Chapter 19
The hangar dimmed on a timer, casting the entire space in low light to simulate nighttime.
Torian watched it through the flight deck window.
A couple members of Amelia’s security team were still guarding the hangar’s exit, but no one had entered in hours.
As night progressed, the hangar stayed quiet and mostly empty.
Which meant it was obvious the second Amelia left her ship.
Torian had been absently arranging new scrap pieces onto her ongoing model of the Destitute. Now, she almost dropped the handheld welder, eyes widening as Amelia paused outside Torian’s ship.
Amelia was still wearing that faux-leather jacket that hugged her in all the right ways. This time, to counter the station’s chill, she’d added a white scarf. It made her look cozy and, frankly, adorable. She buried her chin in the scarf, meeting Torian’s gaze through the window.
Torian wasn’t sure if she should talk to Amelia again, after how things had ended earlier that day. She also couldn’t deny the magnetic pull toward the woman outside.
If Amelia was willing to talk, Torian would oblige. Maybe they could fix things.
“I’m stepping out, Moss. Is Lyric okay down there?”
Moss’s response was immediate. “Lyric has affirmed that I am a delightful conversationalist.”
Torian took that as a yes. She laughed. “Keep me updated. I’ll be back in a bit.”
“I cannot keep you updated if you leave my range.”
Right. “Then hold down the fort. I shouldn’t be long.”
“This starship is not a fort.”
Torian rolled her eyes and jogged to the living area to tug on her boots.
Since it was apparently cold enough for a scarf, Torian retrieved her favorite sweater: a thick knitted piece that used to be her mother’s.
Torian slid into it, breathing deeply. Her mother’s scent—which had a subtle sweetness mingling with grease from her repair job—still lingered in the synthetic yarn, which was always a comfort.
Nothing better than a hand-knitted sweater, her mother had told Torian once, as she cuddled beside Celise in bed. It’s important to have crafts that can quiet your mind.
Torian had equated that to attempting to raise plants, failing miserably, and then switching to model starship sculptures. Celise, meanwhile, had learned to crochet, although it fell to the wayside when she started medical school.
Still, Celise had been nice enough to let Torian keep their mother’s sweater when she died. Torian hugged it to herself now, then drew a fortifying breath and stepped off the ship.
Amelia was still standing on the dock, shifting her weight, and her eyes roamed over the burgundy sweater. A series of emotions flickered over her face, so quickly Torian almost missed them: warmth, regret, a bitterness that melted into something more fond.
“You look cozy,” Amelia remarked. “Rhymarrans wear sweaters like that. Lots of sheep and alpaca there for yarn.”
“Well, this is synthetic, because I’m not from Rhymarra.”
And I never will be, apparently.
Amelia opened her mouth, then closed it. She flicked two fingers. “Can I show you something?”
Torian tilted her head, glanced back at the Destitute. But Moss hadn’t interrupted her since Lyric arrived, so clearly, they’d be fine together. Amelia’s crew was still protecting the hangar as a whole. Her ship would be safe.
She nodded. “Sure.”
They left the hangar. Amelia walked with purpose through Colony 4’s lowest ring. The Snuggling Day crowds had died down, and already the banners had flicked to the next holiday: Cockroach Killing Day. Torian hoped they’d be long gone before those festivities kicked off.
As they walked, Amelia said out of the blue: “This is where Rhymarra shipped me after my citizenship exams.”
Torian nearly tripped over her own feet, her mind blanking. “What?”
“You heard me.” Amelia kept her gaze straight ahead.
“You’re Rhymarran?”
“I was. Once.” Now Amelia offered a pained smile, tugging at the sleeve of Torian’s oversized sweater. “I never thought about synthetic fibers. Or the realities of living in space. I just assumed everyone had flowy skirts and fresh produce and enough money to obtain a decent standard of living.”
Torian was still trying to right her own brain. Never once had she heard a rumor that Amelia was anything less than a proud spacer—and a strong member of the Fleet. Her accent was indistinguishable from station lifers’. Her cutthroat attitude was exactly what station folk needed growing up.
“I can’t believe that. Why didn’t you tell me?”
Amelia shrugged. “I don’t tell many people.
” They walked in silence for a bit, turning down an empty, narrow corridor.
Unlike the alley to Lyric’s place, here the ceiling lowered and the walls closed in.
At the opposite end of the corridor was a door, and Amelia seemed intent on leading them there.
“I wanted to clarify, I guess. That comment I made earlier, about Rhymarra’s university refusing to help you and Celise. ”
Guilt slid through Torian’s veins. She cleared her throat. “I overreacted, I think.”
“No, that reaction was exactly right. I’m sorry for what I said. And how I said it.” Amelia shoved her hands into her jacket’s pockets, avoiding Torian’s gaze.
“You did warn me,” Torian replied. “Over and over, the entire time I was on your ship, you told me Rhymarra wouldn’t solve my problems.”
Amelia laughed sadly. “Yes. But I should have told you why I knew they wouldn’t help. I was just … embarrassed. Things didn’t end amicably between me and Rhymarra—and I thought if I was loud enough or waited long enough to deter you, you’d save yourself a trip.”
“You underestimated me,” Torian joked.
Amelia glanced at her now, her expression unreadable. “I always do, apparently.”
Torian’s cheeks warmed, and she cleared her throat, glancing away.
They’d reached the end of the hallway, and Amelia tugged out a lockpicking set. Apparently, this area was too poor for digital locks—or maybe they just preferred old-fashioned security on Colony 4.
Amelia worked the door’s lock, and a breath later, a click sounded.
She pushed open the door and unveiled an empty observation area.
It was clearly long-abandoned, but a tattered mattress had been squished in the corner, and torn cloth had been pinned to the walls, staked with old rebar like a makeshift tent.
Someone lived here, once.
Amelia gestured inside.
Torian stepped into the small room. It had floor-to-ceiling windows offering unobstructed views of space, and the stars drifted gently past as the station spun. But Torian barely looked at the view, instead drawn toward the tent in the corner.
Positioned beside the tent were dented metal pots filled with dry soil and the desiccated husks of plants long dead.
A blue blanket with leaf embroidery had been neatly folded at the corner of the bed.
Someone—Amelia?—had snapped a picture of Rhymarra from space—but it was secondhand, the pixelated, recorded image of a hologram from inside a human starship.
She’d printed the image on real paper and taped it to a spot of honor. It now hung lopsided.
Abandoned. Undisturbed.
Torian faced Amelia, who had closed the door behind her and stopped, apparently unwilling to truly enter. Her gaze was haunted as she looked past Torian at the mattress, the little makeshift sleeping area.
“Did you live here?” Torian whispered. It must have been years ago—Amelia had been with the Fleet longer than Torian.
It was amazing no one had found this place to pilfer anything … but then again, Colony 4 folk were busy with their multitude of holidays. Their crime rates were probably much lower than on Colony 13.
Clearly, no one had found this place, and Torian was almost glad for it.
Amelia rubbed one arm. “I didn’t fail my exams, if that’s what you’re thinking.
You know that Rhymarra’s population is carefully monitored.
They could only allow a certain number of us to stay on-planet.
” She looked to the ceiling, her eyes shining in the dim light.
“One of the boys testing in my class was the son of a governor. My parents were farmers. They swapped our results.”
Torian wondered how she knew—but then again, Rhymarra did share exam results with their students. Amelia would have done practice tests beforehand. Even Torian could get a close range of what her scores would have been.
If Amelia’s results were drastically lower … and a classmate who typically underperformed was able to stay … yeah. That would make sense.
Indignation burned in Torian’s body, making her heart pound, her vision narrow. She clenched her fists. “That’s wrong.”
“Yep.” A wry smile crossed Amelia’s lips. “I filed a protest, but they ordered me on a ship before it could be processed. I was dumped here. I barely got to say goodbye.”
“Are your parents still—”
“Alive? As far as I know. I used to write them, but … well, it’s not like they have a return address.”
Torian suddenly wondered if Amelia’s parents wanted to write her back, or if they were ashamed that she’d “failed”—but that would open up conversations she wasn’t sure Amelia was ready to have.
Instead, Torian knelt beside the mattress, absently running her fingers over the blue blanket.
Torian had told Headmaster Nuun how unfair this was, and now the broken system Rhymarra had created was sitting two feet away.
They dropped exiled Rhymarrans on the colony stations.
There wasn’t an introduction—it was more of a forced relocation, and there weren’t many resources to start fresh.
For a world pretending to be the apex of humanity, Torian could see this cruelty for what it was. Maybe Dutch was right, and people like Headmaster Nuun weren’t what anyone should aspire toward.
Amelia finally stepped farther into the room, dropping to the wall adjacent to the mattress. She was close to Torian, very close, and Torian’s breath stuttered at the proximity. But Amelia just picked up the blanket, tracing a leaf stitched in green thread.