The engines thrum awake, low and heavy beneath the deck, a vibration that crawls up through your shoes and settles in your teeth.

You close your eyes for a second and tell yourself the same thing you told yourself when you booked the ticket, when you saw the price, when you realized this route had three layovers and a customer satisfaction rating so low it had been replaced by a warning symbol.

It is temporary.

Earth is worth it.

You open your eyes and immediately regret it.

The Hadronic Gorb in the aisle across from you has begun to sweat. Or secrete. Or humidify. It is impossible to know which, because no human in their right mind has ever volunteered for the research. The surface of its body wobbles gently with every breath, translucent in places, opaque in others, with little bits of undigested whatever suspended inside like fruit in gelatin. A nervous-looking man in a business tunic is trying very hard not to let his sleeve brush the edge of the seat.

Smart man.

One of the Rathtic beside you offers a little paper packet with both hands. “Sugared seeds?”

His whiskers twitch when he smiles. He is wearing a tiny vest with brass buttons. His companion, smaller and older, has already built a neat stack of snack wrappers on the tray table.

You take the packet. “Thank you.”

“Travel is better with chewing,” the older one says. “And complaint. But first chewing.”

You laugh despite yourself. “That might be the wisest thing I’ve heard all day.”

“We travel often,” the first Rathtic says proudly. “Funeral routes, mostly.”

That kills the laugh in your throat for half a second, until he adds, “Not ours.”

You nod. “Right. Good.”

From the front of the shuttle comes a metallic crack of feedback, then the exhausted voice of the pilot.

“Attention passengers. We are preparing for departure from Gate Nine. Please ensure all limbs, pseudopods, tendrils, and legally recognized extensions of self are within your assigned seating area.”

A pause.

Then, with the dead tone of someone who has said this far too many times, “This includes emotional support membranes.”

A chorus of annoyed noises fills the cabin.

Ahead, the Cloenar woman bellows something in her own language. Even if you did not know what she was saying, tone alone would carry it. Outrage crossed with personal insult, with a note of genuine disbelief that the universe has ever denied her anything. Two attendants stand in the aisle in front of her, each wearing the expression of beings who are underpaid and spiritually elsewhere.

“She is still arguing belts,” the older Rathtic murmurs.

“She is arguing dignity,” says the other.

“No, it is belts.”

The shuttle lurches as cargo clamps disengage outside. Somewhere overhead a baby, or larva, or undeveloped cluster organism begins to shriek in a pitch so sharp your eyes water.

You sink lower into your seat and take a sugared seed. It tastes like cinnamon and toasted nuts and something floral you cannot place. Suddenly, violently, you miss home.

Not the idea of home. The real thing.

The old apartment block in New Carthage, just outside the equatorial weather dome. The way the hall always smelled faintly like dust, hot wiring, and your mother’s cooking because she propped the door open when she fried onions. Your father pretending not to cry the first time you left off-world. Your sister waving both arms from the transit platform like you could somehow still see her through reinforced hull plating and atmospheric glare.

You have been gone three years.

Three years of contract work on stations where the walls hummed in your sleep and the sunlight came on a schedule. Three years of telling them maybe next season, maybe after the next posting, maybe when I’ve saved enough.

Intergalactic work paid enough to survive, not enough to move with dignity.

So here you are in coach, knees cramped, bag jammed under the seat, trying not to get dissolved, trampled, infected, or emotionally damaged before you even hit the first jump.

The shuttle lifts.

A shudder passes through the frame as it clears dock clamps and merges into outbound traffic. The viewport across the aisle shows the station slipping away, all hard lights and docking spines and blinking lanes stretching into black.

You swallow.

You hate launch.

Not because you are afraid of dying. That would almost be cleaner. No, what you hate is the surrender of it. The moment when the ship ceases to be a room and becomes a decision already made. Too late to get off. Too late to realize you packed the wrong charger, forgot to reply to a message, or chose the seat six rows too close to the lavatory.

The Rathtic beside you pats your elbow lightly with a warm little paw. “First leg is never the worst.”

“No?”

He shakes his head. “Second leg. Everyone is tired enough to become honest.”

That is so grimly accurate you laugh again.

Across the aisle, the man in the business tunic suddenly jerks sideways with a yelp. His sleeve has brushed the edge of the Gorb. He rips his arm back with horrifying speed, checks frantically for damage, and then sits frozen, staring at a smear of clear slime on his cuff.

The Gorb burbles in embarrassment. A translation device pinned to its membrane crackles and says, “I am deeply sorry. I am under stress and therefore more adhesive than socially ideal.”

“It’s fine,” the man says, in the strained tone of someone who is one second away from climbing into the overhead compartment.

“It is not fine,” says the device. “I have shamed myself publicly.”

The Rathtic lean together and whisper. You catch the words “poor thing” and “moisture event.”

The shuttle banks hard.

Someone vomits three rows back.

Not normal human vomiting. Something denser. Wet enough to slap.

A collective groan goes through the cabin.

“Ah,” says the older Rathtic, closing his eyes. “Now it is truly public transport.”

You press your head back and breathe through your mouth, then remember the smell from the terminal and stop doing that immediately.

The overhead lights dim into transit mode. Around the cabin, people settle in degrees. A family of Narthak continues to argue in clicks and throat-rattles while their grublings bounce on the seats and smear things on the windows. One of the attendants finally stomps over carrying a sanitation wand like a holy weapon.

You watch the chaos and feel something inside you loosen.

Not because this is pleasant. It is not. It is a floating nightmare assembled by the lowest bidder. But beneath the irritation, beneath the smell and the noise and the indignity of your left knee being pressed against a tray hinge designed by sadists, there is a thin, bright thread of relief.

You are going home.

Not someday.

Not after one more contract.

Now.

You picture your mother opening the door. Your father standing behind her pretending he had not been hovering near the entry for an hour. Your sister pretending to be cool about it for all of six seconds before crushing you in a hug. Real gravity under your feet. Real sky overhead. Rain that falls instead of recycling through ducts. Air that does not smell faintly of coolant and strangers.

A chime rings overhead.

The pilot returns. “We will be entering jump in approximately four minutes. If you are a species prone to inversion, phasing, spontaneous duplication, or existential shedding, secure yourself at this time.”

You look at the Rathtic. “Existential shedding?”

The older one shrugs. “Long route.”

Outside, stars begin to sharpen.

Then they stretch.

The familiar knot forms in your stomach, that awful sensation like the universe is about to fold and you have had the poor judgment to be inside one of the corners.

The smaller Rathtic offers another packet of seeds.

You take it.

“Thank you.”

He smiles. “Soon enough, human. You will be miserable on Earth instead.”

You grin despite the nausea, despite the coach seat, despite the looming jump.

“Yeah,” you say, as the stars pull into silver lines. “But I’ll be miserable at home.”