The UniCorp vessel was only a few hours out from docking at Sirius-3 when Amalia couldn’t stand her growling stomach any longer. The journey to her new … home wasn’t the right word; the Pen would always be her home. New residence, perhaps? The journey to the Sirius-3 station had taken just over two cycles, and she’d mostly slept in a private bunk assigned to her.
She’d dreamt of all the objects she’d left behind, the items enlarged until they towered over her like buildings, becoming almost unrecognisable. Some things she’d long grown out of, like the earmuffs Mama Baena had made her, but she ached with the loss of her tablet — full of all Mama Terra’s teachings and Mama Dea’s stories — and the knife Mama Maw had made from one of her own claws. Thinking about these things hurt less than acknowledging the grief of never seeing her mamas again.
Her stomach gurgled a second time and she reluctantly tied on her freshly acquired boots and tugged at the hem of her jacket. She didn’t like how her new attire pinched in weird places; the material of her grey and orange jacket was heavy across her shoulders and the black boots were tight around her toes. Having gone barefoot her entire life, the shoes were not welcome.
“Come on, Amalia,” she whispered. “You can’t keep holed up forever.” She slipped into the halls, nervous even though she hadn’t been explicitly confined to her quarters. The officer level wasn’t large. It was neatly cordoned off from the transport cells by a shield combo that had defeated even Mama Wisp’s astounding abilities. When she found the mess hall, the long dining tables were mostly empty since it was mid shift.
The food chute was confusingly complex, but Amalia recognised the coffee machine and found it intuitive enough to make herself a cup. A stash of wrapped protein bars stacked like bricks in a drawer solved the hollowness in her stomach. She gleefully stuffed her pockets full of bars and unwrapped one to inhale while still standing. It tasted pretty good actually. A little salty and the texture was smooth. It was nothing like the food stuffs she had back home that were gritty and left a copper-like coating on her tongue.
None of the officers present paid her any mind, so she settled at an empty table with a soft crinkle of foil and focused on the best cup of coffee she’d ever had. Maybe leaving the Pen would have its perks? The ceramic warmed her palms and she inhaled the bitter rich aroma.
“Do you mind if I join you?” A soft voice interrupted Amalia’s coffee communion.
Amalia glanced up, cursing herself for becoming complacent and already regretting the possibility that she’d have to throw her coffee in the officer's face to ensure her own escape. It was the same officer who’d outfitted her in new clothes. Amalia suspected they may’ve belonged to her, as the officer was a similar build to her: short and lean.
Unlike Amalia’s shoulder-length hair, the officer’s was dark and regulation short down one side to allow easy access to the half dozen ports flashing brightly just above her left ear. What wasn’t shaven was neatly braided back. Her right eye was as dark as her hair, but her left shimmered orange, flickering as she received comms. Thanks to Mama Dea’s training, Amalia could read the officer’s face as if words were scrawled across her dark skin. The young officer, who couldn’t have been much older than Amalia, had a smile that was shy, but kind, the corner of her bottom lip a little raw from nervous chewing. She was doing it now. Why was she nervous? Surely it wasn’t from talking to her? If anyone was nervous, it should be Amalia.
“You look like you might want some company,” the officer added.
For a moment, Amalia considered how this officer must see her. A small, wild thing who’d been rescued from unknown horrors and forced into the light of all that’s civilised for her own good. The pity expressed in the officer’s multi-coloured eyes rubbed Amalia the wrong way, but the sincerity in her words had Amalia nodding to the chair opposite.
“My name’s Laxmi. You’re Amalia, right? This must all be crazy intimidating for you. Leaving behind all you know.”
And Amalia found herself relaxing. Finally, someone got it.
Laxmi peered into her own cup of coffee, her orange eye lighting up briefly, but before Amalia could freak out that the officer was recording their conversation, she realised the woman was just checking the temperature of her drink. Laxmi took a sip and sighed in pleasure.
“I don’t know what to expect,” Amalia whispered, voice hoarse. “Or what’s expected of me.”
“Have you been debriefed yet? I mean, someone must’ve given you a run down when they inserted your ID chip.”
Amalia rubbed her thumb over the still tender skin of her right wrist, swollen and raised from the chip that had been carefully embedded beneath skin, blue veins and tendons.
“The only thing she told me was I’d have to chop off my whole hand if I wanted to remove it.”
“That’s disgusting!” Laxmi’s face twisted in repulsion, her own fingers drifting over the far more complex tech embedded in her own forearm. “Sounds like you had Officer Lin do the honours, you poor thing. That woman has one twisted sense of humour, though she’s right. The chips aren’t designed to come out.”
“I wasn’t planning on it,” Amalia huffed. She honestly liked the idea of having an identity of her own. One not borrowed.
“Oh, I know. I didn’t mean you...I was just saying…” The officer blushed, took a sip of coffee and collected herself beneath Amalia’s amused gaze. “Right, anyway, how about I give you a rundown of what you’ll be facing once we dock on Sirius-3?”
She didn’t wait for Amaila’s response, instead reaching out a hand, palm up, towards Amalia.
“Sirius-3 is a spaceport,” she said and a 3D image as big as Laxmi’s head formed a few inches from her hand, appearing solid enough to touch. It wasn’t what Amalia expected at all. Sirius-3 looked like an aggressive growth that had long overwhelmed its host. “It’s the size of a dwarf planet.” Laxmi’s fingertips flexed and the spaceport appeared to break apart, revealing its inner core and how the spherical-shaped additions clung to it and each other like hundreds of soap bubbles floating through a vast emptiness.
“Current population is just under ten million,” Laxmi said. “It’s the biggest port this close to uncharted space and the last layover for our ships when delivering prisoners and supplies.”
“What do people do on a spaceport?” Amalia asked, uncertain if asking questions was okay, but she needn’t have worried. Laxmi appeared eager to share.
“The same things people do everywhere else, I suspect. Oh, sorry, I forgot you don’t...right.” Laxmi tugged on her fringe, peering at Amalia sheepishly. “I’ve only visited Sirius-3’s main port and that quadrant’s pretty much a mash up of a working dock and a fun fair. Do you know what a fun fair is?”
“I’ve heard stories,” Amalia said, amused as Laxmi flushed again.
“Sorry, I just... Well, anyway, around the ports there are plenty of bars and cafes to cater for ship-leavers. Markets and shops, too, to restock and repair ship damage. There’s the usual piracy you’d expect on the edges of known space, maybe less actually because we’re frequently docking with new crims and they tend to want to steer clear of the people who deal with the worst of the worst on a daily basis, you know what I mean?”
“You lot fight pirates?” Amalia imagined sleek dark ships pouncing on unsuspecting victims, leaving empty hulls and drifting debris in their jet streams.
“Well, I haven’t personally, but it does happen. Not real often though because we’re clearly marked and you’d have to be suicidal to take on a crew able to wrangle real monsters, so you shouldn’t worry.”
The last thing Amalia was afraid of was pirates.
“But if you see another ship being attacked, you help out? Like you’re galactic law enforcers?”
Laxmi shifted in her seat, her eyes intent on the holographic station still floating over her palm. “It’s a company mandate that we lend assistance to those in need, as long as the primary objective is not at risk.” Amalia suspected that Laxmi didn’t agree with what her captain would define risky or not. “It’s a common enough rule for all corporation vessels.”
“And what’s the primary objective?” Amalia asked. How did UniCorp profit from locking up people? She’d never thought to ask her mamas. She’d never thought she’d leave them or the Pen, content in her tiny corner of such an immense universe.
“Look, you seem like a nice girl and all, despite...well, that wasn’t ever your fault,” Laxmi said, reaching out her hologram-free hand to grip Amalia’s arm, her eyes fierce. She reminded Amalia of Mama Dea, protective and righteous, though Mama Dea’s values had been skewed in the eyes of the rest of the universe even though Amalia couldn’t really figure out why.
“I wish I could tell you,” Laxmi added, “but you just don’t have clearance.”
In another life, Amalia wondered if Laxmi could’ve been a friend. Once she was dropped off on Sirius-3, Amalia would be truly on her own and she doubted anyone would take the time to befriend someone who’d lived under a metaphorical rock all her life.
“So Sirius-3?” Amalia prompted, taking a sip of coffee and shaking off the comfort of Laxmi’s hand.
“Sirius-3 is like any city, really. It’s got its own security and hospitals and schools. You could learn a trade if you want, or do classes.”
“What kind of classes?” The idea of doing something normal greatly appealed to Amalia. For someone who’d been completely cut adrift from all she knew, with no family, friends or goals to ground her, maybe learning something that didn’t directly impact on her survival could be nice. What did normal people do?
“Um, well anything really.” Laxmi closed her hand and the hologram vanished. “What do you like to do?”
“Do?”
“Like for a hobby? See, during my downtime I like to read. All sorts really, but I’ve a passion for science fiction. Not the Golden Age stuff because, I mean really, I live on a spaceship and my bunkmate is a Seledovian.” At Amalia’s baffled look, she gestured from her mouth to her chin. “Seledovian double vocal cords are on the outside. She hums while she sleeps. Kind of soothing actually.”
“I like stories, too,” Amalia offered. Again, she felt a pang of regret for her tablet left behind. Would her mamas keep her things? If only she’d had more time before they whisked her off station. The UniCorp officers hadn’t understood why she’d have any reason to say goodbye and anything she’d had on her had been destroyed as a security risk. It was a good thing, then, that she’d left her tablet in her sleep space. Her grief manifested briefly as a knot in her throat, but she willed it away, instead focusing on Laxmi’s face. How easy the officer expressed herself, her emotions painted on her face in bright splashes of colour.
“I’m sure they’ve got classes on literature. If not face to face, they’d have it via correspondence for sure. I’ve a cousin who...”
“I want to work,” Amalia interrupted.
“But UniCorp will be covering your tab for a while yet,” Laxmi said, honestly baffled. “You don’t have to work.”
“I want to.” Amalia didn’t want to owe UniCorp anything, and as soon as she was able, she was going to cut her ties from the corporation altogether.
“What do you want to do then?”
That was the big question and the uncertainty of it all left her stomach lurching. Amalia took another sip of her coffee, mostly cold dregs but even those were delicious compared to what she was used to.
“I like coffee.” An idea was forming, slowly yet surely, like the gentle application of heat to water until it bubbled and boiled in the back of her mind. Coffee had been a staple on the Pen, and she’d been drinking the stuff before she could talk. The burnt, bitter flavour always left a glowing warmth inside her, the taste intrinsically linked to memories of her mamas.
“This stuff has fueled empires!” Laxmi finished off her own drink with an exaggerated smacking of her lips. “You know during the 23rd century, the motto ‘we come in peace’ was replaced with ‘we come with coffee’ when the unmanned scouts arrived on new worlds with canned coffee? Imagine how welcomed the first off-worlders were when they finally arrived with more.”
“Even back home we had coffee,” Amalia said. If what they had on the Pen could be constituted as coffee. “Not as good as this, of course. I’ve never had something so divine!”
“A perk of working for UniCorp.” Laxmi raised her empty mug to the ceiling in a toast. “Don’t expect to find anything this good on Sirius-3.”
“Not yet, maybe.”
“Not yet?”
“I could run a coffee shop! Have coffee this good all the time. I’d have delicious pastries and cakes baked that morning, and there’d be little seats to sit and read science fiction!” Amalia was already thinking two steps ahead, knowing exactly what shade of colour she’d have on the walls (the same warm burgundy of Mama Maw’s eyes) and the kinds of baked goods she’d serve: muffins and cakes and those little biscuits with the cream filling.
So what if she’d never cooked a thing in her life or even tasted a cake? Stars, she wasn’t even sure what sugar tasted like. But how hard could it really be? She’d heard plenty of stories from Mama Dea whose sweet tooth often drove her half insane with cravings. Wealth and beauty are all fine things, my little magpie, Mama Dea had explained, but chocolate cake is the key to this woman’s heart. Amalia was very quickly building up an image of what a coffee shop should be from the snippets she’d unintentionally collected all this time. Amalia hoped that wherever Mama Dea was now, she was enjoying plenty of cakes and good coffee.
Laxmi smiled, peering up through her eyelashes while she twisted her empty mug between her palms.
“Maybe I’ll swing by then, when you’re up and running?”
“I’d like that,” Amalia said, her cheeks aching from her smile. The glee of knowing what she’d finally do with her freedom was briefly eclipsed by the joy of making a friend. Her first friend. She’d definitely name a drink after her. Or a cake. Something sweet and pretty and the perfect size for sharing.
Before Amalia could ask what Laxmi’s favourite cake flavour was, every person in the mess straightened, their right orange eyes flashing, as they received a ship wide comm.
“What’s going on?”
“Just an announcement. We’ll be docking in half an hour so you should return to your quarters until someone collects you. I’ll walk you there?”
A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
At her bunk, Laxmi grasped Amalia’s right arm, her palm resting gently against the tender flesh, beneath which rested her new chip. For a moment it buzzed, a tiny tremble in the muscle.
“I sent you my comm details,” Laxmi said, her hand lingering. “Maybe we can catch up next time I’m in port?”
“Yeah. I’ll look forward to it.” Amalia watched Laxmi walk away, the officer glancing back once to wave, and it took all of Amalia’s effort not to phase through the floor from the tingling thrills racing through her nervous system. Until she remembered she’d soon be travelling from this vessel to an unknown station, and all that unseen emptiness beyond the ship’s hull pressed in on her. She spent the half hour before docking in her bunk, hand cupped around her new wrist chip in an attempt to keep the warmth of Laxmi’s lingering presence, impossibly aware of the fragile nature of the vessel’s outer membrane and how easy it would be for her to fall through those walls.
Not that something like that had happened since she was a tot.
At her door, someone knocked. Her heart pounded, switching from anxious to excited in less than a beat, hoping that Laxmi was back to take her dockside.
It wasn’t Laxmi.
Officer Lin was a mountain, tall and broad, her lips curled in distaste. A look Amalia had grown used to until Laxmi. Strange how one joyful meeting had erased the hours of silent snubbing in hallways and the distrustful orange eyes that followed her every move. Did they expect her to go off like a grenade? She was a monster by association.
“We’re here. Gather your things.” Officer Lin’s voice was surprisingly soft, but the edge had Amalia scrambling for her boots. She had nothing else. Well, almost. She cupped her wrist again. When would it be okay to comm Laxmi? Now would be too soon, right? Tomorrow then.
“I’m ready.” And so, apparently was the ship, her stomach rolling as the ship’s gravity switched to Sirius-3’s heavier settings. A weighty pressure settled across her body, like being wrapped in a lead blanket.
Officer Lin spun on her heel, unaffected, keeping three long steps ahead of Amalia so she had to scurry to keep up. She’d need to shout to be heard over the thump and grumble of a settling ship, and there was no way she’d give Officer Lin the pleasure.
Amalia straightened her back, glaring at any officer that dared meet her eyes, and lengthened her stride to be in step with the towering officer. Officer Lin glanced down at her, calculating, but said nothing until they reached the disembarkation airlock.
Blindingly bright white, the room was wide enough to fit two dozen humans across and half as many deep. Round viewing portals were set like unblinking eyes in every handful of spaces. Amalia kept her eyes trained on the scuffed grey of the floor.
“UniCorp would like to again express our regret for your unlawful detention,” Officer Lin droned. Her orange eye glowed as she read off a prepared script. “We would like to take this moment to remind you of the confidentiality clauses you signed in return for a weekly allowance. If you speak out in any way or form regarding your incarceration, UniCorp retains the right to halt all payments and charge you for breaking contract. Please verbally acknowledge that you understand these conditions for the record.”
“I do,” Amalia said. The ship shuddered once more and with a sigh, quietened, a slumbering creature safe in its burrow. Amalia clenched her fists to stop them trembling.
“You will be taken into custody by Sirius-3’s security during which you will be given assigned quarters and initiated into the station’s protocols. Please verbally acknowledge that you understand.”
“I do.”
The room filled with officers on dock leave, and yet they kept a wide berth between her and Officer Lin. They were casually dressed in a bright array of colours – friendly yellows, soothing blues, outrageous pinks, and greens so varied Amalia couldn’t help but think of growing things, like the bright moulds that grew in the showers. They chatted softly to each other, keen for their downtime after who knew how long in deep space. Laxmi wasn’t among them. The disappointment hit Amalia hard.
“Then UniCorp wishes you well on any new ventures,” Officer Lin concluded, adding a mocking bow, and as if her words had triggered it, the seal hissed and the door peeled open to form a ramp revealing (to Amalia’s horror) the thickness of the hull. Only a few handspans of metal had kept her from the emptiness. Her lungs were being squeezed inside her chest, and dark spots danced around the edges of her vision.
Was she getting sick? There was a roar in her ears. It took her a moment over her tight panicked breaths to realise it was not from the blood in her head or the constant grind of machines, but from people. Her fear was abruptly smothered by awe. With a relieved rush, the waiting officers swarmed from the ship, and Officer Lin planted a broad hand firmly on Amalia’s back and shoved.
Stumbling down the ramp, Amalia’s eyes snapped to the open expanse before her. So much space! Opposite was a honeycomb wall, hangers of various sizes filled with an assortment of vessels, like bugs in a shimmery gold resin, curving as far as she could see.
She could recognise some from her mamas’ stories. Had they been preparing her for this eventuality all along? There were bright blue and sharp-nosed un-captained messenger shuttles, white and plump emergency services and ships that looked like a strong shake would have them in pieces. Moving out and around the vessels were dock workers in dark grey coveralls and crews of all sorts — some in matching uniforms but most wearing civvies in an incredible display of individuality that overwhelmed Amalia. How did they know what to wear? Were there rules? Mecha of all sizes and types were grinding and clunking in a strange synchronised dance between docks. There were more people than Amalia had ever seen in her life.
The UniCorp ship was tucked away in its own dock, the ship a sleek, grey thing, like a crouching feline, fitting the space with not much room to spare. Multiple airlocks had opened, ramps resting just shy from the grating floor, and already the crew was hauling on new supplies and delivering cargo. The ramp Amalia had unceremoniously exited from was only a handful of steps from the floor to ceiling window (how did the ship even get in here?) and she crept closer, trying to make out more ships in their hangers through the shimmering gold glass.
The dock wasn’t an enclosed sphere like Amalia had suspected. It was a hollow tube, vessels entering above and below from unrestricted space to assigned bays. Amalia craned her head back, peering up at the open space that was dark and impossible, and swallowed.
Wooliana of the Wasted Time. Moahar of the Weighty Decisions. Vendalsha of the Unwanted Answers. Bindia of the Small Aches. Amalia steadied her breathing and lifted her palm, activating the keyboard. She’d watched others write messages in the blink of an eye, not even looking. It took her far too long to write one word and send it out.
Truthseeker.
A code word that would bounce around the port and, if it worked, piggyback on other people’s chips until it was carried to other ships, stations and ports. A ping into the voids of space. A single word that meant nothing special to the rest of the universe, but everything to a young woman who was desperate for a confidant, confident that Mama Dea would not only receive it, but come find her. It had been four rotations since she’d last seen her mama as the woman was escorted off the Pen. Who knew where she was now. Amalia only hoped her message would reach its destination soon.
Another vessel entered the dock-tube, piercing through a membrane that briefly flickered and sparked, and Amalia trembled, overwhelmed and confused.
“Don’t worry, crim-spawn,” Officer Lin growled. Clearly her niceties on behalf of UniCorp were over and done with. “The shields keep out the vacuum. You’re quite safe as long as you steer clear.” She demonstrated by approaching the window of the UniCorp’s ship bay. It absolutely dwarfed the officer. She casually kicked the glass, except it wasn’t glass. The same shimmering gold of the docking shields rippled out, but Officer Lin’s foot passed through with ease. “Don’t get close,” she hissed.
Amalia shuffled back until her shoulders pressed against the UniCorp vessel’s hull. She’d only ever thought of it as a thin metal skin, one uncontrolled thought or misplaced elbow would pierce through it, except right now it was solid and comforting behind her. She wanted to vanish, slip away from sight, and hide away in her little cubby. Except her cubby nestled between her mamas’ cells was cycles away and her dream coffee shop was as substantial as ship fumes.
“Lin!” A voice bellowed from across the bay. Big and frightening, the owner of the voice moved with surprising speed for her size. Was she planning to attack Officer Lin? But when the two collided, like crashing waves, the back slapping was friendly even though Amalia could hear the smacks from where she stood.
“Anor Lynch! Well, paint me blue and call me a Timerian! Are you shrinking?” Officer Lin teased. Holy hundreds, Officer Lin was smiling and it was like seeing a Dudova — a tall, lean being that was mostly teeth — offer you a cup of coffee and a chat. Deeply disturbing.
“I don’t know what they’re feeding you out in the Black, but you really should cut back.” The new arrival gestured to Officer Lin’s stomach. “You’re beginning to thicken out in the midline.”
Lynch was mostly human, her hair steel grey and short, making the sharp lines of her face even sharper. Both her eyes flashed orange from augmented irises. She wore a uniform, too, but unlike UniCorp officers who dressed in orange and grey, Lynch was completely sheathed in a purple so dark it was almost black, the cuffs and collar a dull silver. Her jacket was high-throated and double-breasted with a stiffness that suggested some kind of body armour. She wore gloves that trailed silver when she gestured about (some kind of amplifier for the tech embedded in her palms, perhaps?) and her boots were thick-soled and heavy despite the weighty gravity of Sirius-3. Amalia was still getting used to it and she caught herself briefly sinking through the hanger floor due to nerves.
“Crim hearts and naive greenies, that’s all,” Officer Lin replied, and her eyes glanced towards Amalia, her lips again curling in disgust. “Speaking of, I suppose you’re here for the crim spawn?”
Lynch followed Officer Lin’s gaze and her face smoothed of all emotion. She was impossible to read, despite Mama Dea’s training, and Amalia almost found herself preferring Officer Lin’s obvious disgust. At least she knew what the officer was thinking.
“Amalia Lore.” Lynch gestured impatiently for her to step forward so she could appraise her. “Are they sure she’s twenty-three rotations old? She barely looks fourteen.” Her eyes never left Amalia, but she was not talking to her. Most people she’d met so far had done the same, as if she didn’t speak a dozen languages and understand a handful more. Let them underestimate you, Mama Maw’s voice whispered in her head. They won’t know what hit them.
“She’s the spitting image of her crim mother,” Officer Lin said.
“And she’s sane?”
“You read her brief, Anor. You know what I know.”
“Right,” she said, though she sounded unconvinced. It annoyed Amalia, her temper beginning to flare, but she trained her eyes on the ground. Bulladira of the Voiceless Ones, Finnlar of Forgotten Promises, Sozza of Familial Regret. She couldn’t be seen as a threat.
“Are you going to be a problem for him?” Officer Lin asked. Amalia blinked at the UniCorp officer, startled then glanced back at Lynch. She’d sworn she’d gotten the gender right, and even now, looking at the black-uniformed human, she couldn’t pick out what made him male. Was short hair a sign of masculinity on Sirius-3? Maybe his size? But then Officer Lin was definitely a woman — Laxmi had confirmed that for her — and she was a similar size. Had she misjudged Laxmi’s gender too?
Amalia knew genders existed in theory, but she’d only ever known the female half. Her mamas’ stories could only prepare her so much, and she resigned herself to being rubbish at it for a good while yet. At least she knew what gender Lynch preferred now, and he appeared the sort who’d take offence if identified incorrectly.
“Well?” Lynch growled. Lynch’s thoughts were still unreadable, but Amalia read how she...he carried himself, his unconscious habits and nervous tics reflected in how he moved and breathed and even blinked. This person, apparently a male human, was as even keeled as they came, but he was doubtful. Of Amalia’s worth, perhaps?
“No,” Amalia said, and kept his gaze. A moment passed. Officer Lin shifted in her periphery but her focus was on Lynch, whoever he was, knowing that he had the power to control her fate.
“I am Anor Lynch, Head Security Officer of Sirius-3. Welcome.” His lips curled, not in disgust but still somewhat reluctantly, as if he’d hoped for an excuse to refuse her. Amalia had passed his test, and like that, Amalia passed from UniCorp hands into Sirius-3’s.
“She’s all yours,” Officer Lin huffed. “I’m on leave during fifth shift. I’ll see you at the usual?” She didn’t even wait for Lynch or Amalia to reply before stalking off.
“Follow me, Lore.”
None of the UniCorp crew watched Amalia leave, though a soft buzz against her wrist bone made her glance down at her right palm. Thumb tap to ring finger, just like she’d been taught, and tiny words floated up like smoke, cupped carefully within her palms. I’ll be seeing you. Amalia smiled, Laxmi’s words giving her the courage to widen her steps and catch up with the security officer.
“Where are we going?” Amalia asked. She ducked as a drone flew low overhead; beneath it hung a multi-screen broadcast. It was too noisy to hear what the program was saying, though there were subtitles for those keen of eye. So much information free for the taking! Despite everything, Amalia’s breathlessness this time wasn’t from fear or anxiety, but excitement that bubbled up inside her chest and made her want to run. Run nowhere and everywhere and take in absolutely everything at once.
“We’re heading to registration,” Lynch said, his impatience for the lift only evident through the slight clench in his jaw. The doors leaving the hanger slid open onto a bright empty tube, no floor or ceiling, LED strips pulsing blue along the walls. Lynch gripped Amalia firmly by the elbow and, before she could protest, stepped them both into the space. Amalia squeaked, trying to shake free and grasp the door frame before she could fall.
They didn’t fall.
Instead they hovered, their feet resting on nothing but highly pressurised air.
“Are you colourblind? No? Then blue circles mean ready, red crosses mean wait. If it’s ever flashing or no colour at all, report to Sirius-3 and wait for a responder. Understood?” Lynch didn’t wait for her to answer. “Security Quadrant C67.” The doors closed and a deep humming made the hair on Amalia’s arms stick up.
“Security Quadrant C67, confirmed,” said a calm, ringing voice.
Amalia’s stomach dropped, but otherwise the only way she could tell they were moving was from the flashing LED stripes that raced past. The stop was gradual.
“You have arrived at Security Quadrant C67,” the bodiless voice said and the door slid open.
“Come on, I don’t have all cycle,” Lynch said, tugging Amalia forward and into a low-ceilinged room, almost as big as the UniCorp vessel’s hanger. Behind them were two dozen or so lifts, a steady stream of traffic arriving and leaving. Immediately in front of them were seats to suit a variety of species. A waiting room.
The seats faced a reinforced wall, a slit stretching from one side to the other where Amalia could see people moving about wearing the same uniform as Lynch. All along this opening stood a dozen or so people, only the lower half of their bodies in view due to the semi-transparent privacy cone, talking with security officers on the other side.
“Who are all these people?” Amalia asked, her attention switching from one person to another. Most species she recognised from the Pen, though only the female or gender neutral of the species. The prison segregation was intended to reduce relationships between prisoners, which was nonsense. Just some higher-up’s big idea that made no sense in reality; her mamas were proof of that. Nonetheless, Amalia was in awe of seeing so many species co-inhabiting without their interactions being reduced to bloody, limb-removing violence.
She was particularly interested in picking out the males of the species she recognised. It wasn’t easy for the most part. She didn’t see any of Mama Maw’s kind or Mama Wisp’s, and Mama Baena was the last of her species. There were two Aubians — short, hairless beings, and she flinched, remembering being chased for her skin when she was old enough to know better than to wander unescorted (apparently crispy skin was a delicacy for Aubians). The female was easily recognised by the jewel coloured feather crest, but the second was a full head shorter and her feathers were a soft, faded brown. Was she a child or the male of the species?
“They’re new citizens to Sirius-3,” Lynch answered, and pushed them past the waiting queues and through a side door that opened on his command. It was quieter on this side of the wall, but busier. Lynch didn’t give Amalia a chance to find her bearings, just tugged her along until they reached another small room, plain and furnished only by a backless bench.
A wide, reflective panel lined both side walls and Amalia caught sight of herself standing beside the much larger Lynch. She looked tired, her eyes red rimmed from poor sleep and fighting back tears. Her hair was a mess of tangles and the borrowed outfit was too big for her. She looked fragile, and there was one thing she knew about herself; she was not fragile.
“What are we doing here?” she asked, giving her reflection a glare before smoothing her face into something more composed. Not much she could do for her hair though.
Lynch shoved her onto the bench, and Amalia pressed up against the wall, worried but prepared to get away, her promise to her mamas be damned.
“You’re in custody and will remain so for the foreseeable future. I don’t care what the UniCorp shrinks say about you. I’m not letting an unknown run loose on Sirius-3, especially one with a background such as yours.” Lynch’s words were softly spoken but as sharp as any blade.
“What do you mean?” Amalia readied herself to phase through the wall, feeling the tension in the room thicken as Lynch’s seemingly unshakable facade cracked a little.
“If I had my way, you wouldn’t even be here,” he growled, stepping closer to Amalia, towering over her. “Best place for you would be right back where they found you.”
Amalia fought to keep her fear from showing. She didn’t have any mamas to come to her rescue, teeth bared and claws flashing. She was on her own.
“I plan no harm,” Amalia managed in a steady, quiet voice. “I just want a fresh start.” They were the words bandied about her when she was removed from the Pen, and she must admit, the sound of something new appealed to her, nearly as much as it frightened her.
“You’re a ticking bomb,” Lynch said. “You’ll remain here while you’re processed and then transported to more secure holdings where you’ll then be reevaluated.”
“But UniCorp…”
“UniCorp does not own Sirius-3 and has no say in ensuring the security of this station.”
The door locked behind Lynch, and with it, Amalia’s hopes were snuffed out. She could slip out of this cage without more than a thought, but what then? What about her coffee shop? Without a coffee shop, Laxmi would have nowhere to read or eat the cake named after her. Or him. Holy hundred, she was rubbish at being a free person.
She’d swapped one prison for another.
Amalia’s wrist buzzed and she dug deep to lift her palm up. Little words spiralled up to hover in the air in bold white letters.
Hang tight, my little magpie. Truthseeker is on her way.
Amalia’s smile was slow but genuine.
