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“Yes, that’s becoming evident now that I’ve met you. Nonetheless, you’re who we have to work with. Please follow me.” This time it doesn’t sound like a request despite their light tone.

So much for a trip to have some fun and get rid of my v-card. What the hell have I gotten myself into?

2

“Apologies for disturbing your rest, Lord Nafar. Docking will commence soon and disembarkment will occur in a quarter hour. The time on Spire is currently 17:23.” An artificially pleasant and even voice speaks over the comm into my ship quarters, stirring me awake.

“Right. Thank you,” I reply groggily, sitting up slowly from my bunk, making sure to not bump my head on the frame of the sleeping alcove. The cheaply made covers slide to my waist and I scratch absently at where the fabric has irritated my skin.

So much for so-called “luxury” space travel. After the past week aboard this subpar vessel, I won’t be using this company’s services again. Especially not at their exorbitant rates. I could’ve bought myown ship and flown here for only twice the cost of this trip from Nexxa Itat to Spire Station.

“Please let me know if you need any assistance with your departure. Do you require luggage transfer to your residence on Spire or a guide for your time on the station?” the VI asks cheerily.

“That won’t be necessary.” I don’t trust them not to lose my bags, and some of what I’ve brought is too important to risk. The one benefit of arriving on a GalaxyVenture ship is that all my belongings have been pre-checked by station customs, and I get a private decontamination chamber, so I won’t have to spend hours waiting in line to leave the docks. Which is good, since my arrival time is already cutting it close—there are only two hours until I’m expected at the medical conference’s welcoming event.

I’ve already packed my bags in anticipation of a quick unboarding, eager to get off of this junk heap of a vessel. With quick, studied motions, I dress in my travel suit and comb my sleep-mussed hair.

Goddess, I look rough. My reflection in the slightly warped hygiene room mirror shows dark pink circles staining my under-eyes and the telltale hint of a contact rash on my neck. Wonderful. I’ll need to shower as soon as I get to my accommodations or I’ll end up wanting to scratch my skin off the rest of the night.

That won’t do. It’s imperative that I make a good impression on my colleagues. The most renowned medics and researchers from across the Xi Consortium have gathered for their annual conference on Spire Station and it’s my first time attending. I intend to put their skepticism toward me to rest. To my face they call me bright-eyed and optimistic. Behind closed doors, I’m sure they’re more likely to say I’m a precocious upstart without the experience to back up my ambitions. Or, even worse, they don’t talk about me at all. This conference is my chance to prove myself to the greater medicalcommunity, as well as my chance to make some other meaningful…contributions.

My hand reflexively goes to the datapad in my satchel, checking to make sure it’s still there. Professional pride and ego may be one factor in my attending the conference, but it’s not the only one.

A concerning clunk followed by a hiss fills the room through the ship’s subpar sound dampener as the docking clamps lock onto the vessel. The floor shakes violently and I have to brace myself against the wall with my upper hands to not topple over.

Yes, it’s definitely time for me to get my own ship. I send a comm to the Nafar family retainer to arrange the purchase and crew procurement in time for my departure in a week. Mother won’t be pleased, but I have enough in my trust to cover it even if she protests. It frustrates her to no end that Father set aside a large chunk of his fortune for his children. Such an extravagant purchase will remind her that she can’t exert financial control over me anymore, which brings me a whisper of satisfaction.

Disembarking is thankfully fast since I’m let off before the other passengers. Normally, I’d feel guilty about the special treatment my noble status affords me and insist that families and the elderly deboard first, but tonight’s schedule doesn’t permit any such niceties. The private transport to my hotel is waiting and makes good time, despite the bustle of station traffic. The shuttle whizzes above garish neon signs, the lights blending together into a kaleidoscope of color.

How long has it been since I’ve visited Spire? At least a few years. The last time being when Mivael, my older brother, chartered a cruiser to the station for his 40th name day celebration. Most of my memories from that trip are drowned in the liquor-soaked debauchery of the weekend. I was feeling rather sorry for myself—how could I not after not only ending a years-long relationship, buthaving my true mate run away from me after our first meeting? Alcohol may have numbed the pain to a dull haze, but the horrific hangover and resurgence of anguish in the wake of that bender was bad enough that I haven’t let myself get out of control since then.

Will Spire Station be more enjoyable through sober eyes? Or was the partying and alcohol the glossy veneer which made it tolerable? I suppose I’ll find out soon enough.

The shuttle pulls up at my hotel for my stay on Spire, and a white-gloved aespian attendant immediately races to open the door for me. This place has all the trappings of an overpriced, pretentious place that Mother would adore. Which tracks, since she’s the one that insisted that I stay here. I would have been fine to seek out a modest apartment for a week’s rental, but no, appearances must be maintained.

The hotel staff buzz around me like courteous flies, seeking to aid me in return for my goodwill. Or better yet, my credits. Father taught me to be generous with tipping—no doubt they can smell that on me. I’m swept into the lobby and up a gilded lift to the penthouse suite, the attendants chattering the whole time about the various services the hotel offers. It’s all I can do to maintain my placid veneer and refrain from scratching at my irritated skin until I shake them off once they deposit my luggage inside my rooms, locking the door behind me with a sigh.

Goddess, this place is ridiculous. A gaudy seladin crystal chandelier hangs over a two story sitting area. The whole back wall of the space is mirrored, though they’re the type that can be made transparent so I can have a view of the district. There’s a fully furnished kitchen, pristine and probably never used since anyone who stays here wouldn’t deign to cook their own food. No food synthesizer, unsurprisingly. Goddess forbid I’d want to eat a replicated meal. The bedchamber and hygiene room are up an impractical,spiraling staircase. They’re just as annoyingly posh as the rest of the place. The whole suite looks like it was designed to impress others rather than provide functional comforts. It’s far more than I need. I’ll spend most of the week at the conference hall and certainly have no plans for company.

Less than five minutes after I’ve arrived in the suite, the chime of an incoming comm through the suite’s audio system goes off. With a sigh, I ignore it and set the system so that I won’t be disturbed. No, I don’t need their help unpacking or finding my way around the suite. No, I don’t need a guided tour of the district. They’d probably offer to wash my slit for me if I asked. The joys of being part of the second house of Nexxa Itat.

I know I sound like a pompous ass. People would kill to spend a night in this kind of luxury. My frustration comes not from my access to such privilege, but from the expectation that I want to indulge in it. There are far better causes and efforts to invest my credits in than wasting them on a place like this, when something far simpler would suffice. But no, I have to uphold the appearance befitting someone of my status.

My grumpy thoughts fade somewhat after a cool shower that soothes my irritated skin. Alright, I admit it’s nice to have such a large bathing chamber. I’d love to linger in it for an hour or two, but time is slipping away. Once I’ve unpacked and sent my suit for the conference through the auto-presser, I dress and finish my final preparations. The giant mirrors in the living area reflect back my appearance, which is…unimpressive.

I’ll be the first to admit that I’ll never be chosen as a representative for nexxit beauty. To start, I’m taller and broader than the willowy ideal for all nexxit. Mother would tell me to try to obscure some of my figure with more traditional, loose fitting robes, but I look like a shapeless lump in them. My neck is fine and my skin’sparticular shade of pink is tolerable and fairly smooth, thanks to the endless skin resurfacing treatments I’ve endured. My too large nose and odd green eye color cap off my lackluster appearance.

Vanity isn’t an indulgence of mine, but Mother’s criticisms ring in my ears despite my best attempts to ignore them. My body is functional. It allows me to do my work, care for patients, and move through this galaxy. Why should I care if it’s not small enough to be deemed good? Right, because being different is bad and standing out makes me an imperfect scion of the estimable Nafar house.

I absentmindedly smooth the front of my charcoal jacket where it pulls at the fasteners with a frown. Attempting to wipe away Mother’s criticisms is a futile effort. They’re a persistent stain on my mind. Shifting the damage she’s incurred on my psyche into the recesses of my mind only means it will spill out again at the least opportune times. Better to look at myself in the mirror, let my mind recall her words, and recognize my deficits wholeheartedly. And consider buying a looser-fitting jacket.

I pull my focus away from my reflection and gather my datapads, rearranging them in my bag and checking each one multiple times. There’s no way I’m leaving them unattended in this suite—I’m sure some nosy cleaner will be in here the moment I leave to find out what kind of undergarments a nexxit noble wears. When I’m satisfied everything in my satchel is present and in order, I center myself with a deep breath and head to the conference hall.

3

Damn, that date was a bust.

With a slight wince, I down the rest of my too-hot tea and set the mug on the cleaning pad. The spicy-sweet flavor is meant to be savored, but my date didn’t last long enough for the liquid to cool. I shouldn’t have waited for them to arrive. At least then I wouldn’t have completely wasted the twenty minutes that passed until they deigned to show up.

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