‘Oh, no,’ Pepper said, with the sort of tone that implied the opposite.
Blue ran his fingers down his cheeks and exhaled. ‘We’re in for a night.’ He took the bottle and held it out for Sidra to see. Whitedune Distillery, the label read. Kick-Ass Kick from Gobi Six.
‘What is it?’ Sidra asked. Kick could mean anything from ale to wine to spirits, depending on where the speaker was from. Slang was infuriating that way.
Blue turned the bottle to the back label. Ingredients: Whatever we could grow this year, plus water.
‘Gotta love the independent colonies,’ Pepper said. She made a grabbing motion toward Issek, who placed a small glass in her hand. Blue uncapped the bottle and poured. Pepper puffed out her cheeks, then threw the drink back. Her face contorted into a puzzle of emotions as she swished and swallowed.
‘Oh, stars,’ Pepper rasped, laughing. ‘Why could we not be from Reskit?’
‘If you hate it—’ Issek started.
Pepper shook her head. ‘Nope. Nope, it’s good for me to know what it feels like for a fuel line to be cleaned out. Professional development and all.’ She patted Blue’s chest. ‘Tomorrow’s gonna be a rough morning.’
Some friendly conversation continued – the well-being of the Rust Bucket, the decor of the party, the current gossip from Issek’s feather family – but Sidra shifted that process to the background. These were the kinds of conversations she was privy to all the time. The Aurora was new, and vibrant. She watched as a group of Aeluon children blew handfuls of glitter over each other, dancing excitedly but making no sound at all. She watched as a massive Quelin – an exile, judging by the harsh branding stamped along her shell – apologised profusely for getting one of her segmented legs stuck in some decorative fabric draped around a vendor’s booth. She watched service drones flying drinks and food orders back and forth, back and forth. She wondered if the drones were intelligent. She wondered how much they were aware of.
Blue noticed that Sidra’s attention had strayed, and he gave Pepper a subtle nudge. They excused themselves from the bar, assuring Issek that they’d be back later.
‘Come on,’ Pepper said. ‘Let’s go check out the main event.’
They walked into a large circular area, and the multicultural atmosphere vanished. This space was filled with angled tents decorated with lavish garlands and lights, eagerly staffed by adult Aeluons and their respective children. This was the creche display, the central point of any Shimmerquick celebration. This was where professional parents advertised their business to potential mothers.
‘You know how this works?’ Pepper asked under her breath.
‘Yes,’ Sidra said. She brought up her reference files, eager to compare her notes with the real thing. ‘Can I look around? Is that . . . allowed?’
‘Oh yeah, go for it,’ Pepper said. ‘They don’t mind looky-loos. Just keep your respectful distance when a balsun takes place. Other species getting mixed up in that isn’t cool, even in this crowd.’
Sidra wouldn’t have dared anyway. The balsun ritual dance was the hallmark of the holiday, and despite its Hanto loan name, it was wholly, quintessentially Aeluon. An Aeluon woman might become fertile two or three times in her life (if at all), a state visually characterised by an increased brightness in her scales: in the right light, a shimmer. The balsun was an ancient tradition, once thought to encourage a woman’s body to produce a viable egg. Science dictated otherwise, but the dance remained, partly out of cultural heritage, partly out of the mindset of well, it can’t hurt.
There were seven different creches representing themselves in the display. Traditionally, creches were comprised of three to five virile males or shons, but women and neutrals were included in the modern mix. Parenting was considered a full-time job, and not something to be undertaken alone. As a woman had no way to plan for if and when she might become fertile, the idea of her abandoning her own profession to look after an unplanned child was unthinkable. Granted, she’d have to take time off for fertility leave, but on that point, Aeluon society was accommodating to a fault. In her research, Sidra had run across an absurd historical anecdote about a pre-spaceflight ground war that had been amicably paused when one of the most prominent generals started to shimmer. Sidra wasn’t sure any species took anything as seriously as Aeluons did breeding.
She wandered around the display, fascinated by the elaborate adornments. It was a competition, in essence. A trade show. She stopped in front of one of the tents. The leaf garlands draped around it were huge, and laced with glowing globes full of— The kit blinked. There was some kind of glowing liquid inside them, and it was moving, making tiny waves like a cresting sea. Powered by bots, most likely, but stars, it was striking.
‘Pretty, aren’t they?’