The Trade Center

I am good. I am good. I will not show my excitement. I will stay composed, and I will not rush my answers, thought Perkle as he walked toward the gates of the station. He had just arrived at PL27, a new hire for logistical work. Although he had been one of the best students in his class, he had come without much sponsorship, and so he was beginning as a trainee at one of the busiest ports of the station. Position aside, it was considered prestigious work simply to be part of a Trade Center.

"Hello — you must be Perkle," said a friendly voice, with a familiar accent.

Perkle stood stock-still, his eyes wide and his body drawn up straight. "Yes, I am Perkle, ma'am. Here to report for the position of logistics trainee at sector 567/432," he said in a sharp, careful tone, curious to have been greeted by a girl of his own species and near his own age — though he managed to keep the curiosity at bay. He was terrible at talking to females, but for the moment he could only see her as a superior, which helped him focus and speak more easily.

Peni tried to hold in her laugh, with little success. "I am Peni," she said, with a joyful smile. "I am here to help you get your bearings. Come with me."

"Yes, ma'am," said Perkle, visibly nervous.

"You don't need to speak to me like that," said Peni. "I am a new recruit too. I've been here for about 300 mer, working as a trainee in people-resources."

Perkle ran a few calculations in his head, and before he could arrive at a number, Peni interrupted his thoughts. "You're funny. You should start thinking in US units soon. It will help a lot."

They passed through the gates and into the main square of the gigantic space station. The buzz of life, the colors, the music — it all made Perkle's jaw drop. The spectacle! Floors upon floors, so many it felt as though they would never end; so much transparent material; so much speed in the transport capsules; so much complexity. Bridges, and people of every kind, walking as easily as they would on a planet. The absence of gravity had been tamed by clever engineering.

"This is amazing," said Perkle. "I never dreamed it would be this amazing in person. I mean — I'd seen so many videos of this place, with a working waterfall to hydrate the atmosphere, and fourteen different biomes, let alone the transport system that can carry you from one side to the other in under 14 glimis. It even hosts thirty-nine councils of the local groups of planets. Can you imagine? Thirty-nine groups of planets, led by people in this station! It stands right at the center of a sphere that engulfs over five hundred solar systems—" He caught himself, suddenly aware that he had been talking too fast, too excitedly, and far too loudly. He stopped, and for a moment forgot the magnificence around him, his mind fixed instead on the poor impression he was sure he had just made on Peni. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm talking too much, ma'am."

"It's no trouble at all. I'm just the same — don't forget, we're Pligars. We like to express everything we feel, out loud."

"I was told I have to try and keep my excitement, and my urge to talk, at bay. To be honest, I tend to talk a great deal, even for a Pligar. Sometimes my own mother had to send me to my room, because I could not stop talking through a show. But I'm going to work on it, and I mean to get it under control."

Peni started to smile. "It took me a while to blend in, too. But don't worry — once work starts piling up, it forces you to focus, and then you'll have nothing else to say. There's a warmth to it, sometimes, having no thought in your head but the work in front of you."

"You're great!" said Perkle — and before he understood what he had said, he snapped his body straight. "I mean — you're a great guide. You're already helping me understand how things are going to be. Not that you aren't great at other things too, I just mean you've been great at everything I've seen so far—" Aaargh, stop talking, Perkle thought. You're messing everything up. Just calm down and stop talking.

"You really are funny," said Peni, laughing. "Come on — let me show you to your room."

At the apartment complex where Perkle would be staying, his eyes filled once more with wonder. "This is magnificent," he said, gazing down the vast corridors of rooms.

"Here — this one is yours," said Peni. "I live just over there." She pointed away down the corridor, and the communicator on Perkle's arm registered at once the location of Peni's room. "If you need anything, you can call me, or come and visit," she said, and again the communicator caught her command and granted him leave to call her.

"Is this thing listening to everything we say?" Perkle asked, patting his wrist communicator with curiosity.

"Yes," said Peni, with a smile, "but there's nothing to worry about. Back on our world we value privacy to the point where it becomes an obstacle. Here, you have as much privacy — more, even. The AIs store and process everything to keep the station running smoothly. Just don't dwell on it, and soon you'll see it's only another tool."

Perkle turned and looked toward his room. For a second he forgot the surveillance he felt himself under, and said, excited, "I can't wait to see the room. I know it's tiny compared to what we have back home — but the technology... I can't wait to try it."

"Then I'll leave you to play with your room a while. I'll see you tomorrow after work, if you'd like — I can show you the best places to eat and relax." And with that Peni smiled, gestured a Pligar farewell, and walked away.

Perkle approached the door to his room, and it opened on its own. Impressive, he thought — but not extraordinary. He stepped into an empty room, bare but for a strange contraption at the center of the ceiling. "Welcome," said a sweet, friendly voice. "Let's get you started, Perkle." A holographic cube appeared in the air before him, in miniature, and within it stood a small figure that, on closer examination, was Perkle himself — moving, live. "Here you can download any design you like for your room," the voice said. "A place for recreation, for sleep, for dancing, for swimming, for games — anything you can picture. You may choose from the pre-designed models, but we encourage you to build the room as you see fit. Whenever you want it changed, just ask."

This is incredible, thought Perkle. His mind went straight to games. "Would it be all right if we turned the room into a jelly maze? The kind of jelly we use back home for the walls of children's playgrounds. And inside the maze, could we place fluff-spheres, and a small — what do you call it—" While he groped for the word, the AI offered one. "Would you like it modeled on the Maze Room of Wonder Maze Rulias, from the theme park Trovith on your world?"

Perkle's eyes went wide. "Yes — that's exactly what I had in mind. You can do that? Isn't it too childish for my age?"

"Yes, I can do that; and no, it is not childish to want to enjoy your own company amid the thrills of a jelly maze," said the AI, in a tone so warm and natural it was indistinguishable from a real person's.

As if by magic, the room folded and grew around him into a child's wonderland — at least in the eyes of a Pligar child. The sheer delight he took in reshaping it, one thing into another, would have been a joy for anyone to watch. When at last he tired of it, he thought of going out for a stroll, to see other parts of the station. There were wonders in every direction. He began to wonder what more the rich could possibly have. What more than his own room could anyone ask for? Company, perhaps? His eyes cast about for something to answer the question — and his mind settled, quickly, on Peni. Before arriving here, he would never have been bold enough even to imagine the company of a female.

Perkle stepped out of his room, the door sealing silently behind him and vanishing into the smooth metallic wall. The corridor, he noticed, was bright and spotless, lined with soft glowing panels that mimicked natural daylight. He set off through the station, the AI feeding him whatever he cared to ask about. Why did they send Peni, he wondered, when I have this AI that can do anything? As he walked and turned the question over in his young mind, he caught a gentle hum in the air — not machinery, but the soft, calming sound of running water. He followed it, curious, his steps echoing lightly on the polished floor and blending with the footsteps of others into a symphony without a conductor.

As he went, the view opened onto a vast indoor forest. Towering trees reached toward a translucent ceiling, where artificial sunlight filtered through to cast dappled patterns on the ground. Birds — real or artificial, he could not tell — flitted from branch to branch, adding soft chirps to the calm. A winding path of smooth stone led through the greenery, inviting slow, reflective walks.

Farther on, Perkle reached a shimmering lake, its surface so clear he could see small fish drifting lazily beneath. The air was cool and fresh, faintly scented with plants that were strange to him. Around the water, people sat on benches or lay on the grass, reading or simply enjoying the stillness. Children splashed in the shallow pools at its edge, their laughter blending harmoniously with the peace of the place.

"This place feels alive," Perkle murmured, marveling at how well the station had reproduced nature. It was not merely a technological feat; it was a carefully crafted world, made to give its inhabitants a comfort beyond mere luxury — somewhere even the wealthiest could feel grounded.

He wandered into a recreation zone, a space that blended minimalist design with living things. Soft grass carpeted the floors; the walls carried digital projections of distant landscapes. Some areas held simple play structures for children; others offered quiet nooks for thought or conversation.

And yet, for all that it seemed idyllic, Perkle could not help but wonder: Why build something so perfect? He realized that while the station met every need, it also left little room for anything unexpected. It was serene — too serene, perhaps. He walked on, thinking about the balance of beauty and control in this place, unaware that his own thoughts were being spun out of insecurity and fear. His past had led him through more than a few hardships.

He followed the winding stone path deeper into the forested section, marveling at how seamlessly one area gave way to the next. What had begun as the kind of Earth-like forest he had only seen in books soon turned into something more otherworldly. The trees grew twisted and angular, their bark shimmering in shades of violet and gold. Strange, translucent flowers trailed tendrils that swayed in an artificial breeze, releasing faint glowing spores into the air. These trees, too, came from an oxygen-rich world — and yet his breath began to feel heavy. On the AI's advice he fitted his nostril filter, and could breathe easily again.

"This... doesn't feel like anything from my world," Perkle whispered, running a hand along a branch. It was soft, almost alive, pulsing faintly beneath his touch.

Beyond the alien forest he came upon another lake — but this one was like nothing he had ever seen. Instead of clear water, its surface glowed a faint yellow-green, and bubbled now and then as though heated from below. Signs in a dozen languages warned visitors to keep their distance, explaining that the lake's liquid was a sulfuric compound — safe to observe, but deadly to most forms of life. A group of beings with plastic-like skin and segmented limbs had gathered at its edge, wholly untroubled by the fumes. Perkle watched one of them dip a long limb into the liquid and draw up a sample in a crystalline flask. It struck him then that this place was not merely for recreation — it was a living ecosystem, a home for species from across the galaxy. Each forest, each lake, had been designed not only for beauty but to sustain life that could otherwise never survive in the cold void of space.

Farther on he passed through a dome of dense, ancient-looking growth — thick vines draped over massive, moss-covered trees. The air was humid, nearly tropical, and teeming with life; strange creatures buzzed through it, and small reptilian beings darted between the roots. In another section he found an arid landscape of crimson dunes and jagged black rock, where pools of liquid mercury shimmered in the distance beneath the soft artificial sun. Harsh as it looked, he could pick out small clusters of life, beings perfectly fitted to the extremity of it.

And yet, for all the beauty and variety around him, Perkle could not shake a growing unease. This place is too perfect, he thought. There's something... unnatural about it. The station had been built to offer harmony and balance to countless species, folding technology and nature together into a kind of utopia. But Perkle's mind, restless and suspicious, would not accept the peace it offered. To him, the absence of chaos, of struggle, felt wrong — as though something essential to life had been left out. Still he pressed on. Perhaps, he thought, it's trying to hide something from me.

The next morning, Perkle arrived at the logistics hub of the Trade Center, ready for his first day of work. It was a vast, open space, filled with translucent screens streaming data, automated drones darting to and fro with cargo samples, and clusters of trainees like himself gathered around senior staff.

His supervisor greeted him with a smile. "Ready for your first assignment?"

"Yes!" said Perkle, straightening, trying to look more composed than he felt.

"Good. Follow me — I'm Roj. I've worked here a while now. We'll be working together, for a while at least — or until further notice." He led Perkle to a section of the hub given over to biological monitoring, where rows of scanning stations lined the walls, each fitted with advanced sensors and containment fields. "Your job here will be to oversee the biological screening of goods. Every shipment that comes through this station is checked, to make sure it won't carry anything harmful to another world."

Perkle glanced at one of the scanners as it processed a crate of plant samples. A holographic display showed detailed chemical compositions, genetic markers, and a compatibility rating against various planetary environments.

"Why can't we just send anything anywhere?" Perkle asked, trying to take it all in.

"Because what's harmless on one planet could be devastating on another," said Roj. "A simple plant spore from a lush world might be poison to an arid planet's ecosystem. Some minerals turn highly reactive in atmospheres of a particular composition. That's why every shipment is analyzed strictly before it's cleared for transfer."

Perkle nodded, beginning to see the scale of the operation. "And if something dangerous slips through?"

"It won't," Roj said, confident. "That's what we're here for. Anything even remotely questionable is flagged for closer inspection. Sometimes we reject a whole shipment, if we can't guarantee it's safe." He pointed to a station where another trainee was at work. "See that crate? Soil samples, from a newly discovered planet. Soil seems harmless — but if it holds unknown microbes, they could ruin another world's agriculture." Perkle watched the trainee lift a sample with care and seal it into a containment unit for analysis. The whole process was meticulous, built to catch even the faintest risk.

"So it's not just about goods," Perkle said, a note of awe in his voice. "It's about life."

"Exactly. This station isn't only a trade hub; it's a safeguard for whole ecosystems. We move goods — but more than that, we make sure the trade doesn't come at the cost of life."

As Perkle set to his first task — scanning a batch of imported minerals — he began to feel the weight of the role. This was not simply moving cargo from one place to another; it was protecting whole worlds from consequences no one had intended.

Roj came over to him. "It's your first day, so let me give you a hand," he said, with a smile. "You enter the container's origin and destination here, then you begin the scan. Your job is to judge whether the materials and compounds inside would be a threat to the destination."

Perkle looked uncertain. "I know how to run a chemical analysis, and I can probably guess which compounds might react with which — I can even guess at the effects of compounds I've never seen before. But I don't think I can carry this kind of responsibility. I don't know what would be harmful to a place I know nothing about."

Roj smiled at him. "To take the weight off your shoulders: goods pass through a whole series of tests. You are being trained, so all of you—" he gestured to the rest of the trainees "—are only the first line of the check. That way we can measure your results against the later stages of testing, and make sure your training is coming along. After you, a series of AI testers runs its protocols, and then biological specialists give the final approval on every container."

"If we have AIs, why do we need people doing the same job?" Perkle asked, unable to keep the question to himself.

"Because AIs are excellent at catching accidental problems. But a great many hazards are placed in shipments on purpose. People want to sow chaos on some world, to push their own products, to take revenge, or simply because they want to see another species fall — and those compounds are masked in ways the AIs cannot recognize as dangerous. A person is much harder to fool. Let alone a whole group of them. Once you've been evaluated, you'll start receiving planetary assignments — you'll work on a specific type of planet, worlds of a similar chemistry. Which ones you're given depends on your work here."

This makes sense, thought Perkle, turning his attention back to the data streams, trying to work out what might happen when the compounds in his container met the compounds common to the world it was bound for.

Later that day, Perkle was called over by another of his supervisors — a tall, calm-spoken Pligar named Jatlin. "Perkle, you're with me. We've a flagged shipment to test."

"What's wrong with it?" Perkle asked, following him toward a secure containment area.

"Unknown spores, in a shipment of medicinal herbs. It's marked for NGS45/98 — Planet Werliht — but the spores don't match anything in the approved database. We need to be sure they'll do no harm."

Perkle's curiosity grew as they neared the testing facility. The sample drawn from the shipment was small, sealed in a transparent container — but the spores within gave off an unsettling faint blue light. Jatlin scanned the label and nodded toward him. "Grab your gear. We're heading into the two-percent-oxygen biome. It simulates the conditions on Werliht, and worlds like it."

"The two-percent-oxygen biome?" Perkle echoed, a little surprised.

"Yes. The habitats aren't just for show. They're built to replicate real planetary environments, down to the chemistry of the soil and the water. It lets us test goods in the gray zone under conditions as close to the real thing as we can manage, before we approve them for trade."

Perkle suited up quickly, pulling on a protective suit with a transparent visor, and followed Jatlin into the biome. It felt eerily like standing on an actual alien world. Ahead of them lay a small, clear lake, reflecting the artificial sun above. A few strange-looking people sat about it without any suits at all; seeing them at ease there reminded Perkle of one he had passed earlier in the station — sealed head to foot in his clothing, a breather clamped in his mouth. Jatlin's voice cut through his thoughts.

"We'll release a controlled amount of the spores here," Jatlin explained, opening a compartment near the water's edge. "If they react badly — contaminating the water, or harming the flora around it — then we'll know this shipment can't be approved."

Perkle watched closely as Jatlin let a small dose of the spores fall into the lake. At first, nothing. They floated gently on the surface, glowing faintly. Then, over the minutes, they began to dissolve, sending a subtle ripple across the water.

"Hmm," Jatlin muttered, watching the readings on a nearby console. "Not reacting violently — but not inert, either. Let's wait a while longer."

As they waited, Perkle glanced around the serene biome, a strange mix of awe and tension in him. This place looks so peaceful — and yet it's part of something much bigger. Something critical. Then a faint change crept over the water, a barely perceptible tint of blue spreading outward from where the spores had dissolved. The nearby plants showed nothing, but Jatlin frowned at the console. "This isn't good. The spores are releasing trace elements into the water. If that reached an ecosystem on Werliht, it could disrupt freshwater life."

"So we're rejecting the shipment?" Perkle asked.

"Not yet," Jatlin replied. "We'll run a few more tests, to be sure. But if the results hold, then yes — we'll have to reject it. If the spores were meant for research on Werliht, we'd need a formal request from the receiving party there, with central-government approval. But these are bound for a distribution center, so it may well be a rejection."

"What happens to rejected shipments?"

"We tend to make use of them here, or simply destroy them. If we find a deliberately placed hazard, we notify the governors of the station, and they deal with it internally."

"That seems odd. Is there really nothing we can do about whoever sends the deliberate hazards?" Perkle asked, full of curiosity and a certain sense of thwarted justice.

"No," Jatlin smiled. "This station is a bridge between Thira and the local governments of the planets. Planets, as you know, aren't monitored by the Empire; but stations like this one serve functions beyond trade, functions that interest the Empire. So the Empire builds them — and while the station itself falls under the Thiran Empire, the governing of the planets it serves is left to the council of the planets."

"I see," Perkle said, an unquenched, uneasy feeling lingering in him. He was suspicious by nature, and the idea of the Empire controlling a station that handled trade between planets had always struck him as faintly dubious.

As they wrapped up the first test, Perkle began to grasp just how complex his work truly was. This was not about power, or control — it was about shielding worlds from harm no one meant to cause. And still, something in him nagged. What if we're too cautious? What if this system prevents more good than harm?

Jatlin's voice broke through his thoughts. "You did well today, Perkle. Pay attention through these tests, and you'll come to understand why we do things the way we do."

Perkle nodded — but his mind stayed restless. He was learning the process; and yet part of him could not help wondering whether there might be a better way, one that did not demand such tight control over everything.

A few days later, joining an introductory tour of the sector's core logistics hub, Perkle was assigned to a monitoring station under a supervisor named Leftar — a tall figure of a species Perkle did not recognize, with a commanding presence. "Your work here will demand focus, quick thinking, and adaptability," Leftar told the recruits, his gaze sweeping over them. "The Trade Center is not merely a commercial hub; it is a lifeline for countless worlds. A mistake here ripples out far and wide. Keep that in mind. Today, you'll start simple — monitoring inbound cargo, and making sure the manifest matches the goods delivered."

As they took their stations, Perkle noticed something odd while scanning a shipment: a crate marked with a symbol he did not recognize, its weight off from what the manifest declared. His curiosity flared, and he flagged it for inspection. The small box was drawn out of the container and brought closer.

"Hey, Roj — does this symbol mean anything to you?" Perkle asked, holding up the crate.

Roj frowned, examining it. "I've seen that symbol before, but it's not meant to be on standard cargo. We should report it."

Before they could, an alert blared across the hub. "Attention! Unidentified cargo detected in Sector 432. Security personnel, respond."

Perkle and Peni exchanged nervous glances. "That's our sector!" Peni exclaimed.

"Should we stay put, or—?" Perkle hesitated, unsure whether they were even allowed to act. But before he could decide, the crate began to emit a faint hum, and the strange symbol started to glow.

"Run!" Perkle shoved Peni back and snatched up the small box. He cast about for somewhere to be rid of it, but nothing felt right; the crowd all around forced a snap decision, and he flung the box through one of the delivery gates.

"It won't explode, brave man!" Leftar said, smiling. "That was only a misplaced parcel of valuables. Its sticker flashes, and it gives off a sound — one a Pligar can't hear — to let us know it's been separated from its container. It was a test."

Perkle relaxed, and looked at Peni, who plainly had not known of any test. "I've been here longer than you, and this one wasn't done before," she said. "They've tested others in the past, but in different ways. Never mind that, though — you'd have risked your life for me." And she looked at him with the sweetest expression.

Work went on as normal, but something about the parcel sat wrong with Perkle. How is it that I'm put through a test like this the moment I arrive, when Peni — here far longer than me — didn't even know such tests existed? Perhaps it wasn't a test at all... he thought, as he worked.

"Let's go out somewhere tonight!" Peni said, with a smile that would have melted Perkle's heart, had he not been lost in his own world.

"Yes! Let's do that!" he said, recovering some of his old excitement.

Later that night, Perkle stepped into the club, and the very air seemed alive. Lights pulsed in rhythmic waves, shifting between soft violet and gold, casting a glow that made the crowd shimmer like stars. Music thumped steadily, a low bassline threaded through layers of melody, some of it familiar, some distinctly alien. Peni led the way with a bright confidence that Perkle found both inspiring and a little intimidating, moving through the crowd with ease, trading quick greetings with faces he had never seen. The club was not merely crowded — it was alive. Every species seemed represented, from towering Plarbs whose translucent skin caught the light to delicate Veshans, their spindly limbs moving in perfect time with the beat. The air was thick with scents: sharp spices, floral notes, and something faintly metallic he could not place.

"This is incredible," he said, barely audible over the music.

"It's one of my favorite spots," Peni replied, leaning close enough to be heard. "Just relax and enjoy it. Everyone's here to have a good time."

A server approached with trays of shimmering, brightly colored orbs and drinks that glowed faintly in their glasses. Peni took two and handed one to Perkle. "You've got to try this. It's a favorite around here." Perkle sipped; the liquid fizzed as it touched his tongue, sweet with a kick that lingered. "Wow — that's... different. Good, though." Peni laughed, delighting in his reaction. "Told you! Now come on, you can't just stand there. Dance with me."

For a while, Perkle let himself be lost in the rhythm. The crowd seemed to pulse as one, every movement feeding the electric air. For the first time since arriving at the Trade Center, he felt that he belonged. But the moment did not last.

"I have to head out early tonight," Peni said suddenly. "Sorry — work starts early tomorrow."

"Oh — sure, no problem," Perkle said, trying to mask his disappointment.

She smiled, resting a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "You're doing great. Stay, have fun. Just... don't overthink everything, all right?"

Perkle nodded as she left, but without her the club felt different — bigger, less focused. He drifted through the crowd, unsure what to do, until a group caught his eye: laughing, a mix of species seated in a corner, their table littered with drinks and a faintly glowing dust he had not noticed before.

"Hey — you look new!" one of them called, waving him over. "Come join us."

Perkle hesitated a moment, then stepped closer. The group welcomed him like an old friend, offering a seat and a drink. Someone slid a small vial toward him, its contents sparkling faintly in the light.

"It's nothing harmful," said a Veshan, her voice melodic. "Practically everyone tries it at some point. There's a notice for Pligars like you, but it's only a precaution. You'll be fine."

Perkle picked up the vial and glanced at the label, which bore a standard disclaimer: Not recommended for species with heightened neurochemistry. High chance of unforeseen and varied side effects. He did not feel worried; surely, if it were dangerous, it would not be passed around so freely. The others used it without a second thought, their laughter infectious. "Go on," someone urged. "The first time's always the best."

He hesitated a moment longer, then tipped the vial back. It was warm, not unpleasant, and for a moment nothing happened. Then the colors around him seemed to deepen, and the music felt as though it were playing inside his chest, each beat falling perfectly into step with his pulse.

"This... this is amazing," he said, laughing softly.

"Yeah," the Veshan replied, with a knowing smile. "Welcome to the club."

The next morning came without fanfare. Perkle woke to the soft hum of his room's environmental controls, the station's artificial sunlight spilling faintly through the window. He blinked, stretched, and sat up. For a moment he braced to feel groggy — but instead his mind was clear, his body better than fine. He remembered the night before and could not help but smile at how much fun he'd had. "Not bad, for my first real night out," he muttered, dressing for work. His reflection looked... normal. No dark circles, no signs of exhaustion. Whatever had been in that vial had left no mark, save the faint memory of how fiercely alive everything had felt.

Work began as it always did — checking incoming manifests, cross-referencing them against planetary regulations, making sure every good met the safety protocols. The routine was oddly calming. Later that morning, walking through one of the sprawling transit bays with a clipboard in hand, he heard a familiar voice.

"Hey — newbie!"

He turned to find the Veshan from the night before, her tall, graceful form unmistakable even in the crowd. She waved him over, bright-eyed.

"Uh — hey," Perkle said, hurrying to her, a small pang of nervousness in him. What is she doing here? Does she even work at the Trade Center? I never thought to ask.

"Small galaxy," she said, tilting her head in that curious, bird-like way of her species. "You're Perkle, right?"

"Yeah. I, uh... didn't catch your name last night."

"Lara," she said smoothly. "I figured you might turn up here. A lot of first-timers from the club end up in logistics — it's the backbone of this place. How's the job treating you?"

"It's... good," he said, still trying to work out how she seemed so at ease while he felt like a bumbling mess. "Lots to learn. But I'm getting there."

"That's the spirit." She nodded toward the transit bay. "Mind if I walk with you? I need to check on something over here."

"Sure," said Perkle, his curiosity piqued. As they walked, Lara glanced at his clipboard and chuckled. "Already looking the part. You blend in better than most newcomers." He smiled nervously, unsure how to answer, noticing how easily she moved through the space, trading casual nods with workers and supervisors alike. She belonged here, in a way he was not sure he did yet.

"Last night was fun, huh?" she said after a moment, her tone light. "You handled yourself well, for a first night. Not everyone jumps in like that."

"Yeah — it was... different," Perkle said. He hesitated, then added, "That stuff you gave me — what was it called again?"

"Celeste," Lara replied, casual. "Harmless, unless you overdo it. Most people use it to sharpen their senses — perfect for a place like the one we were in."

He nodded, filing the name away. "I guess I can see that. It was... intense."

She laughed, a sound as melodic as her voice. "It can be, at first. But it's nothing to worry about. You seem fine this morning."

"Yeah," he said quickly. "I feel fine."

"Good." She gave him a sideways glance. "The Trade Center's a big place, Perkle. A lot to see, a lot to try. Just make sure you don't get lost in it, all right?" Her words lingered as they parted, Lara vanishing into the crowd with a wave. Perkle stood a moment, her advice turning over in his mind. The Trade Center was everything he'd dreamed of — vibrant, vast, full of possibility. And yet, as he turned back to his work, he could not shake the faint sense that he was only beginning to understand its depths.

Days passed, and Perkle fell into the steady rhythm of work. The wonder of the station's vastness had not faded, but it had settled into a comfortable background hum. His nights, though, held a different pull. The memory of the club lingered, vivid and tantalizing — the pulse of the music, the glow of the lights, the effortless connection with strangers. And there was Celeste. He hadn't given it much thought at first. Lara had said it was no great matter, and she was right — he felt fine. Better than fine. But the way it had amplified everything, the way it had made him feel so alive, stayed with him.

On a rare afternoon off, Perkle wandered into one of the Trade Center's bustling market districts, where stalls and shops stretched as far as the eye could see, selling everything from interplanetary delicacies to advanced tech. He was not looking for anything in particular, but his feet carried him to a quieter section, where the shops grew more discreet, their signs written in flowing, ornate scripts that promised rarities and exclusivity. One storefront caught his eye — sleek and minimalist, glowing geometric patterns etched into its walls.

Curious, he stepped inside. The interior was dim, shelves lined with small vials, containers, and capsules, each carefully labeled. The shopkeeper — a tall, willowy figure with an unreadable expression — turned to greet him. "Welcome," they said, in a smooth, practiced tone. "Are you looking for something specific, or would you like recommendations?"

Perkle hesitated, his eyes drifting over the shelves until they landed on a familiar vial near the counter, its faintly glowing contents unmistakable. "I was, uh — wondering if you have Celeste."

"Of course," the shopkeeper said, a knowing look crossing their face. "A popular choice. Are you familiar with the dosage and the guidelines?"

"Yes," Perkle replied, trying to sound sure of himself. "I tried it recently. Just once."

The shopkeeper nodded and drew a small case from the shelf. "Five single-use vials. Standard dosage. And, as I'm sure you know, the disclaimer for Pligars like yourself still applies. It isn't dangerous — but moderation is key." Perkle nodded, his heartbeat quickening, and took the case, the shopkeeper's long fingers brushing his for a moment. "Enjoy responsibly," they said, with a faint smile.

As Perkle left, the weight of the case in his pocket felt heavier than it should. He told himself it was no great matter — everyone used Celeste; it was part of the culture here, just another way to know the Trade Center fully. But as he walked back to his room, a quiet part of him wondered whether it really was so simple.

Days passed, and the station, once purely awe-inspiring, began to carry an undercurrent he could not name. Nothing obvious — only small things. How certain corridors seemed too quiet. How some workers would not meet his eye. He shook it off as the adjustment period. But the memory of the club would not leave him, and neither would Celeste. It had opened a door, shown him a version of himself he hadn't thought possible: confident, connected, alive. He did not feel addicted — not in the way addiction was usually painted. And yet there was a pull, subtle and undeniable.

Small inconsistencies began to gnaw at him. His neighbor — always cheerful — vanished without a word. When Perkle asked, the AI answered in its usual clipped tone: "Resident reassigned. Further information unavailable." The words were hollow, unnervingly final. The room was cleared and reassigned within hours, as though the man had never existed.

During a meal break, Perkle brought it to Peni. "They're erasing people," he said, his voice low.

Peni gave him a patient smile. "Perkle, this station is enormous. People come and go all the time. It's probably just a routine reassignment."

"But it's not only that," he pressed. "The room was emptied in hours. Like they wiped him from the system."

Her smile faltered, but she shook her head. "You've been working hard. Maybe you're reading into things too much." Her words were kind, but the unease settled deep in his gut.

Unable to shake it, Perkle took another dose of Celeste that night. His mind sharpened, painfully, and the patterns around him screamed for his attention. He noticed flickering lights along a rarely used corridor, and followed them to an unmarked section of the station, the air heavy with silence. At its end he found a hidden room, filled with monitors showing live feeds from across the station. Some screens showed the mundane; others revealed strange, disconcerting scenes — people being escorted into chambers, crates vanishing into unregistered zones, maintenance workers speaking in hushed tones.

"This is it," he whispered. "This is the proof."

Footsteps echoed behind him. He turned sharply to find Peni, breathless. "Perkle! I've been looking for you everywhere. What are you doing here?"

"Look at this!" He gestured wildly at the monitors — but as Peni stepped closer, the feeds flickered out, replaced by static.

Peni gripped his arm. "You shouldn't be here. If someone finds you—"

"They're covering it up, Peni!" His voice was frantic. "You have to believe me."

Her voice stayed steady. "Let's go. You're not thinking clearly."

Over the following days, Perkle's paranoia consumed him. Celeste became a crutch, the only thing that made the patterns feel real. He kept a notebook, filling it with frantic sketches and arrows, trying to link every glitch, every disappearance, every strange moment. He began to suspect even Peni.

Late one night, he confronted her. "Why are you always there, Peni? Every time I feel I'm onto something, you appear. Are you part of this?"

Her eyes widened, and hurt flashed across her face — the plain, unguarded hurt of a Pligar, who cannot hide anything. She did not lash out. She stepped closer, and her voice stayed calm.

"I'm here because I care about you, Perkle. You're spiraling, and I don't know how to help you — but I won't leave you alone in this." She reached for his hand. "There's nothing in that corridor on Deck Nine. There's nothing there but—"

She stopped.

Perkle went very still.

The air in the room did not change. The lights did not flicker. Somewhere far off, the station hummed its endless, contented hum. And in the middle of it, Perkle stood with his hand half-raised and a cold, clean thought moving through him like a blade through water.

I never told her which deck.

He had not. He was certain of it — as certain as he had ever been of anything. He had never said the words *Deck Nine* to Peni. He had never said them to anyone. He had walked that corridor alone, at the darkest hour of the station's artificial night, and he had told no living soul.

"Perkle?" Peni said.

"Nothing," he said.

And then Perkle did a thing that no Pligar of his acquaintance had ever managed, a thing his own mother would have sworn was beyond the biology of his species. He looked into the face of someone he loved, and he lied.

"You're right," he said. "I'm tired. I've been reading things into things." He made himself smile. It felt like arranging furniture in someone else's room. "I'm sorry, Peni. I'm sorry I said it."

Her shoulders dropped, and the relief that came over her face was so total, so uncomplicated, so *glad*, that for one vertiginous second he almost took it all back.

"Oh, Perkle," she said, and she hugged him, and he stood in her arms with his eyes open, staring over her shoulder at the wall.

She's good at this, he thought. She's so good at this.

---

He did not take Celeste that night.

That was the part he would come back to, afterward — the part he would turn over and over, the way a man worries a stone in his pocket. He wanted to be *sure*. He wanted to strip the drug out of it entirely and see whether the pattern survived without it, because if it did, then it was not the Celeste. If it did, then it was real.

He lay in the dark of his room, in a bed he had asked the room to make plain and hard, and he did not sleep, and he did not dream, and he waited for the world to go soft and ordinary again.

In the morning, cold and sober and sick to his stomach, the pattern was still there.

It was, if anything, sharper.

He went to work. He checked incoming manifests, cross-referenced them against planetary regulations, confirmed that every good met its safety protocols — the routine that had once been so calming that it emptied his head. His hands did the work. The rest of him watched.

And on the fourth screen of the morning, he found it.

Container R-77. Arrived Bay Twelve, 04:11. He noted it, logged it, moved on. Two screens later: Container R-77. Arrived Bay Twelve, 09:50. He stopped. He scrolled back. He pulled the week.

Container R-77 had arrived at Bay Twelve fourteen times in six days.

It had never once departed.

Perkle sat very still in front of the screen while the transit bay roared and glittered around him. He queried the regulation index for the R-prefix. The index returned nothing. No planetary code. No origin registry. No customs schema. A container was arriving at his station, over and over, from nowhere, carrying nothing that any world in the catalogued galaxy had a law about — and it never, ever left.

He did not write it in the notebook. The notebook suddenly seemed like a very stupid thing to have. He memorized it instead, the way he had memorized things as a child, out loud, under his breath, again and again until the numbers had a shape: R-77, Bay Twelve, fourteen times, six days, no departure.

He found Lara at the end of her shift, in the noise of the concourse, and he took her by the elbow.

"I need to ask you something," he said, "and I need you to tell me the truth."

The Veshan's bright, easy face turned toward him, and she was already smiling — and then she saw him properly, and the smile went out like a light.

"Perkle," she said.

"Bay Twelve," he said. "Container R-77. What's in it?"

For a long moment Lara did not say anything at all. She looked at him — at his eyes, at his hands, at the four days he had not slept — and something moved behind her face that he had never seen there before. Not confusion. Not curiosity.

Fear.

"Don't," she said quietly.

"Lara—"

"Perkle. Stop looking." Her voice had dropped to almost nothing. She glanced, once, over his shoulder at the crowd, and it was the smallest gesture in the world, and it went through him like current. "I mean it. Stop. Please."

"You know something."

"I know what happens," she said, "to people who don't stop." And she pulled her arm out of his hand, gently, the way you take something away from a child, and she walked into the crowd and did not look back.

Perkle stood in the middle of the concourse of the greatest trade station in the sector, surrounded by ten thousand people, and had never in his life been so completely certain of anything.

It's real. It's real, and she knows, and she's terrified.

---

He followed Peni the next evening.

He hated himself for it. He hated the shape of the thought as it formed, hated the way his feet obeyed it, hated the practiced, patient quiet he had learned to move in — a quiet no Pligar should ever have had to learn. But he did it. He waited in the service stair off the residential ring until she left her room, and then he went after her.

She did not go to the biome. She did not go to the concourse, or the market, or any of the bright places she had spent weeks showing him.

She went down.

Two decks, three, through a maintenance junction and along a corridor where the lights came up reluctantly, as though they had not been asked in a long time. Perkle followed at the edge of the dark with his hearts going like a hammer. At the end of the corridor was a door — grey, unmarked, with a panel beside it that glowed a soft, medical white.

Peni stopped at the door and pressed her palm to the panel, and the panel knew her.

Perkle's blood went to water.

The door opened. Inside, a figure in a station uniform he did not recognize — pale grey, no district markings, no name — stood waiting, and Peni went to them, and Perkle pressed himself into the seam of the wall and strained to hear, and across ten meters of dead corridor air he caught it, in pieces, in her voice, unmistakable:

"...Perkle... no, he doesn't... I don't know how much longer I can..."

The door closed.

He stood in the dark for a long time.

He was not angry. That was the thing he noticed, distantly, the way you notice weather. He was not even surprised. There was only a vast, cold, quiet space opening in his chest where Peni had been, and a single thought turning slowly at the center of it.

She's reporting me.

Every time I feel I'm onto something, you appear.

Because they send you.

---

He went to her door at 02:00 with the notebook in his hand and four days of no sleep behind his eyes.

She opened it on the second chime. She was not dressed for sleep. She looked as though she had not been sleeping either.

"Perkle," she said, and her face did something complicated. "Come in."

"No." He stayed in the corridor. He was shaking. "R-77. Bay Twelve. Fourteen arrivals in six days, no departures, no registry code, no origin, no customs schema. My neighbor, reassigned, room stripped in four hours, file sealed. A monitoring room on Deck Nine that goes to static when a witness walks in. Lara — Lara, Peni, who is not afraid of anything — who told me to *stop looking* and then ran. And you." His voice cracked and he let it. "You, at a grey door two decks down, with someone with no name on their uniform, saying my name."

Peni's face had gone white.

"You followed me," she said.

"*Say it isn't true.*"

And Peni — who had never once lashed out at him, who had spent eleven weeks being kind to him with a patience that he had, at some point in the last month, begun to file as evidence — put her hands over her face and started to cry.

That was the moment. He would remember it for the rest of his life. That was the moment when Perkle of the Pligars, standing in a corridor at two in the morning with his notebook in his fist, knew that he had been right about everything.

"Then prove it," he said. "Prove I'm wrong."

She lowered her hands.

"Ask the AI," he said. "It hears everything. It stores everything — you told me that yourself, on my first day, you told me not to *dwell* on it. So let's dwell on it. It's been listening to me for eleven weeks. Play it back. Play *all* of it back, right now, in front of me, and show me that I'm mad."

He was so sure. That was the thing. He had never in his life been so sure.

Peni looked at him for a long moment. And then something in her went very quiet, and very tired, and very old.

"Okay," she said.

---

"Station," said Peni, and her voice did not shake at all. "Play Perkle's record. Deck Nine, night cycle, eleven days ago. From the moment he entered the corridor."

"Of course," said the AI, in that sweet, warm, unhurried voice, the voice that was indistinguishable from a real person's. "Would you like it in the room, Perkle?"

"Yes," Perkle said.

The corridor unfolded around them.

It was a beautiful reconstruction; it always was. The room built it out of the air the way it had once built him a jelly maze — the flickering light panel, the dust, the long grey throat of the maintenance run. And there, walking into it, was Perkle. His own back. His own uneven, hurrying step.

He watched himself reach the end of the corridor. He watched himself stop in front of the door.

He watched himself open it onto a small, dead room.

There were monitors. That much was true. There were nine of them, in a bank on the far wall, and every single one of them was dark. Not static. Dark. The glass was furred with a decade of dust. A decommissioning tag hung off the corner of the housing on a wire, and the tag was old enough to have gone yellow.

And Perkle — the Perkle in the recording, the Perkle of eleven days ago — walked up to nine dead screens and stood in front of them with his eyes shining, and said, in a voice cracking with triumph:

"This is it. This is the proof."

The Perkle in the room made a small sound.

On the recording, he began to talk. He walked from screen to screen, pointing at black glass, narrating. *There — you see that? Escorted. They're escorting him. And there, the crates, look at the crates, they're going into an unregistered zone—* His finger moved over the dust. His voice climbed. He was smiling. He was so happy. He talked for eleven minutes without stopping to breathe properly, to nine dead screens, in an empty room, alone.

"Stop it," said Perkle.

"Continue," said Peni, and her voice broke on it. "I'm sorry. Continue."

"Footsteps echoed behind me," Perkle said. He could hear how thin his own voice was. "She came. Peni came, she was breathless, she'd been looking for me — the feeds cut out when she walked in, they *cut out*—"

On the recording, the door opened behind him.

Peni came in at a run. She was breathless. And Perkle — the recorded Perkle — spun around and flung out his arm at the bank of dead monitors and shouted *Look at this!* with his whole heart, and Peni's eyes went not to the screens but to his face, and stayed there, and what was in her expression was not calculation and it was not fear of being caught.

It was grief.

She looked at him the way you look at someone who is drowning three meters away from you, in water you cannot enter.

They're covering it up, Peni! the recording howled. You have to believe me!

And the Peni on the recording looked at nine dark screens, and looked back at the boy screaming in front of them, and said, gently, "Let's go. You're not thinking clearly."

The reconstruction folded away.

"Deck Nine has been dark for eleven years," the AI said, kindly. "The monitoring suite was decommissioned when the sensor lattice was upgraded. It draws no power. I can show you the work order, if it would help."

Perkle did not answer. He was looking at the notebook in his hand.

"The container," he said. "R-77."

"Container R-77 is a reclamation unit," said the AI. "It runs a closed internal circuit between the waste-processing tier and Bay Twelve, fourteen to sixteen times in a standard six-day period. It has no origin registry and no customs schema because it does not enter the station. It has never left the station because it has never been outside it." A pause, very slight, very gentle. "The R-prefix denotes reclamation. It was covered in your induction, on your second day. You scored full marks."

The floor was a long way away.

"My neighbor," Perkle whispered.

"Tobbin transferred to the agricultural tier eleven weeks ago," said the AI. "He requested the transfer forty days in advance. He told you about it, in the corridor outside your rooms, on the evening of his departure. Would you like to see?"

"No," said Perkle.

The room showed him anyway — or perhaps he asked; afterward, he was never able to remember. There he was in the corridor, and there was Tobbin with a case in each hand, cheerful as he always was, saying he'd finally got the posting, saying he'd send word. And there was Perkle, delighted, thrilled for him, talking over him in his excitement, shaking his hand with both of his own and telling him he'd better visit, he'd better, promise you'll visit—

"You congratulated him for six minutes," the AI said. "You were very happy for him."

"I don't remember that." Perkle's voice had gone to nothing. "I don't— I don't remember that at all."

"No," the AI agreed, gently. "You had taken Celeste ninety minutes earlier. There are eleven other conversations in this period that you have asked me to repeat to you at least twice, having no memory of them."

Perkle turned to Peni. She was standing exactly where she had been, her arms wrapped around herself, tears running down her face without any sound at all.

"Deck Nine," he said. "You knew. You said *Deck Nine.* I never told you. I never told anyone, I know I didn't, I was *careful*—"

And Peni said, wretchedly, "Perkle. You told me every night."

"Station," she said. "Please. My door. The last three weeks. Just — just the times."

The AI, which was kind, did not play them all.

It played four seconds of each.

Perkle at her door at 01:40, talking, hands moving, the words tumbling out of him in the old unstoppable Pligar flood — *Deck Nine, Peni, there's a room on Deck Nine—* Cut. Perkle at her door at 03:15, grey-faced, gripping the frame — *Bay Twelve, it's Bay Twelve, the container comes back, it keeps coming back—* Cut. Perkle at 02:50, weeping. Perkle at 04:20, laughing, delighted, certain, radiant with it. Perkle at 01:05. Perkle at 23:58. Perkle, and Perkle, and Perkle, nineteen nights out of twenty-one, standing in her doorway pouring the whole vast architecture of the conspiracy into her, every deck number, every container code, every name, everything he had been so sure he had told no living soul.

And in every single one of them, framed in her own doorway in the middle of the night, Peni stood in her sleep clothes with her hair flat on one side and listened to him. Every time. She never interrupted. She never once said *you're insane*. In the last of them, when he had finished, she reached out and touched his face and said, "Okay, Perkle. Come inside. Tell me again."

The recordings stopped.

The room was very quiet.

"I'm a Pligar," Perkle said. It came out of him like something breaking. "I can't— we can't— we say everything. Out loud. All of it. We always have."

"Yes," said Peni.

"That's why the disclaimer." He was staring at nothing. Somewhere in the ruin of the last eleven weeks, a willowy shopkeeper with an unreadable face was saying *the disclaimer for Pligars like yourself still applies*, and a boy with a quickening heartbeat was saying *yes, I'm familiar*, because he had wanted so badly, so childishly badly, to be the kind of person who was familiar. "That's why there's a disclaimer for Pligars."

"Celeste heightens associative cognition," said the AI, with terrible gentleness. "In most species this presents as euphoria and pattern-seeking, and resolves within hours. Pligar neurology couples association to vocalization. In sustained use the effect does not resolve; it compounds. The subject perceives connection everywhere, and speaks it aloud continuously, and does not retain having done so." A pause. "It is not dangerous, Perkle. But moderation is key."

"Lara," Perkle said. "Lara told me to stop looking. She was *afraid*—"

"Lara was afraid *for you*," Peni said. "She's seen it before. Veshans metabolize it in a night. She didn't know what it does to us." She wiped her face with the heel of her hand. "She came to me, Perkle. Nine days ago. She said, *your friend is not sleeping and he's not blinking and someone needs to do something.*"

"The grey door," he said. "Two decks down. The uniform with no name."

"Medical," said Peni. "Deck Six. The uniforms have no district markings so that nobody can tell what a person is being treated for by looking at who's walking them home." Her voice finally went, all at once, into pieces. "I've been going there every evening for a week to beg them to help you. I didn't have the authority. You have to *consent*, Perkle, that's the law, and you wouldn't consent, because you thought—"

She stopped.

"Because I thought you were one of them," he said.

"I don't know how much longer I can do this," Peni said. "That's what I was saying. When you were standing in the corridor listening to me. That's the whole sentence. *I don't know how much longer I can do this on my own.*"

---

Perkle sat down on the floor of the corridor.

After a while, Peni sat down next to him, and neither of them said anything for a long time, and the station hummed its enormous contented hum all around them, full of ten thousand lives and one recycling container going patiently round and round its closed circuit in the dark.

He opened the notebook.

He had not looked at it — really looked at it — in perhaps two weeks. The early pages were neat: dates, times, a careful hand. Somewhere around the ninth page the writing began to lean. By the middle it had become a thicket of arrows, boxes, spirals, the same six words circled four times and joined to nothing at all. On one page he had written *WHY IS SHE ALWAYS THERE* in letters two centimeters high and pressed so hard that the stylus had scored through to the sheet beneath.

And on the last written page, in the middle of a diagram he could no longer read, in his own handwriting, five words:

*ask peni. She will listen.*

He had written it himself. He had no memory of writing it. He had trusted her so completely, in the small hours when the pattern got too loud, that he had told her everything, night after night — and then filed the fact that she always appeared as proof that she was hunting him.

His thoughts felt less sharp now, and more chaotic, and much more like his own. He realized he had not eaten in days. He realized he had not properly slept in weeks. He realized that his hands were shaking and had been shaking, he thought, for a long time.

You're seeing connections where there aren't any.

He got up. He went to his room, with Peni behind him saying nothing, and he took the case from the drawer. There were two vials left. They glowed the way they had glowed in the shop, faintly, beautifully, promising to make him a person who understood things.

His fingers tightened around them.

Then he hurled them into the trash chute.

"This isn't clarity," he murmured. "It's poison."

---

The next day, Peni was waiting for him in the station's central biome. When she saw him, relief spread across her face. "Hey," she said softly. "You okay?"

"I think I'm starting to be," he replied. He took her hand, the first genuine smile on his face in weeks. "I'm sorry for doubting you."

They spent the evening walking through the biome, sharing quiet moments and laughter. He talked too much. He apologized for talking too much, and then talked too much about that, and Peni laughed at him, and he understood, with a warmth that went all the way through him, that she had never once in eleven weeks wanted him to be quieter. The station was no longer a sinister trap but a place of endless possibility. The patterns he had thought he'd seen had never been clues to a conspiracy — only reflections of his own insecurity and fear, spoken aloud into the dark, night after night, and handed back to him by a mind too sharp to know it was breaking. The station was not perfect; no place was. But it was not the monster he had made of it, either. And in Peni's eyes he found a reason to let go of his fears.

For the first time, Perkle felt at home.

✦