Page 2 of Bound by Stars

Weslie

Thirty-six days to Mars

I step into the docking bay with ILSA by my side. It’s almost what I envisioned. White walls instead of gray. Low ceiling. More people unload into the same space. Too little space.

My chest tightens, and I mindlessly tap my index and middle finger against my thumb in an accelerating pattern following my breaths.

One, two, one, two. Slow down. Control it. Count with intention.

Armed with my breathing exercise and ILSA, who’s packing enough oxygen to get me to safety, I can do this. Small spaces were always part of the deal, but theory is simpler than reality.

“All boarding Earthers, please stay within the lit pathway and close to the person in front of you,” the man who greeted us shouts over the chaos of excited voices.

I take a step left with the other passengers. We’re crammed tight, shoulder to shoulder, nose to back. Six people across, the wide line ahead doesn’t seem to have an end.

One. Two. One. Two.

Even on my toes, I can’t see the front.

“Keep it moving, keep it moving!” A woman passes in the same uniform, light glinting off the emblem pinned to her vest, a brass-edged, five-pointed white star.

The release of the departing transport sends a vibration through the floor.

That’s it. No turning back now.

We’re herded, shuffling through the hall until the line files through a passage and into another hall, just as white, but with a higher ceiling. Enough to feel like there’s sufficient oxygen for all the people in it. At a split, we’re sorted left and right at random. No questions.

“Have your tickets ready for scanning!” another vested crewmember shouts from down the hall.

I reach into my pocket, wrap my hand around the rigid plastic, and pull my bag strap higher on my shoulder.

Walking in half steps, the herd around me moves painfully slow.

An electric pulse builds inside of me, twisting through my organs and pushing me to break away, take a full step, a long stride, run.

Ahead, porters sort the slow-moving crowd of Earthers. Tickets are scanned and people climb ladders or duck low into sleeping pods. Pods.

Why hadn’t I considered pods? It makes perfect sense. I know the specs. The ship holds 2,240 people. How else would we all fit?

One, two. One, two. My mental chant turns to panicked chaos. I need to get out of here.

ILSA places a curved hand on my shoulder.

I glance back to see the cloud icon on her face screen. Sky. Air. Exhaling slowly, I nod.

The praying man from my transport climbs into the middle row of pods, opening the door as we pass.

Inside it’s small, but there’s light, a mirrored wall.

Is that an air vent? Of course. They aren’t locking us in airless boxes.

I picture myself pressing my face up close to it, imagine the brush of air against my cheeks, and tap my fingers to my thumb. One. Two. One. Two.

It’s only for sleeping. I can do this.

“Ticket?” The crew member glares at me like this isn’t the first time she’s had to ask.

“Oh, sorry.” I fumble with the thick black tag in my pocket and finally manage to pull it out to show her.

She takes it from me, scanning the embossed code. Pinching her eyebrows together, she looks me over, stained shoes to knotted hair. “You aren’t supposed to be here.”

My heart sinks. If I could have just finished reading the damn letter. Will they send me back? Arrest me?

She waves another crew member over, and I brace myself for detainment, the imminent firm grip on my upper arm or bonds clamping around my wrists.

“Follow me, please. Your accommodations are in another area.” She moves quickly, not waiting for questions.

My stomach pitches. My face goes cold. Oh god. There are even smaller pods.

She leads me up a sloped walkway that opens to a circular room with a high ceiling, semicircle mezzanine, and flat wall with a projection of an infographic with the ship’s name in the same long script as my ticket.

“The porter checked my ticket at the gate. Is there something wron…”

I tear my eyes away from the room and our guide is already gone.

ILSA and I follow the sound of clanking footsteps into a cold, echoey stairwell and spot her a flight above. Three levels up, we finally catch her, staying a couple steps behind as we exit.

The plain white floor becomes shiny black with a repeating pattern of small golden galaxies. An ornate banister winds upward, its swoop of polished wood reflecting the glittering chandelier above. An ancient-looking clock is mounted to the wall midway up the stairs.

Now I know I’m in the wrong place.

Below, the ship’s interior looked like what I’d expected of an interplanetary voyage, plain and minimalist. Function over frill. But up here, it’s like something out of a history book. Every inch needlessly adorned, pointlessly luxurious.

Opposite the staircase, a blond porter stands behind a solid wood podium sliding her finger over the top, tapping commands.

Behind her, a set of ornate double doors carved with swirling patterns and five-pointed stars swing open.

They’re not like the rest of the doors we’ve passed, unremarkable ports sliding in and out of the walls.

A man with a thin mustache and the same navy vest steps out.

I catch a flash of tables draped with ivory linens before the doors swing shut again.

The blond porter looks up from the podium to the mustached man. “The countdown clock isn’t running.”

“It’ll start any second. We’re behind schedule.” The man gives her a sideways glance, whispering a little too loudly as I pass. “A Big Six family made a scene about private transport, so we’re a few minutes behind.”

“Just a little farther this way,” our guide calls from the landing halfway up the grand staircase.

I walk faster, like I wasn’t shamelessly eavesdropping, and silently eye ILSA beside me.

We ascend the steps together as the minute hand of the old clock ticks to the right.

Under the hands keeping the time in our designated port city, my home, a set of blank plates rotate to display the days and hours remaining until we reach our destination: Thirty-six days, seven hours . About five weeks to Mars.

The woman leading us disappears onto the next level.

“Look, if there’s something wrong, I can…”

I can what? Find my own way back to Earth? The transport that brought me here already departed.

Either she’s hauling ass or I’m too distracted to keep up. Maybe both.

When we reach the top step, she’s midway down the hall, beckoning us to follow before taking the next turn.

Another uniformed porter with short black hair, olive skin, and a pile of towels balanced in his arms hurries past the crossed hallways.

My heart swells. And his name slips between my lips in a whisper. “Reve.”

I break into a run, but by the time I reach it, the hall he passed into is empty.

“Come along!” Our guide impatiently waves us on in the opposite direction.

I glance back once more. For a second, I could swear…but no. No way. I’m imagining things. My lifelong best friend could not be on this ship. Reve works at the transport depot, repairing and prepping ships. He doesn’t deliver fresh linens. And he wouldn’t be caught dead in a uniform.

ILSA keeps pace as I jog to catch up past evenly spaced, numbered doors. Three turns later, the porter leading us finally slows and stops, waving my ticket next to a door marked with brass numbers: 101 .

As it slides open, I hold my breath. Split on expectations, I’m prepared for another slender hall with sleeping pods like rows of coffins or an even more official-looking crew member waiting to arrest me for being a stowaway and take me back to Earth.

But there are no pods. No one is waiting. It’s a bedroom. Twice the size of my room at home. The walls are lined with heavy emerald fabric, built-in cabinets, and drawers with brass knobs.

“Whoa.” This has to be a mistake.

The porter waves me inside, drawing a paper-thin tablet from her vest pocket. “Standard single room secured for the Interplanetary Alliance Life Support Bot competition winner.”

“That’s me.” First place . It still feels completely unreal.

But I earned it. ILSA had to be the only entry from Earth that can transform into a full life support system for up to fifteen hours with a tracking beacon, GPS, transport capabilities, plus environment detection and health scanning.

On top of being a conversational companion capable of learning to read physical changes and detect emotional and medical distress.

She is everything they asked for and more.

Even though I hadn’t responded to a message from him in months, Reve was the one who sent me the flyer.

The Interplanetary Alliance, made up of the six heads of the most powerful companies in the galaxy, was running a competition for young engineers.

I’d just made the cutoff on the lower end of the seventeen to twenty-three age range, but I knew immediately I’d get here.

No doubt in my mind. Still, it’s impossible to align the dream with this reality.

I stare at the porter, unable to change my face, which must look like ILSA’s—utterly blank.

She presses my ticket against her tablet until it emits a sharp beep and then holds the screen out toward me. “Left hand here, please.”

I lay my palm on the cool surface. Another beep.

“You’ll be able to access your room and all other first-class amenities now.

” She smiles and checks her screen again, quickly scanning the information.

“Your award includes full, first-class passage to and from Mars. Appropriate attire for your stay on the Boundless and your presentation on Mars has been provided.” She gestures to the other side of the room.

Next to the closet is another open door with deep green tiled walls inside.

“I have my own bathroom?” There is no way this is real.