Book Six: Chapter Six. The Humming Room

Filtered sun spilled through the apiary’s patched-glass ceiling, breaking into gold columns alive with dust and drifting pollen. Between hydroponic bloom-pods, thousands of bees moved in slow, content spirals—a low, constant hymn that made the rest of Hannibal Station feel a galaxy away.

Finn guided her father down the narrow aisle. Huck’s boots scuffed like he wasn’t sure the deck plates would hold. Each step looked borrowed.

“Just sit,” she told him, easing him toward the bench that faced the hives. “No tests, no scans. Bees don’t ask questions.”

Huck paused, brushing the velvet throat of an engineered lily. “I brought your mother here while we were still welding ribs on the dome,” he whispered. “Told her the bees would outlast us all.”

Finn swallowed the ache that sentence always brought and let him drift ahead. He lowered himself beside Malcolm Potter, who knelt in front of the nearest hive, jacket threadbare, hands bare and unafraid. Potter nodded to them both.

“They know when you’re lying,” he said, voice soft enough not to stir the guards at the hive entrance. “Bees. Don’t fuss with words.”

“You talk like they’re people,” Finn murmured, crouching by a bloom-pod. A single worker landed on the back of her hand, feather-light.

“Better than people.” Potter smiled. “They never forget who they are.”

Huck’s fingers twitched in his lap, the tremor of a man who heard music others missed. Potter kept speaking, as though Huck’s silence were a kind of invitation.

“The Condition isn’t sickness,” Potter said. “It’s frequency. You don’t catch it—you tune to it. Privilege, really.”

Finn arched an eyebrow. “Like a radio?”

“Like a prayer you didn’t mean to say, but the universe answers anyway.”

Something bent behind Huck’s eyes. “First dig on Sandbar,” he rasped. “We thought the planet itself was talking. Cracked open caverns older than dirt—swore we heard voices. Maybe it was just us. Echoes.”

“Echoes count,” Potter replied. “Most prayers are only echoes waiting for a return.”

“And the bees?” Finn asked.

“They listen better than we do.”

A trio of workers settled on Huck’s knee. He watched them, still as stone, breathing slower.

“So The Condition is… evolution?” Finn pressed.

“The next language,” Potter said. “We’re babies learning the first vowel.”

Huck’s gaze stayed on the bees. “What if it’s nothing? Madness. Noise.”

Potter’s smile turned wistful. “Then it’s the most beautiful noise I’ve ever heard.”

For a full minute no one spoke. The hive’s hum swelled until it filled the chamber and every thought inside it. Finn let the sound wash through her. Potter was anchored in something she couldn’t name; Huck seemed to be drifting toward it. She realized they were all listening for the same, impossible station.

Dim fluorescents buzzed over Command Deck while a soft alarm chirped to itself at a side console. Thatcher Mason—blind in one eye, cataract clouding the other—stood with hands clasped behind his back, staring through the viewport at Mars. He knew someone was at his shoulder without looking.

“If you’re just here to stare,” he muttered, “pick a window that doesn’t matter.”

“I’m not staring,” Becky said.

“Then what?”

“Learning. Watching.”

“Same thing,” Thatcher gruffed. “If you do it long enough.”

Footsteps echoed from the upper corridor. Aunt Polly descended the ramp, took in the tableau, and jerked her chin toward Becky. “Come on. Let’s not wear out his tolerance for ambition.”

Becky fell in beside her. Polly steered her to a side alcove where the deck noise dulled and a single panoramic pane revealed the bruised curve of Mars against ink-black sky.

“They used to call this place the bridge,” Polly said. “Like we were explorers, not janitors.”

“Now it’s just where old men hold meetings,” Becky answered.

“Exactly. And if you’re not careful they’ll convince you you need a swinging set of genitals and a fleet patch to sit the chair.” Polly pulled a slender data-slate from inside her coat and pressed it into Becky’s hands. Title in crisp white text: "THE TERRAFORMER’S DAUGHTER: Essays on Power, Science, and Becoming".

Becky’s eyes rounded. “This is… yours?”

“Was,” Polly corrected. “I wrote it at seventeen, before I stopped asking permission to speak.” She watched Becky swipe through chapter headings: "The Myth of Martian Masculinity. Command Is a Function, Not a Personality. Curiosity Is a Weapon."

“Why give it to me?” Becky asked.

“Because nobody up here will hand you anything. You take it—with curiosity and guts. Being a girl in this tin can is an advantage. You’re underestimated; weaponize it.”

Becky scrolled: "Power Is Not Inherited. What to Build When They Give You Scraps."

“You think I’m like you?” she whispered.

“I think you’ll be better,” Polly said, eyes flaring. “Smarter. Meaner when it’s needed, kinder when it counts.” She angled her head toward Thatcher’s silhouette across the deck. “He still sees a daughter. But that satchel Ilias left? It isn’t just Tom’s puzzle. It’s yours. So’s the future. Don’t wait to be invited.”

“Tom’s the big-idea guy,” Becky said quietly. “The treasure hunt. I—”

“Don’t follow him,” Polly cut in. “Walk beside him or sprint ahead. Never second chair again.”

Becky closed the slate. Something fierce sparked behind her calm. Across the deck Thatcher barked a new order; neither woman turned.

“Let them chart the stars,” Polly murmured. “You? You build the ship.”

Becky nodded once, sharp as a blade being drawn.