Chapter 2

Chapter 2

“ Y ou’re so stupid. How could someone as useless and worthless as you be the first at anything? You’ll only fail, and then you’ll be even more worthless. You may as well just come home now, while I still feel sorry enough for you to let you stay. No one else could possibly want you. Just look at you. You’re wearing those hideous, shapeless overalls that make you look even uglier than usual. You come back here right now, Lala, or it’s over between us.”

Primula opened her mouth to tell Trafford for the millionth time that she didn’t like being called Lala, as her feet marched her relentlessly back to the space elevator to obey him. Only when she looked out the airlock, the space elevator was gone, hidden behind a bright orange fireball headed right for her…

That’s when Primula woke with a start, like she always did. It took her a moment to reorient herself, just as it did every night she had this nightmare. A wave of her hand set the bedhead light panels aglow, so she could see her apartment in Eden.

She was alone because she lived alone. Trafford couldn’t reach her here, not even on the comm unit. She’d never hear his voice again.

She stroked her hands down the synthsilk sheets she’d bought in Metropolis City. Trafford would never have allowed floral sheets on his bed; but her sheets were patterned with deep blue salvias, which would match the plant on her bedside table when it grew large enough to flower. Now, she plucked off a leaf, crushed it between her palms, then inhaled the calming scent of sage.

Lastly, she reached for the flask on the table, and screwed off the lid. She gulped down the iced chamomile tea that Trafford would have scoffed at as a useless expense. Tea was for nancies, he’d said, before swatting the teapot out of her hand so it smashed on the tiles, splashing boiling water everywhere. He’d made her scrub the kitchen clean first, before letting her tend to her burned feet, because the whole mess was her fault, he’d said.

Not for the first time, she wondered about the explosion that destroyed the space elevator and Exodus Station. Did Trafford blame her for that, too?

She didn’t remember much of it, except in her dreams. She’d blacked out from the pain of her injuries as the oxygen levels dropped in the departure lounge, and the rescue crew had stuck her in a stasis pod, where she’d stayed until she woke up in the Colony hospital, fifty lightyears away from Earth, Trafford, and everything she’d ever known.

Trafford had been right about one thing: she’d never be the first person to build a functional aquaponics system on Mars, because she and her fish had been sent to the Colony instead.

Now, she was about to have a second chance at being first. The first person to build a functional aquaponics system on an alien planet – Delta in the Altan System.

Assuming something didn’t go wrong this time, when she was sure it would. She had Trafford’s voice in her head, filling her dreams with reminders of how useless and worthless she was, how she’d never do anything of note, and he’d been right so far. If only she’d realised sooner, and boarded the space elevator earlier, she might have made it home to him and everything would have gone back to the way it was.

Or she might have died in the explosion…

Primula shuddered.

Damn it, she was supposed to be trying to calm herself, not working up to another nightmare.

Primula swung her legs over the side of the bed and headed for the kitchen. She needed something stronger than tea tonight.

She knew alcohol was not the answer – every drink Trafford downed had only made him meaner.

The girls at work told her to book a session with one of the Colony’s counselling staff if she was having trouble sleeping. That’s what the counsellors were there for – helping people. Except…

Primula had seen the video footage of the early years in the Altan System, before the Colony. Humans and Titans had fought a war for the system, with many lives lost on both sides. Most of the Colony citizens were war veterans and their families. They’d been granted jobs and homes in the Colony to honour their service. People who had fought and seen their friends and families die. People who now had PTSD and physical injuries, who needed counselling far more than she did.

After all, what could she say? Nothing that Trafford hadn’t said a thousand times already. She felt useless and worthless because she was. She’d never achieved anything in her life, and she was lucky the Colony government had given her a job and an apartment in Eden. If she complained too loudly, they might think she was ungrateful and take that away from her, too. The universe knew she didn’t deserve any of this, least of all the second chance to be first.

But if the universe was going to give her a second chance…she intended to seize it with both hands, and at least try to prove she was worth something. Enough to let her stay in the Colony for a little longer.

So instead of reaching for the lavender liqueur she usually poured when she couldn’t sleep, Primula fastened her fingers around the piccolo of pineapple fizz she’d been saving for a special occasion. She twisted off the top and held the bottle high. “To second chances and being allowed to stay,” she said to the ceiling. Then she tipped the bottle and drank.

Tart bubbles tickled her tongue, fizzing all the way down. The fizz wasn’t strong, but there was enough alcohol to lift her spirits enough to wish that maybe, just maybe, this could be the start of something. Yes, she might be worthless now, but if she worked hard enough, maybe she could give back enough to really be worth something.

Oh, she’d never be special or important enough for someone to fall head over heels in love with, like Cupid or Anna at work. The single guys in the office didn’t look twice at her. She didn’t dare meet their eyes at the office parties, so she wouldn’t see their disgust at having to work with her. Or the way their eyes lit up when they saw someone who was worth wooing.

Enough moping. She’d been lucky enough to snag Trafford, and then survive the explosion. Asking the universe for any more good luck would be pointless. Better to hope for good luck for her fish, as it was their survival that mattered now.

There was only a mouthful of wine left in the bottle, but she raised it resolutely once more. “For the fish,” she said, before draining the bottle.

Then she made herself cross the room back to her bed and cocoon herself in the pretty floral sheets. This time, when sleep took her, she dreamed of bubbles, the swish of a water filter, and fish. All the fish.