The Vela: The Complete Season 1. Yoon Ha Lee

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       “Bit of lag in the response time, only for a second. I noticed it with the temperature controls in my room, too.”

      They shrugged. “Seems to be fine.” Niko scrolled to the end of the menu, then back up, then down again, sure they’d missed something. They looked to Asala. “Is there no dessert?”

      “Do you usually have dessert for dinner?”

      Again, a spike of annoyance. “No, I just meant—did they forget to give us some?”

      Asala swallowed a bite of something green and leafy. “There’s fruit,” she said.

      Niko sighed quietly and turned back to the meal station. No, they weren’t planning on having dessert for dinner—they weren’t a fucking infant—but gods, after the day this had been, they really could have gone for a nice milky custard or a bowl of cloud soup with plenty of syrup. Oh well. They selected rednut stew and waited as the meal station got going with a soft whir. Behind the wall, a shelf-stable bag of premade food was being hydrated, heated, unpacked, and attractively plated. “Is there any hot sauce?” they asked.

      Asala gestured at an array of condiment packs on the table. “Plenty of bread left too,” she said.

      The meal station chimed, and Niko retrieved their plate from the drawer. They sat across from Asala, their heart speeding up a notch. They felt like they were five years old, meeting their much older siblings on family trips, hoping desperately that they’d think Niko was cool. But Niko wasn’t five years old. They were a grown-ass adult, and they were cool, and they could do this. They would make Asala like them. They would—

      Niko’s heart sped up faster, and their desire to converse died with it. General Cynwrig had entered the room. She’d changed since boarding the ship, abandoning her nondescript Khayyami clothing for what could only be described as Gandesian military casual—sharp angles and block colors, not a thread wasted on sentiment. The pistol on her hip remained, no cloak to cover it now.

      “What did you need belowdecks?” Asala asked. The question was direct, but there was no accusation behind it. A curious inquiry, nothing more. Niko wondered how Asala had known where the general had come from, then remembered the elegant implants resting in her ear canals. Did they reveal more than ears alone would, or was Asala just that dialed into her surroundings?

      “I did a sweep of the storage compartments,” Cynwrig said, “as well as the engine room. Then I smelled food.” She began her own skim through the menu panel.

      “A security squad went over the ship before any of us came aboard, and it’s been fitted with the signal scramblers you requested,” Asala said. “Everything checked out. Systems, food, water, everything. We’re safe. Nobody can track us, even if they wanted to.”

      “Mmm. So said my security team when we boarded my Marauder, and we all know how that turned out.” Cynwrig made a selection, and the meal station got to work. “Not a mistake they’ll be making again.”

      “What happened to them?” Niko managed nervously. Gods, were they dead?

      Cynwrig threw Niko a look over her shoulder, a silent scoff. “They were demoted,” she said. What else? her tone added. She flicked through the menu. “No dessert?”

      Niko caught a twinge of irritation crossing Asala’s face. “There’s fruit,” she said.

      “Pity,” Cynwrig said. She retrieved her plate and strode to the head of the table. She took her seat in one economical motion and then looked at Niko. “Would you pass me the bread?”

      Niko’s stomach flipped over, and a shaking anxiety filled them. Cynwrig was the embodiment of everything they were against, everything that was wrong with their solar system. How many times had they and their friends railed about her over late-night drinks? How many times had they denounced her, turned away in disgust from her face on the news? And now here she was, just sitting here, asking them to literally break bread together. What the fuck.

      “Niko.” Asala was looking right at them. “You okay?”

      Niko passed the basket to Cynwrig. “Sorry,” Niko said. “I’m—sorry. Tired.”

      Cynwrig gave Niko an understanding look that made them even more nervous. “I have to say,” she said as she tucked into her meal. “I was surprised to see nothing but Khayyami cuisine on the menu. I thought for sure we’d be having salt crab the whole way there.” A Hypatian staple. Or a stereotype, depending.

      Asala chewed her food slowly. “I haven’t had that in a long time.”

      “No? How long?”

      “Thirty-four years.”

      “I see,” the general said. “Yes, I can understand how you might prefer the Khayyami palate after that long.”

      “I didn’t say that.”

      “My mistake. You don’t favor one over the other, then?”

      Niko caught the real question laced beneath, and judging by the brief pause Asala made in chewing, she did as well. She looked at Cynwrig for a moment, then returned to her plate and took a sip of water. “I go where I am beckoned. I eat what I am given.”

       The general laughed and wagged a finger in Asala’s direction. “Well done,” she said. She turned to Niko, who had no idea what the joke was. “She’s quoting Eyahue. ‘I go where I am beckoned, I eat what I am given, I sing the harmony and am lost no more.’”

      Niko, on the other hand, was definitely lost. “Who’s Eyahue?”

      “A Gandesian poet,” Asala said.

      “One of our most famous,” Cynwrig said. “Much too passive for my taste.” She turned to Niko again. “The salt, please.”

      Niko couldn’t do this. They couldn’t sit here chatting about poetry over the dinner table like they were all good pals while people were out there dying. And yet, they passed the fucking salt.

      “So what is taking you back to Hypatia after all this time?” Cynwrig asked Asala. “I know you’re not out here just for me.”

      “Humanitarian talks,” Asala said smoothly. She nodded at Niko. “They’re representing Khayyami relief efforts on the government’s behalf. I’m along as protective escort.”

       Niko thought it would’ve been nice if this cover story had been discussed with them ahead of time, but oh well. “That’s right,” they said.

      “Ah,” Cynwrig said. She studied Niko. “A budding diplomat. Your father must be proud.”

      Niko forced a smile even as their stomach churned. “I hope so.”

      “Tell me,” she said. “What does a diplomat do with all that computer gear?”

      “What?” Niko felt the floor drop out from under them.

      Cynwrig gestured toward the upper decks. “I saw your luggage when I came aboard. Hardware cases, it seemed. Or am I mistaken?”

      The СКАЧАТЬ