Excerpt - The Listeners, chapter 1

Space travel was not supposed to be like this.


Mondrian Delacroix knew space travel. She’d been doing it for most of her life, after all. The fragile humans were supposed to stay on the inside, if not always warm then cozy, with lots and lots of fuzzy socks. The drones and servos were supposed to take care of anything gone wrong on the outside. They were strong and sturdy, didn’t need air, and didn’t mind spending a little time in subfreezing cold or infernal heat.


But no, the servo in front of her was saying. Pushing some stick-wrench tool at her. Apparently only humans could make this fix, or humanform servos. Since there were no humanform servos on this tiny fancy-ass courier ship, it was down to her, the only human around. She should have known never to get on a ship that looked like a missile wearing a ballerina’s tutu.


The tutu was the problem. It was actually solar sails, circling the skinny middle of the ship. They fanned out in an intricate dance, overlapping a bit as they pivoted this way and that to collect energy. The engineer helping her during the preflight pilot check said they liked to call the sails petals, and the ship design the flower.


Sure, if you like really aggressive stamen.


It was the intricacy of the dance that had proved this tutu’s downfall. Some space debris had snapped a bit of the hoops of the skirt. Now the whole thing could not move without injuring itself more. And only humans, who can bend in so many weird ways, were flexible enough to fix it.


Fine.


She accepted the stick-wrench, a knight accepting her lady’s favor. And then had to set it down right away to get into her exosuit. 


At least the suit part was easy; she could do it in her sleep. And also within thirty seconds of being woken up from a sound sleep by a blaring horn during cadet testing. Safety first, hearing loss second.


The suit’s boots conformed to her doubled-up socks, and upped the temperature in the limbs to make up for the thinness of her clothing. Servo said this would take one-point-six minutes, which meant more like ten minutes at Mondrian speed. Well within range for a suit that was rated at six hours of air.

The suit got all snuggy with her, squeezing off a trace of that cinnamon SuitClean she liked so much. Mon reviewed the specs of the sails/petals/tutu on her visor’s overlay. Looked like one of those greenstick fractures, one side cracked but the other side just bent. The stick-wrench would stay in the sail, to straighten and support it until they got to station. If she could fix it so the sail could close in on itself, snuggle against the hull, then she could keep going to Rucarro. If not, then cancel all appointments, straight to the closest mechanic.


“I can do this,” she told the servo. “But you owe me.”


I know how to make sugar cookies, the servo texted. Cinnamon.


“Deal.”


Once out there, stepping one-foot-down-always along the ship’s hull—the main engine was off for transit but of course they were still moving—Mondrian found the fracture easily. The sails were half open, so she had to tuck herself between and reach around and up to set the break. Success on the first try. Humans for the win! And the stick-wrench was perfect for the job. Servos for the win!
Now she wanted to watch it work.


Mon gently pushed away from the sail. She tugged her safety leash to get enough give for her to sit down, sort of, on the hull. Too bad her butt didn’t have magnets.


“Ready,” she said. “Go ahead and test.”


The sails shivered delicately. Super slowly, they spread open, overlapping, underlapping together until the tutu was full. The solar collectors gleamed gold. It really was a beautiful design. Mon wished it had a sound. The background of her soft breaths and the suit’s crunch as she adjusted her position was too dull for such a sight.


Testing the close function, the servo said. Mon settled in for beauty in reverse. The wings didn’t just hug the hull, but tucked into it, leaving the outer surface sleek.


Perfect. It really was a gorgeous design. Someone on the engineering team was a true artist. And a good negotiator, to get such a little frill into real production.


Opening to return to normal function.


The vibration of the sails’ workings started, and then stopped. 
Nothing happened.


Mon frowned. She hadn’t felt a vibration when it opened the first time.
“Everything okay?” she said.


No response.


"So it’s still broken?”


Nothing.


Mon grabbed the safety leash to help turn herself around. 
Stuff was floating around the other end of the ship. Stuff that hadn’t been there when she came out here. 


Debris.


Mon’s breath grew more ragged as her mind started to identify objects. 
What the blazing suns?
A big piece of pale-blue fabric that looked a lot like the comforter on her bed. Pillows in Smart Monkey pillowcases. The soft green sweater she hadn’t bothered to put away last night.


Her best pair of boots.


Sweat exploded on her forehead and chest. The suit beeped worriedly.


She couldn’t lose those boots. They had the special reinforcing and lifetime repair deal. They could withstand vacuum, water, arctic nights, volcanic days, everything.


Mon pushed up to standing. Holding tight to the safety line, she took step over step. She could hear her instructors braying their disgust at her haste.


She turned off all the red text in her helmet visor. No kidding she was panicking. Her room was in the center of the ship. Supposedly the safest, most reinforced section. Where the important diplomatic documents and all that were stored.


When she got to within an arm’s length of her boots, she saw the problem.


The front half of the ship was missing.

Click to read Chapter Two

from The Listeners, available in ebook and paperback