“They allow ratings.”
His eyebrows jump, then he snorts. “Fair point.”
Boarding begins in waves. Uniformed staff herd us toward the shuttle with professional brightness. Scanners blink over our travel bands. Cameras drift nearby, already gathering footage. A woman in glittering silver outerwear speaks to a drone about “fresh faces and heartbreaking backstories.”
I turn my shoulder so Jesse’s face is hidden from it.
The shuttle interior is louder than I expected—overhead bins slamming, contestants talking too loudly, the hiss of climate vents and docking seals. I strap in with Jesse asleep against mebefore we’ve even fully lifted, dead weight and trust pinning me to the seat.
Across the aisle, Dax is telling another contestant he plans to “dominate the endurance phases.” Somewhere behind me, somebody is crying quietly into a call with family. Ahead, two women argue about whether Syfer Station counts as a luxury waypoint or merely expensive.
I stare out the port as Novaria falls away.
The city becomes geometry. Light. A glittering wound wrapped around the curve of the planet.
For one irrational moment I want to get off. Grab Jesse, run back, apologize to nobody, and take my chances with layoffs and rent and all the ordinary forms of ruin I at least know by name.
Then Jesse stirs, makes a little sleepy sound, and tucks his face closer under my chin.
I press my lips to his hair.
“No,” I whisper to the reflection in the port. “We’re doing this.”
The shuttle docks at Syfer Station hours later with the soft, bone-deep thunk of magnetic locks engaging. The station is enormous—glass promenades, polished metal arches, the faint scent of recirculated air overlaid with spice kiosks and engine grease. Contestant handlers move us through a private corridor away from the public concourse.
I expect industrial transport from there.
Instead, the corridor opens onto a docking bay where a luxury cruise liner waits in impossible white and gold.
I stop walking.
“You have got to be kidding me.”
The ship gleams under bay lights like vanity made structural. Sleek hull. panoramic viewing decks. decorative light strips curling along the gangway. Across the side, in enormous silver script, the liner’s name glitters like it expects applause.
A contestant behind me whistles. “Well, that’s obscene.”
“It is,” I mutter.
A staff escort with a headset smiles without slowing. “Welcome to theCelestial Bloom, our official transfer vessel to Fratvoy One.”
Of course it is.
Jesse wakes enough to lift his head and blink at the ship. “Big.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Big.”
Dax comes up beside me, carrying his duffel over one shoulder. “Guess they want us comfortable before they start trying to kill us.”
“That is not comforting.”
He laughs again.
I don’t.
We move up the gangway in a glittering procession of contestants, staff, luggage, nerves. Somewhere overhead, cameras pivot like bright mechanical birds. The liner smells of polished wood composites, chilled citrus, expensive fabric, and that faint sterile undertone all luxury transport has—the smell of money trying to disguise logistics.
My cabin assignment includes a family suite, exactly as negotiated. Small, but clean. Reinforced crib frame already in place. Thank God.
