t here to talk about plants.
The University’s headmaster controlled all exams for Rhymarran citizenship, so that was the person she needed to see.
Dess pressed their lips together, a firm line. “The headmaster is very busy.”
This was Amelia’s specialty. Confidence is rarely challenged, Razner, she’d said on a job once. Act like you belong, and very few are brave enough to contradict it.
Torian rearranged her expression into one of mild amusement. “Yes. I’ve been told not to keep him waiting.”
Dess referred to their clipboard. It was made of actual wood, with real paper on it. Torian couldn’t fathom using paper for notes, but apparently that was par for the course on Rhymarra. Dess parsed through them, their frown deepening. “I still don’t see your appointment—”
“With respect,” Torian interrupted, keeping her tone friendly, yet authoritative, “he likely wouldn’t have known himself. I’m highly in demand at the colonies. It’s a rare day I’m able to come planet-side at all.”
Dess glanced at the ship behind her: at its alien make, at the moss growing from the corners.
Hopefully on Rhymarra, it wouldn’t look old.
Hopefully, it would seem exotic, ultra-sustainable, highly advanced.
Torian imagined that in a world of windmills, solar panels, and farming, the Destitute was a prize.
And she was counting on that.
“I see.” Dess tucked their clipboard under one arm. “Well, then. Come with me.”
“Of course.” Excitement swept into Torian’s chest, but she kept her expression neutral, trying to channel Amelia’s self-assurance. It felt a bit like wearing someone else’s oversized coat—close enough to normal that it didn’t raise suspicion, but overall, it was just a bad fit.
Dess led her off the docks, which were set on a multilevel outdoor platform near the University’s brick and stone buildings.
The campus itself was as big as a city, mostly because every young adult on Rhymarra spent a few years here.
As they walked, they passed gaggles of students.
All of them looked young, healthy, unperturbed; none of the rough exteriors colony folk needed to survive.
Torian hesitated, then asked, “How many students take the yearly exam?”
“All of them. Everyone on Rhymarra is required to pass the exams to stay planet-side—our testing demand is consistently high. The process lasts two entire months, and we’re preparing for it all year.”
Torian couldn’t help asking, “How many folks from the colonies get to test?”
“Any colony citizen can test, of course. We want the best and brightest for Rhymarra, regardless of where they’re from.” Dess avoided Torian’s gaze, looking straight ahead as they moved down a stone walkway lined with trees.
Eleven percent of the entire population of Rhymarra were from the colonies. Considering how many humans lived in space versus planet-side, that was a disproportionate number. Either Dess was lying too, or they were genuinely that oblivious.
“Interesting. I’m a colony citizen, and I was told it’s impossible to test.” Torian narrowed her eyes.
Her hair ruffled in the wind. In a courtyard of manicured grass surrounded by those huge brick buildings, a few students were setting up a wooden playpen.
Closer inspection proved the pen had several puppies inside—and as Torian watched, they unfurled a banner that said: De-stress before exams!
Irritation curdled in Torian’s gut. Rhymarran folks were guaranteed the chance to test. Colony folks had to beg for that same chance. What was the difference between them? Luck, Torian supposed. The luck of being born planet-side instead of in a space station.
It was frustrating to know that if they’d been Rhymarran, Celise would have lived a normal life from day one.
Dess waved Torian’s words away. “There are more barriers for colony folk, naturally. We can’t provide housing for the exams; all of our dorms are taken by current students.
Passage to Rhymarra has to be funded by the student wishing to test. In the past, we’ve offered scholarships, but …
in our experience, most colony students fail. ”
“Because they aren’t taught your curriculum.” Torian should be staying on this person’s good side, but Dess wasn’t the headmaster—and Torian found she couldn’t help herself. She knew Rhymarran folk would be disconnected from these issues, but seeing the reality up close was another matter entirely.
“Not knowing our curriculum wouldn’t stop someone with the merit to become a Rhymarran citizen.” Dess smiled stiffly, and Torian smiled back, and they didn’t speak again until they approached the center of campus.
It was a big building covered in swaths of ivy, and Dess held open a real mahogany door. “This way. You may wait in the lobby; I’ll inform the headmaster of your—”
“Doctor Philona!” A young man jogged up. “Another alien ship just requested to dock. They said they’re—” The man glanced at Torian, then pressed his lips together and bent near Dess’s ear to whisper the last part.
Torian raised one eyebrow, but stayed silent.
Dess paled. “Ah, I see. Of course. Captain Razner, please take a seat. I’ll be with you … eventually.” And she jogged outside with the man. The mahogany door slammed closed behind them, and silence filled the hallway.
Torian glanced at the chairs of the lobby, which were stiff and hard.
Sunlight streamed through bright windows, and plants decorated every free corner.
There was a secretarial desk in the center of the hallway, but someone—the young man, most likely—had put an Away from Desk sign on its lacquered surface.
Any second, they could realize she was here under false pretenses.
This new ship could be the distraction she needed, honestly.
For a moment, Torian wondered if it was Zen and Dutch, following her from Vaesa—but there was no reason to think they had, and if she had to guess, a tou’siil ship was far more likely at a university.