One
Holly Greene-Moone arrived at her parents’ house still wearing the clothes she’d been fired in. It had been a really weird day.
“What could possibly be wrong with how youlook?” Holly’s father was an artist and a poet and spoke his mind with little filter. “Those fools you work for are delusional if they think you don’t look professional.”
Andrew Greene had been in the middle of making pottery when Holly arrived, unannounced, in what would have been the middle of her workday. He still wore his clay-smeared apron and a smudge was drying on his eyebrow. Her parents were in their seventies, but people lived much longer and aged far slower than they did even a few hundred years ago.
Holly curled her legs beneath her on the large sectional. Floor-to-ceiling windows revealed a gentle snow against the quiet pine forest outside. It was late afternoon, but the winter sun set early in Canada. It had fallen just below the tops of the tall trees and threw a hush over the forest. It felt like a lifetime ago since she’d sat vigil at those windows in froggy pajamas, sneaking downstairs just to watch for the night animals that moved in the shadows. Curious wolves pacing the windows,sniffing the seams. Unseen owls hooting in the trees. A silent fox with her head cocked, listening for the telltale scratch of mice beneath the snow. What wonder she’d felt, living out here on the edge of a vast, protected, three-hundred-year-old forest.
Even at the age of forty-two, the home she’d grown up in was both the most comforting place in the galaxy and the one that filled her with a longing for something she couldn’t quite name. It wasn’t comfortable. Just now, an ache twisted in her chest. That ache was probably why she didn’t visit as often as she should.
The contrast between this house and her small living unit on Earth’s moon was harsh. The metal and glass, manufactured city of Nova was a hub for business and style, but not a single tree grew there, let alone wildlife.
“Holly?” Her mother reached out and touched her knee. “If you don’t want to talk about it, we understand.”
“Sorry, I was…”lost in my thoughts. Holly shook her head. “So, I’m told I’m too artistic. The high-level management at Sol-Arc Industries want all of us to adhere to a certain ‘aesthetic.’ They made everyone take a workshop on it, but…” Holly ran a hand over Murray, the large, shaggy dog that had curled up and fallen asleep beside her. “I guess I didn’t pass the test. They want to enroll me in a more intense program: Enhanced Aesthetics for Professional Development.” Holly’s gaze shifted to the fireplace, which hosted an ion-crystal fire that popped and hissed merrily as it put off blue flames and pleasant warmth. “I refused.”
Holly’s father regarded her with a furrowed brow. “Good. I’m glad you refused. And I don’t understand what’s wrong with being artistic.” He clearly took this as a personal affront. “You need to be a creative thinker to redesign spaceships, or whatever you’re doing there.”
Holly smiled sadly and shrugged. “I do need to be creative, but they don’t want uslookingcreative.” This was hard toexplain to her parents, who supported her career choice without fully understanding it. “There’s a whole culture on Nova. Many different species live and work there, and it’s the sector’s epicenter of fashion and wealth. We’re expected to represent the company, and the upper-levels decided that we need to be fashionable all the time, even during our personal hours.” Her shoulders slumped. “I’m told I don’t eat at the right places or wear the right clothes. That I lack style.” That was an exact quote, actually. She glanced down at the light beige, two-piece suit that cut into her hip. It was ruthlessly fitted, entirely without visible fastenings or adornment, and wasexactlyhow Sol-Arc engineers were supposed to dress. “Itried. This outfit was literally in the style guide they gave out during the workshop. That’s why I bought it, even though I hate it.”
Holly’s mother was a psychologist. She always considered her words carefully before she spoke, and there were occasional long pauses while Mirth sifted and searched for just the right words. Not this time, though. She looked over Holly’s ensemble with a twinkle in her eye. “I can see why you hate that suit. Nice shoes, though.”
Holly let out a snort-chuckle and glanced down at her shoes sitting on the floor. She loved the soft flats in the color “iron oxide #4”—or, rust—that had gotten her flagged and pulled into Beenan’s office. They may have been made by a high-end designer, but they did not match the styles of the ultra-trendy city.
“Thanks. Beenan called them ‘garish and unflattering.’”
“They look comfortable. And I love the color.” Her father crossed his arms. “Who is this ‘Beenan,’ anyway?” he asked. “And what kind of name is that?”
“Beenan is my supervisor, Dad.” Holly took a sip of tea from the hand-thrown mug her father had made. The blend was her mother’s own. Holly could taste mint, ginger, orange, and afragrant black tea, sweetened with a bit of sugar. “And using just one name is a hot new thing on the lunar city.”
“So is dressing like that, I assume?” he asked. “I know Nova is very posh, but I don’t understand the fashions. I watch the feeds, you know. Everyone from there looks so uncomfortable.”
Holly smiled wryly. “They are. It’s the rage to emulate the look of Lokrians.”
“That species from the Sang-Lok system?” Her father scrunched up his face. “Theyareelegant, and they sing like angels, but… Well, now I understand why no one has hair in Nova.”
“Yeah,” Holly said. “No hair. Not even eyebrows, and everyone’s wearing angled five-inch platform heels to make you kind of walk like them.”
“But Lokrians have hooves,” her father sputtered.
“I know.” Holly shrugged. “It’s a popular look on Earth, too, you know. I just couldn’t do it. I tried on a pair once, but couldn’t pull it off.”Or walk.
“Well. You don’t need to wear ugly clothes any longer, thank goodness.” Her mother’s hair was piled high and held there with a collection of colorful clips, but pink curls poked out here and there. “Except—wait. Did you say you were put on leave?”
Holly sighed and placed her tea on the table. “I’m technically on a three-month ‘reflection’ break. Beenan said he would be generous and put in my official file that I’m experiencing burnout and can return if I have an improved outlook.”
Mirth’s brows rose. “The improved outlook is changing everything about yourself, I take it?”
She told her parents about the awful meeting she’d stormed out of, just an hour ago. Of the twelve levels an employee could achieve at Sol-Arc Industries, Beenan was a level seven manager, and it was no secret that he aspired to even higher ranks. Holly remembered his reaction when she’d asked him ifher job performance had been unsatisfactory. He’d raised one eyebrow, or, rather, flexed the muscles in the area where an eyebrow used to be and said no.
Beenan may have eagerly succumbed to the fashion of Lokrians’ hairlessness, but Holly had been under the impression that the engineering work she did for clients was the main metric of job approval, not her damn shoes or whether or not she chose to havehair. And she’d said as much. It hadn’t been received well.
“This is not about your work,” Beenan had replied, spreading his fingers as if trying to look expansive. “This is about the company’s image to the outside world. Toclients. We feel the enhanced aesthetics program will refine your appearance and steer you toward more acceptable activities when you’re not at work. These enhancements will make you more likely to move from a level three to a level four employee at Sol-Arc Industries.”
The conversation hadn’t improved. Holly had already scrubbed most personal identity from her appearance. She wore her hair in a simple ponytail and bought these rigid suits, but she wouldnothobble around on complex, uncomfortable shoes, and shelikedhaving eyebrows.
“So let me get this straight,” Mirth said. “You need to enroll in this enhanced aesthetics program to return to your position. And if you don’t, you are, in fact, fired?”
