a Malin Galaxy Novel (sample chapters)
Midnight on Vulturnus
Prologue: The Disappearing Act
The dim glow of Captain Iris Trace’s quarters wrapped the walls in a veil of filtered shadows, her voice a steady comforting cadence in the soft quiet. On the vidscreen before her, her six-year-old daughter lay under the covers, eyes wide, immersed in her mother’s reading. The gentle glow of the little girl’s single l.e.d. candle nightlight flickered across her face.
“…the little cottage was just as he remembered it, with the roses climbing up the stone walls, and smoke curling gently from the chimney. But as he gazed at the warm light glowing in the windows, his joy turned to sorrow. For there, within the cozy glow, he saw his beloved wife seated by the hearth, a small child on her lap, and a man he did not know…”
Captain Trace’s voice softened and she smiled as she stole a quick glance at her daughter. The little girl’s eyelids were just beginning to flutter as she fought to stay awake. Trace smiled and continued reading.
“The sailor could not move, and the sailor could not breathe…”
Suddenly, the screen flickered, the warm image of her daughter’s sleepy face dissolved into static as ship-wide alarms began to bleat their rude klaxon throughout the vessel. Captain Trace’s heart lurched, confusion twisting her stomach into a hard knot. She reached for the console, her fingers momentarily hovering over the controls and then she was up and moving quickly to the Niveous’s flight bridge.
The bridge was a storm of activity, the flight crew at their stations moving with frantic precision trying to diagnose the mounting crisis. Captain Trace stepped onto the bridge and a heavy silence fell broken only by the incessant warning alarms and the clicking-tapping sounds of the flight crew manipulating their consoles.
“Lieutenant Aggot,” she demanded, her voice cutting through the chaos like a blade, “explain this racket if you ever hope to fly again.”
First Lieutenant Koga Aggot swiveled in his chair, his face pale but composed. “We’ve been targeted by an unidentified vessel, Captain. Weapons lock, hard confirm.”
“Targeted?” Captain Trace’s brow furrowed. “By who?”
Aggot shook his head, frustration tightening his features. “We’re not sure, ma’am. Niveous doesn’t have the necessary instruments. But she’s massive. Likely a warship.”
“Massive…” she repeated, her voice barely a whisper. Her mind raced as she weighed their options. Her pulse quickened but her expression betrayed none of the dread gnawing at her core.
“Open a direct channel to this bully, if you would, Mister Montopovich,” she ordered, her tone steady despite the chaos around her. “And kill the damn alarms. Let’s not disturb our passengers any further than we already have.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Comms Officer Loggo Montopovich replied, his fingers flying across the console. The ship wide alarms ceased their wailing, leaving the bridge in a tense, unnatural quiet.
“Direct link open, ma’am,” Montopovich announced, the holographic display flickering to life in front of Captain Trace.
She stepped forward, her voice firm but measured as she addressed the unseen threat. “Unidentified warship, this is Captain Iris Trace of the Niveous. We are an independent merchant vessel carrying commercial passengers and cargo. We are unarmed and transiting open space. I have five hundred seventy-three souls aboard, mostly women and children. Please identify yourself.”
The bridge held its collective breath, every eye on the Captain, every ear straining for a response. But the only reply returned was the cold unyielding hiss of static.
Captain Trace turned to Montopovich, her eyes questioning. “Did they hear us?”
Montopovich’s augmented hands flew over the console once more, his brow furrowed in concentration. “From what I can tell they should’ve received it, yes, ma’am. They had to have heard us.”
But the static persisted, a void of communication that deepened the unease on the bridge.
“Orders, Captain?” Lieutenant Aggot’s voice was quiet, almost hesitant.
Captain Trace stared at the static-filled holo-display, a sense of dread settling in the pit of her stomach. “Send an S.O.S. All channels. Full power. Do it now.”
Montopovich’s fingers moved but he hesitated, his face paling as he read the data on his screen. “They’re blocking all comms now. Everything is jammed. Nothing is getting out.”
The bridge fell into a stunned silence as the reality of their situation crashed down upon them. A warning light flashed on the console. The bridge crew collectively froze as they realized what it meant.
“Oh my god. They’ve fired on us,” Pilot Ami Loshtan whispered, her voice trembling as she looked to the Captain, eyes wide with fear.
Captain Trace’s breath caught in her throat, a cold chill running down her spine. Her mind raced, searching for some way out, some way to save the lives entrusted to her. A moment, a breath, a lifetime passed and then she calmly took her place in the Captain’s chair and whispered a soft prayer, “He woke, he rose, he spread his arms abroad…”
And then their world ended in a blinding flash of irradiated plasma. The Niveous shuddered violently as the warheads slammed into her hull each explosion rending the ship’s hull with ruthless efficiency. Metal twisted, bulkheads buckled, and in an instant, the merchant vessel was gone, obliterated in a violent, fiery maelstrom that left nothing but drifting particles and silence in its wake.
—
Far away, in a quiet office on a distant planet, a man sat alone, sipping a cup of hot tea. The room dimly lit. The air thick with the musky scent of tea and constant solitude. A soft pleasant chime alerted him to an incoming message. He set his cup down and opened the encrypted holo.
The message was brief, simple, final: The door is open. Flowers tallied and enroute. Congratulations.
The man closed the holo and then expunged it from his database and leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable as he stared out the window. The stars beyond twinkled coldly.
He sipped his tea again, the warmth doing nothing to chase away the emptiness settling deep within him. And as the silence stretched on, the only sound was the soft clink of synthetic porcelain as he set his cup down once more.
Chapter 1
1519 Malin Galaxy Standard
The elevated mag-train glided into Ciabor Memorial Station. A warm triad chimed across the arriving platform and in the transit cars, announcing the pending stop. The car doors whooshed open. Simon Hadarr smiled to himself before stepping onto the platform and into to the full view of the security cameras and waiting guards.
A long line of scientists, clerks, researchers, engineers, janitors, managers, security personnel, accountants, and cafeteria workers snaked along the wall listlessly waiting to navigate the check point. Badge in hand, Simon bypassed the line as he approached the first security check.
“Morning, Jae-Yoon!” Simon greeted the security guard.
Jae-Yoon grinned. “Good morning, Doctor Hadarr. The Polar Jets are up ten points in the league.”
Simon pressed his badge against the scanner. The holographic tape in front of the speed gate changed from yellow to green. “I told you, this is their year. How did In-Su do on his test?” He stepped through the gate.
“Ninety-eight percent. I’m a proud Poppa today!”
“Your hard work is paying off, Jae-Yoon. I better watch my job.” Simon chuckled.
“I think it’ll be awhile before you need to worry.” The security guard laughed, calling out to Simon, who was already dissapearing down the long corridor lined with scanners.
At the end of the hall a series of retina and bioscans booths waited. Simon entered the booth, the door locking behind him. Beams of light swept across his front and back while the device took a snapshot of his right eye. Once cleared, the stoic technicians said nothing. They never did.
The door opened, and Simon walked through. Down another hallway and up a series of gated escalators, he approached a row of fingerprint reader turnstiles. Simon placed his finger on the scanner and walked through after the pleasant chime acknowledge authenticated identity.
On the other side of another turnstile, more security guards were stationed at metal tables for bag inspections. Simon placed his satchel on the table. The guard, wearing protective gloves, gently opened his satchel’s compartments, traced and felt the seams and buttons of his bag and the finally pushed around the contents of the bag, thoroughly inspecting its inside.
“No sandwich today, Doctor Hadarr?” The guard cracked a smile.
Simon shook his head. “Morning, Blake. I’m at the mercy of Miss Pock’s menu today.”
“Ha. I’ll let her know you’re eating in the cafeteria today. She’ll make up something special.”
“Oh, I’m sure whatever she has planned is special enough.”
“Are you kidding? It means I get to eat whatever you’re having.”
“Well then, tell her I missed breakfast.” Simon winked.
“Ha, will do, Sir. Thanks!” The guard returned Simon’s bag to him.
“Have a good one, Blake.”
“Tartarus Above All,” replied Blake.
“Tartarus Above All.” Simon forced a genuine smile for the surveillance cameras.
The automatic glass doors to the Research and Development Department slid open, the security guards stationed on each side nodded as he passed. Through a maze of hallways and doors, he finally reached his department’s offices. Large windows on the far wall looked out at the domed city of Vulturnus Municipality, affectionately called VulMun by its denizens.
Around the massive central desk, Simon’s team worked at their individual consoles while a hologram lattice of shapes moved and rotated as each member calculated, refactored, and manipulated the project. Simon grinned. He walked up to his office overlooking the lab, hung up his jacket, and pulled on his lab coat. Then he joined his team on the lab floor.
“Hadarr, my office, now.” Supervisor Kiril Wasak’s voice annihilated the pleasant tranquility as he shouted across the facility wide loudspeakers.
Simon’s smile faded. Of course, he thought, as he headed to the large office upstairs, now what?
Kiril sat in his plush leather chair. If he had been a valuable scientist, he had traded it long ago for administration and power. The man loved control almost as much as he loved the sound of his own voice. He obviously had his eyes set on upper management.
Kiril, a pudgy man, filled out his gray tweed suit and high-necked collared shirts. A weak attempt at hiding a wobbling flappy second chin. They didn’t. He was poring over a stack of holo-tablets, all projecting encrypted data that looked like translucent noise to Simon.
—
“Simon. Can you tell me what I’m looking at here? What’s—” He gestured at one of the flickering holo-displays before him. “What’s this I’m seeing?”
“Kiril, from my angle, it’s fuzz.”
“Of course, it looks like fuzz. It wouldn’t matter because Omega hasn’t even begun submitting their contributions for the power management system. How is any of this supposed to work if there are no plans for moving energy from system A into system B? This should’ve been the first thing.” Spittle flew across the holograms showering down on the composite desk surface.
“That’s simple enough. Omega isn’t working on the power management system, they’re designing the shielding,” Simon replied.
“Then who in the void is working on the power management system?”
“Currently? No one. It’s one of the last aspects being considered. We need to know what the project requires before we can calculate how to deliver power to it.”
Kiril’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t like the response or Simon’s attitude. He glared at Simon for a long moment.
“I don’t care. Pull someone off one of the teams and have them make a mock-up. I’ve got a meeting at fifteen thirty with the Chief of R&D. It’s what she wants.”
Simon nodded, “Of course.”
“And I want an update on projections by the end of the day. We’re falling behind. Which means a demotion for you.”
“I’ll handle it.”
Kiril waved Simon away, not that he needed to. Simon was already halfway to the door.
Simon descended the metal stairs into the secure lab spaces. He studied his team as they worked diligently below. “Morning everyone, let’s chat in the meeting room. Take a break. I’ll meet you there.”
Over the last few months, he had grown quite fond of his team. Best minds in the galaxy, he thought. He waited for everyone as they shuffled in; some clustered around tables, others leaning against the wall. He could see the tension of the project was beginning to wear on them—a room of dark eyes and sleepy smiles.
Simon cleared his throat. “First, I think what we’re doing is amazing. We’re working with incomplete information written in a language no one has seen before and we’re making great progress. Upstairs wants us to work faster.”
He sighed and looked at each of them in turn and smiled trying to will them his encouragement.
“So that means I need two volunteers to generate reports. Fill it with your best techno-babble, get creative. We can’t impress the suits so let’s dazzle them with garbage. I’m going to write up a mock plan for power management so the rest of you can keep crunching. We’re at an important crux, so let’s keep going. Where we at on translation?”
Nadine shook her head.“Slow. We just don’t have enough examples to feed the model. We’re refactoring the same data and a lot of it is just conjecture.”
Simon nodded. “Okay. Then you’re doing all you can.”
Seiji raised his hand. “I’ll make the babble report. Obviously the suits have no idea about any of this but they know how to kiss ass. I’ll give them enough jargon to have their lips on the C-Suite for a month.”
Everyone chuckled. Good thought Simon, they can still laugh.
“Wonderful, Seiji. You’re a rockstar. Okay. Any questions?” Simon searched the tired faces in the room. No one said anything. “Okay then, have a great day. I’ll be in my office if anyone needs me.”
The research team filed out of the room, murmuring amongst themselves. Once he was sure they were gone, Simon released a heavy sigh. It was going to be a long day and an even longer week.
Chapter 2
Investigator Gerard Bedver sprinted down the narrow alley, chasing the suspect who darted ahead with the effortless agility of someone sporting upgraded skeleton enhancements. The smuggler vaulted clean over a massive dumpster, his augmented legs making a mockery of gravity. Gerard had his own set of modifications, but nothing that allowed him to defy the laws of physics. He grabbed the edge of the metal container, hauling himself over with sheer determination, and continued the pursuit.
Behind him, Gerard could hear the heavy, labored breaths of his partner, Dinadan Gurbux. Dinadan, a decade older and weighed down by upgrades better suited for brute force than speed, struggled to keep up. He was a man who preferred spending his bonus pay on life’s pleasures rather than the latest tech. But even with outdated enhancements, Dinadan could bring tremendous force to bear when needed. Dinadan moved slow, but in the cramped back alleys of Vulturnus, with its tight corridors, and suffocating pre-fab era living spaces, that didn’t much matter. Gerard smiled to himself thinking this runner is about to learn that the hard way.
Gerard closed the distance between him and the suspect, his fingers grazing the back of the smuggler’s shirt. The man lunged forward, tearing free and leaving Gerard clutching a strip of fabric. The alley spilled into the VulMun Central Bazaar—a dense, chaotic hub where the vibrant clash of sounds, smells, and colors could overwhelm even the most focused. He was trying to lose them in the crowded market, a sea of vendors hawking wares of questionable stuffs, most of it contraband.
Gerard didn’t care about the crowd. He barreled through, sending a pottery seller stumbling backward, his stack of goods crashing to the ground in a cacophony of shattering ceramics. The shouts of anger were swallowed by the noise of the bazaar, but Gerard didn’t break stride.
“I’ve lost him!” Dinadan’s voice crackled through their comms, his breath ragged.
Gerard hadn’t. He was linked to the smuggler’s hardware since their chase began, tracking him in real-time. With a thought, he sent Dinadan the suspect’s location. Dinadan’s reply was a quick message to Gerard’s HUD—Got it. Moving to intercept on the far side.
The smuggler, desperate to shake his pursuers, knocked over a food cart, sending boiling oil splashing onto bystanders. Screams cut through the air, rising above the din of the market. Gerard barely registered the chaos, his focus laser-sharp. He pinged VulMun Emergency for assistance and kept running.
You’re such a nice guy, Dinandan teased.
The bazaar met Raseg Boulevard, a major thoroughfare where hovercars zipped by in neat columns. The suspect made a mad dash into the street, cars swerving and honking to avoid him. He leapt onto the hood of a sedan, using it as a springboard to launch himself across the road.
Gerard activated his Municipal Override, slowing traffic just enough to cross safely. His reinforced joints groaned under the strain, his suit soaking with sweat as chemicals surged through his system, pushing his body to the brink. Red warnings flashed in the corner of his HUD, but he ignored them. This wasn’t just about an unregistered hardware dealer anymore—this was personal. He’d never live it down if you lost this guy. Chief Mixcoatle would undoubtedly dock his quarterly points. He’d deal with the chemical crash later.
Dinadan appeared across the street, his timing impeccable. With a move as quick as it was brutal, he grabbed the smuggler’s ankle mid-leap and yanked him out of the air in a single movement, slamming the man to the pavement like a wet hammer.
“Who’s your supplier?” Dinadan growled, his voice like gravel.
Gerard skidded to a halt beside them, breathing hard.
The smuggler kicked Dinadan in the gut, trying to scramble back to his feet. Gerard wasn’t having it this time. He seized the man’s shoulder, his enhanced grip digging into flesh and bone. The smuggler yelped, and Gerard felt a grim satisfaction—good, he could still feel pain.
“Your mother or wife! Can’t remember which!” The smuggler spat, laughing through the pain.
Dinadan’s response was a fist to the face, the cracking bone a familiar sickening sound that always turned Gerard’s stomach. The smuggler’s nose broke and his blood spewed forth.
“Lat time. I’m not asking again,” Dinadan hissed, his breath ragged.
Blood streamed from the smuggler’s nose, mixing with saliva as he spat in Dinadan’s face. “Get wrecked carahlo.”
Dinadan’s next stike sent the man’s teeth skittering across the sidewalk.
“Answers, Gurbux, now,” Gerard reminded him, his voice measured.
Dinadan groaned, his defiance waning.
“Okay, okay. I have a dealer on Cona da Mãe Street.” And he smiled a bloody broken grin.
Fury flared in Dinadan’s eyes and before Gerard could intervene, he hurled the smuggler into the path of an oncoming hoverfreight. The man’s body crumpled under the vehicle’s massive weight, blood splattering across the street painting both investigators in a dripping splatterd crimson wash. Gerard winced, immediately pinging Emergency Services for cleanup as the hoverfreight ground to a halt a few meters up the road.
“Keep my mother out of your dead mouth!” Dinadan spat, wiping his face with the back of his hand.
Gerard brushed bits of flesh off his jacket, shaking his head. “We needed his supplier, not a cleanup.”
“You heard what he said,” Dinadan retorted, his voice a low growl.
“Yeah, I heard it.”
“I’m starving. Bastard made me run,” Dinadan muttered, clearly done with the situation.
“I keep telling you to get those knees fixed” Gerard said, already leading the way. “Come on, there’s a good noodle shop nearby.”
A few blocks up, they found Than Brothers Noodle Express, a small, unassuming place that had become one of Gerard’s favorites. Nhat, the owner, greeted them with his usual warm smile, though it faltered when he saw the blood and flesh spackles staining their clothes.
“Good evening, gentlemen—whoa, rough day, huh? Some nice chrysanthemum tea to ease your worries,” Nhat said, placing two mugs on the counter along with disposable wet cloths. “Very good for circulation.”
“You’re a lifesaver, Nhat,” Gerard said, wiping the blood and grime from his face.
Dinadan eyed the tea and cloth with disdain but reluctantly cleaned himself up. “Smells herbal.”
Gerard took a stool at the counter, Dinadan settling beside him with a weary sigh. His partner’s grafted muscles were long overdue for an upgrade, or three, but stubborn was Dinadan’s signature and the man had a talent for always being in the right position at the right time. Gerard sighed, sipped his tea, and decided not to push.
“What’ll it be?” Nhat asked, ready to take their orders.
“The usual, Nhat, extra chilis,” Gerard replied, his mouth already watering at the thought of Nhat’s unique aromatic broth.
Dinadan hesitated, as he always did at noodle shops. “Uh, I’ll have a number three, curry style, extra meatballs, extra noodles. And— extra crispy synth pork belly.”
“Coming right up,” Nhat said nodding and turning to prepare their meals.
The scent of sizzling vat meat filled the air as the two investigators waited in silence. Gerard sipped his tea, letting the warmth calm his nerves. He watched the crowd outside, people moving about their daily routines, oblivious to the violence that had just unfolded nearby.
“How do you think that went?” Gerard asked eventually.
Dinadan furrowed his brow, not understanding the question. “How do I think it went?” Dinanadan shrugged, “Job done. Another smuggler down. People want implants, they need to be certified by Tartarus. We saved a lot of folks from more bad gear and we both walked clean.”
Gerard smiled faintly. Nhat placed two steaming bowls in front of them, along with a jar of garlic chili sauce and two cream puffs. “You’re the best, Nhat.”
“Tartarus Above All,” Nhat said with a nod. “Looks like you’ve had a day, friends.”
“Yeah, it’s been one of those,” Gerard replied, mixing a hefty spoonful of chili sauce into his noodles.
Dinadan didn’t bother with the sauce. He simply dug in, stuffing his face while continuing the conversation. “Good stuff, not usually my thing, but good stuff.”
Nhat returned to prepping more cream puffs, his focus shifting back to the evening crowd.
“Look Bedver, I get it. Guy wasn’t in the system. If he had been, we’d have done it different. You see all those people out there—” Dinadan nodded at the window as he stuffed more pork in mouth. “All those people back in the market? Most aren’t in the system. It’s not like it used to be. We could’ve racked up a year’s worth of bonuses if we tagged them all. But we took care of the problem. Maintained the ecosystem. He made trouble and we threw it back to him. That’s how it works.”
Gerard nodded, not wanting to argue. “Yeah, things change.” The adrenal crash was coming on hard. They ate in silence for a while.
Dinadan eventually broke it as he finished his noodles. “I don’t get it, what’s the issue? Some have, some don’t. We’re lucky, Gerard. We’re not left scraping the bottom like the rest of these animals.”
Gerard focused on his food.
Dinadan bit into his cream puff and smiled. “Hey, this is good, old man! I’ll take a few more for the missus.”
Nhat smiled. He’d already packaged a box of the delicate pastries and wrapped it in soft blue tissue paper carefully tucking the corner folds into themselves.
Gerard waved his wrist terminal over the payment scanner. “You’re right, Dan. My treat.”
Dinadan stood up and smiled, “Think these will make it home? I still gotta file the report.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll handle it. Head home. It’s been a long day.”
Dinadan nodded, clapped his heavy hand on Gerard’s shoulder giving him a brotherly squeeze. “Good man. Next one’s on me.” And then turned and stomped out into the street and was quickly lost in the crowd.
“Yeah,” Gerard muttered, more to himself than anyone else.
Rain began to fall outside in a gentle sprinkle. Splattering softly on the concrete walk ways and vehicle tops and pedestrian traffic. Gerard gazed out the window watching the manufactured clouds swirl overhead, another reminder of the tightly controlled environment within Vulturnus Municipality. The day’s artificial daylight was beginning to fade, the shift from day to night carefully orchestrated by the city’s systems.
“Strange weather lately,” Nhat commented, his voice casual, as if reading Gerard’s thoughts. He continued prepping the evening’s cream puffs, his hands moving with practiced ease. With Dinadan gone the small shop settled once again into its customary air of calm almost serene like efficiency.
The sprinkle developed and turned into a steady downpour, the sound of rain on metal and concrete drumming louder on the other side of the plexiglas window. The market’s hustle slowed as people hurried for cover, pulling up their hoods or ducking under awnings. Rain was a rare occurrence, even in a place where everything was controlled, and it always brought with it a strange sense of unease, as if the city itself might be mourning something it lost a long long time ago.
Gerard finished the last of his tea, savoring the warmth before rising from his stool. “Thanks, Nhat. See you next time.”
“Take care, Gerard. Stay dry out there.”
Chapter 3
Simon Hadarr’s wrist terminal buzzed softly, unlocking the door to his apartment with a muted click. He hated coming home late, hated the way this synthetic city felt colder at night, as if the dome itself pressed down on them all. He eased the door open and stepped inside and sighed. He stripped his overcoat off and hung it next to Chenoa’s sweaters and Koda’s small jacket. The familiar smell of Chenoa’s evening cooking still hung in the air. Simon reflexively sighed again. So many ghosts.
Their apartment was modest by Tartarus Unlimited standards, a three-bedroom compartment that came as part of his compensation package. It was a far cry from their old home in Platinahaven on Lagada—a world where they’d never shared walls with neighbors, where flowering hedges framed their life cocooning them in simple, beautiful privacy. There, they’d had space to breathe, to live. But here, under the dome, everything felt compressed, forced and fake. That’s because it is, Simon reminded himself. Even the sky had been stripped away replaced with plastic.
He removed his shoes and slipped into his slippers, a small ritual that always helped anchored him to the present. The apartment was quiet. It was late and Simon knew he’d worked too late again. Another missed dinner. Another missed evening. Another missed bedtime. How many more were left, he wondered.
Chenoa was curled up on the indigo couch, a holo-tab casting a faint blue glow on her face. She smiled when she saw him, mouthing a soft “Hey you.” Simon crossed the room, leaned over the couch back and kissed the top of her head. He held his lips for a lingering moment inhaling the subtle fragrance of the oils she wore and loved. The soft subtle hints of jasmine and citrus as much a part of her as her dark hair.
He moved quietly to their daughter Miakoda’s room, pushing the door open with a gentle touch. Of course Koda was awake, her wide eyes tracing the painted tree on the walls—a gift from her mother’s creative hands. Simon crouched beside her bed, his voice low.
“Koda,” he whispered, “You should be sleeping.”
“I didn’t want to until you got home,” she confessed, her voice small in the dark. “Mom said I had to.”
“Your mother’s right. You need to listen to her, okay.”
“Yeah, okay. I know but I wanted to tell you about school.”
Simon tucked the star and moon-patterned blankets under her chin, settling in beside her. “I’m listening.”
“We learned about rainbows with prisms. It’s how they used to find planets to live on but now we don’t need them because we have domes like ours.”
“That’s true. Our technology lets us do incredible things. Things we never thought possible.”
Koda thought for a moment considering her father’s words. “Making rainbows is better.”
Simon laughed and his heart ached at her innocence. “I agree. Someday, we’ll go home and you’ll see all kinds of rainbows.”
“Can we go soon? I want to meet Grandma and Grammy.”
Simon’s chest tightened. He brushed a strand of hair from her tiny face, his voice soft. “Someday, but only if you go to sleep now.”
Miakoda rolled over, clutching her stuffed elephant. “Shh, I’m already sleeping.”
He chuckled and kissed her cheek before slipping out of the room. In the dim light of the living room, Chenoa was waiting at the table, a plate of food reheated and steaming beside her. Fatigue etched in fine lines on her face, her waist-length black hair now streaked with silver hints was braided and draped over her shoulder.
“Still awake?” he asked, settling beside her.
“Of course,” she replied, offering a tired smile. “I knew the storm would keep you late.”
“Koda asked about your parents again,” Simon said, his voice tinged with the unspoken weight they both carried.
Chenoa sighed and leaned back in her chair. “She asked me too.”
“I’m sorry. Kiril’s pushing hard on the project, trying to make a name for himself. It means a more late nights.”
“Then I wish Kiril was doing the work,” she muttered, her tone half-joking but biting.
“If he was, it’d take ten times as long,” Simon said, frowning as he took a bite of his meal.
“I know,” she said, running her fingers through his short, greying hair. “I’m just tired. I missed you today.”
“I missed you too. Maybe you can take Koda to the park tomorrow? Give her a big distraction?”
Chenoa’s eyes softened. “She’ll like that. It’ll be good for us both. I’ll bring you back some cake.”
Simon leaned over his food and kissed her gently. “I’d love that.”
She pushed her chair back and rose. “I’m going to bed.”
Simon smiled and watched her go. “I love you sweet one.”
“See you in bed,” she whispered as she left the room.
Chenoa changed into her lilac pajamas, the silk fabric cool against her skin. She stood in front of the bathroom mirror and turned on the sink. The water came to temperature quickly, but it never felt the same here. Everything on Vulturnus was synthetic, even the simple comforts.
She massaged her face with a gentle surfactant, rinsing off the day’s fatigue. The floral oil she used was one of the few things she allowed herself to indulge in—shipped from another world, a luxury that reminded her of home. As she inhaled the calming fragrance, her mind raged.
How much longer? she wondered, that forever daily question gnawed at her. Tartarus had promised a two-year program but nine years had slipped by, one after another and there was no end in sight. She tried not to think about Lagada. It was gutting how painful home had become.
Life on Vulturnus was a constant erosion and she felt herself slipping away more and more with every passing day. Play nice, watch your language, don’t dissent. Tartarus was taking her, chopping her up into tiny bitter pieces, leaving only a shell of who she used to be, of who she knew she could be.
Chenoa finished brushing her teeth and stared at her reflection. The face that looked back was aging, yes, of course, but the real change was deeper, more fatal. Only Simon noticed, and in him, she saw the same suffering. And least they had each other and their tiny bubbling blessing.
Someday, she thought, switching off the light and slipping into bed. Someday. And then she prayed she see the sky in her dreams.