evardsson.com: stuff that w0rks

prompt: Start your story with someone uttering a very strange sentence. (As close to 1000 words as possible.)

available at Reedsy

“A can of apes is a silly basket to put all our eggs in but…here we go.” Maybe not the best quote for the history books, Wills thought, as the outer door closed.

“Cap, that was not the inspiring speech the commission wanted.” Cruz was going through the motions of the preflight checklist, as had been practiced hundreds of times.

Wills strapped in. “Welcome to the last shuttle to Hope’s Deep, fellow apes, where we’ll be leaving Earth forever. I’m your captain, and Cruz is your pilot. We hope we find somewhere fit to land…someday. Please take notice of the fasten seatbelts sign.”

Cruz groaned. “You’re not as funny as you think, Wills.”

Wills laughed. “I’m dead serious. Fourteen on this shuttle, twenty-eight waiting for us up there; we head toward TRAPPIST-1 and go into deep freeze for twenty years give or take — our time — forty-six on Earth. I hope we find somewhere to land.”

“But what was that quote to the media?”

“I started thinking about how this is our one chance, blanked, and something I read online popped up.” Wills shrugged. “Done is done. Assuming we have a place to land I can make it up to them in roughly eighty-six years, their time.”

They lifted to orbit, matched speed with Hope’s Deep, and docked strictly by the book. Once the passengers were secured in their hibernation pods, Wills met up with Cruz in the cramped cockpit where they went through a whole new preflight checklist.

Under one-half g acceleration, the long ship with its kilometer-wide scoop sucking in particles to throw out of the thrusters left the Earth behind. Wills and Cruz would be the last two into hibernation, after the two-week shakedown and course correction period.

“You ever think about the Fermi paradox?” Cruz asked on their last day awake.

“Sure. That’s what made me sign on to this suicide mission.”

“Wills….”

“Yeah, yeah. We’ll find a new home, send a message that’ll reach Earth forty years later, then fifty or so of our years later we’ll have new ships coming and we’ll live happily ever after.”

Cruz sighed. “Seriously, how does the Fermi paradox make you decide to leave Earth forever?”

“Think about all the possible solutions. Let’s start with the ones that assume we’re the only technological species out and about in the galaxy. That would be the Firstborn hypothesis, Great Filter, those kinds of arguments.

“In those cases, we’re just doing what intelligent life should do — spreading out and claiming more space to keep our species alive.”

“But what about the ‘Dark Forest’ hypothesis?” Cruz asked.

“Well, in that case, we’re doing what intelligent life shouldn’t do, but what humans have always done.

“It’s dark in that cave and bears might live in there? Let’s go find out. There’re saber-toothed cats that want to hunt us in those hills? Let’s go hunt them, instead.”

Cruz laughed. “You say that like we’re going to exterminate all the galactic threats to humanity.”

Wills frowned. “I say that like I worry we’ll do exactly that, without finding out what the wider impact might be.”

“Wider impact?”

“What happens when the predators in an environment go extinct?”

“Uh, the prey takes over.”

“Overpopulation, over-grazing, conflict over dwindling resources, the ecology collapses, and the prey is likely to go extinct as well.”

“We’re the prey?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Thanks for the pep talk.” Cruz readied the hibernation pods. “I’ll see you in about twenty years.”

“As long as nothing goes wrong. I’d hate to be woken up early for an emergency.”

“No kidding, Cap. We know all the drills, and there’s redundancies on redundancies, but if we get woken up early, it means something is terribly wrong.”

Wills shrugged. “We can fix whatever. It’s just the thought that we can’t re-enter hibernation once we come out. If we wake up at the half-way point, I’d have to spend ten years pacing back and forth in this can.”

Cruz took a deep breath. “Good night, Wills. Pleasant dreams.”

“You too.”

Wills came out of hibernation feeling like it had been no time at all. “What happened? What broke?”

Cruz was already awake and standing near the pod. “Nothing broke. We’re entering the TRAPPIST-1 system. I’ll need your help to plot out a fly-by of all the candidate worlds.”

“Has it really been twenty years?”

“It has. We’ll enter orbit around the star in about an hour.”

Wills followed Cruz to the cockpit where hot coffee and a twenty-year-old packaged meal awaited him.

“Figured you’d be hungry, like me. There’s a water bottle near your station, too. You’ll want to hydrate.”

“Thanks.” Wills looked out at the distant planets visible from the ship’s location. “Cruz, does that one look blue to you?”

“It does. That’s TRAPPIST-1e. Looks kind of like Earth at this distance.”

Wills set the computer to figuring the paths of their flybys. With the short planetary orbits, ranging from one-and-a-half to nineteen days, the trick would be to not gain too much momentum moving from one to the next.

Having emptied the coffee, water bottle, and packaged meal, Wills stowed all the debris and strapped in just in time for engine shut-off.

“How long to survey all the habitable zone planets?” Cruz asked.

“We might as well wake everyone up.” Wills projected their path on the main screen. “It’s seventeen days to make three orbits of e, then g, then h, then f. Could do it in less time with higher-g flybys, but it would put too much stress on the cone.”

Cruz typed in the commands to begin waking everyone from hibernation. “How many doctors are we carrying?”

“Three. Orbal, Adumbwe, and Singh.”

“I meant PhDs.”

“Out of the forty-two people on board, I think you and I are the only two without a doctorate.”

“You have four Masters, that has to count for something.”

Wills chuckled. “I just hope it counts for finding a safe place for us to settle down.”

prompt: Start or end your story in a bustling street food market.

available at Reedsy

The din of conversations in dozens of languages and hawkers, the scents of seared meat, vegetables, grains, and unknowable ingredients, together with the vibrant colors and varied body-plans of the multitude of species washed over Mara in a tsunami of sensory overload.

“Well?” Kintari asked. He was a munerin, a small, fuzzy creature with a segmented body, twelve compound eyes, a soft, beak-like mouth, and a pair of expressive anntenae. He stretched to move his head up to her waist level, antennae in a questioning pose.

“You were right, K.” Mara was average height at 165 centimeters, with the kind of long, thin build that came from a childhood spent in dance and gymnastics. Her orangish-red hair was pulled back into a wavy ponytail. She keyed a transaction into her comm device and sent it to his. “I love this. Worth losing a bet over, that’s for sure.”

“I haven’t fulfilled it yet,” he said, his antennae waving. “I promised the most memorable meal, and you haven’t even eaten.”

“Don’t have to. This is already it.” Mara scanned the stalls. She didn’t recognize a single item. “How do I know what’s safe to eat?”

“Follow me.” Kintari wove through the crowd with a grace that didn’t match his stubby legs and round abdomen. Mara found it hard to keep up with him in the crowd where bodies ranged from the size of Kintari up to behemoths that reminded her of feathered dragons, nearly three meters tall.

After working her way through the crowd, she found Kintari standing at one of the stalls. His antennae were swishing about in anticipation. “Mara! Look at these.”

The stall was serving what looked like a white carrot with an orange sea anemone where the greens should be. “Uh, what is it?”

“Riiki-tano. It’s a delicacy from my home world.”

“Animal, plant or fungus?”

“Kind of animal, kind of plant,” Kintari said. “It grows from a seed, sets down the big taproot in the arsenic-rich, hot volcanic mud. The top part is meaty, and what it uses to pull nutrients it can’t get from the mud in, including small creatures.”

“It grows in arsenic, and you eat it?”

“We do. We have an organ specific to filtering out heavy metals. But that’s not why I wanted you to see this. Put your ident chip close to the box there.”

She did as he’d said and the box displayed the menu, consisting of the one item prepared three ways. All three flashed deep red.

“The shorter the wavelength, the safer it is for your physiology. That way you know what’s safe based on the amount of risk you wish to take. This is…possibly fatally toxic for you.”

“That’s too bad,” she lied, “I wanted to try your home world delicacy.”

“If you still want to try something from my home world, I’m getting some tano-lokaro. It’s a plant, and no heavy metals.”

Mara followed Kintari to another stand where he picked up one of the dishes they offered. When the box responded in violet, she ordered two, one with a whitish sauce and the other with a green sauce. From there it was a weaving journey between the stalls, buying things that looked promising, until she realized she already had too much food.

They sat at one of the communal tables. Kintari had even more food than she did. She started with the tano-lokaro. The taste reminded her of kohlrabi and mushrooms with a hint of a peppery aftertaste. The whitish sauce was bland, but the green sauce had an astringent tang to it. “This is really good, but why didn’t you get the other thing?”

“The riiki-tano?” He shuddered. “I ate it once, and I never have to do it again. I think people eat it just for bragging rights or something. I refuse to believe any munerin actually likes it, but they’ll keep buying it and eating it forever.”

Mara noticed a fair bit of attention on her as she tried each dish. As perhaps the first human they’d seen, she was an obvious target of curiosity.

“I noticed that every stand makes only one thing. Is that just a traditional thing or…?”

“Regulations. Limiting each stall to one item spreads sales across more vendors.”

“Makes sense, I guess.”

Much to Mara’s surprise, Kintari finished every bite of his pile of food. They dropped the disposables in the recycler and Kintari moved as if to leave, but Mara stopped him.

“I want to wander the entire thing,” she said.

They did, taking their time. Mara made a mental map of the market as they went, taking note of things she wanted to try. When they’d explored the market, they walked back out to the main station, where the quiet felt both comforting and overwhelming after the hubbub.

“Thanks for taking the time, K. You don’t mind me calling you K, do you?”

“Not at all.”

“Not many cargo pilots would take the time to lead a stranger around a station. Not to mention make good on a bet to a species you’ve never seen before about an unforgettable meal.”

“The most unforgettable meal.”

“You delivered.” Mara sighed. “I guess I should get my bags from the bay lockers and find a place to stay.”

“You’ve decided to stay on the station? I thought you said you were exploring — station hopping.”

“I was, but I think I found my new home.” Mara smiled. “I saw some empty stalls in the food market, and I want to set up a chippy.”

“I don’t know what that is, but I wish you luck.”

“When you come back to this station, look for me in the food market. If I’m set up by then, I’ll give you something truly memorable.”

By the time Kintari had returned to the station, Mara’s chip stand was in full swing. With every species that had come by — so far — the box showed anywhere from greenish blue to violet. As such, there were people of every known species stopping by for what had become famous by word-of-mouth.

Mara saw him waiting in the line, his antennae fluttering. She turned to the be-tentacled creature behind her that was operating three fryers and stuffing paper wrappers for two other orders at the same time.

“Hey, Lindl, do you think you can handle the crowd by yourself for a bit?”

“Yeah, boss.” One of her twelve eyestalks turned to look directly at Mara. “I’m in a rhythm now. Is that your pilot friend you were talking about?”

“Sure enough. I’m pulling two orders, one mayo, one red and one green chutney. I’ll be back after we eat.”

She took the paper cones and walked down the line to where Kintari waited. “Come on, let’s get a seat.”

“But I haven’t checked my ident for—”

“I have munerin customers every day. You have any unusual allergies?”

“No.”

“Perfect. Let’s eat.”

“What are these?”

“Potatoes. They’re a tuber — a kind of node that grows on the root of a specific plant.”

He started with a plain chip and squirmed in his seat. He followed up with dipping a chip in the mayo. “This is rich. What is this?”

“Eggs and oil, mostly.” She explained the mayo, then the tamarind chutney and the cilantro chutney, and convinced him to try both together.

His first bite with the mixed chutneys made his antennae stick straight up and a shudder ran down his whole body as evidenced by the wave of fur standing on end and settling back down. He seemed at a loss for words, so Mara encouraged him to continue eating.

He’d finished both orders with no help from her in just a few minutes. “That’s…wow. No wonder your stand is so busy.”

“It almost wasn’t,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“The first few days I didn’t get any customers at all. The only chips I made were for myself.”

“What changed?”

“I was ready to call it a bust, so I started frying up chips and offering them free. Before I knew it, I was out of stock and had to close until the next shipment came in. By the time they did, I had a line before I even turned on the fryers.

“Hired Lindl, the tentacle woman — I can’t pronounce her species — that day. She seemed fascinated with the process, so I offered her a job, and she’s rocked it ever since.”

“What are your shipping prices like?”

“Fair, I guess. I go through around a thousand kilos of potatoes a week — 1,644.87 standard cargo weights. And that doesn’t include paper, mayo, chutneys, ketchup, and so on. Call it two thousand every Earth week — so every nine unit cycles. And it’s all coming from Earth.”

“How much are you paying?”

“Four-thousand credits per week.”

Kintari’s antennae spread to the sides. “Hmmm. One of the small carriers?”

“Yeah, same one a lot of the stalls are using.” Mara shrugged. “I mean, there’s just not much call for Earth freight out here…other than me.”

He pulled out his comm and began scrolling through data screens. “I bet I can get your freight here, two-thousand weight, every nine cycles, for under two-thousand credits.”

“Really? You like to gamble, huh?”

“I do.”

“Fifty credits again?”

“No. If I can’t, I’ll pay your entire next cargo fee. If I can, a free order of chips every time I come here.”

“You’re on.”

Mara went back to work, sparing an occasional glance at the munerin pilot talking to several other hawkers. The food market closed for the cycle, and she sent Lindl home while she cleaned up and prepared for the next.

Kintari approached. “If you give me your shipment details, I’ll have your orders here for 1,800 credits every nine cycles.”

“How?”

“Larger ship, and instead of just picking up one order at Earth and delivering, I can pick up orders for twelve other stalls. Means I can run out here with a full ship and return with a full ship of ore every trip.”

Mara laughed. “Once again, I’m glad I lost a bet to you.”

His antennae dipped. “My pleasure.”

“Wait a minute…how many of the other twelve hawkers did you make the same bet with?”

His antennae bobbed up and down. “All of them.”

prompt: Set your story before dawn. Your character has woken up early for a particular reason.

available at Reedsy

Tara tied her hair into an afro puff. At least with her new job she wouldn’t have to try to corral her hair into a hat. She preferred the “no-makeup” look at work. Anyone who knows, knows what it takes to look “natural.”

Colored moisturizer, a bit of concealer matching her warm, light brown skin to hide the shadows under her green eyes from lack of sleep, a little mascara, and a light lip and she was ready. Her phone chimed and she picked it up.

The face on the other end had just woken up, thinning gray hair unkempt, the wrinkles around his blue eyes met with pillow lines that continued down his pale face to his permanently ruddy cheeks. Tara made sure she looked presentable in her camera before connecting.

“Dad, it’s two-thirty in the morning! Why are you calling?”

“I just wanted to tell you I love you, and I’m proud of you…and I’ll miss you.”

Tara smiled. “Dad, we said all that last night. You didn’t have to get up just to tell me that.”

“I know, but I wanted to see you before you left. Oh, and you said you’d send a picture in your uniform.”

She snorted. “You don’t have enough of me in my police uniforms?”

“This is different,” he said, “and I want to see your space suit.”

Tara shook her head. “It’s not like that, Dad. Here, I’ll show you.” She propped the phone against the wall and stepped back. She wore a black, long-sleeved pullover, black tactical pants, and her police boots.

“That’s just your police uniform without the body armor and jacket,” he said.

“One sec, Dad.” She picked up a vest from the dresser and slipped it on. It was neon chartreuse with several pockets, a name tape that said “Missions Tara,” and one below that said the same but in an alien script. She turned to show the back, where the word “SECURITY” in both English and the alien script made up the design.

“Wait,” he said, “you aren’t wearing body armor?”

“Dad, no-one’s going to be shooting at me on a spaceship.”

“I would just feel better—”

“I know. That’s why I’m bringing it anyway. At least while we’re in dock, I’ll probably wear it. Same goes for my sidearm.” She picked up the phone. “They’re letting me bring it, even though I won’t be able to use it on the ship…ever.”

“But if it comes down to it—”

“Dad, think about it for a minute. A nine-millimeter slug, versus the skin of a spaceship, in the vacuum of space.”

“Oh…yeah. So, what will you use?”

She strapped on her duty belt and pointed at the plastic device holstered near her hip. “Still have a taser and baton, and they have a beanbag rifle for the really tough cases.”

“Will that be enough for the aliens? What if you run into—?”

“The xenomorphs from Alien aren’t real. You know what the real aliens — the Elarians —  look like, they’ve been on the news for months.”

“I know, but I worry. And that thing in your head—”

“It’s just under the skin behind my ear, not in my brain, and it’s a standard translator. Dad, I’m not worried. Most of the aliens are from lower gravity worlds like the Elarians, meaning their bones are likely to be more fragile than ours, and we have them seriously overpowered in strength. You should worry about what Mom’s gonna do if you fall asleep at Meemaw’s birthday cookout today.”

“Oof, yeah. How’d you get so smart?”

“My cop father was just smart enough to marry a geneticist…so it’s mostly Mom, but I’ll give you two percent credit.”

“Brat.” He yawned. “Give ’em hell, Pumpkin.”

“Love you, too, Dad. Go back to sleep.” She ended the call and checked the time. Her ride to the space port would be pulling up within the minute. She rushed out with her suitcase, locking the door behind her, to meet her ride.

—

It took nine minutes to reach low-Earth orbit, and only six for the alien freighter to match speed with the shuttle and dock. Tara floated into the airlock and released the straps on her suitcase. One of the regular crew handed her the vacuum sealed bag that contained the clothes she’d been wearing.

“What about this?” she asked, tapping the helmet of the vacuum suit she was buttoned up in.

“You keep that,” the crewman said. “It’s included in the price your employer paid to get you here. Besides, you’ll need it for reentry when you come back, and you’ll have it just in case….”

“Right.”

The crewman locked the inside of the airlock, and Tara waited for the outer door to open. She didn’t know what to expect, but she was glad of the suit just in case it turned into an unplanned spacewalk.

The airlock on the other side of the door was too clean, too smooth, too perfect to be real. She held her suitcase and bag of clothes in one hand, pulling herself into the other airlock with a reverential slowness.

As soon as she was fully inside, the human shuttle’s door disappeared as the wall just…materialized…where it had been an open hole. A voice sounded in the airlock, “Disengaged from shuttle, prepare for gravity in 5…4…3…”

Tara scrambled to get as close to the floor as possible, only to bounce off the wall to the actual floor when the gravity kicked in, ninety degrees from where she’d thought “down” was. It wasn’t anything like the gee-forces she’d felt in ascent or even half of Earth gravity, but it did settle her nerves compared to weightlessness.

The inner door opened or rather, a hole appeared in the wall. Beyond was not nearly as spotless as the airlock had been. A well-worn path in the center of the hallway showed where foot traffic had passed for years. Small pads on the wall, about shoulder-height for Tara, showed the sort of burnishing that comes from years of hands or other appendages pressing on them.

She was trying to figure out how to remove her helmet when two of the Elarians approached. One stepped behind her and began by releasing the catch so she could lift it off. The other stood in front of her, two large arms shouldered behind two smaller, hands with four fingers and no obvious thumbs at the ends of each, though Tara had seen them on the news enough to know the outside digits could move into an opposable position.

It was a female of the species, slightly larger than the males, with pale, butter-yellow skin sporting light grey blotches. Four eyes that were mostly pupil, the two larger on the outside of the two smaller near the center of the face. No visible nostrils or ear holes, but a wide mouth with flat teeth in the front, and heavy grinding teeth to the rear.

She spread her two inner arms and gave a slight bow, still head and shoulders taller than Tara. “Welcome, Missions Tara, I am Prime Advisor Achilokila Priviiatik, but you may call me ‘Privi,’ short for my given name. May I call you Tara?”

Tara lifted off her helmet. “You may, Privi. So, uh…what is Prime Advisor?”

“I am second in command to the Ship Speaker…you call it Captain, yes?”

Tara nodded but was finding it difficult to catch her breath. “Yes. That would make you the First Officer or Executive Officer — XO — then.”

“Ah! That’s the term. As the Prime Cudgel — head of security — you will report to me.”

The one who had loosened her helmet stepped into view holding a small pack with a canula. Half a head shorter than Privi, with similar markings but a greener cast to his skin. “Put this in your nostrils. It will deliver oxygen at the level you need. I am Ship Medic Achilokila Proviatun, younger brother to Privi. You may call me ‘Provi’ if you wish.”

Tara took the offered tube and Provi helped her get it situated. Within a few breaths, she was feeling more normal. “Thank you, Provi. If one of you could show me to my quarters, I can get out of this vacuum suit and back into uniform.”

Privi nodded at her brother, and he said, “Follow me.”

With her first step, she fell forward and almost knocked the tall creature down. “Whoa! Sorry. It’ll take some getting used to,” she said.

After getting to her room, wriggling out of the suit, and getting dressed, she was getting a feel for how lightly to step. She stowed her gear, attached the small box-like device that delivered oxygen to her utility belt, and met Provi, still waiting for her in the hall. “Now we shall meet the…Cat-pin?”

“Captain.”

“Ah, Captain.” He led her to a common area that included places to cook, eat, and lounge. A female even larger than Privi was sprawled in a hammock, one of her small hands holding a device while the other small hand navigated the holograph above it. One of her large hands pushed off the wall in a rhythm that kept the hammock moving in a lazy swing.

“Hello, Cap—Ship Speaker. I’m Tara Missions…I mean Missions Tara.”

The hand that had been pushing off the wall grabbed it, stopping the swing. She sat up and looked down at Tara. “Welcome aboard the Full Pouch, Prime Cudgel Missions Tara. I am Ship Speaker Chiloka Chikurik. Your duties will be to organize and manage the station guards for the ship and cargo while in port, and provide assistance where needed around the ship. Beyond that, we hope to never need your assistance.”

Provi and another alien that had been silently eating in the room both shouted out, “Pirates be gone! Void take you!”

Chikurik laughed. “Correct. However, if we do need your assistance, I have it on good authority that you know how to use that?” she asked, pointing at an orange shotgun on the wall.

“Beanbag shotgun. Less-lethal weapon. Know it very well.”

“I used it once and damaged my shoulder. Humans call this a ‘less-lethal’ weapon?”

“Yes, ma’am. Although, if used improperly, it can still kill.”

Chikurik laughed again. “If used improperly, she says! This thing blows holes in the carapace of Gerlash pirates, but only dents the ship. Busts up the insides of Elarians and Salamars. It’s perfect.”

Tara cocked her head in surprise. “It…blows holes in them? I thought humans were fragile, but it almost never penetrates or busts up your innards.”

“It doesn’t?”

“Rarely, and only if fired too close. When used properly, it leaves a bruise, when used improperly it can break bones — or kill if hit in the head or neck for example — but unlike a regular round, it won’t go through a human.”

Chikurik crossed the room and lifted a flexible club with her large hands. It was obvious that it was heavy. “This is the ceremonial cudgel that is awarded to Prime Cudgel on each ship. Only the strongest could wield it effectively, but we have better tools now.”

Tara grabbed the handle of the cudgel and gave it a few practice swings with one hand. She wasn’t sure how she felt about it being floppy but hung it from her belt near her baton. “Thank you, Ship Speaker.”

“You aren’t expected to carry that ancient thing. It’s just a rite of passage.”

“Thank you again.”

“And that thing on your belt, what is that?” Chikurik asked, pointing.

“Taser, another less-lethal weapon. It shoots out two prongs that deliver fifty kilovolts — results in 1200 volts to the body at around two milliamps — so, twenty or so 100-millisecond bursts per second. It disrupts muscle signals in the body and hurts like hell.”

Chikurik’s hand flew over the holographic interface in front of her. “That’s…eighteen thousand four hundred…. By the First Mother’s pouch! That doesn’t kill you?”

“Nah. I’ve been hit with one of these bad boys twelve times now — every year during recertification — no lasting effects.”

“Well, Prime Cudgel Missions Tara, just don’t ever point either of those things at me…and keep that Taser thing away from the controls. I think we may just be safe from the pirates for sure now.”

“Pirates be gone! Void take you!” the two others called out again.

“Pirates flee! We have a human Prime Cudgel!” Chikurik called out.

“I’m curious, though,” Tara said.

“About what?”

“Why did you go out of your way to hire a human? I mean, we’re just now starting to trade for goods from you, and we won’t be accepted into your Trade Alliance proper until we develop our own FTL, now that we know it’s possible.”

The Ship Speaker stood tall above Tara and held her chin with one of her small hands. “Because, little one, I guessed that a creature from a high gravity world would be tough, and it seems I was right. You’re probably built pretty dense, too.” She grabbed Tara with her large arms and tried to lift her but could only get her to her tip-toes.

Tara laughed and spread her arms. “May I?”

Chikurik nodded, and Tara wrapped an arm around her hips and lifted her with one hand. In the light gravity on the ship, it felt like lifting a small child.

“Pirates flee! We have a human Prime Cudgel!” the two others called out.

“Yeah!” Tara yelled, as she set Chikurik down. “You pirates better run!”

prompt: Write a story about a character who finds guidance in an unlikely place.

available at Reedsy

Garal had often felt there were not enough hours in a day, regardless of the planet. She’d felt like the days had been close to long enough on Haror IV, where the days were close to twice the length of those on her home world. Still, it had only been close to long enough.

Now, though, she had no one but herself to blame. As the owner-operator of her own long-range freighter, she decided what a day was in transit. She stopped what she was working on to soak her aching tentacles. Her gripping surfaces were drying out and raw, and she still had so much work to do.

She soaked for hours, until her ship dropped from c-space into normal space. Garal was surprised to see that she’d already reached her destination.

Letting herself drip on the floor, she crawled out of the creamy liquid in her soak tank and headed for the bridge. On the way she grabbed a wrap with a much-relieved tentacle. Settling into the captain’s chair, she called the station ahead.

“Station GaiaNova-17 Dock Control, this is merchant vessel Shallow Pools, ident XM3279.43R, Captain Garal Eighth of Seventeenth, requesting clearance for docking, over.”

“Shallow Pools, GN-17 DC. I have your planet of registry as Kura II, your transit plan from Haror IV station, but no cargo manifest, over.”

“DC, Shallow Pools, all correct. My hold is empty, except for scrap fixtures and cleaning and repair supplies. I was remodeling, over.”

“Shallow Pools, DC; you are clear to dock in ring four, slip eighteen. Set nav to accept docking control GN-17-4, over.”

“DC, Shallow Pools. I copy ring four, slip eighteen, nav accept GN-17-4, over.”

“Shallow Pools, DC; good copy. The dock master will check your supplies for any hazardous materials and can direct you to the recycling center for the scrap. Welcome to human space. GN-17 Dock Control out.”

After the dock master confirmed that none of her cleaning supplies were hazardous, he took the time to get a freight pusher for her that she could load all the old fixtures on and haul to the recycling center, on ring five. She had loaded the pusher before she realized how quiet the dock was. She’d expected a lot more in the way of freight moving through the station.

The recycling center was busier than the freight docks on ring four. She thought that was odd, but she was in human space at an aging station. She guided the pusher to the next available slot.

“Ah, you must be from the Shallow Pools.” The human woman wearing a name tag that said “Lina” began to scan the cart with a hand-held device. “Some of these fixtures still look newish. Are you sure you don’t want to hold on to ’em and sell ’em yourself?”

“I’m sure.” Garal wrapped her tentacles around themselves. “So, how much to take all this off my back?”

“Huh? Well, we’ll probably salvage the light fixtures, and the…is that an anurian soak tank?” She tapped on the display of her hand-held device.

“Yeah. It’s like a human bath — I think that’s the word — except it filters and recirculates the dermis rejuvenation liquid.”

“Yeah, I kind of thought that’s what it was. I soaked in one of those, once. Never again. All my hair fell out, including my eyebrows and eyelashes, and all my nails got so soft I almost lost them as well. Except for that, it was great. My skin never looked better.” She laughed.

Garal continued soothing herself by wrapping and unwrapping her tentacles. “So…how much?”

“Best I can do is 150 credits. You could probably do better selling the soak tank in anurian space.”

“I—I didn’t expect it to cost so much. I can take it back and—”

“No! No, that’s not cost, that’s how much I can pay you for it.”

Garal’s four eyestalks shot up in surprise. “You’re…paying me for this?”

“Well, yeah. You bring scrap or items to be recycled, we pay you for the value…minus a little for overhead, of course.”

“Oh! That’s fantastic, then! Sold.”

Garal returned to her ship with a new swish in her slither. She’d already set aside enough for refueling, and had enough food to last a while, but had been worried that without a good-paying run out of GN-17 she’d be hard-pressed to continue on. While not a lot, a 150-credit buffer did feel good.

At the ship, she paid for refueling, and got directions to the outbound freight board. She waited until she was certain they were fueling the Pools correctly, then made her way to ring two.

Part of ring two was dedicated to passenger slips and transport to ring one, and the other was offices. She followed the signs in twelve languages to the Outbound Transport Office and let herself in.

There was activity at many of the offices she’d passed, but this one was quiet. She knew from past experience to press the button on the device beside the door to get a queue number and had a tentacle about to do so when someone said, “Don’t bother. You’re next.”

She turned to the counter where a bored looking human — she couldn’t determine whether they were male or female — motioned her up. “Hi,” she said as she approached. “I need an outbound cargo…to anywhere within a hundred parsecs…oh! And it has to fit in the Shallow Pools, and I can land at up to 2.6 standard gravities with 4.87 tonnes of cargo. … Can only take off from that empty, though.”

The bored human nodded, typed something into their console, and handed Garal a small, printed chip. “Take this to ring one. Information desk can point you in the right direction.”

“Wh—what? What’s the cargo? There’s only one?”

“It’s the only thing outbound that’ll fit in your ship. Going 40.237 parsecs to a 0.8 standard gravity moon. Cargo weight, less than 0.3 tonnes.”

Garal burbled, the anurian equivalent of a heavy sigh. Such a small load was hardly going to pay well, but at least she wouldn’t be using much in the way of fuel. “Thank you.”

Where ring four had been too silent, ring one was a cacophony of noise and color. Sapients from all over mixed and mingled in the shops and eateries. She made her way to the nearest information kiosk and showed the chip, where she was told to wait in the small dining establishment beside the kiosk.

She figured she might as well get a fresh meal, as it would likely be the last one for a while. Her ship had plenty of food stored up, but not the sort one would get at home…or in an eatery.

No sooner had Garal received her steaming bowl of ramen than she was joined by an elderly human male pulling a travel case, on top of which rode a large carrier containing some sort of Earth animal.

“You must be Garal, of the Shallow Pond?” he asked.

“Shallow Pools,” she said.

“Right, right. Sorry. I’m Frank. I’ll let you finish your meal, then I’m ready whenever you are.”

“You’re the one with the cargo? Is it anything dangerous?” she asked.

He laughed. “Do I look dangerous?”

“You’re…not cargo.”

“Technically, I am,” he said. “Whether I’m boarded as a passenger on a liner or as ‘cargo’ on a freighter. I’m just weight you’re moving around.”

Two of Garal’s tentacles wrapped around themselves while she continued to eat and tried to look unconcerned. “Where are you headed?”

“Going home to my moon, Spera,” he said. “It’s around Alnus — Silva VI.”

“Your moon? You mean, the moon you came from?”

“No, I mean the moon I bought.” He laughed. “I’m kidding. I’m settling into a retirement community there and didn’t want to travel with all the noisy people, so I figured I’d wait here on the station until a small freighter came available.”

“How long have you been waiting?”

“Seventy-nine standard days…about two months Earth — Sol III — time.” He seemed lost in thought for a moment. “That would be eighty-five or eighty-six days on Eklara.”

Garal’s eyestalks perked up. “You know the name of my planet, beyond just Kura II.”

“Of course,” he said, “I remember my stellagraphy classes. It was my favorite subject. Got a degree in Stellapolitics.”

She looked at him, then at the animal carrier. “That’s not venomous or anything, is it?”

“No. That’s a tortoise. Her name’s Celia.” Frank started. “Oh! Almost forgot. Payment up front.” He pushed a stack of credits across the table to her.

She kept eating while counting the credits with two other tentacles. Six thousand. “You could just rent a private transport for that. You’d be there in less than a standard day. The Pools isn’t slow, but it’ll take nine standard days to get there.”

Frank smiled. “That’s why I’m paying you the big bucks. I like to take my time. Besides, it’s a nuisance rate. There’s not likely any outgoing freight from Spera, so you’ll end up flying empty to the station at Quercus — Silva II.”

Garal left NG-17 with 6,141 credits in her satchel, a trunk of everything Frank owned in the hold, Frank, and his ‘pet.’ Once she entered c-space, she had time to go back to finishing up the remodel. The only thing left was wiring in the new lights in the galley.

She walked in to find Frank wiring up the last of them. The rest had been connected, sealed and seated, and were working.

“I—uh, thank you?”

“I see you’ve done a lot of work on the Pools, just thought you could use a break.”

She didn’t know how to answer, instead wrapping her tentacles around themselves.

He sealed and seated the light, which came on as it clicked into place. “Look, I can tell you’re the sort to work your fingers to the bone—er…work your tentacles to the nub? Anyway, you’re not one to slow down — ever — are you?”

“You are more correct than not,” she said.

“We have time,” he said. “I’m going to teach you what I’ve learned from Celia.” He pointed to the far side of the galley where he’d converted the carrier to a fence that hemmed her in. Small piles of fresh greens and fruit were placed in various spots within the fence.

Garal watched, mesmerized, as Celia moved with slow, deliberate steps to the next pile of food. Once there, she eyed it with a tilted head, then took a slow bite.

“I used to run at everything like I was tilting at windmills,” Frank said, “until I got Celia. That was forty years ago — roughly twenty-eight or so stellar revolutions for Eklara.”

“And she changed you?”

Frank smiled. “Not right away, of course. No. I used to get frustrated that she took so long to do anything. I’d want her to hurry up and eat so I could be sure she was properly fed before I left to work. Getting her to come out of her enclosure for cleaning was even worse.”

“What changed?”

“I did…eventually. I figured out that just because she was slow, it didn’t mean she wouldn’t get a thing done. Then I got the bright idea, that maybe I could slow down once in a while.” He walked over and scratched Celia’s shell. “She can feel that you know. She likes it.”

“So, why did you finish up my task?”

“Because, young miss, you are going to spend the next nine days learning how to relax, and Celia and I will be your teachers.”

“But there’s still so much to—”

“Nonsense. The ship is spotless, except for a few drops of dermis rejuvenation liquid in the hall that I already cleaned up so Celia wouldn’t get into it.”

“But there’s—”

“No buts. Is there anything on the ship likely to fail any time soon?”

“No.”

“Are there any pressure leaks, fuel leaks, or shorts?”

“No.”

“The air handlers seem to be working fine. Are the scrubbers and filters in need of immediate replacement?”

“No, they’re all new.”

“See. Nothing to do but relax.”

Her tentacles tightened around themselves. Frank just gave a kind smile, as if waiting for her to come around. She felt something inside let go. Everything that could be done by busy, was done. Her tentacles relaxed. “Maybe you’re right.”

“Of course I’m right,” he said.

She spent the next hours watching Celia eat her spread out meal, sometimes stopping to nap in between. Frank surprised her with a hot bowl of ramen, before she even realized she was hungry.

She made a point of taking her time with it, as Frank did. They shared idle conversation about his past teaching Galactic Politics, her past as a mechanic until she saved up enough to buy the Pools and get it space worthy, and…in the best moments…nothing at all.

Without needing to rush from one task to another, the nine days in transit seemed at once never-ending and over too soon. The long meals, easy conversation, watching and stroking Celia as she maintained her own pace…then, back to regular space and time to land.

The landing pad on Spera was below ground, with a cover that sealed over once they settled. All the habitations were in domes, as the atmosphere was too thin and lacking in oxygen. Bioengineered plants covered the moon, though, making it look like a lush paradise.

Garal rolled Frank’s travel case down the cargo ramp and gave Celia a farewell rub on her shell. She walked with Frank through the airlock into the tunnels that connected the domes. Signs in Galactic Common and several human languages pointed the ways to the various domes. “Which dome did you say?” she asked.

“I didn’t. But it looks like it’s just a ten-minute walk from here.”

“Can I help you with your case?”

“If you want to. If not, I’m sure I can manage, and you can go find real cargo at Quercus.”

Garal stretched her tentacles. “I’m in no hurry.”