The Galaxy, and the Ground Within by Becky Chambers (read along books txt) 📗

reminded us, limited. We will no longer waste it on waiting for you to do what is right.

SPEAKER

The sound of an incoming message took Speaker from dead asleep to wide awake in the span of a digital chime. She grabbed her scrib from where it had lain beside her as she slept. She read the text, and hope immediately shifted into confusion.

A mail drone has arrived.

Do you accept this delivery?

Speaker squinted at the screen. That had to be a mistake, a misfire of some random satellite dying above. She dismissed the alert, set the scrib down, rolled over, and shut her eyes.

A few seconds passed before the scrib chimed again.

A mail drone has arrived.

Do you accept this delivery?

Speaker clicked her beak with annoyance. There was no way this could be a legitimate signal. Even if that were possible with the comms network in pieces, she hadn’t ordered anything. Who would be sending her cargo here?

‘Display sender details,’ she said to the scrib. She anticipated nonsense in reply.

4443-115-69, the screen read. Sender: Roveg.

Speaker remained confused, but intrigue crept in.

‘Accept delivery,’ she said, and got out of her hammock.

The boxy drone that came through the airlock was unlike any she’d seen before. It was small, for a start – smaller than Speaker herself, and a far cry from the huge delivery crates she and Tracker usually had to clamber up. The drones she was accustomed to always flew themselves in and landed on the floor, but this one, in contrast, walked. The drone had what looked like a flight module on the back, but the locomotion it currently utilised was that of ten mechanical legs bent out from the sides of the box, marching along in steady obedience. The style of movement was undeniably Quelin, an impression Speaker likely would’ve had even if the sender of this cute little thing had been unknown. And it was cute, in an eerie way. As soon as it was clear of the hatch, it folded its legs up and threw its lid open, as if to say, Hello! I’ve arrived!

Speaker crawled over to the drone, peered inside, and was filled with wonder. The box contained food, none of which she recognised but all of which looked beautiful. There were yellow things and blue things and white things and leafy things – all fruits and vegetables, seemingly – cut into crescents and spirals, some raw, some cooked, some dusted with sugar or spice or salt. Each culinary mystery was packaged in a neat bundle of translucent wrapping and tied with thin, shiny ribbon. She had no idea what any of it was, no idea how to eat it, and no idea why this was being given to her. This reaction had apparently been anticipated, because resting atop the enticing contents was a small box that wasn’t food. It had no lid, no visible seams, only a small button and a hand-printed message that read Press this.

She pressed it.

The box popped open, and as Speaker jumped back, a burst of confetti-like pixels shot out, danced around, then dove back inside. The device extended an arm upward, and from this, a written message in a rectangular frame projected into the air above it.

Good morning, Speaker! I was hoping you might join me aboard my shuttle for breakfast. As I know you’re unable to leave your suit, I thought perhaps you could pack these into your cockpit and join me in that fashion. I tried to make everything small enough to fit into your compartment (and hope I estimated correctly). I also took the liberty of researching what your species can safely eat, so I’m fairly confident all of these will be suitable for you (though, as I’m sure you know your needs best, the ingredients are printed on the ribbons on each package, just in case).

If this idea doesn’t suit, or you simply don’t feel like coming by, please enjoy these tidbits in your own time and your own space. I will not take offence.

Your temporary neighbour,

Roveg

Speaker sat in stunned silence. She picked up one of the bundles and held it in both hands. Beneath the wrapping, there were long, artful curlicues of something purple and earthy, flecked with green seeds and cut with a steady hand. Or steady toes, rather. Whatever Quelin appendages were called.

She placed the bundle back in the box with care, and went to ready her suit.

PEI

Ouloo was not difficult to find. Pei spotted her with a paint tube in her forepaw, touching up the fuel shed where it had been worn by the clumsy comings and goings of algae barrels.

‘Can I help?’ Pei said as she approached.

Ouloo craned her neck around. ‘Captain Tem! Are you feeling better?’

Pei freckled yellow and red, a touch embarrassed over her exit the night before. Making a fuss was not her style. ‘Yes, I’m fine, thanks. Some good sleep put me right. It was just time lag, I think.’

This was entirely untrue, because Pei had barely slept at all, and wasn’t time lagged in the slightest, but the excuse seemed to work for Ouloo. ‘Oh, you wouldn’t be the first. I had a Human here two tendays ago who was so out of sync he slept right through his turn in the tunnel queue.’ She raised herself on her back legs so she could paint a high-up spot. The effort made her pant ever so slightly.

‘Can I help?’ Pei asked again.

‘Oh, no, no, no,’ Ouloo said. ‘I’ve got it, and I wouldn’t dream of putting guests to work.’

‘What if I like painting?’ Pei asked. ‘What if painting’s the thing I want to do most right now? You said if there was anything I wanted, I should tell you.’

Ouloo threw her a sceptical look. ‘That’s cheating.’

Pei laughed and picked up another spray tube from the nearby cart of paint supplies. ‘I can only take so many baths, Ouloo. And I could do with something other than sitting around.’

‘Well …’ The Laru huffed. ‘Fine, if you