The Vela: The Complete Season 1

by Yoon Ha Lee, Becky Chambers, SL Huang

  The mercenary sat at the table, a full plate of dinner before her, legs crisscrossed on a cushion, posture perfect as she read something on her handheld. Niko wondered if Asala ever slumped, if she ever spent days clad in holey pajamas, complete with snack crumbs and unwashed hair. Somehow, they doubted it.

  Asala ate calmly, giving only a slight glance up as Niko entered. “You know how to use a meal station?” she asked, scooping up her next mouthful in a fold of flatbread.

  “Of course,” Niko said, a little annoyed at the assumption that they might not, a little more annoyed because they understood where the assumption came from. Growing up in their father’s family, meals were something someone else usually made for you. They approached the appliance set into the wall and accessed the menu panel. The selection was standard Khayyami fare: spicy grain stews and colorful pan-fries, nuts and vegetables and every animal worth domesticating.

  “Is it working?” Asala asked.

  “Yeah,” Niko said. “Was it not?”

  “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 general stared at them from one side. Asala did the same from the other. “It’s a hobby,” Niko said.

  “A hobby,” the general repeated.

  Niko looked at Asala. Her face was cool as ever, but her stare shouted do not fuck this up loud and clear. “Have to have something to do for three weeks, right?” Niko said.

  Cynwrig considered them. “Well, if you’re good w
ith computers, perhaps you could take a look at the communications hub in my quarters. There’s some kind of minor malfunction with it.”

  Asala looked up. “You too?”

  The general raised her eyebrows. “Is there a problem I should know about?”

  Niko shook their head. “Asala experienced a response lag with some of the interface panels. That’s usually due to a combo of faulty wiring and ex-atmo radiation. I can take a look at it.”

  Cynwrig nodded, but her eyes had gone a touch harder, the look of a woman used to knives at her back. “And what else do you plan to do while we’re here, aside from your . . . hobby?”

  Research for our mission was the answer, but Niko couldn’t . . . well, maybe they could. A rebellious impulse bubbled up, born out of the disgust they’d been trying to smother. Cynwrig had asked the question, after all. Might as well tell the truth. “Do you know who Uzochi Ryouta is?”

  What did I say about not fucking this up, Asala’s unblinking glare said.

  “Of course,” Cynwrig said. She smirked as she chewed.

  “She released this video series on one of the free-public channels,” Niko said. “About the Eratosi refugees.” They glanced at Asala, who had stopped eating. “I thought that since we’re on our way to talk about relief efforts, it might be a good way for me to better understand what they’re going through.”

  “You’re going to Hypatia, are you not?”

  “Yes.” Niko’s hands felt shaky, but in their head, their friends cheered them on. They looked Cynwrig dead in the eye. “But refugees are refugees. I figure all people suffer in pretty much the same way.”

  Cynwrig did something truly disturbing: she smiled at Niko. An acid smile. A mocking smile. She took one more bite and stood. “If you’ll both excuse me,” she said. “I think I’ll finish my meal in my quarters.”

  Asala didn’t move. Her eyes watched Cynwrig exit the room, remained on the hallway until the lift took off, then swung hard back to Niko.

  “What the hell was that?” she said.

  “What the hell is this?” Niko said, gesturing around. “Why is she here?”

  “We went over this already.”

  “It was rhetorical! This is . . . this is ridiculous. How can you stand being here with her?”

  Asala looked at the thick hull shielding them from the vacuum outside. “Where else would I go?”

  “But—” Niko closed their eyes and shook their head. “What she’s doing to your people. I can’t stand it. I can’t stand being around her. How can you?”

  “It’s my job,” Asala said.

  Niko stared at her. So neutral, so poised. When their father had come to them with this job and told them who they’d be accompanying, Niko had been elated. They’d expected danger, yes, and discomfort, sure, but not . . . not this. “What is wrong with you?” they blurted out. “Those people on her Marauder—”

  “Keep it down.”

  “You shoved them back in the hold. You looked—you looked annoyed by them.”

  Asala squinted. “Has this been bothering you since then?”

  “Yes! They’re your people. They’re dying. You made the same trip they—”

  “Do not.” Asala’s voice was as sharp as the crack of a bullet. “Do not tell me what I did.”

  Niko wet their lips. “Why don’t you care about them?”

  Asala took the last of her bread and cleaned the sauce from her plate until it shined. “Are you armed, Niko?”

  Niko was taken aback. “What?”

  “Are you armed?”

  “No, of course not. Why would I be armed?”

  Asala began to clean up her spot. “You just shared a meal with two people who are.” The general’s pistol had been impossible to miss, but Niko hadn’t noticed a weapon on Asala, and they couldn’t see one now. Asala gathered her dishes and left the table. “In the future, that’s the kind of situation in which it pays not to piss anyone off.”

  • • •

  Would you say your name and position here for the camera?

  My name is Apirka Amin, and I’m the ship’s captain.

  Captain Amin, what are some of the biggest challenges you and your crew are dealing with right now?

  Well, for starters, this is a ship designed for eight hundred people, not two thousand. The Khayyami government didn’t expect so many when they sent us out here.

  You’ve done your best with the space you have.

  That was all the Blue Hats. They came in and put up the privacy dividers in the cargo holds, and gave us the sleeping mats and whatnot. And the lavs.

  Yes, the pop-up lavatories. We’re all well acquainted with them.

  They’re god-awful.

  I’d have to agree.

  The ship has a sewage system, but again—

  It’s built for eight hundred.

  Right.

  The Blue Hat volunteers provided the rations and basic hygiene items, too, right?

  Yeah. They were pretty organized. I wish it had stayed that way.

  What’s gone wrong?

  The kinds of things you’d expect from people crammed into too little space and no way to shut a door on someone you don’t like. There have been thefts. Fights. The volunteer patrols are on it, but . . . it’s hard. And people are getting sick. Can’t sneeze in the cargo holds without hitting all your neighbors.

  But the ship’s systems are stable?

  . . . Sure.

  That was a long pause you took there.

  They’re stable. Nothing for the passengers to worry about. We’re safe.

  I understand.

  • • •

  The Altair had been in transit for almost a week, and given that nobody had killed anyone else yet, Asala was starting to think the trip might go quietly. The general continued to run her daily security checks, and if that made her feel better, fine. Niko alternated between trying to sweep their outburst at dinner under the rug with a profound amount of sucking up, and hiding from the general in their room, where they were busy doing whatever a person did with computers. As for Asala, she was attempting, as best she could with the company, to spend her interplanetary flight the way she always spent interplanetary flights: sitting in her quarters and reading.

  She was failing at it, despite the comfortable lounge chair, despite the simulated candles she’d switched on, despite the little plate of pickled fruit and the refreshment tin she had at hand. She tried new books, old books, fresh ideas and familiar friends. Nothing stuck. She couldn’t concentrate, and when she found she’d read the same stanza three times over without properly processing it, she tossed her handheld aside and rubbed her face with her palms. She knew why she couldn’t read, and she was spitting mad over it.

  Damn Ekrem, and damn his kid. Damn that photo they’d shoved in her face.

  Asala knew why none of her books would stick. She was thinking about one particular set of books, one she desperately wanted and would never see again. The Wonders of Eramen, all six volumes. It was a used set, and had likely been bought cheap, but there was no collection in the galaxy more precious to Asala. She remembered the worn covers, the feel of the mock paper. Most of all, she remembered the inscription inside the first volume: To my little sister, on her birthday, with love from Dayo. The words sister and her were written in slightly different ink on neatly cut rectangles of glued paper, which Dayo had covered the original misnomers with a year or so after the gift had been given, after an important conversation had been had. Dayo hadn’t told Asala she’d altered the inscription. She’d just done it, leaving it for Asala to find on her own. Dayo had been like that, always performing quiet kindnesses without expectation of praise.

  And yet Asala had abandoned her, and the books, and everyone else besides. It didn’t matter that she’d been a child, that larger hands and stronger wills had placed her on that ship. There’d been a time when she felt like they’d thrown her away, but no. No, she’d abandoned them. In both body and mind, she had.


  She stood up and began to pace. Damn Ekrem, and damn his kid. This was a line of thinking she’d stopped beating herself with long ago, and had worked so hard to bury. And yet here she was, headed to Hypatia in search of ghosts.

  She could be alive, a voice in her head whispered. She was alive ten years ago. She could be, still.

  She tried to shove the thought aside, but Niko had planted it in fertile ground, and its roots had dug deep. The intensity of it frightened her. There was nothing more dangerous than hope.

  If she’s alive, you have to try, the voice said. Even if it’s only a chance. You have to try. For her.

  There was no arguing that.

  She paced until her feet were tired, and after a few minutes of sitting back down, she realized the rest of her was tired too. She washed up, folded her clothes, and got into bed. She stared into the dark for a long time, indulging in old memories and letting the pain of them sit with her. Hypatia was going to hurt. Might was well get ready for that.

  Her mind drifted, then quieted, then let her go altogether.

  Her rest began softly, but it ended with a shriek—a metallic shriek pouring out of every speaker and straight into Asala’s brain, erasing the immediately forgotten dream she’d been lost in, preventing any waking thoughts from gaining legs. Both hands shot up to her ears, and she dialed her implants all the way down as quickly as she could. Silence reigned. Her mind regrouped. She took a breath, shook her head, looked around.