“Is this common knowledge with the CSS?” Torian asked as theDestitutepositioned itself seamlessly in front of a wormhole. It looked like a small black hole, tiny enough that Torian would never have seen it otherwise. She took a deep breath, preparing for a “brace yourself” moment, but the auto-navigation eased the ship inside without breaking speed.
She expected flashing stars, a common portrayal in the space-exploration fantasy vids her family used to cram together on the couch to watch. Instead, it was just darkness, like the stars winked out all at once.
It was a bit unnerving.
Moss replied, “Contrary to popular belief, I am not an all-knowing system. My archives are limited to nylarian culture, and whatever I can glean from various destinations and conversations. I have limited experience with the Confederation of Spacefaring Species.”
“Aren’t you an alien creation?” Torian swallowed a yawn, sorting her thoughts. “I figured any alien starship would know of them.”
Moss sounded exasperated. “I knowofthem. The CSS was established roughly seven millennia ago. However, they were not recognized as the ruling majority until the nylarians stepped down from that role five millennia ago.”
Torian picked out that word: nylarians. The creators of this ship, she guessed? It was odd that she’d never heard of them, but then again, humans had only arrived in this galaxy three thousand years ago. All Torian had ever known was the CSS on the outskirts—and humanity, tucked away in their private solar system.
Moss kept talking: “Considering the nylarian influence in guiding the CSS in those early years, it is safe to presume theydoknow of wormholes. But my files for that organization are outdated, so I can’t confirm it. You would be best to ask these questions of a tou’siil.”
“I’d love to, but tou’siil very rarely even visit this solar system.” Torian recalled her interaction with the dock worker, laughing at her for evenhopingto meet a tou’siil. Humiliation spread across her chest, warming her cheeks, even though that encounter was long since finished.
Celise used to roll her eyes and say,No one replays conversations in a panic quite like you,and Torian couldn’t even find the energy to refute it.
To distract her brain, Torian pushed off the pilot’s seat. According to the auto-nav, it’d be another eight hours in this wormhole—and frankly, the lack of a view outside the front window was unnerving.
As she headed down the stairs, contemplating bedtime, she dared to ask, “What… ah, what happened to the nylarians? You said they’re long-lived, but I’ve never heard of them.”
As she walked, Moss shifted its conversation to the speakers in the main living area. “They left.”
“Leftwhere?”
“Unknown.”
Torian winced. “Then your previous owner was a nylarian?”
Moss was silent for a long while. “Yes. But he isn’t worth my processing power.”
It had said something like that before, almost the exact same phrasing.Not worth my processing power. Was it some kind of undercurrent program, a code Moss developed to avoid thinking of painful memories?
Torian didn’t want to pry.
Instead, she cleared her throat. “Well, I barely slept last night because I was too excited for Starship Day. I might go to bed.”
“Is Starship Day a human holiday? I will make a note of it. I presume it’s a yearly occurrence?”
Torian poked her head into the starship’s version of a fridge, which was just a door inset into the bulkhead of the starship. Inside, it was chilly, but that didn’t stop a nasty scent from filling the air. Whatever was in here, it had rotted decades ago, and all that remained were unidentified husks of various produce.
She made a face and found a towel folded nearby. It was stiff, but she shook it out and began wiping down the mess. Moss may be responsible for life support, but it clearly had no hand in food preparation or general cleanliness.
“Starship Day wasn’t supposed to be a recurring holiday… but now it marks the day we met.” She paused, contemplating that. Even if—wait,when—she passed the entrance exams on Rhymarra, she could still take trips in this starship between work weeks. “After meeting you, it’d be fun to celebrate every year.”
Silence.
Did she overstep? Torian hesitated, glancing at the camera nearby. “Would you like that?”
There was another pause. “I do not celebrate holidays. Moss is moss, no matter how time passes.”
“Holidays don’t have to mark change. They can just be a quiet moment to remember things from the past, or be grateful for the present.” Torian tossed the rag in a presumed trash can—a small metal container which was, thankfully, empty. She closedthe fridge and stepped instead to the cabinet, which was sparsely stocked with a variety of food from multiple alien suppliers.
A few of them were human-approved, according to their labels. Made sense, if this alien was traveling through their solar system and shopping at their markets.
None of it helped her, considering how old this food apparently was. She pushed it all to the back of the cabinet, and then went to the cargo bay to pry her food crate open.
