Point of Origin, Chapter nine- That Which Defies The Void

“The Scelirian Order was a cruel, brutal power. Already historians class it as the most tyrannical governmental force in the last millennia of our history.

But be that as it may, the scientific advancements that the Scelirians brought to the universe cannot be ignored.

Genetic Enhancement being one of their most notable; D.A.W.N technologies, that brought the first completely genetically engineered soldiers to the universe’s many battlefronts. First patented as a non-loss program in 490 P.S, the project was quickly scrapped by the previous Kletisian Guilds, due to its controversial ethical questions.

After the battle for Tranquilis, D.A.W.N technologies was re-patented as the Nefnat Initiative by the Scelirian Order, and has been in practice for the last three hundred years since.

Although now considered the largest Genoracial enslavement next to Gheo’dia, the Nefnats are present day, living examples of the Scelirian Order’s frightening display of advanced sciences, uncompromising skill, and total lack of ethics.”

[From The Nefnat Initiative, An Overview– one of the many Projections on Evren’s Data Tab.]

Projection duration: 22 minutes

Replay count: 32

Fifthday

There were a thousand and seven things that made Lisk different than other Blue Fringe settlements, but the sleepless hum and unwavering drone of exhausted machinery was just one of them.

The noise was the tireless, throatless voice of Lisk, that's entire existence revolved around its perpetual need to scream across the mountain town.

Generators, ventilations units, water, steam, even power.

It all needed to be somewhere, and the voice of Lisk carried it to its destination with fans and valves, machines and pipes.

It was the steady backdrop of noise that surrounded the town's existence, like a melody would accompany a dance, or an instrument would cue an action in a play. If you shut your eyes, and pretended that you weren't where you actually were, the sound almost seemed pleasant.

Like the world was more than stone and metal and flickering signs, and beyond that world, if you were brave enough to follow Lisk's own voice, you would find a secret landscape of precision, and purpose, and excitement– which was there the entire time– but you were just too busy to notice it.

I stared at my reflection in the open Vending Unit door, blinking as if I had just woken up.

When had I...?

I looked around, seeing the open Vending Unit in front of me, and my bag in my hands, ready to receive the small, tired packages.

I shook my head, muttering as I grabbed a few Crisp’a’snacs and shoved them into my bag. “One day, zoning out is gonna cause some real problems, Evren.”

I added to Lisk’s constant noise as I clicked the door back into place, happily patting the glass afterwards.

“Thank you for your service.”

The Vending Unit’s lights seemed to flicker in appreciation.

I took my hand away, looking at the Unit strangely.

“Just a coincidence, Evren,” I reassured. “No need to worry.”

I peered into my grey bag: three liberated bars nestled together at the bottom.

The trick to stealing from these Units was to not take too much. If they knew someone was stealing food they might do something drastic, like, put a lock on the Vending Unit that I would have to break.

Again. And that process was a very long and tiresome one.

So seeing as I didn’t want to do that, I only took what I needed: my breakfast, which was one bar of protein crackers, my lunch, which was another bar of protein crackers, and my dinner, which was also another bar of protein crackers.

The nutritional morsels of champions all across the galaxy, I was sure.

The Tunnel-street that had the Vending Unit on it was a small connector of sorts. It was the steep, back way up into level forty– one that I had previously brought Xander up, two days ago. I could have taken the lift, but again, there were wayyy too many people who could recognize me. And besides, last I checked, the lifts didn’t have Vending Units I could steal from.

As I neared the end of the connecting tunnel, the sound of the main street got louder, bouncing off the metal walls and ping-ponging back and fourth to add to the auditory calamity.

I shook my head to clear the noise as I stepped onto the main street, leaving the echoing chamber behind me.

It was busy this morning, as the Interphase started to get into full swing. Large Haulers filled with fuel canisters bustled by, on their way to hangars filled with beautiful transports and freighters. Bots and people carried parts and crates, food, and tools– and there was the ever present, evil scent of fried street food that permeated the air like an unwanted spirit, hovering over anyone hungry and tempting them with the promise of a full stomach.

Walking past a stall, my stomach rumbled loudly as the sound of fry cakes sizzled in hot oil. I didn’t have enough money to buy one. I never did. I probably never would. But it was completely free to stand and stare morosely at the cook, so I did that instead.

I tried to tell myself that it was like watching a painter complete a painting with their delicate strokes and pensive expressions, but I knew that to be a clever lie.

I had to face it. I was hoping someone would give me food.

As I watched, the stall owner flipped the sizzling pieces of dough, sprinkling on some white shredded substance that looked like it melted onto the hot food.

The owner caught me staring and shooed me away with a few native signs that I had already picked up from my long months of staring at other food stall owners.

One of them was putting your thumb to your ring finger and flicking it at someone violently. It meant go away, I don’t like you, go find another street vendor to beg for food at, and my favourite interpretation so far–

Get lost.

I laughed to myself as I shuffled away. “Goes to show what you know,” I whispered. “Can’t get more lost than this.”

I pulled out one of the Crisp’a’snac bars and started to chew on it miserably as I searched the hangar doors for two familiar numerals.

Before I knew it, the street doors to hangar 42 were in front of me, and they had been thrown open wide.

I poked my head in, surveying the hangar. I was surprised to see most of all the boxes I had organised yesterday were gone. What had happened to them? Had they been stolen? Had I lost them? No. I had left them here. Don’t be stupid.

I shifted my attention from the absent boxes to see what else was happening in the hangar.

A few people, that I assumed were other offworlders, were talking with captain Rigg beside a Hand Hauler piled with small boxes. Their conversation was low and indistinct, but didn’t seem unpleasant.

Behind them, the ship still had scaffolding around it from the day previously. The large hangar door was still open to the outside, letting in a glorious morning light from the Hollow Wastes, and today, it framed the Passerine in gold.

Although I knew I was a little bit late, I took a moment to admire the ship.

The birdlike design was like nothing I had ever seen. Despite my first impressions, I found myself liking it in a way I have never had the chance to like anything before. Almost like someone would admire a nice house, or a piece of beautiful scenery. This was Covien, so I hadn’t seen either, but I assumed I would like them just as much as I liked the look of that ship.

Finally done with admiring the vessel from the door, I tried to discreetly amble towards the scaffold, where I saw a silhouette picking up a few tools.

Unfortunately, captain Rigg didn’t seem like the ‘not-noticing’ kind of person. He broke off his conversation with the other merchants, and whistled.

I froze in the middle of the hangar, next to a stack of crates I had organised yesterday that hadn’t been taken away yet.

The captain nodded towards the scaffold.

“Everyone went to Surfaceside for errands. You can finish the rest of the descaling before they get back.”

I nodded, unsure what to do as anxiety seeped into my spine and made me stiff.

Salute?

Shrug?

Give a word of acknowledgement? I didn’t have an answer for the man, but he seemed like he wanted one. I looked to his side where I could see a handle to one of his Pulsers. I tried to imagine myself not being shot today.

In my never ending wisdom, I gave a wordless thumbs up, the universal sign for good, yep, everything is okay, or I agree with you – and strode away confidently.

Thankfully, I had mastered the art of walking away from people quickly. I turned my face so the captain couldn’t see the stupid expression I wore, and booked it to the scaffold.

Maybe that was the wrong thing to do.

I was gonna have to get better at actually being around other people. And if I was gonna survive off of Covien, then I needed to brush up on my communication skills.

I also needed to stop feeling so guilty about the whole 'threatening' thing.

Come on, where was that tough attitude I had yesterday when I threatened to turn him over to a bunch of criminals? Where was that? That was great.

Like everything else in this world, it had abandoned me and left me alone to look like an idiot.

Finally in the relative safety of being out of view, I blew out a sigh of relief, turning to the scaffold as I remembered I had seen someone here beforehand.

They were doing something just under the lowest level of the scaffold, but the morning shadows made it hard to see them or what they were working on.

Of course. Xander must have stayed behind from errands because of his leg.

“Good morning, Xander,” I said, pulling my bag from over my head and throwing it next to the crate of descaling tools. “Sorry, I’m a bit late– had to take the long way up here because Hauler traffic is terrible today.”

The silhouette turned around, still crouched under the shadows of the large scaffold. In the low morning light of the hangar, two reflective, yellowed eyes stared back at me in shock.

The expression was mutual.

I took a moment to reorientate myself. Oh, right… There must be more of the crew that I hadn’t met yet.

“Oh– I'm sorry,” I said with a laugh, putting my hands on my hips to hide my embarrassment. “I thought you were Xander.”

Hesitantly, the creature shuffled out from under the scaffold and straightened to its full height. Ugh. Was everyone in this universe taller than I was?

After the tall humanoid unbent himself, he towered above me anxiously as two pointed ears, and a long tail behind him, twitched nervously. He studied me from strange, yellowed irises, a face with a flat, catlike nose– and an expression that read like he was one more shallow breath away from bolting for cover.

In his hands, I saw a large, serrated knife– one I had seen Xander use yesterday.

Something about him seemed wrong, or different, and a muted, strangled voice tried to tell me why– but I was too confused to listen to it.

“I’m the… maintenance hand, but you can call me Evren. Evren West. Sorry for startling you?”

I held out my hand, deciding it might be best to fill the uncomfortable silence.

This appeared like the wrong thing to do.

He looked at his hands with the knife in it –then to mine– and then to his hands again, ears going back in something distantly related to panic. He seemed somewhat odd, like his facial features were threatening, but the way he held himself was very much not. He wore a blue sweater and faded pants, and a cloth was resting over one shoulder like he had come out of the ship in the middle of cleaning something incredibly dirty.

Slowly, the tall humanoid switched the knife to his other hand and, tentatively, extended his own toward mine.

As he opened his mouth, I saw an untidy row of sharp, pointed teeth.

“Sevus,” he said in a shaky voice. “Sevus Clacher. Ecomaster.”

His face, paired with his cat-like features, his tail, and his dark, dirty-blond hair– all seemed distantly familiar. Like maybe I had seen another one of his species before…?

I realised where from when I glanced down to see the hands delicately shaking my own. Instead of letting go, I stepped closer and looked at his nails, turning his hand over and confirming my suspicions.

It looked like his nails had been sharpened into points.

I was right.

“Great Ferryer–” I exclaimed, looking up at him as I finally released his arm. “You’re a Nefnat!”

The man drew his clawed hand back, wiping it on his blue sweater.

“Um. Yes. But, uh–second Generation. Mark… mark three.” He took a step towards the ship, his voice soft and quiet. “I didn’t mean to disturb you. I should actually be going–”

“A Nefnat!” I burst out, trying to keep my excitement contained as I eagerly followed him. “Oh, wait! Wait a moment! Man –this is so cool–”

As I tried to keep pace with the Nefnat’s long strides, a thousand stories raced through my head –from old Covienians, from Lewis’s history projections, from Rusty Ris and her crazy stories about the Blue Fringe War– it was all I could do but shake with excitement.

“I’ve only heard of Nefnats– I’ve never met one before. But I’ve always wanted to!”

The Nefnat paused, raising an eyebrow as his ears went back again. Looking down at me sideways, his cat-like nose crinkled in confusion.

“You have?” It seemed like he didn’t share the same sentiment as I did. “Why?”

I blinked. The answer was so obvious to me.

Gesturing around the air, I tried to explain it. “Because you’re part of the race engineered for intelligence, and strength and agility, and all that stuff–and-and that’s amazing!” I dropped my hands. “Seeing in the dark? Advanced speed? I once heard that there was a Nefnat soldier that tore straight through some Kletisian Iron to save one of her sergeants. You know, the Foundation of the Empirium? That's some pretty cool stuff.”

The Nefnat looked around the hangar, one might say, timidly.

“Are you saying… you’ve never even seen a Nefnat before?”

Oh great. That made me look stupid.

“Uh… no.” I answered honestly. “You’re the first one.”

The Nefnat called Sevus was positively taken aback. For a long moment, he tried to find the right words to say, but just as the man looked like he was about to speak again, someone else spoke behind me, instead.

“Are you antagonising our cook?”

Captain Rigg came to stand beside me, giving me a small glare before looking back over at Sevus.

I spared a quick second to check the hangar. The other offworlders were gone.

I looked back at the captain. Wait–did he say cook?

“I wasn’t antagonising–”

The captain interrupted me as he folded his arms. “Is the maintenance hand bothering you, Sevus? Because if she was,”–the captain didn’t look at me, and that felt more than pointed–"feel free to throw her out of the hangar.”

Sevus looked confused.

I tried again.

“I told you, I wasn’t antagonising–”

The captain finally looked at me, his eyes drawing into a squint as he jerked a hand towards the Nefnat. “Well, he looks antagonised.”

I was feeling petty enough to not break the old man’s gaze, so I continued to stare at him with what I hoped was an aggressive expression.

The Nefnat held up the knife he had in his hand, breaking into the words I wasn’t saying to the Fletric captain.

“Um, no, Aster– its okay.” Sevus shrugged. “The maintenance hand was just introducing herself. And… I was just looking for the breadknife.”

The captain sighed, turning his attention back to his cook.

“Xander used it for cutting the barnacles off the ship again?”

The Nefnat nodded, rubbing the back of his head.

“Yeah, I– I really don’t know how I’m going to hide it, next time.”

I tried to place the Nefnat’s age as he spoke, but it was hard.

He didn’t look as old as captain Rigg, but he didn’t look very young, either. Maybe in his late twenties? No, that seemed wrong, but I couldn’t figure out why. I think I remember Lewis saying that they were hard to age because of the ‘fruit salad inside their DNA.’ But I didn’t really know what fruit salad was, so the phrase beat the hell out of me.

I frowned at the knife, another question popping into my mind.

“What's a bread knife?” I asked. If I was gonna leave Covien soon, I had better start learning everything I could about ships and maintenance. Maybe the knife was integral for some other maintenance job?

The captain paused, turning his suspicious blue eyes to me slowly in a squint.

“It’s a knife,” he responded flatly. “For bread.”

The simple words hung in the air as I stared up at him, uncomprehending.

“What's bread?” I asked before I could stop myself.

NO– Why hadn't I just lied? I should have, right then and there, and avoided the confused expressions the two merchants fixed on me– but curiosity got the better of me, and continued to expose my humiliating ignorance in just three more words:

“Is it… food?”

Instead of explaining, the captain rubbed his right eye tiredly and sighed. He seemed older when he did that. “Evering Lights, girl–” he muttered into his hand, “of course bread is food.”

He looked up, nodding sharply to the scaffold. “Miss West, don’t you have a job to do?”

I shook myself out of the awkward conversation, shuffling to where I had put the descaling tools last night. “Oh, right– Yes, sir.” Turning and pulling off my poncho, I wondered vaguely how much of a fool I had made of myself.

So much for looking normal, Evren.

I got the descaling tools as the captain walked back towards the crates; the Nefnat on the other hand, hovered nearby with the bread knife in his hands, seeming like he was trying to decide something and was struggling to do so.

After slotting my hammer and chisel into my belt loops, I started climbing up the creaky scaffold ladder.

I paused, glancing at the Nefnat. Did he have something he wanted to say? I cleared my throat. “It was nice to meet you.”

He inclined his head, a sign of respect, greeting or gratitude. It wasn’t one I had seen much on Covien, though. I returned the action instinctively. Now on the ladder, I was able to look over at Sevus and not up at him.

“Nice to meet you, too,” he said hesitantly, like he wasn’t quite sure if he agreed with the words yet.

He rubbed the back of his head. My earlier attempt at conversation seemed to have flustered him, although it was hard to tell– he'd already seemed so flustered to start with.

“Do you…” the Nefnat started shyly, “really not know what bread is, Covienian?”

I shook my head sadly, hooking my elbows over a ladder rung comfortably. “Sadly, that's not my department these days…” I sighed as I looked down.

Sevus looked like he didn’t really believe me. “Surely, you’ve at least heard of bread?” he asked, stepping closer.

“Never heard of it.” I looked back up. “What's it like?”

“This is so strange.” Sevus seemed to be thinking about it, absolutely perplexed. “Well. It’s kind of a staple food. Spongy, I guess. And light.”

“Spongy and light…” I repeated thoughtfully. That sounded good already. “What’s it made out of?” I asked.

“Well, it’s made out of flour–”

“Flowers?” I interrupted, picturing the wildflowers that grew in the cracks down in the Warehouse District.

He shook his head, making the Standard Entrillian sign for grain.

“No, no– flour. Made from wheat.”

“Ohhhh– Wheat. I like wheat.” I nodded, clicking my fingers in understanding. “Now I get you. What else?”

Sevus started listing ingredients on his clawed fingers.

“Well, water keeps it together, and you need salt, and yeast. And yeast needs certain sugars to survive, so you also feed the yeast to make bread.”

I made a noise of confusion. “Hold up– you feed the yeast?” Images of animals popped into my head. Was a yeast an animal? A plant? It sounded like it was alive.

Never mind, bread sounded gross now.

“I’ve never heard of a Yeast before–I don’t think Covien has them,” I looked back at Sevus from my perch on the ladder. “What’s it look like? Does the yeast stay with you on the ship?”

Sevus gestured behind him to the hold of the ship as he talked.

“Of course, it lives in a bowl.”

I squinted. Across the hangar, I saw the captain look up from his Tab and glare at me as I talked with the Nefnat, Sevus.

“It lives… in a bowl?” I echoed, making the sign for something swimming back and forth. “Like a fish?”

I lost my confused expression, sighing. I suddenly realised that I had been had.

“You’re joking, aren’t you?” I asked before Sevus could respond. “Grains that are spongy, and a Yeast that lives in a fish bowl?” I laughed, trying to hide my embarrassment. “You almost had me there, man.”

The faintest ghost of a smile spread across Sevus’s face. He tilted his head as he squinted, exhaling.

“I think you may be the very first Fringe-worlder I have ever met that hasn’t even heard of bread.”

If the Nefnat meant that as an insult, I decided I didn’t want to take it as one. “Thank you.”

Sevus was still squinting, like he was thinking about something else. “Do you really not believe me?”

I hesitated. “Aren’t you making this up?” I asked.

Sevus's look of absolute perplexion magnified. “I’m really not–” he tried to protest.

“Hey!” We both looked over to where the captain was standing by the edge of the scaffold, hands on his hips.

He pointed to me. “You– you have a job to do.”

He pointed to Sevus, and the tense energy instantly returned to the Nefnat in full. “And you– you have a job to do.” He nodded towards the hold, and Sevus disappeared into it without another sound.

Quietly and obediently.

The captain turned towards the ladder, having to look up at me now. I tried not to relish it.

“And what are you doing?” he asked, as he folded his arms. “Collecting more information on my crew so you can blackmail them, too?”

Oof. That hurt.

One of the first normal conversations with this crew, and the captain instantly accused me of malicious data collection.

Looking down at him, I blew a long and deliberate breath from my lungs.

“I'm not a bad person, captain Rigg. I don't want to make things hard for you. I just need to get off this planet.” I tried to make my voice sound serious, and genuine, because I really was trying to be.

The captain gave me a look that clearly outlined he didn’t believe me.

I gestured around the hangar.

“Look at it this way– you’re trying to get offworld.” I pointed to myself. “And I’m trying to get offworld.” I shrugged. “I mean, if we both want the exact same thing, then… why not help each other?”

Captain Rigg stared up at me for a few seconds longer than I was comfortable with.

“Because you threatened my crew, Evren West,” he answered flatly. “And I’m not the kind of man that trusts people who threaten me.”

Damn. That was a pretty good reason.

“Just get to work,” the captain was saying, “and remember, I still haven’t written-off shooting you.”

Instead of explaining more like I wanted to do, I continued climbing upwards, looking away from the captain.

I wouldn’t be able to explain. And probably never would.

Let him think what he wants, a voice said, you’ll never be able to change his mind, anyway.

I had finally finished with the scaffold and was working on the scales attached to the landing gear.

I hated it.

For some hilarious reason, they had attached themselves to the trickiest, smallest, hardest-to-get-to spaces on the pieces of gear– like somehow the crustaceans knew that chiselling them off would be hardest there.

But little did those silly little scales know, that I, the maintenance hand in charge of scrubbing them off the ship, was previously a stubbornly desperate mechscrubber who never had the petty luxury of simply giving up.

Again, I had to stop using the tools that were given to me and use my hands, as I pried away scales and buildups with my fingertips.

Needless to say, progress was slow.

After a particularly hard cluster of scales, I straightened under the ship, rubbing my sweaty face with the back of my hand tiredly. Apart from the Secodack, I was probably the only one who could straighten to their full height under the ship. The rest of the Passerine’s crew were all so tall. At least, the ones I had met, were.

I wonder how many of them I hadn’t seen yet…

I flexed my bandaged arm as I thought about it. A shot of pain ran up my arm and I bit my tongue, the sudden jolt of agony surprising me. It hadn’t hurt like this in months. I leant over, hugging my arm to my chest as I lowered myself onto the ground painfully.

“I guess you don’t like descaling,” I muttered to my arm, holding it out in front of me as it started to shake. I closed my eyes, resting my back against the landing gear.

I needed to get up and start working. If the captain saw me sitting down on the job, I might get fired. Again. And it was embarrassing enough the first time.

I went to get up, but my arm started to shake, the tremors bringing with them another round of nerve pain.

A few more breaths, and my arm would be fine, I decided. Just a few more breaths…

I opened my eyes, a newer feeling pushing its way in over the pain of my arm.

It felt like somebody was… watching me?

I looked around, straightening so that I wasn’t resting against the landing gear as I searched the hangar from beneath the ship.

I found the culprit– it was the Nefnat, who had been right in the middle of carrying a large crate filled with polyplast out of the ship. Leaning down to look under the large spacecraft, he examined me with an expression that I might have called worry.

“Are you quite alright?” he called anxiously.

Shoot– he had seen me when my arm was hurting.

I shot to my feet, leaning against the landing gear. “Sorry! Nope, I’m fine! Just…” I looked down at my hand, trying to think of a good lie. “... I just hit my hand… with the chisel. Very hard– But I’m fine, though.”

The Nefnat didn’t seem satisfied. “Are you sure?” he asked hesitantly.

I nodded, waving him off. “Yeah–no, sure– I’m fine. Thought my thumb was a scale, is all- Ha! Won’t happen again.”

Straightening, the Nefnat left, and I leant against the landing gear more heavily. I looked at my arm as more tremors came and went.

“Look,” I muttered to the shaking limb, “if me and you are gonna survive, you better get your act together and stop hurting.”

I tried to touch it, but it only sent more spikes of pain along my arm. This was so frustrating! I didn’t have time for stuff like this.

Looking out from under the ship with a sigh, I saw the captain and a few Covienians by the door.

They were pointing to the ship, and then to a large holding tank that sat in the corner of the hangar. It didn’t take an expert to tell they were bargaining a price for some product that was vital to the ship's function. You could tell just by the way that the Covienians were standing, and how the captain's ears were pointed back in mild frustration.

The captain appeared to be thinking about something, and after a moment, he nodded in agreement. He shook one of the Covienian's hands, and then they promptly left.

Walking back towards the ship, hands in his coat pockets, the captain's thoughts were evidently far away.

I wondered vaguely how old he really was. He seemed as old as Lou Koval, but I never really asked Lou for his age… so that really didn’t help me. I decided that all the silver in his hair put him well above thirty, but I couldn’t decide much more than that.

I wondered if he really would shoot me, or if he was bluffing, too.

I really was bluffing about Kovals'. Even if The Passerine’s crew threw me out of their hangar without my boots, bag or poncho, there was no way I was going back to Kovals'… I’d rather eat my stolen hat.

As I thought about it, the captain looked up from across the hangar, straight under the ship to where I was.

How did he know I was looking at him? That was weird. And uncomfortable. Could everybody do that?

Quickly, I pretended I was looking at something else. I glanced up at the bottom of the ship. Ah, yes, the ship. What an… interesting… ship.

Slowly, I looked back at the captain, who hadn’t looked away.

I frowned.

“Am I paying you to do nothing?” he signed, and even from under the ship, I could see the aggravated emotion in the movements. Strangely enough, I noticed the captain used Covienian slang sign. Where had he learnt it?

I straightened, signing back in Covienian slang, as well. “No, sir. Sorry, sir. Taking a break.”

Scratching the back of my head, I spared one last glance at the peculiar Fletric, and turned back to the landing gear, breaking off the last scale and trying to look really busy while I did it.

I tried not to think about my conversation with him yesterday. I tried to tell myself to work and just forget about it, but I couldn’t stop thinking about the possibility of turning in the merchants to a gang of Mechanics. Why would I do that? That was horrible.

That was something a Covienian would do.

I shook myself mentally–

–Astrostorm survivors didn’t have time to feel guilty and gross! They had to do things like earn money for Laneway Taxes.

I picked up my tools and put them into my pockets decisively, and then grabbed a nearby crate and started shovelling the scales into it. Carrying the crate out from under the ship, I set it down next to about a dozen others that contained identical grey, putrid looking matter. I blew out a breath, turning to look at the Passerine.

She was clean now, and she looked so much better. I walked up to the hull again, running my fingers along the smooth metal.

“Good thing you don’t care about any of this stuff,” I whispered quietly to the hull. “How nice it must be to be a ship. All you have to worry about is barnacles.”

In the metal beneath my fingertips, I only felt cold– like the cool, shapeless feeling of nothingness between the stars, the planets, the systems…

I could almost feel the pulsing memory of electricity from the twin Lightcores as they propelled the craft further, faster, and ever forward into the void.

As I ran my fingers over the metal, I felt something odd, like it was more smooth in one area. I frowned, stepping back to get a better look at the hull.

Just under the elegant curve of the Passerines 'neck’ and to the right –I really didn’t know what else to call it, it really did just look like a bird's neck– were misshapen, oddly coloured patterns that I hadn’t noticed yesterday.

I remembered that Xander had cleared this part, not me, so I must have missed the markings.

The discolourations were large, faded, and purple flames that were stylised in a way that made them seem otherworldly, yet artistic. Inside the wide mural of faint flames, I saw patterns tucked in between the long tongues of fire. They appeared to be absolutely random.

One by one, I studied the etchings carefully.

The first one I noticed was one that reminded me of the medic’s markings. Beautifully arranged dots streaming around an exotic looking flower. Maybe it was an Avaiyyatian symbol? I didn’t know, but it was beautiful.

Next I saw a sunrise, stylishly reduced down into only a half circle and a handful of lines. It seemed like the newest, with Alphon script written beneath it.

There was also a pair of crudely drawn pliers, a beautiful symbol I instantly recognised as Geodian, and lastly there was an old fashioned shield, with two numbers on it. A three and four. Maybe that was someone's age?

I looked up higher to see another line of symbols above the others. There were words there, but they looked different.

“Oh, finally,” I exclaimed. “Something not written in Alphon.” I squinted up at the words.

“Ad Astra Per Aspera,” I read aloud, straining my neck as I looked up.

I tilted my head.

Something didn’t feel right.

Not in a bad way, just in a ‘not right’ kind of way. Maybe I had too many Crisp’a’snacs for breakfast–

I froze.

No, thats not it, a sly kind of voice whispered in my head.

Gawking up at the ship, my breath escaped my lungs in a discombobulated rush. I put my hands to the sides of my face, pressing in my cheeks as I muttered to myself.

“How… but… But I can’t, so… Where did I…? No, that doesn’t make sense…”

This felt like a very big breakthrough, but I couldn’t do anything.

I just stared up at the words numbly. I mean what could I do? I wasn’t going to get any points as a maintenance hand for dancing around the hangar like an imbecile because I discovered that I wasn’t completely illiterate.

Yet… all this time… I could actually read? Just not… Alphon?

How did I know what those words were, and more importantly, what did they mean?

I stood back, folding my arms and tapping my fingers absently, my dark eyes tracing the words I didn’t know how I understood.

To hell with how I read them.

I wanted to know what they meant.

My confused brooding was interrupted as the gentle sound of someone clearing their throat broke into my concentration.

I looked over, still distracted, and somewhat annoyed, that I had been interrupted. Instead of the captain telling me to get back to work, what greeted me were the hesitant eyes of no one else but the Nefnat.

The cook was back.

I smiled, turning to where the Nefnat was leaning from behind the edge of the ship, one hand clutched to its side to hold him steady.

“Sorry,” I said, dusting off my hands on my shirt as I turned to face him. “I didn’t see you there.”

The Nefnat’s tail twitched as he hovered by the edge of the ship. “Am I interrupting you, Miss West?” he asked quietly.

I shook my head, looking around at the crates of scales, and the clean hull of the Passerine.

“No, actually. I just finished.” I looked back at the Nefnat, wondering why he was here again.

“Do you… need my help with something?”

The Nefnat shook his head. “No. Well, actually… maybe I do.”

Curious, I stepped closer.

“Sure thing. What can I do for you, Herus Clacher?”

Sevus looked beside him, like his other hand was holding something out of view. Slowly, he pulled it in front of him, stepping out from behind the ship all the way.

In his hands he held a plate, and on that plate was placed a slab of white, fluffy food.

He looked down at the plate in his hands, then to me. “I… want you to eat some bread.”

“You want me to do what?”

The Nefnat stepped closer, setting the plate down on a nearby crate, and wiped his hands on the apron tied around his waist.

“Eat some bread,” he repeated simply, looking up with eyebrows raised.

The food was pale, and puffy, and around it, the flat slab was encased in a thin band of dark brown. Slowly, I became aware of a grainy, sweet kind of aroma that filled the air like temple incense.

I looked from side to side, searching the hangar for the captain. Thankfully, I couldn't see him anywhere.

“Why… do you want me to do that?” I asked.

The Nefnat inclined his head seriously.

“Because you were adamant that bread didn’t exist, and as a cook, I took great offence at that.”

I tried to read his expression as he talked, but it was quite blank. He seemed serious, but he did just walk out here to just give me a slice of bread, so I didn’t know how serious he was actually being.

I hesitated, switching my weight from foot to foot as I looked around the hangar again. “I… really should be working, y’know?” I scratched the back of my head. “The captain–”

“Said it was okay,” interrupted the Nefnat, putting his hands in his pockets. He nodded towards the bread. “Don’t worry,” he said pleasantly. “Take a break. Have some bread.”

I frowned. This was strange. This conversation was certainly out of the ordinary, but the interaction didn’t feel hostile. That put it well above most of my interactions with people in general.

Hesitantly, I sat down crossed legged next to the crate, examining the offered morsel.

A part of me didn’t like this, but only because I didn’t understand why he was being nice to me. No one was ever just nice to me. The feeling was strange, and uncomfortable, almost like wearing a new coat for the very first time; like I was being forced to move in stiff and unpracticed movements.

Nevertheless, I picked up the plate slowly, inhaling the smell of real food.

It felt warm, and there was a yellow kind of creamy-looking spread in the process of melting on top– and it turned the bread golden where it dissolved.

Oh gods.

It was butter.

Real butter. Keep it together, Evren. Keep it together.

“Well, bread looks real,” I said at last, smiling over at the Nefnat.

He nodded seriously. “I’m relieved you think so, Covienian.”

I looked back to the bread, picking it up, and took a bite.

Something inside me shifted, like a body in a crypt finally reviving after centuries of sleep.

Something inside of me stirred, like a restless wave caught in a rock pool.

Something inside of me, something ever so tired of sleeping, awoke.

The taste was much like the smell –sweet– but the texture felt coarse, and pleasantly grainy. While the crust in my hands felt crisp and warm, the butter felt smooth and slightly cool. Something sparked in my mind, like a lightbulb flickering to life over a poor and unstable connection.

For a blissful moment, something like relief eased into my aching, tired body, like a long overdue rain on dry and thirsty earth; I felt warm, and safe, and the entire world faded away into a distant and un-worrying blur.

There were no merchants.

No scientists or Scavengers. No Bot arms or mech parts, no angry voices, raised fists, no Ripple Chargers. No cold, wet alleys– no tickets, no fear, no scrubbing. No walking, or service stairs, or getting caught in the cold. No Vendings Units or tired feet.

No rain.

No storms.

And no running.

For the first time in six months, I felt warm on the inside– like the gaping hole the Astrostorm had left inside me was temporarily gone. And in its place I was a real person again, staring stupidly at the hangar wall with a mouth half full of bread.

I shut my eyes and rubbed them, trying to hide the tears that I hadn’t even realised were coming to my eyes.

“So… do you believe in bread now?” Sevus asked above me, his catlike nose twitching.

Oh man, this was embarrassing.

“It's amazing,” I mumbled into my hands miserably.

Sevus’s ears went back, and he looked at me as I rubbed my eyes pathetically.

“Are… Are you okay, Miss West?” he asked in a strained kind of voice.

I nodded, wiping my face with the back of my hand. “Fine.”

Sevus took a step back, both hands going to the side of his face.

“Oh my– I didn’t mean to make you cry–I just– you seemed so miserable over by the landing gear, and you didn’t know what bread was, and I thought maybe it would make you feel better–and I–oh no. Oh no. Oh no, I am terribly sorry.”

I wiped the tears from my eyes, laughing as I waved off his words– the Nefnat looked to be so distraught that he might have actually been in physical pain.

“I’m fine,” I laughed, “it’s just… really good bread.”

I must not have looked convincing enough. Sevus backed up a little more, wringing his hands as he tried to find some source of help around the hangar, desperately.

“Look, I’m sorry, you don’t–you don’t have to finish it if you don’t like it.” He took a step forward, as if to take the heavenly morsel away from me.

I picked up the plate and held it as far as I could away from him. “No!” I shouted, but I was still laughing. “I-I like it.”

Despite himself, Sevus’s nervous energy seemed to fade away as he found himself stifling a laugh.

“Then why are you crying?” The question was filled with perplexion and amusement, and still -strangely enough– a little bit of worry.

I finished chewing the bread in my mouth and swallowed, blowing out a breath. “I–” I looked down. I was still holding the plate in both hands.

“I don’t know, actually.”

I looked back up at him, searching for words that I already knew weren’t going to be adequate for what I wanted to say. “I don’t really… I don’t eat a lot of food like this. I was surprised it tasted so good.” I shook my head. “I didn’t know anything could taste this good, actually.”

Sevus nodded hesitantly. “Well. It is just bread. But... I am glad you like it.” He added after a small moment, with an equally small smile. “And I’m glad you believe it's real now.”

I nodded, taking another bite as I sniffed. “Consider me a firm and avid believer, sir. If this was a religion, I’d convert.”

Sevus did something with his expressions that might have been a smile, sitting down on a nearby crate. “Well, you’re the first person I’ve had to explain bread to– but you’re not the first person that I’ve met that didn’t know what it was.”

I took another bite of bread, not really able to stop myself. “I’m not sure I understand the difference, Herus Clacher.”

Sevus shook his head, thinking back to a memory, “Well, the difference is easy. As I cook, I’ve given people a lot of food over the years, but, you know Xander? The Light Geodian that hired you? He couldn’t speak a whole lot of Entrillian General when we all met him, and when I asked him if he wanted bread, he didn’t know what I meant.”

I thought about Xander for a moment, and about how much he talked. Even though his accent made it evident he felt more comfortable in another tongue, I thought he was pretty eloquent for someone of his character. I tried to imagine Xander as verbally illiterate, and found myself genuinely not being able to.

I took another bite as Sevus continued.

“He had never heard the General word for bread– apparently bread sounds like another Geodian word he was getting it confused with– but I had never been more confused in my life.”

I couldn’t help but laugh.

“I bet Xander was, too.” I took another bite of the bread, relishing the feeling of warm food in my mouth. “How did he figure it out?”

Sevus looked to the roof as some tortured memory came back to him.

“Well, it took some time, but eventually Zara started shouting at him in Geodian. We didn’t actually know she could speak it at the time. Actually, I still don’t know what she said–” Sevus shook his head, rubbing the back of his neck as the memory finally left him. He looked back at me, putting his hands on his knees.

“That’s just the Kosmoverse, though. There’s a thousand different words for bread. He just didn’t know what the General word for it was. I thought you might have been the same, but… I was wrong.”

I put some more bread into my mouth, chewing slowly as I looked at Sevus thoughtfully. I swallowed, coughing slightly as the bread went down my throat half-chewed. “Have you known Xander for a very long time, then?” If Xander couldn’t speak General when he met Sevus, then a long time must have passed between then and now.

Sevus blew some air out of his lungs in a puff. “Well, it’s been a few odd years, I guess. Ever since the end of the Blue Fringe War.”

I straightened, forgetting about the bread in my hand for a nanosecond.

“You fought in the Blue Fringe War?” I asked eagerly.

The Nefnat nodded. “I guess so. That’s how I met captain Aster. He offered to take me back to Phobia when the war ended– so I left the military and became a cook.”

I thought about it. “Did you not like being a soldier?” I asked through a mouthful of food. “I heard that Entrillia was trying to make things better for the Nefnats.”

Sevus’s eyes studied me strangely for a moment, almost hazily– like his mind was weighing words he could say, but didn’t.

“No,” he answered finally. “No… I wasn’t cut out for war. My parents knew I wasn’t a fighter, so they were happy to see me go.”

I tilted my head. One of his words felt wrong.

“Parents?” I asked, putting a hand to my chin thoughtfully. “But I thought–” I stopped, realising what I was about to say might have been extremely untactful.

This was strange– I wasn’t used to realising that.

Thankfully, Sevus knew what I was about to say, and didn’t seem bothered by it.

“You thought all Nefnats were grown in a lab?” He shrugged timidly. “We are. Most of us, anyway. But, do you know what a Nat-born Nefnat is?”

I shook my head, and Sevus continued.

“Natural born Nefnats that have a 89.99 percent chance of carrying the genetic enhancements of their parents.” He sighed, and gestured to himself sadly. “I didn’t.”

I straightened, looking over the Nefnat again.

“Woah… That's so cool. I didn’t actually know this stuff.” I started picking crumbs off the plate as I thought about what he said. I hadn’t realised that I had already finished the slice of bread. “So are there many other Nefnats like you?”

“No. Well– maybe. I haven’t met a whole lot. Most of them are tall, or strong, or enhanced. I am… not any of those things.”

“Oh.” I fought the urge to lick the melted butter off the plate. I nearly lost. “Well, that's okay. You’ve obviously got other things that make you special.”

Sevus laughed quietly, the small wrinkles on his face making this expression seem only slightly unpracticed. “Oh? Like making bread?”

I nodded seriously. “Yeah. But also being nice.”

The Nefnat hesitated, looking at me through narrowed eyes. “I don’t think being nice makes anyone special.”

I sighed, picking the very last crumb off the plate absently. “On this planet, it damn well does.”

Finally finished, I beamed over at the Nefnat, handing him back the plate. “Well, I can say with absolute assurance that that was my favourite thing I have ever eaten.”

Sevus took the plate back, inclining his head. “Thank you for humouring me, Miss West.”

As the Nefnat went to take the plate, the sleeve to his fading blue sweater stretched back, revealing the inside of his right wrist.

Thick, black numerals were tattooed into his skin.

They weren’t artistic, but the lines had no flaws, almost like a machine had printed them. That thought felt absolutely bizarre.

Sevus saw me looking at them, and instantly withdrew his hand with the plate, pulling his sleeve back down.

“Old squadron markings,” he laughed nervously. “Can’t get it removed.” He jumped to his feet like the crate he had been sitting on suddenly became hot. “Well– I have a lot to do, and really shouldn't be out here.”

I looked up at him.

“Those don’t look like Entrillian numerals,” I said curiously. “What are they?”

Sevus opened his mouth, then shut it.

“They’re… a squadron number,” he repeated.

I rolled my head back, clicking my tongue. “Ohhhhhh, right. From when you were a soldier.”

Sevus’s eyes twitched from the hold, to me. “Yeah. Anyway I should be–”

“Wait–” I said, pushing myself to my feet. “That's so strange that you should say that–” I stepped closer to him, looking at the inside of his wrist as he held the plate awkwardly. “Because I think I’ve seen numbers like that before.”

Sevus was inching towards the hold. “Oh, yeah?” He swallowed nervously. “Where’s that?”

I pointed to the hangar door.

“Down in Lower Lisk, beneath this place called the Shaft.” I gestured through the air. “There's tons of abandoned machinery down in those caverns, left over from the Scelirian occupations.”

I listed them off on my fingers.

“Huge machines meant for digging, tall machines meant for pushing, and a lot other ones meant for Evering knows what– they all have different numbers with bars and slants like the ones you’ve got on your wrist…” I stilled, frowning slightly.

“But… those machines… were…”

My eyes dropped from his wrist to my boots, one word going through my head as I took a step back.

Scelirian.

Those machines were Scelirian.

Images went through my head. The vats of Kataton 5, stolen from Covien’s underearth. The stories of the Sceliri, the legends of their cruelty. The oceans that they stole to bring Covien to ruin.

The war for the Blue Fringe.

The Sceliri enslaved this entire planet.

Something inside me powered down, like I couldn’t register Sevus’s ears going back, and his panicky voice.

“Okay, well I really need to get going. Thank you for talking, and eating bread– but I’m going now– good job with the descaling.”

Sevus vanished.

I knew it to be ridiculous, but his disappearance almost felt borderline supernatural as he leapt up the landing ramp and shot back into the hold.

I was left to stand strangely in the same place for quite a few moments as I tried to unpack my realisation.

I shook myself. He couldn’t be Scelirian! He couldn’t be… He was so nice. He gave me bread.

I turned back to the crate I had been sitting next to. “This is weird,” I said to myself as I sat down on it, stretching out my arm tiredly. “I shouldn’t have been so blunt.”

After a moment of staring out across the hangar blankly, I dropped my face in my hands.

“Oh, stupid Evren! Now he ran away! Dumb. Dumb! Being untactful to the first person to give you food–” –I threw my hands up miserably– “I mean how stupid are you, really?”

The sound of footsteps drew my attention behind me, and I twisted briefly to see the small, double doors of the hangars swinging as Charge and Zara walked into the hangar, Xander awkwardly hobbling along behind them.

Charge held a few small boxes, and Zara hefted a type of tool that was as long as her arm. It seemed that errands had been completed.

Their conversation drifted towards me as they walked, idly talking back and forth about something I didn’t understand.

“No, no, no, no–” Zara said, putting her hands up, “I was the one that told Xander that it was a bad idea. I wasn't the one that came up with it.”

From where I sat, I could dimly see Charge’s response in a few heated signs. “What a liar you are. The possessed pineapple was your idea!” he signed emphatically, scowling up at Zara.

“I remember Tarik, it was her idea,” said Xander thoughtfully from behind them, and Zara scoffed.

“It wasn’t me or Tarik,” the Avaiy said with a smugness only absolute certainty could bring.

Xander stopped in his crutch tracks behind them. “It wasn’t… Aster… was it?”

Zara shrugged, and her tone got, if possible, even more smug. “You should ask him about it.”

Charge saw me looking at them, and instantly, his scowl deepened.

What was with this guy? I mean, really– what was his problem? Did someone murder his pet when he was little? Did his mom abandon him or something and now he hated the world?

I scoffed mentally as I turned away quickly. Whatever his problem was, it probably wasn’t anything I could fix.

“Looks like our new hired hand is pulling her weight,” I heard him mutter to Zara, who chuckled in response.

I pushed myself up from my crate and turned back to the ship, wishing I could just fade out of existence. It would be so much easier than putting up with these offworlders.

The three of them drew closer, looking at the ship hull and me with an intense amount of scrutiny as I finished putting the tools away.

“I’m actually finished,” I said over my shoulder. “Your hull is now officially scale free.”

Zara yawned, scratching a shaved side of her head. (Was this woman always tired?) “Now, if only there was a way to get the parasites out of the inside of the ship.” The Avaiy dropped her hand, shoving Charge roughly as she walked past him.

Charge’s ears went back and he put his hands on his hips, calling after her.

“I’ll go when you go, Xasan!”

He was about to add something else– probably meaner than his first comment– when his flat little nose twitched. He gasped.

“Is… Sevus baking bread?” he asked aloud, looking to his companions for confirmation.

I clicked my tongue. “Yep.”

I turned back to the ship, brushing away a few spots that were a little dusty. I shouldn’t say anything about the Scelirian thing. Would they get mad if they found out I knew? Probably. I decided it wasn’t worth the risk.

“Man, you guys have a great cook,” I said over my shoulder. “If I could eat bread like that every day, I think I could die happy.”

I could see Zara out of the corner of my eye. She had paused, and was giving me a small frown that looked so natural on her pale and severe features.

“Our cook–” she started, looking back at her crew members briefly. “He… actually talked to you?”

I stopped brushing off non-existent dust from the ship, turning to their somewhat surprised faces.

“Yeah?” I answered with uncertainty. Was there a rule about cooks and maintenance hands not interacting with each other?

By the look on his face, Charge seemed to think so. His voice was almost panicky when he spoke. “So there is bread?” he clarified.

I shrugged. “Yeah?”

Charge took off, and his boots could be heard as he stomped excitedly up the ramp towards what he evidently thought was the best thing in the entire world. I could hardly fault him–

As of five minutes ago, I too, had decided it was the best thing in the entire world.

Zara gave the place where he had stood moments previously a petulant stare. “Right, and I’m the parasite.”

The sound of footsteps drew all of our attention behind us.

“Oh, good, you're back,” the captain said flatly, walking out from the other side of the ship. “I had been about to advertise for some new crew, but now that you’ve finally decided to come back and work for me” –he pressed a button on a Data Tab he had in his hands, looking up at us– “I guess I don’t need to do the paperwork.”

Had he been out here the entire time? I hadn’t seen him for ages.

He addressed Zara, looking at her from under the brim of his hat.

“Did you get what Tarik was looking for?”

Zara hefted the tool, shrugging.

I guessed that was a yes.

The captain nodded, checking something off his Tab. “Alright. Xander, I need you to organise a refuel of Rec-mot for the Water Rec machine. It won’t last us two weeks. Zara, take the maintenance hand to the engine room to help Tarik. I want the plates off engine Two as fast as we can.”

Without sparing me a glance, the captain walked away.

Xander ambled off, calculating fuel prices in another language under his breath, and I was left with Zara. Staring at me.

I tried to tell myself that it wasn't as intimidating as it felt, but I had a feeling I was lying to myself again– the beautiful Avaiyyatian was borderline terrifying.

And she looked mad. Or did she look tired? I actually didn’t know– The one person in the universe that I really cared about didn’t actually have a real face, and he always told me when he was mad, so I never had to guess like I was guessing now.

It was a strange feeling, but I found I didn’t like not knowing if the Avaiyyatian was angry with me or not.

Zara eventually nodded her head to the ship, giving me two quick, short signs.

“Follow me.”

Walking up the landing ramp and finally peering into the Passerine, a shiver went down my spine, like someone had blown at the back of my neck.

I stared up in amazement at what I thought was the most fantastic thing I had ever seen.

Holds for ships were simple things.

You needed a big room to hold stuff in, and they were usually located at the back, or bottom of a ship. And I assumed that most holds were just simple rooms with a large open space, to allow the transport of things like cargo crates.

Almost gently, I stepped from the landing ramp and into the hold, transfixed to the shelves that lined the walls, the stairs that disappeared into the ceiling, the platforms above me, and the ladders going to and from them.

There were rafter-like beams above that I assumed were for tying cargo to, and small platforms above them that held even more boxes, securely tied down– I assumed, to prevent causing some serious cases of head trauma during the ships next bumpy descent.

Stairs and ladders led nook to cranny like these merchant’s were almost scared they would get fined if they didn’t utilise every square inch of the bottom level of their ship.

“It’s like ‘Sines and Ladders’…” I said breathlessly, my head tilted up as I walked under a platform holding five beautifully secured cargo crates.

“... This ship is amazing.”

Zara had paused momentarily to watch me stare up in reverence at the somewhat chaotic tangle of metal and boxes.

“This is the hold.” The blonde woman turned away and stepped up the stairs. “But sure– whatever maps your stars, kid.”

Obediently, I followed the medic to a set of stairs that mimicked another set on the other wall. They both led to a platform attached at the wall, where a doorway led into yet another part of the ship.

I wondered how many times offworlders had to climb up and down stairs. I wondered how long it took for normal people to get used to it. Thankfully for me, I laughed in the face of petty problems like poor leg strength. I was Evren, the Lisk street urchin that was too poor to take shuttles.

Stairs and I had become quite well acquainted.

Before stepping into the doorway, I paused on the platform and turned back to look at the hold. It was true, it was a little empty, but it seemed well used.

Not in a way a pair of shoes seemed well used –torn, stained or wrinkly– but like a pathway that one had walked on seemed well used; the ladders were dented, but not rusting away. The joints to the pulleys were old, but well oiled– I imagined them to be quite well used if heavy cargo crates had to be lifted onto the high platforms.

“I’m not waiting for you.”

I turned, realising that Zara had disappeared into the door already. I poked my head in. The voice had seemed like it was coming from above me.

Through the door was another stairwell. Two small flights twisted around each other– much the same way that Lisk’s service stairs did– and reached above to a source of light that I assumed was another door.

Excitedly, I hopped up the stairs, marvelling at how not-rusty they were. For the first time in my life, I didn’t need to worry if I was going to fall through an old and rusty step. I laughed silently, watching my feet take step after step. “What a novelty,” I whispered to myself.

Even though Zara said she wasn’t going to wait for me, I found her at the top of the stairs, holding the tool in one arm as she looked through the next door with an impassive face.

Green eyes looked back at me as I came to the top of the stair landing, and she flicked her head into the bright doorway. “Go ahead. You’ll probably need a moment if you thought the hold was impressive.”

I paused momentarily before stepping from the stairs and into a room that was much too bright.

I found I was actually standing on a catwalk that took up most of the top of the room. It stretched all the way to the other side where another door lead to another important part of the ship– but below that walkway, oh below it, there was a sight to behold.

I didn’t really know what I was expecting.

Not this.

Not all those pipes, or sounds, or grease, or the little gauges and bottles of gas. My eyes swept the room from right to left, and I saw a huge cylindrical engine slotted into an even bigger hole in the wall. I tried to sync up what I was seeing to the outside of the ship– if it sat in the wall, then this engine was in one of the Passrine’s very wings.

I smiled.

Neat.

I looked to the other side of the room, and another engine exactly like the first, sat in the opposite wall. In between, there seemed to have been a hole that had been cut into the ground– large enough that another metal walkway had to be bolted over it to allow passage- but it by no means obscured the amazing sight of a circular device that was under it.

All around the cramped engine room, small unlabeled fuel bottles sat on racks, tools sprawled over the floor, and pieces of machinery lay to and fro, like one of the engines had shed its very skin.

I leant over the railing to the catwalk, the metal biting into my stomach as I tried to piece together what was happening to the right-side engine.

It was undergoing some kind of repair, and it looked like someone was slowly, methodically, digging into it to get to its heart.

The heavy smell of engine coolant filled the air, coming from a few pipes in the middle of a replacement, and the sharp, metallic taste of grease and oil sent a familiar jolt through my bones. It smelled exactly like Kovals', and I struggled to not instantly dislike it.

Zara walked behind me, blowing out a quick breath like she didn’t want to laugh. “Better than the hold, isn’t it?”

My eyes traced pipes that reached out of the hole in the ground, to what I could only describe as another cylindrical chamber that sat at the end of the engine room, a window on its face that glowed a faint green. More pipes, cords, and wire connected that device to the twin engines, in a chaotically elegant tangle on the ground.

“What is all this stuff?”

Zara pointed to the engine behind me. “Engine One. Our working Light engine.” She pointed to the engine in the process of being disassembled. “Engine Two. Our broken Light engine.” The medic then moved her finger to the large device that connected the two engines in the pipes I had noticed. “That’s what we call our sync-box. Also broken.”

Zara looked to the hole in the ground below us, where it seemed an entire universe of machinery and tech hummed and beeped and chatted to itself quietly.

“And that’s our fuel-well– Charge’s bastardisation of luck and science. None of us are allowed to touch that.”

I leant over the railing, looking down curiously, “What does it do?”

I heard Zara walk away. “Don’t even ask him. He can, and will, talk about it for hours. It’s better to just pretend you already know so he doesn’t feel the need to explain it to you.”

Backtracking a few metres, Zara stepped down a stairway I had easily missed in my initial excitement to study the engine room. Like the hold, there were two stairways either side of the catwalk that attached to the wall, and Zara chose to go down the right side, towards the half dead engine.

As I followed her, I finally became aware of a sound like a power tool grinding away at something. Looking around the crowded room as I stepped over loose pipes and tangled wires, I found no owner of the noise, nor the tool.

Nearing closer to the sound, an array of sparks shot out from above the dead engine, and out of the cavity in the wall it was nestled in. Upon closer inspection, the large space the Light engines sat in were big enough to accommodate both the engine, and space enough for maybe one or two people standing around it. It allowed for Mechanics or engineers to work on the more sensitive parts inside the engine itself, I guessed.

Zara looked inside the engine cavity, finding no one in the little tunnel-like space on the right. She walked around to the other side of the engine, calling out. “Tarik!”

I was uncomfortably close to the hole in the ground. I peered down anyway, curious, and found that I hadn’t been wrong in assuming that I wouldn’t understand anything about what was happening there.

It reminded me of a loop of coiled rope, except instead of rope, a large, metal, scary pipe was strapped to the wall of the hole– with valves and gauges attached every half metre, or less.

A part of me wanted to get a ball and throw it into the pipes and see how long it would endlessly bounce in circles inside of them.

I smiled at the thought, looking up and finding myself alone. I lost my smile, and hurried to the other side of the room, finding Zara inside the hole in the wall. She stared up at someone on top of the light engine.

Ducking a few sparks that still flew overhead, I stepped up a small platform and entered the cavity that held the Engine.

“Tarik!” Zara shouted up over the sound of the power tool. “Tarik Kepper!” she shouted again, a little more angry now.

My gaze wandered to where she was looking, and I saw who was currently jammed in between the roof, and the engine.

Two, round lenses set in goggles wrapped around a head of scraggly grey hair, shining white from the grinder’s sparks. They obscured the eyes of the owner under the partially blinding glare. One cybernetic arm held a grinder of some sort as the old lady dutifully cut a hole into the dead engine's casing.

Blue, beautiful markings crisscrossed down her arms and up her neck, tapering out on her cheekbones. They reminded me of a picture of a Scelirian tiger I saw in one of Lewis’s many information books in the Port. If I thought they looked intimidating on a predator, they looked even more so on this woman.

Wait– this was the scary Tironian that was looking for Charge, yesterday.

“Tarik! Tarik, for the love of Ùmbar’tel! Just–” Zara finally gave up.

Kneeling down, she picked up a loose bolt from the ground, and threw it at the older woman. It clicked against her metal arm, and a moment later, the power tool stopped.

Tarik looked down at her arm, and then to where Zara was staring up at her, gesturing with the tool.

“Um, hello? High Command to Sergeant Kepper?” The medic rolled her shoulders, almost like she was bored, or tired and sore. “Yeah, we got what you wanted. And Aster says he wants the plates off engine Two as soon as we can. I guess that’s priority one, now.” As an afterthought, she gestured to me where I stood at the head of the two engines.

“Oh yeah, and you have this to help you.”

The old woman named Tarik looked at me, her goggles illuminated in the dull glow of the light of the engine room. An inquisitive expression spread across her face.

She looked back to Zara, an unspoken question in her eyes that I couldn't read.

Zara could, though, and she answered it in a long, drawn-out breath. “I don’t know, Tarik–for as long as you need her, I guess.”

Zara rested the tool against the engine, turning to walk past me. “Alright. Have fun. Don’t wreck anything.”

Before she could go, something made her pause next to me, like she was just remembering a key detail she had forgotten to mention. Putting a lean, gentle hand on my shoulder, the Avaiyyatian medic leant closer and lowered her voice. “Don’t ask about the scars.”

I looked up at Zara, trying to decipher the pale green colours into what she actually meant.

What scars?

Before I could ask further, or make a fool of myself, Zara left, leaving me alone with the old Tironian, Tarik– who busied herself with sliding easily off the engine and onto the ground with a resounding thud.

Well worn boots covered in grease landed heavily, but steadily, on the ground in front of me.

Her eyes, now that I could see more clearly without the light of the grinder, were a steel kind of grey. I tried my hardest to focus on her eyes, and not the thick white scars that wrapped around her throat. It looked like her neck had been caught in a fight with some kind of hot coil of wire.

And if the scars were anything to go by, it looked like it had won.

Tarik thrust out a gloved hand towards me, signing with her metal arm easily in shorthand Motion.

“My name, Tarik. Passerine’s First Engineer– Me.”

I extended my own arm, finding the old woman’s organic arm strong and steady.

“I think I saw you yesterday,” I said with a nervous smile. “I’m Evren.”

As I shook her hand, my eyes were drawn to the completely metal arm that was attached to her equally metal shoulder. Lewis had told me once that staring was rude, but I couldn’t stop myself. The Tironian’s arm moved so fluidly compared to other jerky cybernetics I had seen around Lisk.

I mean, it might have been nicer than Lewis’s arm.

Seeing me stare, Tarik grinned as she pulled a glove off her organic arm. The expression revealed a few spaces where teeth should have been, but weren’t. The old Tironian smacked her metal arm proudly, holding it up for inspection before passing me in the narrow space. “Don’t fear, this. Me feeling tired, of the old one."

Now that she could sign with both hands, she signed easily and fluidly, but not too quickly– unlike the fast-paced and mind-boggling Motion dialects on Covien. I watched her pass as she stepped out of the engine cavity and drew in a breath as her steel grey eyes surveyed the carnage of metal on the ground.

I waited till she looked back at me again. “Do you mean…” I motioned back hesitantly, “your organic arm?”

Tarik nodded, turning to face me. “Yep. Tired of it.” She smacked her arm again in between signs. “Upgrade I got, so I could smack my Second Engineer around– more easily.”

She motioned for me to stand in front of her, next to what Zara had called the sync-box. “Come. Stand, here.” As I did, she straightened, and a severe look possessed her weathered features.

“Alright!” she signed sharply. “At attention– a good look at you, let me.”

I snapped straighter, the action completely involuntary. There was just something about her presence that warned me I was better off heeding her commands as fast as I could. It was a certain quality that I had learned to detect around the shadier parts of Lisk, like Grey market. Listening to authority quickly was often better for me in the long run than ignoring it.

Tarik put both her hands behind her back and circled me thoughtfully, her heavy, grease stained boots thudding against the metal engine room floor as she inspected her newest helper. She smacked my right arm as if to test it, and her beady eyes behind her goggles looked at me in a squint as I fought a wince.

“You wounded?” she signed flatly.

I shook my head, biting the inside of my cheek. “No, ma’am,” I answered instantly, then added, “but… the bandages help me in other ways.” I wasn't sure if she would understand.

She nodded, and surprisingly, accepted my answer.

The engineer then grabbed my left arm and moved my wrist back and forth, holding it next to her ear like she was inspecting a mechanical joint for squeaky rust damage. Her metal hand felt cold on my skin, unlike Lewis’s grip, which somehow never got as cold as other metal.

She dropped my arm, and I rubbed my wrist where her cold hand had gripped my skin.

“Well,” she shrugged. “Strong enough to be a maintenance hand, you seem.”

“Um, thank you,” I said aloud. “I have to be.”

Tarik poked me with her elbow, giving me a look. “To stack all of our crates, strong enough, you are– I guess.”

“Ahh.” I rubbed the back of my neck. “Yes, I… that… um, I was given some confusing instructions…”

Tarik made a wide motion as she turned away to look at a glowing screen, like she was smacking my words out of the air. “Confusing instructions? No, lied to, you were.” The old engineer pointed at me, her eyes strangely serious. “Practice telling the difference.”

She gestured around the engine room. “Ever worked around Light engines before?”

Helplessly, my eyes traced the pipes, screens, and engines. I looked back up at her in resignation. “Not really, Heri.”

“Know how they work?”

I shook my head, a smile tugging across my lips. “With a Lightcore?”

The Tironian found the comment amusing. I could tell by the way her pointed ears perked slightly, and her partially toothless mouth stretched into a subtle smile.

“Machines, have you worked with?”

I thought about it, subconsciously switching to sign. “Some. Mechs.”

Tarik nodded, looking pensive for a moment. “Good,” she motioned resolutely. “I need to pull the casing off engine Two.” Tarik knocked her metal hand against the cold engine she had been grinding, sending a thwang into the room. “Before priming the Lightcore, Old girl needs to be stripped.”

I looked at the engine, pretending to think about it. To be honest, it already looked pretty stripped, but I nodded anyway. “I can… I can do that.”

Tarik whistled, a short and high note that I think meant that she was happy with my response, and turned to a toolbox on the ground. She picked up a driver and threw it to me.

My hand went out to catch it, but my fingers only managed to caress the edge of the tool. It flew past my grasp and over the large, scary hole in the ground.

I retrieved it quickly under Tarik’s amused, steely gaze, walking across the walkway that went over what Zara called the fuel-well.

I coughed, scratching the back of my head as I came to stand in front of her again, tool in hand. “Where-where do you want me to start?”

“Nice catch,” remarked Charge from above me, and I looked up to see him leaning lazily on the catwalk railing above me. He must have come in from the door at the other end of the walkway. He took a bite of a sandwich in his hands. “With a little bit of training, I’m sure you could pass as someone almost coordinated.”

I frowned at him, trying to decide if I should speak, or ignore him, when Tarik cleared her throat. I looked to where she was directing a few signs up at the Second Engineer.

I caught the last of her movements, but I still didn’t understand them. “–last time, remember what you did? No food next to engine One!”

Tarik gestured for me to follow her, and walked around to the other side of the large engine that she had been grinding, leaving Charge above us to angrily take a bite out of his sandwich.

We came to where some of the rounded plating had partially been unscrewed near the front, leaving a hole in the engine's covering. It looked like pipes of coolant and wires had already been pulled away and tied back from the engine, leaving a sad, pockmarked surface of where things should have plugged in, but weren’t.

She held her hand out for the tool and I gave it back to her. She made sure to make eye contact with me.

“Watch,” she signed, making sure I had nodded before she turned back to the engine.

She placed the driver into the screw socket, pausing as she activated it on the side. Two handles popped out from either side of the driver. She made sure to tap them, looking back at me.

“Need secondary grip. Two fingers locked tight, or”–she pointed to her organic wrist– “turn wrist into rotating screw.” She paused again, making a sound that was like laughing, but more harsh and guttural. “And not a good one.”

I nodded. Okay. Use the handles on the side. Don’t turn my wrist into pudding. Got it.

Tarik’s way of signing was getting easier to translate into actual meanings. It did take a small moment to translate the set of motions, expressions, and body language shifts into what would commonly be called a structured sentence, but I think I understood her.

For the most part. Either I understood what she was trying to tell me, or I was going to blow myself up in this engine room and I would never have to worry about it again.

“First,” she signed, unscrewing two bottom screws on the plate's corners. But not all the way. She moved to the two on the sides, taking those out completely, then undid the top ones– but like the bottom ones, still only partially.

Next, she pressed one arm against the plate, and with her other one unscrewed one of the bottom screws, and then one at the top, repeating the action on the other side. She put down the driver, and with a little wiggling, the plate came free.

Well, partially. On the inside of the plate, brackets holding several kinds of wires and tubes held the plate to the engine, like nerves to flesh.

Tarik looked at me, making sure I was paying attention. Again.

Once she was satisfied I was practically glued to what she was doing, she showed me how to unscrew the brackets, letting the wires and pipes hang down loosely. Little drops or coolant or some other engine-type-liquid dripped down onto the floor and through the grate, but nothing else happened.

She tossed the bracket into a bucket by her side and placed the heavy plate on the floor behind her, and turned to me

The un-motioned inquiry was obvious.

Any questions?

I don’t think I’d ever seen such a mundane and ordinary action done with such precision– and I might have been tempted to use the word 'elegance'.

I looked up at her, my mouth slightly open. “I don’t think I’ll be as fast as you,” I admitted honestly.

Tarik laughed, a little more normal this time. She handed me the driver, patting me on the shoulder as she left.

I wasn’t really sure what that meant, but I don’t think it was negative. In a moment I heard the grinder start up again, and I assumed that Tarik was continuing her attempts at grinding something away on the other side of the engine.

I blew out a breath, rolling my shoulders.

“Pulling things apart? I think I know how to do that.” I muttered to myself, positioning the driver over a screw. “This is going to be easy.”

It was in no way, shape, or form, ‘easy.’

Well, getting the plates off was easy, but unscrewing the wire brackets was hard. And I mean, really hard!

I had to push on the plate with my arm to hold it in place, while awkwardly trying to hold the driver in my weaker hand. With two hands that actually worked, maybe it would've been possible to get the task done quickly, but soon after I'd started my scarred hand started to burn and ache, the skin and muscle pleading for me to take the bandages off and let my arm breath.

I ignored the pleas, and focused on not losing my job, instead.

I needed to do this.

I needed to do whatever job they asked me to do. I told myself that it just didn’t matter if I lost an arm doing it– if it meant that on Eighthday I could fly off this light-forsaken planet, then it would be a small price to pay.

I mean, I told myself that, but in reality, I felt like I was one more wave of tremors from crawling up to the old, silent Tironian, and pleading to be fired.

Obviously–I didn’t do that. But I finally found a system that worked after a few hours.

One, unscrew plates; two, unscrew brackets; three, collapse on the ground and pretend to be looking for the driver I had dropped by ‘accident’; four, take a breath, and then five, start unscrewing plates again.

It wasn’t the best system, but it kept me from bursting into little tears of pure, unbridled frustration, so it was worth it.

That being said, when Tarik popped her head over the engine and signed the word for lunch, I couldn’t ignore the absolute leap for joy my heart made.

I threw my driver into a bucket and stomped past the dozen or so plates I had already unscrewed outside of the little engine tunnel, directing myself decidedly towards the stairs that lead back up to the walkway.

I paused by the stairs that lead into the hold below, looking over the engine room and down the walkway, to where a door had been left open.

Through it I could hear the distant chatter of the crew, and the faint and friendly clink of dishes. Words were exchanged without hostility. Someone told a joke, and another person laughed.

I tilted my head, listening to the voices. Huh. What a pleasant commodity. Voices raised without anger. I decided I liked the sound as I climbed down the stairs.

Outside the ship, I found where I had thrown my poncho and bag, earlier, and dug out the last of my Crisp’a’snac.

Wait a second. Hadn't I gotten three this morning?

Reluctantly, I remembered that I might have eaten the other two at breakfast. How had that happened? I must have been getting hungrier because I was working harder.

Over the past six months of my existence, I had found that the perfect place for a lunch break was in a warm, dark alley, where you could take a nap afterwards– but seeing as I probably shouldn’t leave the hangar, and the Scavengers and Mechanics were still looking for me, I decided to eat lunch next to the large hangar opening that looked out over the Wastes and a small amount of Lisk.

I found myself taking a quiet breath of relief in the relative silence.

At the opening there was a rusty kind of railing to prevent people from falling off. It was low enough that ships could still manoeuvre in and out, but tall enough that careless people couldn’t just ‘accidently fall’ off. Sections of it had been broken away, either from bad landings or the inevitable fate of rust that seemed to consume all things on Covien eventually.

I sat down in the section where the railing was truly gone, hanging my mismatched boots over the ledge and swinging them back and forth.

From hangar 42 I could see the underside of the cliff docks, as Lisk curled around in its bay-like fashion and created an oblong C-shape. It was weird, but it made it possible to look at Tri-Dock 61 from where I ate lunch.

As I bit into my stale crackers, I found myself wondering how Lewis was doing. Had Web really helped him? Did he get his arm back? Or was he already in a trash heap heading for a smelter?

I forced the bitter thought out of my head with a sharp frown.

Web had promised to help Lewis, and she had helped me. So why lie? It didn’t seem like her.

That being said, Web was the one who gave me up to the Research Guild.

By accident, of course. But still…

I shook my head. I had already made up my mind to believe Web was a good person. She wouldn’t let Lewis be decommissioned. He was one of the good Bots, and there weren’t too many of those around.

I firmly decided to stop worrying about it, and raised my cracker to my mouth, about to take another bite when something blocked out the sun over Tri-Dock 61.

At first I thought it was a cloud casting a large shadow over the enormous building, but then I became aware of a distant noise, like rolling, rumbling, eerie thunder, that echoed into the Hollow Wastes.

Something shifted, like the air was drawn taut, and the tension within the waves of sound were about to snap from the low, rumbling intensity.

This was not thunder.

I waited for it to stop. Five seconds. Ten seconds. Twenty.

It didn’t.

I stood, rising slowly from my place as I watched a huge, sleekly designed ship hover into view from behind the Liskian ranges, its engines rumbling as it landed with an echoing boom onto one of the cliff docks.

It wasn’t a chunky commercial freighter, bringing food or water to Covien, or even a mining vessel stopping to refuel.

It was an elegant ship, engineered for speed– and very, very rich people.

I glued my eyes to the ship, unable to tear my eyes from it. Two more just like it landed on either side, and even from down here, I could see a large, grey symbol etched on their hulls. I tilted my head to the side, screwing my eyes shut in avoidance.

If I didn’t look, then I wouldn't know, and if I didn't know, then I was okay.

I clenched my teeth.

But I already knew… so what was the point in pretending to not know?

Begrudgingly, I unscrewed my eyes and looked up.

They were Ravens. Framed by a circle and painted on the hull of each ship like an omen sent straight from hell.

It was Gray Raven.

And they had finally descended on Covien to find their lost piece of Astrogate debris.

As I watched a sleek and narrow hull open, I tried to remind myself how safe I was down in the hangar levels.

Forty levels down.

More than halfway beneath the surface of Lisk, and I wasn’t even here all the time. The Warehouse District was so deep, they would have better luck finding a needle in a wheat stack.

They can’t find me down here, I said to myself. At least, not quickly.

I looked back up at the docks, a hungry worm of doubt gnawing away at my stomach.

Could they?

“I heard that Gray Raven was going to show up,” someone stated behind me, and I snapped my attention away from the docks, nearly losing my balance as I jerked back from the edge of the open hangar. I remembered I was at the section of railing that was gone.

At the jerky reaction, the Crisp’a’snac flew out of my hand and spun to the edge. I dropped on my hands and knees without hesitation, my scarred hand reaching out to grab it from the ledge. But whether it was from the stress of being scared so suddenly –or the last four hours of using the exact same muscles over and over and over again– in my haste, instead of grabbing the packet of food, I smacked it out of the hangar.

There was no railing to stop it’s terrible descent.

Flat on the edge, I watched in horror as it fell slowly to the world below. I was vaguely aware of the boots that moved to stand next to me, leather creaking as the person leaned forward to see over the edge.

“Oh,” captain Rigg said, blue eyes searching for a Crisp’a’snac that was not there. “I am… so sorry.”

I rubbed my eyes violently, telling myself that this was possibly the stupidest reason anyone could cry.

It wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t his fault.

No matter how many times I said the words, it still felt like it was.

Still rubbing my eyes, I addressed the captain beside me, who still looked below absently like he could see my missing lunch.

“Ya’ know,” I said testily, “you walk really quietly for someone in a hangar made completely of creaky metal.” I dropped my arms over the ledge of the hangar and let them hang there for a moment miserably. “Just like, cough or something, next time,” I said, gesturing through the air absently, “–anything.”

I looked up at the captain, and strangely enough, he held a mildly guilty expression on his face. His hat was gone, and its absence revealed shoulder length hair that had been tied back at the top. The rest hung down in thick strands that blew about in the windy hangar opening.

Wordlessly, he nodded. He rested his elbows on the section of creaky railing next to me, clearing his throat.

“Y’know,” he started thoughtfully, “you seem very intelligent for someone who doesn’t know what the Medium Belt is.”

I frowned.

Think, Evren, Think. What could he be talking about?

I tried to listen as the captain looked down at me, still lying on the ground with my arms hanging over the railing.

“Charge has already filled me in on what an idiot he thinks you are.” Captain Rigg sighed, shaking his head as he looked onto the plains, dark eyes scanning the grassy sea tiredly. “He thinks I should kick you out of the hangar.”

As captain Rigg stared out at the plains, I sat up, hanging my legs over the ledge and studying the Hollow Wastes with him.

“Do you agree with him, sir?” I asked warily.

I tried not to think about the Pulsers in the captain's holsters, and equally tried to avoid the image of my corpse on the hangar floor. It looked like the captain just wanted to talk, so as long as he was talking, he wasn't going to shoot me.

For now, anyway.

The captain shrugged, the action almost imperceptible as he adjusted his stance against the railing. “Not anymore,” he said quietly, looking to me.

It was my turn to frown. I rubbed my arms, wishing that I had put my poncho back on for my lunch break. “What changed your mind?”

Captain Rigg seemed mildly amused by my question.

“You instantly recognised the Scelirian numerals on Sevus’s wrist.” He gestured with one of his hands lazily. “It usually takes people a little longer to realise what he is.”

I fingered the end of one of my braids, rubbing it against my hand nervously.

I had the feeling that it was time to play dumb again.

“I don’t… I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said at length. “I just… I saw a picture of a numeral once, and I thought it just y’know, looked cool–”

Looking back out at the plains, the captain waved me off curtly.

“Don’t do that.”

I shut my mouth, almost afraid to speak again.

“Do… what?”

“Pretend you’re an idiot.”

He looked down at me, sidelong. “I’m not Charge– so save yourself a little dignity and stop pretending to be stupid.”

He continued as I tried to avoid his careful, measured gaze, by examining a tear in my pants pocket and swinging my feet.

“I’ve seen my fair share of stupid people, Miss West, and you don’t hold yourself like one of them. You can’t really expect us to believe you’re just a dumb Covienian mechscrubber, when you can read Old Entrillian and recognise Scelirian numerals. Additionally, stupid people don’t find Nefnats interesting.”

His words went through my head one by one. There were a few I just didn’t understand.

“Old Entrillian?” I asked with a laugh. “When did I–” I snapped my mouth shut only to open it after a moment under the captain’s careful gaze.

“Oh right, hehe– the ship. The words on the ship. The weird words on the ship. The words… I read….”

“Where did you learn it?” the captain asked.

I tried to gauge the emotion of the question, but I came up short. Was the captain to the Passerine being curious? Or was there a reason I shouldn’t have been able to read old Entrillian?

“The Fringe is a little remote to be teaching it,” he said, as if to prompt an answer from my drawn-out silence.

I blinked, still worrying the tear in my pants pocket.

“I think… I read a book about it once,” I said, rocking back and forth.

That was a lie. I hadn’t read a book in my life.

“But I– just recognized the words, not what they meant. I don’t know if I could, like, speak it… or read more, or anything.”

The captain nodded, taking a breath as he looked out to the wasteland of Covien. He seemed to accept the answer, even though it was evident that it surprised him.

Why was he here? Why was he talking to me? Why couldn’t he let me enjoy my lunch break in peace? Was there something he wanted to say? Or did he want a break from his crew as much as I did?

Ha. That was a funny thought. Did captain Rigg ever get tired of his crew?

After a small moment, the captain spoke again, silencing all the questions in my head.

“So you don’t know what they mean?” he asked, and I shook my head, finally looking up at him.

The faintest, smallest, nearly imperceptible smile drew across the captain’s face as he looked back out at the plains.

“Hm.” He didn’t explain. “Sevus doesn’t like most folks because most folks make some real bad assumptions about him.” He glanced at me sidelong. “It makes him nervous, so he doesn’t leave the ship much. But he liked you.”

I kept swinging my legs back and forth, waiting for the captain to say more so I wouldn’t have to respond. He didn’t.

I swallowed.

“I… I just think Nefnats are pretty awesome,” I said hesitantly. “They have so many types of genes inside them, like they’re a mixture of the best of what the Kosmoverse has to offer.”

“Not everyone shares your sentiments,” answered the captain. “Even in the Entrillian Empirium, the Nefnats are still treated like slaves, sometimes.”

I frowned. “But why?”

Captain Rigg shrugged. “Because they were for so long. And in the Scelirian Order, they still are.”

I looked down at my boots, slowly ceasing the back and forth motion as a few thoughts tried to shift and rearrange in my head.

“Was your cook a slave?”

Aster nodded. “Of sorts. Yes.”

I looked back at the ship, to the crate where Sevus had sat a few hours earlier. “So you… He said he came back with you after the war…” I looked back at the captain. “Did you steal him?”

The captain shook his head silently.

“See, kid– for something to be stolen, it has to belong to someone first. People just don’t belong to other people. That ain’t right. So, no. I didn’t ‘steal him.’”

I thought about it.

“So you’re saying that… if who you’re stealing from doesn’t own it… it’s okay to take it?”

“No, I’m–” Aster Rigg turned to me, probably ready to explain the concept of slavery and its moral dilemma to me in a full, angry rant. But he saw my smile, and stopped. He looked back to plains.

“Oh. Ha. ha. Very funny,” he said flatly. “But I wasn’t talking about Bot arms, or Lightcores.”

I fought the urge to laugh at him, and rubbed my arms as the chilly wind tried to steal their heat.

The Hollow Wastes were alight with Covien’s pale sun, Vieni, and today her off-white glow seemed to be setting little parts of the plains on fire with blinding, sparkling white. It was just a mirage, Loose had told me, but she reckoned it was Vieni’s way of trying to cleanse the Wastes of the ‘evilness that lived under them'.

I sighed, scratching my head tiredly.

“I… think I may have startled Sevus. It’s just… I’ve never seen a Nefnat before. I might have made him uncomfortable, and I’m... sorry.”

Captain Rigg nodded like he understood. “Well, they’re not common on these types of planets.”

“These types of planets?” I echoed. “What does that mean?”

The captain shrugged. “The planets that were kept under order with the help of a Nefnat Military.”

“Oh... He…” I paused.

Oh boy. How was I going to say this?

“Your cook left when I found out he was a Scelirian Nefnat.” I looked up at the captain again. “Is that why he was startled?” I added hurriedly, “I didn’t mean to upset him. The bread he gave me was very good.”

I searched the Fletric’s face. His pensive expression was emphasised by his light, native markings across his brow. It almost seemed like he was awaiting that very question.

“Scelirians are the people who enslaved the universe.” Captain Rigg gestured through the air. “People aren’t just okay when they find out they’re talking to one of their genetically engineered soldiers. But… if you want me to be honest, Geo, I think it was your total lack of fear that really got him startled.”

I blinked, glancing back down at my boots briefly.

“Should… I have been afraid of him?” I asked the captain listlessly.

I had no idea what he was saying.

Captain Rigg shook his head, almost instantaneously. “No, no. Not of Sevus–I don’t think I've ever even heard him raise his voice–” The captain paused, sighing. “No, what I was meaning to say was… I…” He squinted, looking back at the Wastes. “None of us were expecting to find a maintenance hand that treated the more… unique… parts of our crew with respect.” He added after a moment, “I wasn’t expecting to find that on Covien.”

I chewed the inside of my cheek. No one had ever said those words about me before. I didn’t know what to do.

After a long and painfully agonising silence, I finally cleared my throat, looking up at him.

“I’m… sorry I ripped your coat?”

The captain nodded, looking away. “It was a casualty to a cause, so I won’t shoot you for it this time, Covienian.”

I sighed.

I hated being called a Covienian. I wasn’t one! I just happened to be stuck on their miserable planet–

“Oi!” someone shouted behind me.

I turned, seeing the Secodack standing at the base of the ship with his hands on his hips.

He was standing right at the edge of the landing ramp, tucked away slightly from view.

“Is lunch break over?” I called across the hangar.

The Secodack rolled his eyes. “No, I’m standing out here because I like staring at the back of your head! What do you think, Corporal Obvious?”

The captain tilted his head, and looked behind him. He must have just been out of view from the small Second Engineer, because as soon as he leaned over to see who was speaking, the Secodack’s ears went back.

“Oh! Uh–hey, Captain! Didn’t see you there–”

The Fletric turned around fully, addressing his crew member easily. “I’m sorry, Captain Perseid,” he said, “are you scared the engine is going to explode without her?”

The Secodack rocked back on his heels. “No...” He straightened. “But lunch break is over, and we’re not paying her to sit around.”

Charge scrambled back into the ship, deciding that he could jump up onto the ramp from the side instead of walking up it. He struggled a little bit to make the step, eventually having to resort to using his hands to push himself up.

The result was an unflattering, but quite accurate display, of how little agility his race actually possessed.

The captain shook his head as Charge finally disappeared, and looked down at me with serious blue eyes.

“Well, you heard the captain,” he said, nodding towards the ship. “Off you go.”

I blew out a breath, as a feeling vanished between me and the old Fletric. For a small moment there, it was like he didn’t hate my existence. Thankfully, the feeling returned as he looked back at the Hollow Wastes, blue eyes scanning the landscape like a navigator scanned the stars– without emotion, without prejudice, without awe.

–Obviously, I had been dismissed.

With a stomach full of nothing, and a head full of questions, I obediently turned back to the ship. But as I did, a strange and nebulous thought flickered across my mind.

It was a thought of captain Rigg, and his crew, and all the good things that they had to say about him.

It was a thought about his Pulsers, and his threats to shoot me, and it was a thought about his anger, too.

Somehow, it was also a thought about how tired he didn’t just look, but felt– like the Shaft’s old service lifts that were tired of existence, and were in the process of rusting away.

Maybe, if I had been given more time to think about them, I could have connected all those thoughts together to create a kind of realisation, or some kind of opinion on the Fletric captain to combat whatever confusion I was feeling.

But I didn't have enough time, and very soon, thoughts of Gray Raven and Laneway Taxes swallowed whatever spare room I had in my brain, and left me feeling suffocated and sticky.

Figuring out how I felt about the Passerine crew would merely have to wait until I wasn't on the run from an Imperial guild.