The ceiling was painted a pale blue. Lounging on the narrow bed, Amalia tucked her hands under her head and considered how some sections looked lighter than others, a strange mottling that she was certain was deliberate.

  “Is it meant to look like a sky?” Amalia asked. She appeared alone in the cell, which other than herself, contained only a small pull-down toilet with a privacy curtain, a table, a chair, and the human-sized bed, all bolted to the floor. The tiny camera and speaker were likewise bolted above the door.

  “What does?” the speaker asked in a smooth voice.

  “The ceiling. Can you see it?”

  The tiny camera buzzed as it turned its lens up and away from Amalia, the pause that followed was contemplative.

  “It depends on what sky you’re thinking of. The human home world – Earth – had a blue sky like this up until the end of the 21st century. Blyebaga in the Negella Quadrant is a similar shade, though the clouds are geometrically shaped due to the high magnetic ions in the atmosphere. Timera has some ice caves this colour, but they’re not technically a sky though it’s what the Timerians live beneath so it depends on your definition. Being a spaceport, I’m afraid my personal experience is non-existent.”

  “You and me both, Siri,” Amalia sighed. “The personal experience, I mean. I’m not a spaceport.”

  “I hadn’t noticed,” Siri replied, dryly.

  Although Lynch’s intentions may have been to keep Amalia isolated, she’d been anything but lonely during the last fourteen cycles. In fact, she’d learnt quite a deal about Sirius-3 and, in particular, about the spaceport’s AI. Amalia called it Siri. Apparently, Siri sounded like a young man. How one could recognise a gender by their voice (not even taking into consideration that, as an AI, Siri technically didn’t have a gender) was still a little beyond Amalia. Siri had admitted to preferring the gender-neutral ‘they’.

  Siri had been delighted to have a literal captive audience. Although capable of splintering their enormous consciousness into millions of pieces in order to run countless tasks at once – from running lifts to docking ships – Siri, it turned out, simply enjoyed having someone to talk to that wasn’t another lonely traveller constantly departing for the next spaceport. Someone to be a friend. They were also delighted by Amalia’s stories.

  “I know a story about a sky who fell in love with a human child.” Amalia mused aloud, still pondering the ceiling. If she crossed her eyes a little, she could almost make out a sleeping face. “Would you like to hear it?”

  “Very much please,” Siri said, and Amalia imagined the AI hunkering down with wide eyes.

  “The Sky had been indifferent to the world it blanketed,” Amalia began. “It never minded the petty squabbles of the humans that played out beneath it, but it was lonely and curious and soon enough the Sky became fascinated by the humans. Often they were violent, the Earth soaking up their blood and the Wind carrying their screams.

  But sometimes they were heartbreaking in a different way.

  Beneath the heat of the relentless Sun there was the hot and scathing bite of a secret affair and the bittersweet of a betrayed heart. By the cool wash of the Moon’s ephemeral light, there was the desperate love of a parent for their offspring and the shy honey-sweet love of a first crush. The Sky watched the humans live their stories, shading them beneath ever shifting clouds or guiding their journeys by starlight.”

  “I feel like the Sky sometimes,” Siri mused. “All you little people are under my protection. You’re my responsibility.”

  “It must be lonely,” Amalia said, pressing a palm against the wall as if Siri could feel her touch.

  “Not any more,” Siri murmured, and then hurriedly added, “So how did the Sky fall in love?”

  Amalia patted the cool metal once more, her smile gentle as her gaze met the camera by the door. It had trained itself back on Amalia, the little green light blinking like an eye.

  “One summer day, the Sky spied a young woman with hair like spun burnished bronze, tummy round full of child, and a voice that could move mountains. The child was born and paid for with the woman’s life, and as the tiny life-form filled its lungs to scream its unknowing grief for being alive and alone, the Sky fell in love.

  “Its love was so great, it appealed to the Earth, the Wind, the Sun and the Moon to help it care for such a small creature, for the reach of the Sky was too large to cradle the child, too encompassing. And the Earth agreed, providing shelter in its embrace. The Wind agreed, feeding the child on flowers and fruit blown in from foreign lands. The Sun agreed, warming skin and chasing away shadows. The Moon agreed, filling the child’s mind with secret knowledge to conquer the stars.

  “Under the watchful gazes of its five protectors, the child grew into something wild and fierce and loving, embodying the strength of the Earth, the swiftness of the Wind, the courage of the Sun and the wisdom of the Moon. But most of all, the Sky made sure the child grew up knowing she belonged and never knew the meaning of loneliness.”

  “That’s it? Is the story over?” Siri murmured.

  “It’s both an end and a beginning. The best kind of stories are never truly finished. ”

  “I like your stories.”

  “I like telling them.” Amalia couldn’t say how the stories brought her closer to her mamas. How they reminded her that she’d been loved more fiercely than a child had any right to be. As she’d grown older and heard the same stories over and over again, her favourites retold hundreds of times, she realised there was more to them than attempts to keep a bored child entertained. They were layered with meanings, hinting at her own origin story. Every changed word between tellings was turned over and over in Amalia’s mind like tumbling a stone in a jar of sand until it was polished smooth.

  “You could get a job in entertainment. Maybe write scripts? They’d be much better than the cross-species space operas that plague the broadcasts.” Siri sounded derisive. “Or do a podcast for the radio-comms. Just your voice sent out into the Black. I’d pay to hear that.”

  “You don’t have to pay for anything,” Amalia reminded, stretching her arms out over her head. The foam mattress was dense and had little give, but it was surprisingly clean and smelt like lemons. “And I’m going to open up a coffee shop.”

  “A coffee shop? Do you even know how to make coffee? My records suggest you’ve never set foot in a coffee shop before.”

  “Don’t be a downer. How hard can it be? There’ll be cakes and chairs and books. Real books. Just like Mama Dea described, the paper folios nestled between leather covers. Empty ones, too. So people can add their own stories, and leave them for people to find. Soon enough I’ll have a whole library full of people’s stories in all the languages of the universe.”

  “But how would people write in them? The Falorians tell stories through different coloured sands that they store in glass tubes inside their chests and the Ki-kik’s language is two tonal and can only be recorded, not written. Writing in paper books would only suit humans and other multidextrous beings, and even then, many humans only record through digital means or voice recordings.”

  “I’ll have a mix of things, then.” Amalia closed her eyes and painted a picture for Siri with wide, sweeping gestures in the air. “I’d have walls of shelves full of all kinds of recording devices. Coloured sand in bottles for the Falorians and digital recorders for the Ki-kiks. I’d give a discount for anyone who adds something to my collection.” Amalia opened her eyes onto the blue ceiling and felt her dreams drift a little further out of reach. “That’s if I ever get out of here.”

  “You will,” Siri promised and Amalia’s heart ached, as if it had expanded inside her chest and was pressing against her ribs. She’d been so scared of being alone after leaving the Pen, but Siri (and Laxmi) had shown her that her fears had been mostly unfounded.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Speaking of Laxmi, her wrist pulsed and Amalia eagerly pulled up Laxmi’s message to hover over her palm. At first Laxmi’s messages had been frequent, but the further she travelled from Sirius-3, the longer it took for the messages to transmit.

  “Laxmi sent another message,” Amalia announced, even though Siri had most likely already read it during the relay. “I wish she didn’t have to be so vague about everything. She doesn’t even say when her vessel will dock here next, just that it’ll be a while and her reports about my current situation to UniCorp have been ignored. Her roommate bonded during their last visit, though, to a cargo captain. Since she left, Laxmi’s been having trouble sleeping without the constant humming.”

  “Maybe you should tell Laxmi the story about the Sky?”

  “Yeah, that’s a good idea.” Amalia chewed on her lip as she created the message, choosing each word carefully to ensure the data package was as small as possible. “Hey Siri, do you think Laxmi is a male name or a female name?” she asked once she’d sent the message. The uncertainty had been nagging at her, but it felt awkward to ask Laxmi now.

  “Does it matter?”

  “Well, I guess not. She’ll visit again, whenever that’ll be, and I can ask which pronouns she prefers then.”

  “I will notify you when the arrival of Laxmi’s vessel is confirmed. In the meantime, you can tell me another…” There was a pause and Amalia sat up, wondering what had distracted the seemingly un-distractible AI. “Oh, you’ve a visitor,” Siri announced, snapping back to the cooler tones of a standard AI.

  The door unlocked, sliding open and Mama Dea stepped into the cell as if she was made of silk and pheromones. It had been almost four rotations since she'd last seen Mama Dea and the secret trader was familiar yet strangely foreign outside the walls of the Pen. Quick, graceful fingers. Short, wavy hair the colour of starlight. Long legs encased in smooth faux blue leather. Her silk kimono – snug over her broad shoulders and sweeping across her bountiful chest – fluttered in the security’s aircon, fragile yet stronger than any steel.

  She was a mix of contradictions. Youthful and proud, yet strong and wise beyond her years, a secret constantly lurking in the curve of her mouth. Out of all her foster mothers, Amalia knew the least about Mama Dea.

  When Amalia was a child, the two would sit, shoulder to shoulder on a catwalk suspended high over the communal exercise area and Mama Dea would paint the universe with her hands, a habit Amalia soon adopted as her own. Sweeping gestures to describe the beings she’d met, cupped hands to hold globes of planets far from everything Amalia had known. Amalia had listened, breathless with desire and fear, and wondered how – maybe, one day – she too would see things, maybe even things that Mama Dea had never encountered before.

  She swept Amalia into a hug and planted a kiss on her forehead, just like she used to do so many years ago, even though Amalia was now her height, or maybe a fraction taller.

  "You've grown, my little magpie," Mama Dea said, voice husky.

  "You haven't changed a bit," Amalia said, and then they were pulling away, Mama Dea's grin full of sharp teeth. Mama Dea was mostly human. Amalia used to guess what else she was, but the older woman had only smiled, refusing to divulge her secrets.

  Amalia was only little, barely into her teens, when Mama Dea left, buffing a rough kiss to her forehead and whispering a code word that only meant something to the two of them. Truthseeker. And Mama Dea had come just as she’d promised.

  “Now you’ve spent far too long locked in cages,” Mama Dea said. “How about we get you out of here?”

  “But what about Officer Lynch? He isn’t too fond of me.” That was putting things mildly. Amalia had been left mostly on her own, languishing somewhat as Lynch argued for her continued detainment, if not removal from the spaceport entirely. Amalia suspected the security officer would only be content if she was shipped back to the Pen. Yet despite his clear distaste of her, her meals had been frequent and much better than she’d expected for a lowly detainee, and she’d even received a tablet full of films and books (though she suspected she had Siri to thank for that). When she wasn’t talking with Siri or messaging Laxmi, she’d been learning all she could about the universe she’d been dumped into.

  “Oh, don’t you worry about him.” Mama Dea couldn’t have looked more pleased with herself. “Trust me, my little magpie.”

  “But where have you been all this time?” Amalia asked, dropping back onto her bed so she could reluctantly tug on her boots. “How’d you get here so quickly?”

  “I happened to be in the area.” Mama Dea said, her eyes steady on Amalia’s. Usually a sign that a person was telling the truth. With Mama Dea, Amalia knew it was the opposite. She’d never told her foster mother that she’d clued in on the woman’s tell. Instead, Amalia had just made a mental note, understanding even as a child to keep every advantage she could get, even against those she trusted most. The chances of Mama Dea being within fourteen cycles from Sirius-3 was very unlikely. She’d either been tipped off well in advance or Mama Dea had had something to do with her early release.

  The thought unnerved Amalia. Why would Mama Dea take her away from everything she knew and loved? Amalia’s doubt must’ve shone like a beacon to a spy of Mama Dea’s calibre because the woman’s lips curved into a small frown. She opened her mouth to speak before glancing up at the blinking green light of Siri, who was watching them both intently.

  “You can trust Siri not to tell,” Amalia murmured.

  Mama Dea sighed, combing her sharp nails through her hair.

  “How old are you now, Amalia? Twenty? Twenty-one?”

  “Depends on the time system, but I’m about twenty-three rotations old.”

  “Twenty-three rotations old and you’ve never seen a sunset. You’ve never eaten a slice of chocolate cake and that one Mama Wisp made did not count,” Mama Dea said, wagging her finger in distaste. “It was mostly protein batter and coffee grounds.”

  “I thought it was lovely,” Amalia said and laughed when Mama Dea blew an unimpressed raspberry.

  “That’s beside the point. Twenty-three rotations old and in the Pen you’d never made a friend. Any friend your age. Human or otherwise. The others love you, they do, I’m not disputing that, but...” Mama Dea hesitated, only a fraction, but it was so abnormal for her it may as well have lasted an hour. “They’re happy for things to stay as they are. They want to keep you safe. I want to make you happy.”

  “I was happy,” Amalia whispered, staring hard at her boots.

  “No, little magpie. You don’t know what true happiness can be. A place like the Pen, happiness doesn’t exist. There were pleasant moments, I won’t deny that.” Mama Dea reached out to cup Amalia’s cheeks with both hands, forcing Amalia to look up. Her voice grew softer until only Amalia could hear her whispered words. “But a young woman like you needs to be free. I’m just sorry it took me this long to get you out.”

  Amalia didn’t know what to say. She was numb, as if she’d grown an extra layer of skin, but instead of soft and thin, it was diamond-fibre scales. Mama Dea tapped her cheeks, forcing Amalia’s attention back on her.

  “I know this is a lot to take in, and you can hate me for a bit if it’ll make you feel better,” and already Amalia was shaking her head, because she could never hate any of her mamas. “But I’ve brought you something. A gift for coming of age, if you like.”

  Mama Dea pulled back and opened her hand. Embedded just beneath the skin was a flexible crystal polymer that filled her palm with what looked like ink. In the darkness appeared a scene. An arched roof of ice rippled with liquid mercury as the light struck the wind-worn frozen waves. Before it all stood a woman with fierce, granite grey eyes squinting in the cold, a furred hood pushed back from her face, and her honey brown curls tucked behind rose-chilled tipped ears.

  Amalia gently touched her own nose, and felt a strange sense of disjointedness. This face was her own face, and yet it wasn't. A little older, a little more weary, but the eyes and hair were the same.

  “This is...?”

  “Your mother,” Mama Dea confirmed.

  "When was this holo taken?” Amalia asked. “Where?"

  "My sources so far claim the image must have been taken beyond the central known quadrants. At least nowhere that’s been officially charted. In terms of when, I don’t know. Your mother never really told us much about her past. She kept to herself mostly, but in this holo she can’t be more than twenty-five rotations old."

  Mama Dea pressed her palm against Amalia's wrist, the chip under flesh still tender, and the image neatly transferred. The hologram was of a lower quality, the details hazy and transparent, but she couldn’t take her eyes off it. She wanted to stare at the image, peel through the layers and look for clues. Who was her mother? What planet had she been on that it was so cold she had to wear furs yet lightning trickled through the ice like molten rivers? Who was she scowling at? Amalia’s father? Family?

  Amalia wasn't really sure what a father was meant to do. Contribute genes apparently, but that was easy to get around. Her concept of family wasn't normal, she knew that much. The AI counsellor had been clear when stating that her mamas, the five females who’d raised her, were not good mothering examples, though she couldn't help but think that the system couldn’t have done much better.

  Her mothers had taught her to survive in a place that most criminals feared to even dream of. She knew when to stay small and quiet like a mouse. She knew how to hide, to sneak, to steal, and to pick lies. And then there were the less conventional skills, like phasing through matter as if it was nothing at all. No matter what the UniCorp claimed regarding who raised her, her mamas had passed down their skills as if she really was their flesh and blood.

  “Am I forgiven then?” Mama Dea asked, her lips curling into a fond smile.

  Amalia couldn’t speak, her throat tight with emotion; her mamas had never liked her crying. She nodded, unable to take her eyes off the image of her birth mother.

  “I think you’re more than ready to get out of here, right?”

  “But Lynch?”

  “Watch and learn, my little magpie.” Mama Dea’s grin was hungry and sharp.