What sci-fi animal is a Leviathan?
I want to ask and answer him, but we’ve reached the docking bay. The air is thick with activity: voices calling out, metal hissing from repairs, and transports coming and going. The sight freezes me.
Beyond the bay’s transparent walls is wide open space scattered with stars I can’t name. And not far off, Falcon Station, a vast ring of light against the dark.
What have I signed up for?
The Commander takes my elbow to steady me. “Should I call the doctor?”
“No,” I say too firmly.
“You’d be a fool if you weren’t afraid of what waits for you out there,” he says. “But you’re brave. And I don’t think this is the first time you’ve had to be.”
I look him in the eyes, and it’s as if he’s reminding me of who I am and what I can do.
With silent understanding, he lets go of my elbow and then gestures toward a transport. Its hull is stamped with the Empire’s silver goddess insigna encircled by twelve starbursts. “Go on, Eve Eden. The galaxy is waiting,” he says as I board the transport. “Remember, The Lost People were never lost. Humans are Imperials. You are sentient with souls. And if anyone can remind the galaxy of that truth, it is you.”
“Lost People? What?—”
The hatch seals between us with a pneumatic sigh. Through the small window, I watch the Commander walk away as the deck crew bustles with final checks around my transport, and I’m left alone with a computer pilot and a holographic display showing my route. Three hours to Falcon Station.
I grip the necklace Clay gave me. It’s heavy and cool between my fingers. And I think about the Commander’s words,Lost People. Who the hell are the Lost People?
There’s a light thud as the transport detaches from theIgo. My stomach dips when we pull away, and I watch the great vessel shrink behind me.
Ahead, I see a massive space station. It looks like a gigantic rectangular flower with petals shooting out in every direction as starships of all sizes move to and from it like robotic bees.
And just beyond it, I can make outa slender shape against the stars, a spiraling tower of metal and light. It looks like a hand reaching toward distant constellations.
The Celestial Spire.
My final destination.
My IC makes an alien chime, and I jump at the unfamiliar sound. I dig it out of my bag, and immediately it opens, displaying a new message.
I reread the hotel’s motto again. It reminds me of the old television showCheers,and I can’t help but smile.
Then, I decide to make good use of my time and read the remainder of the employee handbook. I’m almost finished. The last chapter seems to be just tables and graphs. I didn’t think it was that important until I see the time schedule for each day and note that there are no weekends or any days off. I am expected to always be working.This can’t be right.There must be something lost in translation.
Asfar as strict routines are concerned, those are nothing new for me. At St. Catherine’s, the bells began ringing at 5:45 AM. Then it was cold water for washing, a silent breakfast, and classes until noon—math, reading, and scripture. We did our chores after lunch and then sang hymns and had dinner. The nuns weren't overly cruel; they were just efficient. And I didn’t mind it. The only difference now is that I’m getting paid to do it, and that suits me just fine.
I review the schedule again. I’m sure there will be gaps here. In my experience, there arealwaysgaps. And if there aren’t any,I’ll just have to read my books under the covers like I used to. But at least now I have my own room and an e-reader that lights up, so there won’t be anyone whispering, “You’re hogging the flashlight.”
I'll be fine.
Then I read the next line:
“Dormancy monitoring includes neural pattern analysis and dream-state optimization for enhanced performance metrics.”
Is the Ascendant Alliance going towatchmy dreams? Or are they going tochangemy dreams? What the actual alien fuck is this?
What if I dream about a scene from one of my dark romance novels? What if I have one of those dreams that used to make me ashamed back at St. Catherine's?
I search the Celestial Spire employee handbook for any mention of personal time, privacy, or bodily autonomy. Nothing about what employees can or cannot do in their own quarters comes up. But the silence feels intentional.
I look out of the window at the Celestial Spire hiding behind Falcon Station. And I wonder if this job is going to be a luxurious sci-fi version of St. Catherine’s, or worse?
15
