Nebula Hearts (STARLIGHT CHRISTMAS)

Aris

“How much farther?” I ask.

Tynrax doesn’t slow his pace. “One point five kilometers.”

Right. Exact measurements. I should have expected that. The man probably knows the distance down to the centimeter. Man. Zephyrian. Whatever.

I glance at Sarpi, our pilot, who trudges a few meters ahead. He catches my eye and grins, like he knows exactly what I’m thinking about our very precise commander.

I look back at Tynrax. He’s got his datapad out, probably recalculating our arrival time down to the second.

The pale morning light catches the faint violet patterns at his temples.

Barely visible right now, but they brighten when he’s concentrating.

I’ve been noticing that. The way the traceries extend down his throat and disappear under his collar. How far do they go?

Zephyrians and their emotional suppression protocols. Sometimes I think they took the whole ‘logic over feeling’ thing too far. But I have to admit, having a commander who doesn’t panic is useful when you’re racing a three-day deadline.

I refocus on the regolith.

Professional behavior. That’s what this mission requires.

We’ve been walking for twenty minutes across gray regolith dotted with volcanic rock formations. The rover’s back at the ship; the moonquake made the terrain too unstable for a vehicle landing near the worksite.

So we walk. The relay station is visible now, a dark shape rising against the pale sky. Solar arrays spread out around it in neat concentric rings, most of them still functional. Some aren’t.

That’s why we’re here.

Three days ago, a moonquake damaged the power relay. No one could have foreseen the cascade collapse, the slightest error that ballooned into the current crises.

Now, the colony has only weeks until their backup generators fail.

On top of everything, it’s three days until Christmas.

Our first big celebration, five years after the colony’s founding.

Three days until life support goes down in the outer sectors if we fail.

Five thousand people depending on three people to fix equipment that should have lasted another decade without maintenance.

Five thousand humans and Zephyrians trying to build something new together. An experimental joint colony, meant to prove that integrated settlement could work. That different species could cooperate, share resources, build a future together. No pressure there either.

No pressure.

I focus on the landscape instead of the knot in my stomach. The terrain here is mostly basaltic, volcanic in origin, interesting from a geological perspective but not particularly unusual.

What is unusual is the cliff face rising maybe fifty meters to our left. The moonquake opened up fissures all along the ridge. Most of them look like standard seismic fracturing.

One of them doesn’t.

“Commander,” I say, trying to sound casual. “That opening in the cliff. Northwest, maybe thirty degrees. You see it?”

He stops. Follows my gaze. “The fissure?”

“Look at the edges. They’re too straight. Too precise for natural fracturing in basaltic composition.” I point. “And there’s something inside. Looks like worked stone.”

Tynrax studies the opening for a long moment. “Could be geological. Columnar jointing in basalt can create linear patterns.”

“Columnar jointing forms hexagonal shapes. That’s too precise.” I shift my pack. “I think we should investigate.”

“After we assess the relay.” His tone is final. Not angry, just done with the conversation. “That’s our priority.”

“I know that.” And I do know that. Obviously. Thousands of lives versus my curiosity about some rocks in a cliff. Not a hard choice. “I’m just saying, as the planetary geologist on the team, identifying structural anomalies is literally my job description.”

“Your job is to assess whether the relay’s foundation is stable after the moonquake.” He starts walking again. “If the structure might shift during repairs, we need to know.”

I jog to catch up. “Right. Which requires identifying unusual geological formations that might indicate subsurface instability.”

Sarpi, our pilot and the third member of our merry band, glances back at us. “Are we stopping to look at the rocks?”

“No,” Tynrax says.

“Maybe later,” I say simultaneously.

Sarpi’s grin widens. “So that’s a ‘We’re arguing about it.’”

“We’re not arguing,” Tynrax says. Still calm. Which somehow makes it more frustrating. “Dr. Saavik is expressing professional interest. I’m prioritizing mission objectives.”

“Dr. Saavik thinks the Commander is being unnecessarily rigid,” I mutter.

“The Commander thinks Dr. Saavik gets distracted by interesting rocks when people’s lives depend on us.”

Okay, that’s fair. I DO get distracted by rocks.

But also, I resent the implication that I don’t care about the colonists.

“I care about the mission. I also care about thorough geological assessment. What if that formation indicates subsurface chambers? What if the relay’s foundation is compromised by voids we don’t know about? ”

“After the relay assessment.” He uses his commander voice now. Formal. Flat. “Our first priority is determining the extent of that damage and whether repairs are feasible within our timeline. Once we’ve completed that assessment, if time permits, we can investigate geological curiosities. Clear?”

I want to argue. Want to point out that I could survey the fissure in thirty minutes while he and Sarpi handle initial diagnostics. Want to explain that ignoring potentially significant geological features is bad science and worse safety protocol.

But that’s not going to get me anywhere.

“Clear, Commander.”

“Good.”

We reach the relay station fifteen minutes later. The structure rises about fifteen meters, all function and no aesthetics. Solar arrays spread around it, collecting energy and feeding it into the transmission system that beams power down to Prospect’s End.

Most of the arrays are intact. Several aren’t.

The damage is immediately visible. One section of the transmission housing has collapsed. Three arrays are down. Foundation shows stress fractures. Support struts bent at angles that make me wince.

“Well,” I say. “That’s not great.”

Tynrax circles the structure, pulling out his diagnostic scanner.

“Two days minimum,” he says without looking up. “Possibly less if we’re lucky.” He gestures at the stress fractures. “Tell me if this is going to collapse.”

Right. My job. I start taking readings. Subsurface composition, stress distribution, seismic stability. The numbers build a picture in my mind of what’s happening beneath our feet.

Foundation damaged but stable as far as I can see, but there’s something tickling the edge of my sensors.

“Foundation looks solid,” I report. “Stress fractures are superficial. We’re clear to make repairs unless we get another quake.”

Tynrax nods, filing that away.

I move around to the other side of the foundation, scanning the stress patterns. He’s already there, crouched low to examine a support strut. I stop short.

“Sorry,” I say.

He glances up. We’re close. Closer than I realized.

“You need this section?”

“Yeah, I...” I step to the side. He moves the same direction. We both freeze.

“Left or right?”

“Left.” He moves right, giving me space.

I crouch where he was kneeling. The stone still holds warmth from his body heat. My scanner beeps. I focus on the readout. The numbers make sense. That’s good. Numbers always make sense.

But I keep looking at that fissure in the cliff face, calling to me like a song only geologists can hear.