Excerpt - Cosmic Weave, chapter 1
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CHAPTER ONE
In the vast emptiness of space, Dagny Novak was a virtuoso at connection. Here, surrounded by laughing families, she’d never felt more alone.
The relentless, blistering lights of this Galaxy George theme park seared into her skull. Inviting her estranged daughter to spend a day with her here had been a catastrophic error.
Dagny would do anything for her daughter. And Osa loved Galaxy George.
But from the moment they stepped into this chaotic vortex, things had gone wrong. The clashing tunes blaring from every neon-lit corner. The people randomly zigzagging around and between them. The too-bright fake sunlight.
The terrifyingly tall people in rancid anime dog costumes, jumping in front of you shouting, “Selfie selfie selfie with me!”
Complete overload.
This is why she worked in space. Orderly, deadly, reliable space.
Hiding from the creepily hypnotic glow of the park’s “outside” lights, Dagny and Osa hunched across from each other in a booth in George’s Treehouse Café. The café was only slightly less frenzied than outside, but at least it had walls and the expectation that your table, at least, was a slice of space just for you.
Osa picked at her ridiculously overpriced George’s Favorite seaweed salad. The greens seemed to vibrate unnaturally under the café’s kaleidoscopic lighting. She sighed, a sound so laden with world-weariness it seemed to echo from the void.
Dagny’s hand fisted. She leaned in, trying to close the chasm with light-hearted curiosity. “So, what do you think the salad is really made of?”
Osa looked up, startled, her eyes momentarily sharp and indignant—a flash of the angry teenager she once was. A decade-old memory flashed before Dagny, of slammed doors and cutting words. Her fingers dug into the edge of the booth’s padded seat. But it was a valid question. Here on Exeter Station, far, far from any ocean, seaweed seemed implausible.
Osa glanced out the window and sighed. “Always hated Galaxy George,” she said, her voice a monotone rip current dragging Dagny into deeper confusion.
What about the pink doghouse blanket, worn and tattered, folded neatly in the box under Dagny’s bed? And the dog-paw mittens?
Dagny picked up her bowl of Grandma’s Recipe miso soup. Swirled it around, inhaled the familiar umami warmth. Put it down again, untasted.
She should have stayed on the Breaking Light. Should’ve let all the ship’s xenobiologists and diplomats go cavort at their big conference while she recalibrated the sound decks or something.
And miss this chance to see her girl? After all these years?
Impossible.
Now twenty-eight, her girl had sat across from her at this table but still worlds apart. Osa worked all the way on on the other side of the Spectrum Alliance systems. But the conference that had brought Dagny’s ship here had lured Osa as well. A freshly minted xenobiologist, she spent most of her days planetside.
So why the sallow cheeks and hunched shoulders?
Dagny glanced at the holographic puppies cavorting between the booths. Blinking primary-colored lights formed dancing pictures of Galaxy George the Spacedog and his menagerie of friends. At least they were regular-dog size.
Their synthetic joy reflected off the restaurant’s window to shimmer mockingly on their plates. Dagny’s own reflection looked back at her, dark eyes shadowed, pinched with fatigue and desperation.
Dagny’s hands, still hidden beneath the diner’s blue plastic table, folded over and over themselves. Trying to scrub the anxiety away. Her blood thrummed like one of those old-fashioned engines.
She had lost her daughter.
She didn’t know how to get her back.
Osa pushed away her salad bowl. Didn’t even eat the edamame. She leaned her back into the padded booth, her dreamy eyes glazing over as if she were already far, far away. She wore her dark hair longer, and let it fall in front of her eyes.
“Doesn’t matter, Mom,” she said, her voice the dull steel of finality. She gestured at Dagny’s untouched soup. “When you’re done, we’ll go.”
The weight of the failed connection seared Dagny like an ungrounded wire. The childish laughter and light conversation surrounding them only highlighted the dead spot that was their table.
Desperation colored her voice. “Wait,” Dagny said, reaching out to touch Osa’s arm. “Please, let’s try something else. Anything you want, just tell me.”
Osa hesitated, then sighed. Her arms were so thin, the bones of her shoulders jutted out.
“Fine. Sure. But first, I need to hit the head.”
She stood up, hit the edge of the table, and bounced back into the seat. Not a spacer, her daughter. Too used to pushing around furniture that wasn’t bolted down. Osa swiveled her knees and scooted off the side of the booth’s bench onto the scuffed plasticrete floor.
Dagny tapped her finger on the lip of the soup bowl and stared unseeing out the window. In the theater of her mind, a highlights reel recounted every misstep. Every failed attempt to cross the growing expanse between them.
Her beautiful, freckled, soft-tulip girl. No, woman. A woman she no longer knew.
How to reconnect? Not by asking about her health, or her job. Absolutely not by asking about her friends.
Time was, Osa never stopped talking. The latest weird animal she’d been learning about. Who was going to win some floatball tournament. What some musician was wearing, or dating, or pontificating about.
Now, silence. Thick, steady, painful silence.
Nearly a miracle that they’d found themselves at the same place at the same time. More an artifact of the quadrennial xenobiologist convention held here on Exeter Station than any luck.
The Breaking Light’s xeno team was thick in the post-session planning, setting themes and venues for future conferences. Osa wasn’t part of that esteemed circle—yet. Dagny had seized the fleeting opportunity, inviting her daughter to spend a rare afternoon together.
And wasn’t that going great.
From here, she could see the park’s entrance, an absurd archway of massive dog bones encasing white plasticrete walls. At least they didn’t call the food “puppy treats.”
How much time did Osa need to pee?
Something prickled at the back of Dagny’s neck, a persistent unease. She scanned the circus around her. So many faces, colors, shapes.
No sign of her girl.
Something wasn’t right.
Dagny deserted the soup, and the booth. At the last second, she remembered to grab Osa’s thin violet sweater from the other bench. She tucked it into her big navy mom bag, a battered tote that had held everything from spare baby booties to circuit boards that needed retooling.
She darted toward the bathroom, dodging other patrons and serving staff.
Empty.
A tendril of panic burned down her throat.
Surely Osa wouldn’t just leave—right? But was this even her daughter anymore?
Dagny dashed out the back door, her scanning growing frantic. She called out once, but the din swallowed her voice. She finally pulled up the messages on her wristcom.
Nothing new.
Images of Osa flashed through Dagny’s mind. That sly smile, that bark of laughter when she was surprised, that unwavering determination. That expectation that everyone would love her; that everyone would care.
Osa was not just a daughter, she was Dagny’s entire world. She was the reason Dagny had pushed so hard to get onto Breaking Light. So Osa would have a chance to fly.
The garish battling music—every corner a different song—clawed at her. Osa’s hearing was even more sensitive than Dagny’s. Her daughter wouldn’t linger here.
Dagny sped under the absurd bone-door archway, desperate to trace her daughter’s steps. They’d met at the outer passenger docks and taken a tram to the park.
No one at the tram stop.
She had to stop to catch her breath. Her space-soft forty-something body wasn’t built for this much terror anymore. She dropped onto one of the benches at the tram stop. The stickiness on the red-plastic seat didn’t register, but recognizing that the armrest she was reaching for was made out of dog bones startled a soundless shriek out of her.
Osa was right: Galaxy George was creepy.
The perfect, unchanging daylight now felt oppressive, a silent conspiracy keeping the masses firmly entranced.
Suddenly, Dagny remembered. Duh. Messages could go both ways.
She lifted her wrist, but apparently her brain had sent it two messages: send a text, and smack her forehead with her palm. Instead, she smacked her forehead with her wristcom, hard enough she saw stars.
A small voice behind her giggled. Not Osa. Dagny blinked away the stars and focused on the wristcom interface.
She opened a voice call, and tapped the small metal patch behind her ear to enable her to hear it. The familiar chirp-chirp of the comm’s search for connection soothed her.
For a moment.
And then someone answered.
Someone who wasn’t Osa.