The Sun only rises once a day; that is, if you’re on Earth. But for those of us hurtling through endless space, the star doesn’t rise at all.

Eyes train on me every time I enter a room. Usually, I’m too busy to pay attention to such asinine concerns, but considering it’s Saturday, and I finished all my Technical responsibilities for the week on Thursday, I now have more time to worry about what my crew members think of me. 

Ignoring the lingering stares, I spot an empty table farthest away from everyone else in The Café and head toward it. A chair pulls out to block my path, and a flash of slightly curled, blond hair fills my vision as the man extends to his full height, nine inches taller than my sorry self. Timour Orlov is a twenty-five-year-old Starship Commander from Liansa. We met four weeks ago on Issho, an Earth Base that goes by the same name, and he immediately proved himself the most adorable person I’d ever met after tripping over his own feet to shake my hand. While I consider myself Empirical, since I am half-Liansan half-Empirical, I don’t exactly have the right to be picky about my friends. 

“Hey, Ailee—uh, I mean, Technical Sergeant Chambers—you’re up early.” There are two tracks in the Interstellar Force, also known as the IF, Technical and Starship. Technical roles typically belong to engineers, research scientists, and data analysts, whereas Starship roles are for combat soldiers, managers, and pilots. Timour’s ocean-blue eyes meet mine for a second before looking away, his face turning pink. “Usually we don’t see you until Lunch Break.”

I give him a tired smile. “I couldn’t sleep last night.”

“Oh, are you alright?”

“I’ll be fine. Just nerves, that’s all.” I don’t elaborate. For the past few weeks I’ve been a bit on edge, although I can’t pinpoint why.

“Want to sit with us?” His eyes sparkle, flickering to the other Liansan Keepers at the nearest table. A “Keeper” is a fancy term we call those in the IF. They peer at me curiously. “We were just discussing the history of machine learning algorithms, and, well, you might be interested.”

I’m about to reply when a voice interrupts from the next table.

“Why don’t you let the Admiral’s daughter get some food first before you seduce her with topics she knows better than you.” Duarte Renner’s jab makes me stiffen, and I glance over at his exclusively Empirical table before realizing his annoyed gaze is locked on me. I met this twenty-two-year-old man-child—excuse me, “Starship Commander”—in the United Empires’ Earth Base, Glory, four years ago. His father, Starship Marshal Brutus Renner, is one rank below the highest rank, Starship Admiral, which explains why Marshal Renner and my father are so close.  

“I’m sure I can learn a new thing or two.” I smile slyly and move to sit at Timour’s table.

Duarte scowls and begins to stand, but the Empirical Keeper next to him squeezes his forearm and hisses, “Not here. Not now. You’re drawing attention.” The Café is deadly quiet, crewmates no longer concerned with being discreet while eavesdropping. Duarte reluctantly plops back down, throwing a glare filled with animosity our way. 

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Timour gestures to the open seat, and I sit down, bashful as he scoots the chair in for me. He takes the seat beside me. Duarte rolls his dark brown eyes, muttering, “The nish thinks he’s a gentleman.”

I clench my fist at the derogatory term, and I cut a severe look at him. “At least they still exist.”

Timour blinks, surprised I’m coming to his defense. Duarte’s jaw tightens, and his chair screeches against the aluminum floor as he grabs his tray, rising in one fluid motion. “I’ve lost my appetite,” he announces. I tense as he passes behind us and resist the urge to turn around. I’m certainly not giving him the satisfaction of unnerving me. He discards his half-eaten breakfast into the trash chute by the doorway and stalks around the corner, out of sight. 

I let out a breath and glance at Timour. He continues to stare at the entrance to The Café, a combination of distaste and what can be interpreted as pity in his expression. 

“He’s always been a bit cold, but never prejudiced,” I say, confused.

“I’m not so sure it’s a question of whether or not he’s prejudiced.” Timour finally draws his gaze from the doorway to me. “After all, you’re half-Liansan, no?”

I don’t remember telling him this tidbit of information, though I’m not surprised. Even if he hadn’t heard from the other Keepers, he was bound to guess due to my Liansan features and Empirical coloring: almond-shaped amber eyes and dark-chocolate hair. Yet half the time, I can’t tell people apart—or rather, you can’t assume one’s allegiance based on their coloring. Humans have been mixing blood for millennia, before we could ever migrate between the two countries on Earth, Solarity on Mars, and the pirates in outer space. 

Which means he definitely heard from the other Keepers.

“Yes,” I admit. “Maybe that’s why he feels entitled to order me around. On top of that, his father and mine are buddies, so he thinks he can get away with anything.” 

“I’m not sure that that’s the reason either.”

I sigh, “Then, I don’t know what his problem is.” 

Timour raises his eyebrows skeptically. “You don’t?”

“No, do you?” 

He doesn’t respond, internally battling with himself.

“What is it?” I press, “Tell me, please.”

He exhales, running a hand through his already unkempt hair. He looks toward the other Keepers at the table, willing them to speak up. None do. Some stay quiet out of nervousness; others anticipation. 

“I’m most definitely going to regret this.” He finally says, “Ailee—um, Technical Sergeant Chambers—”

“We’re past that. Just call me ‘Ailee.’”

He smiles briefly. “Alright, Ailee.” The smile disappears. “Look, Commander Renner—”

Before he can articulate any further, the loudspeaker blares a long low-pitched note. An announcement from my father follows: “This is Starship Admiral Chambers speaking. All Keepers assigned to Mission four-oh-nine-six, report to Aconite.” The message pauses briefly, before repeating again. 

“The command center?” I question, “I thought we’re not going to be on Mars until Monday?”

Timour shrugs, although it’s clear he’s anything but indifferent to this change in plans. “We better go see what the Admiral wants.”