“I’m just tired.”
“Humans cannot bypass sleep, and your last rest cycle was interrupted.”
She cast a wry glance at Moss’s central system. It was the physical server tower she’d seen peeking into the engine room earlier—tall as a pillar and covered in thick moss. Shining through the leaves was soft yellow light. If she squinted, she saw hints of metal mesh, apparently what the moss’s roots—er,rhizoids, as Moss had corrected—had latched on to.
Between the central server and the engine itself, there really wasn’t much room to stand, so Torian climbed the metal ladder and emerged beside the kitchenette. Convenient. She dropped the hatch and stretched, savoring the extra ceiling height. “I’m fine. Just need coffee. Or maybe ravla.”
“Ravla will offer temporary energy. It will not replenish you.”
Torian puffed. “Okay, Celise.”
“I am not a doctor human.”
“You’re acting like one.”
“Rude.”
Torian flicked on the kettle. While it heated, she moseyed to the windows. The space station appeared to be in steady orbit over Verdaan, which meant it also had night and daytime cycles. Sunlight slid over half the station now, creeping toward them. Morning—or a semblance of it.
Maybe she did need sleep.
A flash caught her eye: something diving across the darkness of space. It sailed over the sunlight, briefly, and she caught the afterimage of a serpentine form before it vanished. Torian flinched, squinting toward the sun—but nothing was there.
“Did you see that?” she demanded, pressing closer to the window.
“I do not see anything. I have no ocular function.”
“Through the cameras,” Torian hissed. “I’m telling you, Moss; I think something’s out there.”
Moss was silent for a moment. “My cameras are not registering anything. Except, perhaps, a human hallucinating in the kitchen.”
Torian knew she was tired when frustration swelled in her chest. “Oh, comeon. I saw something when we flew into this nebula. I just saw it again. We’re not alone here.”
“That is correct. The dog-turd fungus is approaching.”
Dutch. Fuck. Torian abandoned the kettle, sprinting for the short staircase that led below the flight deck. Three steps, and she reached the panel in the cargo hold, cycling through camera angles to find the one positioned by the cargo doors.
Sure as shit, Dutch was outside. He looked perfectly refreshed, and had a box of supplies under one arm. He waved cheerfully and called to the exterior microphone, “Hello, Ms. Razner! Moss! I thought I’d swing by and… ah, see if you need any help.”
The last part was hesitant.
Torian grimaced. “I’ll send him away.”
“Don’t,” Moss said quickly.
Torian hesitated, glancing at the ceiling. “What do you mean, don’t? I thought you hated him.”
“I was not programmed with simple human emotions. However, it…” a pause, like it was determining its emotion, “itpleasesme that he is now begging for my attention.” A malicious undertone slid into Moss’s artificial voice. “Your human phrase applies: ‘Turnabout being fair play.’”
“‘Turnaboutisfair play,’” Torian corrected. “For this situation, a more accurate saying would be ‘How the tables have turned.’”
Moss spoke over the loudspeaker outside: “Ah-hah. How the tables have turned.”
Dutch’s brow furrowed. His eyebrows were blue, too, and flecked with light at the statement. “Um. Is that a human idiom?”
“Yes. It means—” Moss paused, switching speakers. “What does it mean, Torian?”
She pinched the bridge of her nose. She was too tired for thisshit, and the engine was still broken. “Let me just open the door.” She tapped a few commands on the panel. The blue energy shield vanished, and the cargo hold’s door slid open.
