Chapter 5
TILDA
Fratvoy One looks expensive from orbit.
That is my first thought as the transfer liner begins its descent and the planet swells in the viewport, all gleaming oceans and sculpted continents and cloud bands lit gold by the nearest sun.
It doesn’t look wild. It looks curated. Like someone hired a committee to design a world that says adventure while still reassuring wealthy advertisers their shoes won’t get muddy unless scheduled.
Jesse is kneeling on the seat beside me in our cabin, both hands pressed to the glass.
“Big,” he whispers again, awed.
“Yeah,” I say softly.
Big enough to swallow us whole.
The Celestial Bloom glides lower through the atmosphere with barely a shudder.
Engine vibration hums through the deck, smooth as a purr.
In the corridor outside, I can hear other contestants moving around, luggage wheels rattling, voices rising and overlapping in excited bursts.
Somebody laughs too loudly. Somebody else is already performing bravery for an audience that isn’t in the room.
I adjust Jesse’s shirt collar and smooth his hair back from his forehead. His scales are warm under my fingers.
“You ready for our grand descent into nonsense?”
He points at the window. “Adventure.”
“Right,” I murmur. “That.”
I should correct him. Should say work or temporary corporate exploitation or the thing keeping us housed if I don’t die in public. But he looks so delighted that I let him keep the word.
By the time we dock groundside, my nerves feel polished thin.
Contestant transfer from the liner to the compound happens with all the glossy efficiency of a regime that has practiced turning chaos into spectacle.
We’re guided down a wide boarding ramp into an arrival concourse made of brushed steel, smoked glass, and walls of giant moving screens that flash contestant names, sponsor logos, and snippets of old challenge footage.
Jesse, strapped into his harness on my chest, turns his face into my neck when the crowd noise spikes. I rub his back automatically.
“Got you,” I murmur.
A line of staff in fitted charcoal uniforms checks travel bands and directs contestants toward separate orientation lanes.
One lane for solo contestants. One for dependent accommodations.
Bless whoever designed that, because if I had to stand in the same queue as thirty adrenaline junkies with no bags except a smile and some trauma, I might start biting people.
A woman with a headset and a serene expression scans my wristband.
“Tilda Robertson?”
“Yes.”
“Dependent one, Jesse Robertson?”
“That’s right.”
She smiles up at him. “Welcome to Fratvoy One, Jesse.”
He eyes her solemnly, then hides his face in my shoulder.
“Same,” I say.
Her smile twitches. Human. Good. “A family services escort will meet you after intake. Your quarters are assigned in Residential Block C, family section. Childcare orientation is scheduled immediately on arrival.”
“Immediately?” I ask.
“Yes.”
Relief slides through me so quickly it almost hurts. “Good.”
She glances at her slate. “You’ve got extensive accommodation notes in here.”
“I do.”
“So I see.” Her tone says somebody’s already been difficult. Correct. “Everything’s set. This way.”
We move through a long corridor with transparent side panels, and then the compound opens around us.
I stop without meaning to.
It’s enormous.
The GXC compound sprawls across a broad terraced valley under a pale blue sky, every piece of it engineered to intimidate and impress.
Housing blocks rise in clean angular tiers of white and silver.
Training arenas sit beyond them like polished weapons—domes, obstacle towers, open-frame climbing rigs, aquatic pits glinting in the light.
Further off, giant enclosed structures I assume are event simulators hum with hidden machinery.
Holo billboards shimmer above walkways. Camera drones flick lazily overhead like metallic insects.
I can see media buildings too—glass-fronted, overlit, designed for people who make a living narrating other people’s breakdowns.
And all of it is surrounded by manicured landscaping so aggressively beautiful it feels sarcastic. Purple-leafed trees. Sculpted stone paths. Water features. As though if they give trauma a nice enough fountain, we’ll all forget the point of the place.
“Oh, hell,” I breathe.
Jesse lifts his head. “Pretty.”
“Sure,” I say. “If your taste runs to expensive danger.”
My escort glances over with the tiny startled look people get when they forget contestants are actual people and not just future highlight reels.
“This facility was custom-built for the Challenge,” she says.
“I can tell. Nothing says ‘good decisions ahead’ like twelve separate training arenas.”
She almost smiles, then remembers her training and suppresses it.
We take a transport cart through the compound.
Other contestants are arriving in clusters, some gawking openly, some already acting like they own the place.
I clock bodies built like tanks, people in high-end performance gear, sponsor entourages, staff carrying tablets like priestly texts.
Somewhere nearby a siren whoops briefly, followed by cheers from a practice field. My skin prickles.
I force myself not to stare at the larger arenas.
One problem at a time.
The family services building sits slightly apart from the main housing ring, attached to Block C by a secured walkway. That makes sense. More controlled traffic, less random contestant chaos near the children. Already I approve more than I expected to.
Inside, the temperature is cooler. The smell changes too—clean fabric, soft disinfectant, faint fruit from somewhere nearby, and the warm yeasty scent of fresh bread.
A good sign. Real food, not just emergency nutrient paste.
The lighting is lower here, gentler. Noise dampening in the walls.
The floor has enough give under my shoes that I know somebody thought about falling toddlers.
A broad-shouldered man in slate scrubs meets us at reception. Human, middle-aged, thick braid over one shoulder, face lined in a way that suggests both humor and competence.
“Ms. Robertson? I’m Kavi Pell. Family services.” He extends a hand, then looks at Jesse. “And this must be our famous furniture concern.”
I blink. Then laugh. “You got the notes.”
“I wrote the notes.” He shakes my hand. Firm, warm, steady. “Come on. Let’s show you where your son will be proving our insurance premiums were justified.”
That is the first reassuring thing anyone in authority has said to me in days.
Jesse peers at him. “You funny.”
Kavi grins. “That’s how we trap confidence.”
He leads us through the daycare center, and I catalog everything automatically.
Secure doors with layered access. Visible med station.
Open play areas broken into age zones. Reinforced climbing structures with padded flooring.
Sleep rooms with temperature controls. Low tables that are definitely strength-rated.
Storage bins bolted in place. Two staff members in the infant area.
Three in the mixed-age room. Good staffing ratios.
A little girl with blue skin and four tiny horns toddles by carrying a plush sea monster. A Khepri toddler is stacking soft blocks with eerie precision. One exhausted-looking caregiver is negotiating with a shrieking Trinex child who has apparently decided gravity is a personal insult.
This, at least, looks like real childcare. Not a staged brochure set.
Kavi stops beside a smaller enclosed play room.
“For higher-strength developmental profiles,” he says. “Mixed Vakutan, young Odex, occasional Genari in growth phases. We adapt by age, not just species.”
I step inside. The equipment is solid. The chair frames are reinforced. The crib rails in the adjoining nap room are metal-cored beneath the soft coatings. Temperature control panel near the wall. Good ventilation. No obvious breakables. No loose shelving to tip.
I look at Kavi. “And staff?”
“Rotating specialists on this wing twenty-four hours. We don’t use punitive restraint except imminent-harm situations, and even then only with approved species-specific protocols. Mostly we redirect, exhaust, distract, or outsmart.”
“Outsmart a Vakutan toddler?”
Kavi lifts a brow. “You’d be surprised what bubbles and snacks can accomplish.”
Jesse, overhearing snacks, lifts one hand. “I like snacks.”
Kavi nods solemnly. “Excellent. We’ll build diplomacy around your strengths.”
I set Jesse down and watch him wander toward a low tactile wall full of gears and lights. He touches one panel. It spins without coming off in his hand. Another small exhale leaves me.
“During events?” I ask.
“Dependent children are checked in at least thirty minutes before contestant call times,” Kavi says. “You’ll sign him in and out personally unless emergency conditions dictate otherwise. No media access to this wing. No sponsor drop-ins. No contestant visitors outside approved hours.”
“No media at all?”
“None.” He studies my face. “That was one of the first clauses we locked after season nine. Learn from your disasters, you know?”
I almost ask what happened in season nine, then decide ignorance may be a mercy.
“When I’m in transit between events?” I ask.
“He stays here or in designated family transfer with childcare staff.”
“And if he’s sick?”
“On-site peds first. If something exceeds us, station med transfer.” Kavi pauses. “Ms. Robertson, you can keep asking. I don’t mind.”
“I know.” I fold my arms. “I just need to know he’ll be safe while I’m out there doing whatever fresh horror they’ve designed.”
His expression gentles. “You are not the first parent they’ve recruited. You won’t be the last. We take that seriously.”
I believe him.