CHAPTER 1
FREYA
My alarm doesn’t chime — I turned the sound off weeks ago. I wake on instinct now, to the faint vibration of life support humming through the walls. Everything on theStan Hansenpulses quietly, like the ship is alive and breathing beneath the metal. My quarters are the size of a decent closet, a blessing by IHC standards. Most civilians bunk in double pods, but I got assigned solo after someone up-chain noticed I “keep to myself.” Rection’s words. I remember them clearly. He meant it as praise.
I swing my legs over the edge of the cot and stretch, bones cracking, toes curling against the cold alloy floor. I don’t make a sound. The walls are thin and the ship’s always listening. I keep quiet, always. That’s what makes me valuable.
Well. That, and the mop.
My fingers move on autopilot as I braid my hair back — tight and neat — and pin it flat. Blond curls aren’t exactly regulation-friendly. I learned quick after my first shift when a glob of bio-plasm stuck to my hairline and took an hour to wash out. I lean forward and glance at the cracked mirror above the sink. Same girl as yesterday. Same high cheekbones, same green eyes, too big for my face. I blink. Still me. Still here.
A small plush sits tucked against my pillow — a faded blue krilcat with one floppy ear. I touch its threadbare paw.
“Wish me luck,” I whisper.
It doesn’t answer, of course. But it never has to.
My cart waits just outside my door, already stocked and hovering at knee height. I run diagnostics — water, solvents, filters, brushes, waste sack, sanitization sprays. Everything checks. I hitch the strap over one shoulder and move, letting the quiet hum of my routine fill in the spaces where thought would normally creep.
Halls are nearly empty this early. Just maintenance personnel and the occasional medical officer coming off a night rotation. I keep my head down. Nod politely when I pass someone — never smile, never stare. Civilians on a combat-class deep-range ship like theStan Hansendon’t exactly get embraced as equals. Most of the soldiers act like I’m background noise. Furniture with hands.
Except Rection. He’s different. Which is saying something, considering the man’s about as cuddly as an acid-spitting durathrax.
I reach the command-level access checkpoint and flash my ID tag. A red-eyed security drone scans me once, then floats aside with a beep. The guard doesn’t speak. Just flicks his chin toward the general’s wing and returns to whatever it is bored military grunts do before breakfast.
“Freya McDonnell, janitorial,” I mutter to myself as the doors part.
General Rection’s quarters are immaculate, not because he’s tidy, but because I clean them twice a week and I’m good at my job. He doesn’t keep much personal stuff — old war medals, a picture of someone who might be a daughter (the frame’s turned facedown more often than not), and an ancient-looking map of pre-Unification Earth mounted on one wall. There's a crustedstain beneath it — the remains of a coffee cup incident from two months back. He never apologized for the spill, just barked that he trusted me to handle it. I did.
Today’s light work: scrub the meeting table, sanitize the airflow vents, and do a sweep of his private bath. No big messes, no blood, no melted polymer like the time a lieutenant sneezed mid-nano treatment and exploded his own prosthetic arm. Just the usual quiet dust of a man who speaks in wars and thinks in casualties.
I like this part of the job. Nobody’s here. Just me, the hiss of cleaning foam, and the hum of a ship that never sleeps.
Until they walk past the outer hall.
Vakutans. Three of them.
I don’t know their names. Don’t need to. But they’re hard to miss — over seven feet tall, scaled armor grafted to flesh, all lean muscle and gold-cracked bone. One of them laughs — a deep, chest-rattling sound — and another slaps him across the chestplate. Their boots thud heavily against the deck. I hear every footfall like a seismic pulse.
They don’t look at me. They never do. They don’tseeme. Just a mop girl.
I glance toward the window as they pass, heart thudding faster than it should. I’m not stupid. I know the risk. Vakutans aren’t human. They’re not part of IHC proper. Technically mercs. Technically allies. But everyone knows they answer to their own laws. Still, I can’t stop myself from watching them, fromfeelingsomething low and hot curl in my stomach whenever they pass.
One of them turns just a little — a flicker, a shift of his jaw — and for half a second, I wonder if he saw me.
But he keeps walking.
I sigh. Scrub harder.
“Back to it, Freya,” I mutter. “Aliens don’t flirt with mop monkeys.”
By mid-cycle, I’ve hit all my assigned checkpoints: mess hall deep-clean, medbay cross-sanitization, officer lounge refresh. I take my break tucked in the storage alcove two levels down from the reactor core. No one comes here — it's too loud, too warm, and smells like burnt plastic. I like it. It reminds me of the power plant where I did my first contractor tour. Smells like something real.
I sit with my knees drawn up, sipping a protein slurry that tastes vaguely of cinnamon and chemicals. I check my message scroll — no new pings. Not that I expect any. My foster siblings aged out or vanished. The orphanage still sends one message a year, a bland update thanking me for my service and encouraging me to donate when I “make it big.”
I snort. “Dream bigger, Sister Yama.”
I close the message app and pull out my tiny plush. He’s seen better days. Threads fraying, eyes faded. But he’s still got more soul than half the command staff.
