Chapter Six
Seedlings in the Dark**
The second contract from Dr. Elyra Voss arrived with the same cheerful tone as her smile, tucked neatly into Kael’s inbox while The Wayward Starling drifted like a drowsy gull between jumps.
Job: Transport two crates of micro-seedling trays and one portable nutrient?mist unit to Greenhouse Orbital 3 around Lacaille?Tau Moonlet B. Care Instructions: Maintain 20–22°C, low?light cycle, gentle vibration acceptable (ship hum preferred), do not expose to sudden drafts. Note: If they wiltingly dramatize, whisper encouragement. (I’m only half joking.) —E.V.
Kael reread the note twice.
Kessa slid into the co?pilot seat upside?down, legs hooked over the back. “What’s the face?”
“She wants us to whisper encouragement to the cargo.”
Kessa popped a bubble of gum and grinned. “I do that to you all the time.”
“I am not cargo.”
“Tell that to your snack intake.”
He ignored her and tapped the accept button.
The route to Lacaille?Tau was a straightforward two-jump hop with a thin drift between lanes. Perfect for testing how the Starling felt under their hands now that their nerves had calmed and the muffins had settled.
“Course set,” Kael said. “Greenhouse Orbital 3 has a… small-station docking spine. We’ll be on a sidearm.”
“Sidearm’s my favorite,” Kessa said. “It feels like we’re perching.”
“You are not a bird.”
“Then why is the ship named Starling?” She stuck her tongue out. “Checkmate.”
Pickup, Please Don’t Poke
Nettle Station’s agri-dock was quieter than the main bays—darker lights, lower voices, the quiet huff of oxygen being filtered through leaves. The twins signed in, and a soft-spoken tech rolled out two crates and a rather endearing cylinder labeled PORTABLE MISTY-UNIT: PLEASE DO NOT POKE.
Kessa, who had already raised a finger for experimental poking, quietly lowered it.
“We’ll take it from here,” Kael said, trying not to sound as protective as he felt.
The tech nodded. “They’re sturdier than they look. But don’t shock them with bright light, they get dramatic.”
“Dramatic how?” Kessa asked.
“Droop. Overreaction. Emotional blackmail.”
“Relatable,” Kessa said solemnly.
They secured the crates at the Starling’s mid-bay with double mag?straps and set the Misty-Unit between them like a chaperone. Kael ran a diagnostic on the ship’s environmental controls, then input Elyra’s temperature and light settings into a maintenance subroutine and a redundant one—because he was Kael.
Kessa set a soft music track to play on low volume. It was the café playlist Merrin had given them on a whim: acoustic strings and an old?fashioned lullaby that sounded like warm bread in song form.
“Plants like music,” Kessa said, hands on hips. “Science proves it.”
“Does it?” Kael asked.
“Yes,” Kessa said, not looking up anything at all, with the conviction of a thousand papers she had never read.
Jump & Drift
The jump to the first lane felt like slipping into a familiar sweater: soft, worn, perfect. The Starling purred her low, contented hum and the view outside their bow turned velvet-blue.
Kessa rested her boots on the console. “So. If the seedlings pitch a fit, what’s our plan?”
“Stick to Elyra’s instructions,” Kael said. “Temperature range, low light, no drafts. We’ll check the cargo bay every thirty minutes.”
Kessa nodded, then added, “And tell them a joke.”
“No.”
“A gentle one.”
“No jokes.”
She chewed her gum, thoughtful. “What about a pun?”
“No puns.”
“Come on,” she said. “You know what they say in agri?domes: Lettuce romaine calm.”
Kael closed his eyes. “I regret everything about knowing you.”
She giggled and set a thirty?minute timer.
They drifted.
The lane pause came halfway between the two jumps—routine recalibration. The Starling slowed, humming deeper as the threads of hyperspace relaxed into a pale haze. There was nothing to do but wait.
Kessa’s timer chimed. “Cargo check!”
Kael nodded. “Let’s go whisper sweet nothings to the salad.”
“See? Now you’re on board.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
A Minor Emergency (Hold the Panic)
The cargo bay greeted them with the gentle beep of the Misty-Unit and the faintest scent of fresh, green life. The crates were secure, the temperature panel steady at 21.3°C. In tray windows along the crate tops, little points of bright green stood upright—tiny leaflets proud with the sort of bravado only new life can muster.
Kessa pressed her forehead to a crate window. “Hi, babies.”
Kael checked the mist schedule. “Program says micro?mist every forty minutes for the trays marked A, every sixty for B.”
Kessa squinted. “Which is which?”
“That’s why they’re labeled.”
“Oh.”
He let that pass. “Everything looks—”
A soft tric?tric?tric rattled through the bay. The Misty-Unit’s indicator light flickered amber, then red.
“Uh?oh,” Kessa said. “Mister Misty is developing a personality.”
Kael knelt. “It’s just a pressure hiccup. We can reset.”
He tapped the panel. It cheeped at him like a wounded chick.
Kessa crouched beside him. “Sounded personal.”
“It’s an appliance.”
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She reached past him, flicked the reset, and the unit chirped back to green.
“You’re welcome,” she said to it.
The Misty-Unit whirred… then stopped. The indicator ticked amber again. The pressure bar sagged like a disappointed parent.
Kessa squinted. “I think it’s sulking.”
“It’s clogged.” Kael popped the side panel with his multitool and peered in. “Filter mesh is dirty. Easy fix.”
As he reached for the tiny mesh assembly, something thumped lightly inside the crate behind them. Not dramatic. Not frightening. Just… opinionated.
Kessa froze. “What was that.”
“Seedlings don’t thump.”
“They do if they’re enthusiastic.”
Kael sighed, extracted the little filter, and held it up to the cargo lights. The mesh was gray with fine dust—probably harmless particles from the station transfer.
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll clean this, and—”
The ship’s ventilation baffles opened overhead with a soft sigh, as the Starling’s environment system compensated for their mid?jump drift.
A breeze drifted over their heads.
It was gentle.
It was brief.
It was technically a draft.
And every seedling in view wilted dramatically by two millimeters.
Kessa slapped a hand over her mouth. “No no no—don’t you dare faint on me, you adorable drama leaves.”
Kael stared. “They actually—”
“Emotional blackmail,” Kessa whispered. “The tech warned us.”
“Alright.” Kael set his shoulders. “No panic. I’ll clean the filter. You—”
“Tell them a joke,” Kessa said.
“No.”
“Then hype them up.”
“I do not know how to hype up plants.”
“Try. They’re babies. They like tone.”
Kael inhaled, then leaned toward the crate window and spoke in the most encouraging voice he could manage.
“You’re doing great. This is a very stable environment. You are safe. You are thriving. You are… extremely leaf-forward.”
Kessa blinked. “Leaf?forward?”
“I panicked.”
“It was cute.”
He cleaned the filter with a soft brush, reseated it, and resealed the panel. The Misty-Unit chirped green and began its soft cycle, releasing a whisper of cool vapor. Within seconds, the tiny leaves lifted—slowly, but unmistakably—like a hundred miniature actors rising for a bow.
Kessa clutched her chest. “I’m going to cry over salad.”
Kael let himself smile. “Let’s not report that to Elyra.”
“Too late,” Kessa said, holding up her recorder. “For the archives.”
“Kessa.”
She snapped the recorder off and winked. “Kidding.”
The bay settled into its quiet hum again. The indicator held steady. Crisis: neatly averted.
They stood there a moment longer than absolutely necessary, both watching the tiny green forests inside the crates breathe the ship’s gentle air.
“Okay,” Kael said finally. “Back to the bridge.”
“Wait,” Kessa said. “One more thing.”
She took a small sticker from her pocket—a cartoon basil leaf with sunglasses—and slapped it carefully on the Misty-Unit’s side panel.
“For morale,” she said.
Kael opened his mouth to protest. Then closed it. “Fine. But no more… décor.”
“Define ‘more’.”
“Kessa.”
She beamed. “Okay. One sticker. For now.”
The Practical Joke (Harmless, He Swears)
They were ten minutes back into the lane drift when the bridge alarm quacked.
Kael’s hand shot to the console. “What—what was—”
Kessa’s laughter burst out like soda foam. “Surprise!”
Kael blinked. “Did the alert just… quack?”
“It did. And it will. On minor alerts only.” She wiggled her fingers. “I swapped the default chime for a duck sound yesterday.”
“Why.”
“Because.” She pointed to the status panel. “See? Not a danger alert. Just the lane recalibration timer. No risk. But now your heart won’t leap out of your throat for every gentle ping.”
Kael rubbed his temple. “Or it will because I think there’s a duck loose on my spaceship.”
“Counterpoint: it’s funny.”
He stared at her.
She stared back.
Eventually—inevitably—his mouth twitched.
“It is… slightly funny.”
“Ha! Victory!”
“Change it back after this run.”
“We’ll see.”
“Kessa.”
She made a zipping motion across her lips and pointed at the panel. “Focus, Captain. Lane’s opening.”
He inhaled, let the quack?afterglow pass, and set the Starling on a gentle line toward the second jump corridor.
Approach to Greenhouse Orbital 3
They dropped out of the lane with the familiar soft whumph. Realspace snapped into its comforting clarity. Ahead, the greenhouse station turned slowly—a shining wheel with translucent domes studded along the rim like pearls. Through the nearest dome, Kael could see the shimmer of leaves and thin threads of irrigation glittering in the station’s light.
“Docking spine on the far side,” Kessa said, hands flying confidently across her screen. “Traffic Control is chill. I like them already.”
Kael guided the Starling along the approach vector, feeling the ship respond like a content old friend: steady, sure, happy to be useful.
“Greenhouse Orbital 3,” a calm voice said over comms, “this is Docking Control. We have you, Wayward Starling. Proceed to Sidearm Two. Please note: gentle entry only. We have seedlings napping.”
Kessa pressed the comms. “Copy that, Docking Control. We also have seedlings napping. The vibe is immaculate.”
There was a chuckle. “Welcome, Starling. See you in a minute.”
Kael exhaled. “Let’s keep it clean.”
“No mating dances,” Kessa promised. “Beacon Eleven taught us lessons.”
He eased the Starling into position. Clamps sealed with a soft ka-chunk—more affectionate than assertive. The indicator lit green.
“Docked,” Kael said, unable to keep the pride from his voice.
Kessa put her hand over his on the console. “Perfect.”
He squeezed back. “Team effort.”
“Obviously. Word of caution, though.”
“What?”
“If you quack at the dockmaster, I will disown you.”
“I’m not going to quack at a dockmaster.”
“Good,” she said. “Because I will.”
“Kessa—”
But she was already laughing her way out of the chair.
Delivery, Whispered Encouragement Included
They offloaded the crates with deliberate care, the Misty-Unit humming merrily (and very proud of its sticker). A greenhouse tech in green coveralls met them at the hatch, eyes widening at the neat way the twins had secured straps so the crates would take corners without jostle.
“Nice rigging,” the tech said. “First?timers?”
“Second run,” Kael said, trying to sound both humble and competent.
“Feels like you’ve done this a while.”
Kessa whispered to the crates, “He needed that.”
“Stop narrating,” Kael murmured, but he didn’t mind. Not really.
They rolled the cargo into a softly lit corridor scented like rain. Tiny domes lined the hall, each a little world of green. Somewhere, a hidden mist sprayer hissed and sighed.
“Shh,” the tech said, voice lowering. “They’re on a rest cycle.”
Kessa put a finger to her lips, leaned toward a crate window, and whispered, “You did so good.”
Kael swallowed a laugh. “You are not going to tuck them in.”
“Watch me.”
She did, in her way—palming the crate lid gently as the tech logged the delivery, murmuring nonsense praise like you would to a sleepy cat. The leaves inside seemed… calmer. Or maybe that was just the warm hum of the station softening the edges of Kael’s over?protective heart.
“Payment received,” the tech said, checking their pad. “Thank you, Starling. And—uh—whoever gave the Misty-Unit that sticker? Our chief horticulturist will be unreasonably delighted.”
Kessa saluted. “Morale matters.”
The tech grinned. “You two will do fine out here.”
Kael felt that warm?coat feeling again—belonging, settling, becoming.
“Thank you,” he said.
Back aboard the Starling, the airlock sealed behind them with a contented sigh.
Kessa flopped into her chair. “We kept seedlings alive in space while babysitting a moody humidifier and a duck alarm.”
Kael snorted. “A sentence only we could say.”
“And only we would be proud of.”
He looked out at the greenhouse station, at the gentle spin of the domes and the tiny glints of workers moving along its outer spine. Then he looked at his sister—chaotic, brilliant, loyal—and at the scuffed, beloved bridge of their ship.
“Yeah,” he said, soft as the ship’s hum. “I’m proud.”
Kessa nudged him with her shoulder. “Ready for the next?”
He nodded. “Always.”
The Starling answered with a happy little rattle somewhere in the bulkhead—like a laugh.
Kessa grinned. “See? She likes the duck.”
“She does not.”
“She quacks up every time.”
“Kessa.”
But he was laughing, too.
And somewhere out beyond the next lane, a quiet breadcrumb in Jorin’s logs waited—a small star, a large truth, and a path the twins were only just beginning to see.
