Hex Triplet #00F00 by Laura Chilibeck
4000 words, ~20 minutes reading time
Issue 7 (Spring 2025)
A delicious tremor runs along my scales when I imagine touching down into a breathable atmosphere and swimming in the ocean. My breath fogs up the porthole window. The small planet below our tiny three person space station Gobaith, is lush, shades of blue swirl around vibrant dots of green. Nothing back home looks so bright, even the blue walls of our space shuttle are dull in comparison. Once I succeed, planet Hex will have enough O2 that our entire civilization could migrate here.
The computer beeps, extinguishing my dream of the future. In antigrav, I float away from the view and aim for shelves of viridescent algae samples growing in tidy rows. Narrow tubes the length of my talon run along the wall, living colour swatches that hold the key to our survival. Everyone doubted I’d be able to blend the O2 capabilities of the rare bioluminescent algae, and the deep green overly reproductive species but I did it. Puffing my cheeks to contain my excitement I adjust the row of Petri dishes. These small cylinders are the heart of my life's work. All of the recent specimens have been reproducing steadily, collecting water samples from Hex had been worth the paperwork and hassle. Today could be the day I find out my hard work has paid off and I’ve created the perfect batch.
“Come on little guys, we’re so close to success, please work.” I tap the monitor instructing the computer to load the most recent data. “I put all my government funding into you. If you can’t change Hex’s atmosphere we’re doomed, and I’m not ready to give up, even if everyone back home is.”
To the naked eye, the uniform hue and growth of seven-six-zero to seven-six-nine are ideal, but if the oxygen level hasn’t increased enough I’ll have to find another algae species to blend with what I have. I run my tongue along my teeth. Over a year working on this station and waiting for results never gets easier. The screen turns black, then yesterday's sample of seven-six-one, loads in teal letters:
O2 levels have increased by 0.13%.
Algae reproduction has decreased by 50%.
Fluttering my neck frills, I re-read the results. This is a positive trend and confirmation that I’m on the right track. If one of the next eight have oxygen levels that increase above one percent I’ll have created the solution. I run a talon along the shelf holding the Petri dishes, “I have high hopes for you all.”
I inhale a lung full of air, reveling in the slight smell of algae, sweat, and metal. One of the best things about this mission is not having to wear a respirator. I roll my neck from side to side reveling in the freedom from restraints along my mandible and frill. At home there had been times when our central ventilation system would break, and we’d have to wear our respirators in the house and to bed. Pulling my lips in there’s still a phantom tug around my mouth from wearing something on my face for most of my life. All our people deserve to experience life like this, in clean air. Especially my family. My gut churns, I miss them, but not the tension in their eyes, or the acute awareness that our planet is slowly killing us.
“You could be the answer to our problems, algae seven-six-two. I believe in you.” Using a pipette, I extract a sample of the specimen, place it in a new Petri dish and wait for the analysis..
The lab's overhead lights switch to red, casting the room in an angry glow, and loud buzzing blasts from the speakers. I jolt, dropping the syringe which hangs midair.
“Alert. Incoming ship.” The computer’s voice sounds happy even when we’re in distress. If whoever programmed the voice thought this would help, it doesn’t. “Alert. Incoming ship.”
The door hisses open and my security officers, Oren and Tval glide through.
“I thought the possibility of an attack was low?” Panic constricts my neck making the words come out tight and strained. “Mercenaries frequently raid transport ships carrying cargo, but we’re just a science station.”
Oren’s nostrils flare and he blinks both sets of eyelids. “There is a reason we’re posted on this heap of junk with nerdy climatologists like you Zephy.” The use of my childhood pet name helps settle my growing anxiety. Tval jumps from one task to another. Tapping into the computer, communicating with the ships rudimentary security AI through their headset, opening and closing lockers. Tval’s decisive actions changed, what was seconds ago, a calm space into a militarized zone. They’re nearly a blur, turning off non essential programs, pulling out emergency kits, and issuing orders to the AI about defence capabilities. The crackle of their Coms and snippets of abbreviated words buzz around the room.
I’m frozen in midair, this can’t be happening. I’ve nearly created the perfect algae, our mission is on the verge of success.
A loud thud followed by a crunch shakes the walls. I clasp the railing and try to peer through the porthole. Vapor and bits of debris float past, but I can’t see a ship.
“They’ve clamped on to the station.” Tval says.
My scales flatten, they’re going to board us, or worse, tear the ship apart.
Oren pats my shoulder. We’ve known each other since we were kids; there’s no fear in his expression. We met when I was collecting hospital garbage to fix our home air purifier. I hadn't heard the collecting truck arrive, and he jumped in, helping me escape unnoticed. If not for him, I would have been crushed. We’ve supported each other ever since. “We need you to send out a distress signal.” His lavender eyes bring me back to the present. “This isn’t a drill. You can do this, Zephy.”
I nod and spin back to the monitor. The computer is 90% finished with its first algae analysis, I need to know the efficacy of this new batch. Sliding over to the main computer panel I send out the distress signal.
The station vibrates and the lockers Tval had riffled through fling open. Utensils, bits of clothing and the engraved magnifying glass my parents gave me float around us. I swat them away from my life’s work. White and red lights flash.
The strange lighting turns Tval’s dark slate scales into sickly contrast. He taps his head set once, nods then swiftly expands and snaps his frill shut. “They’re starting to cut into the hull. They want the station's metal and tech. If I can’t get them to stop we’ll have to abandon the station.”
My pulse is like a storm in my ears. Tval and Oren are talking, but their words are incoherent. I can’t leave. My results are nearly done.
In a few more seconds I’ll have the answer. I snatch a container of seven-six-two and shove it in my pocket. If I’m right and this batch is it; I’ll need these to grow a new crop.
Tval shoves an exo-suit into my chest, clasps my shoulders and says, “Forget your pet project. Put this on.”
Just like in training, I pull it on and somehow close all the clasps in record time just as the computer chimes. The calculations are complete.
Shivers run along my scales. I scan the results for the percentage of oxygen released as the shuttle jolts, creaks, and something nearby hisses. It’s all background noise, I keep reading the screen.
Finally:
O2 levels increased 4.2%.
Algae reproduction decreased 30.0%.
“Yes!” I tap the keys to send seven-six-two’s data to homebase. The icon swirls, why is it so slow?
Oren shoves my helmet on. He firmly tugs on my straps, spins me in the air, completing a full suit check. The lights on the shuttle flicker. That data needs to be sent out before this place is turned into scrap. My breath fogs up the lower part of my visor. Hopefully whoever is attacking us won’t care if we leave a sinking ship.
The lights go dark, all except the ones inside the escape pod at the end of the center corridor where Tval’s preparing for ejection. It’s as though the station has given up, shining a light on our only way forward.
“I sent out our details, that we are a scientific station, in multiple languages and codes,” Tval says, their voice is in my helmet the only other sound beside my own breathing. “Still no response.”
“Scavengers then,” Oren emphasises the ‘s’. He only does that when he’s angry. “They just want the materials. Let’s get out of here, they can have it.” He taps my shoulder gesturing for me to leave.
If the lights are out, the oxygen production will cease, and all my beautiful green rows of healthy algae will die. All my research will be ruined. I should take a few more containers. Turning my shoulders I reach behind to grab more.
“It’s them or your life, Zephy.” Oren clasps my arm, his firm gaze meets mine. I know he’s right. My eyes prickle with unshed tears, I have to make sure the sample in my pocket survives. I let him pull me to the escape pod. It’s small, too small for three people.
I glance over my shoulder, at what once felt like home. Now it looks like a metal container full of floating garbage. I don’t know if my data made it to homebase. They need to know seven-six-two is a sample that works. This is the only way we survive.
Oren shoves me into my seat and takes the one to my left. Thankfully the hissing, grinding, cacophony of our station being destroyed is muffled by my helmet. Hoisting the straps over my shoulders and around my waist, it’s awkward to buckle in with my gloves, but I get it done. My legs start to float. Oren points to my boots. I forgot to turn on the magnets. Strapped in, I can’t reach it.
The container of algae strains in my pocket, I can’t let it break, I have to unbuckle. I fumble with the clasp and try to wiggle around to fix my mistake. Tval’s helmet nearly hits mine, they lean over and click the boot's orange buttons. Each foot thuds to the floor. I try to say thank you, but the words are trapped in my throat as the hatch seals shut.
The escape pod is smaller than I remember. After all those drills, I never thought we’d have to use it. I’m living a nightmare that I can’t wake from.
One simple mistake could lead to any number of deaths. If the ejection procedure fails we could plummet into the planet and burn up on the way down. The mercenaries might blow us up. Worst of all, if we run out of air before we’re rescued we will all asphyxiate. I mumble prayers that we don’t die.
Tval straps themself in, and taps the computer.
“Hold on,” they warn.
In seconds, I’m pressed into the wall of the ship from the force of the ejection.
The vibration rattles my teeth. I squeeze my eyes shut and imagine we aren’t escaping but instead landing on Hex. I imagine that seven-six-two's algae has filled the atmosphere with oxygen, and now my family and I can leave our wasteland of a planet and breathe again. Respirator-free.
Silence.
The thrusters stop.
After a few breaths, I open my eyes. The miniscule porthole above is black with pinpricks of stars, without a glimpse of the planet.
“They aren’t coming after us,” Tval confirms.
“Can you connect with homebase?” I ask. The Petri dish presses against my leg. They need to know I have a successful batch, that our efforts haven’t been for nothing. We all tap on our Coms.
“I’m not getting a response,” I say.
“Me neither,” they say simultaneously.
“Our communication system isn’t broken, right? Would the mercenaries fire on us?” My nostrils flare and I begin to pant. It’s as though my suit's gravity has increased-pressing down on me, I can’t get enough air. The walls of the ship are too close, and light is too dim. I double blink and try to bring Tval back into focus. “Things go wrong, Coms go down for lots of reasons. Let’s not jump to conclusions,” Tval gives me a slow steady nod and I mirror the movement. “All we can do is wait.”
They’re right. I’ve spent years training myself to sink into a neutral state. With panic, and despair poking like spikes along my spine, I take a slow breath and watch the stars.
If only the pod would tilt so I can gaze down on planet Hex.
“Zephyra, wake up!”
What? It’s as though my heartbeat is trying to smash out of my skull. Everything is heavy and I can barely move. Loud pinging throttles my ears. Across my visor in large letters flashes:
WARNING
Oxygen Levels Dropping
What is going on?
“Your suit’s leaking.” Tval’s voice cuts through the noise. “Maybe it caught on something when Oren pulled you in here, we were all rushing to leave.”
The thudding continues, making coherent thoughts challenging. I press my gloved palm to my pocket, feeling for the container that holds the algae. I should have packaged it better, what if the temperature changes too much?
Tval unbuckles and spins me around.“There, patch that spot.”
Oren slaps me again and again.
Lights twinkle before me. How did the stars get inside the pod?
“She’s going to black out. We have to give her some oxygen.” Oren’s voice is strained.
Tval lowers me. I try to focus, but my eyes hurt.
“Wake up, Zephyra!” They bark in my helmet.
“Stop yelling at me.” I whimper.
Oren fidgets with my suit then a rush of stale air blows into my face. I suck it in like I have a regulator on again, like we’re back home. I close my eyes and pull more oxygen into my lungs, letting it refresh my muscles, awaken my limbs, and bring me back to myself.
Coughing, I sit up. My head hurts but I’m feeling more normal. Something tugs on my back.
“We’re tethered,” Oren states.
The tube is no wider than my palm haphazardly connected to my suit. “Have we had contact from our fleet? When will they arrive?” Oren can’t share his air with me indefinitely. Each suit has enough for nine hours, enough time for a government ship to rescue us.
“E.T.A. is three hours from now,” Tval says. They tap into their computer, probably calculating how much oxygen we have left, now that we are sharing. I don’t think I want to know; it will only encourage the fear clinging to my spine to increase.
“Aren’t there air tanks in this rescue pod? Isn’t that the point of supplies?” I scan the space, it’s pandemonium. All doors hang open, food packets, water tanks, and bandages are strewn about.
“There’s only one due to cutbacks.” Tval says. “We need to save it.”
In case things get worse. It’s part of our training–don’t use anything until you absolutely have to. The government was too confident, assuming no one would dare attack a science station. They have no idea how bad things have become. Fighting over scraps of filters and anything to help keep the respirators and air purifiers working.
I start to sit, the tugging sensation pulls at my suit, Oren nods and we move in unison.
“The less we do, the–”
“I know.”
I’ve studied oxygen and respiration rates since elementary school; we all have. Since the asteroid hit and the plant life barely survived and the oceans diminished, we fixated on short-term survival, which kept us in a state of constant catch up, never getting ahead of the next disaster. Even in our devastation, our people war with one another, reproducing and searching for a quick solution that has never existed. It seems like every time we take a step in the right direction, we’re pushed three steps back. This science station was supposed to be different. We were going to change everything.
I clench my jaw and bite back a scream clawing its way up my throat. No. I have to conserve energy. I focus on each inhale, counting myself into a slower rhythm.
“We used to build new filters out of scrap together.” Oren’s voice is quiet in my helmet.
“I think all kids do, were you any good?” Tval asks.
“Nah, but Zephyra was amazing, always has been. I really think she can do what she says. I’d bet my life on it. She’s the reason I came on this mission for a third time.” Oren coughs.
“Yeah. She works harder than any other scientist I’ve seen.” Tvals words begin to fade in my mind.
They don’t know I’m listening, I tune them out to give them privacy. I clutch my pocket, and hope the algae are still alive.
I’m woken by A soft rumble followed by a scraping wakes me. Tval’s eyes are shut, their hands suspended in midair while they sleep. How long has it been? I run my tongue over my sticky teeth and try to swallow. My breaths are short, we must be getting low on oxygen, the rescue ship better arrive soon.
As I move, my helmet collides with something long. Oren’s arm dangles next to me.
I smack him. “Oren.” My voice is hoarse. We have to check our oxygen levels, everything’s on his suit since mine is broken. “Oren, stop messing around.” He shouldn’t be playing pranks right now.
“Tval, Oren’s ignoring me.”
Tval blinks and slowly focuses their indigo eyes. Instead of answering, he unbuckles and glides to Oren.
Grasping Oren on either side, he gives him a strong shake. “Does he have enough oxygen left?” I ask. Tval’s eyes are fixed on Oren. They tap on his arm console.
“Tval?” A cold creeping runs along my sides. I loosen my straps enough to face Oren. His slate gray forehead presses against the visor, turning his scales white with the pressure. I jostle him and his head doesn't shift.
White hot horror burns into my core.
“Tval?” My voice is high, too high. I can’t catch my breath, the room spins. A heavy hand lands on my shoulder and presses me deeper into the seat. “No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no,” it sounds like a child's voice ringing in my helmet. A deep sorrowful cry, one that only a parent's warmth can protect.
“Zephyra, we both agreed you have to live. I didn’t know he was actually going to do it, but he said he’d redirect all his O2 if it meant you could live.” Tval’s voice is low. “The latest Coms came in thirty minutes ago, the ship had trouble, they’re delayed.”
“But…Oren?”
“Zephyra,” Tval snaps. “I’ve worked on that station for over seven years. The government was about to give up, but you developed a more efficient process, found new data, you grew the new algae strand, you are the one who can save the planet. You have to survive.”
There’s an odd hue to Tval’s scales. Their thin lips are dry, and their mouth hangs open, as though it will help them breathe.
“Tval, are you?” I trail off. Of course they aren’t okay. We weren’t supposed to be in this escape pod for so long.
“Oren’s tank is nearly empty, so I’m going to connect this new one to your system. I’m going to put it on low, so it will last as long as possible. All our hope is in you. I believe in you.” Tval starts fiddling with my suit in places I can’t see. Then they unbutton my emergency air supply system and hook up the only spare the government felt we needed.
“I don’t want to be the only one.” It’s the child's voice again. “Oren…”
“Oren and I are–were…” They blink their eyes slowly and refocus. “We spoke. We are proud of the small part we played in this. Oren said he always knew your stubbornness would help change the galaxy, and he was right.”
Tval leans back. With slow deliberate movements they strap themselves in then let they're arms float loose at their sides. They’re conserving their air, but I know it won’t be enough. They have the same look I’ve seen on too many others on our homeworld.
“I read your file. Zephyra Qwilantry from the poor region of Nihil, got into the best science lab, after three years was at the top of their field, always with a focus on O2 production and solutions.” Tval pauses, their eyes are closed but their chest slowly expands. “You came from nothing and yet want to give our people everything. I’m happy to give you the only O2 tank.”
My lip quivers. Crying takes too much energy, I have to be pragmatic. I force the whirling cyclone of emotions to the pit of my stomach.
I slow my breathing, rest my hand on my pocket, where the sample of algae sits. We have to survive.
My mind wanders and floats… glittering waters with flecks of green, never-ending algorithms, Oren as a child racing me to the largest boulder, my parents clasping hands at my graduation, my flight into space, the first glimpse of Hex from the science station... my mind goes blank.
“Escape Pod One, please respond.” The voice is quiet and crackled. I latch onto the sound. Slowly, I remember where I am. I open my eyes, careful not to move. I don’t know how long it’s been or how much oxygen I have left.
I tap the Com on my wrist.
“This is Escape Pod One.” My voice is a wisp of a thing, nearly as quiet as an exhale.
“Prepare for clamps.”
Clamps?
The ship jostles and if I wasn’t strapped in, I would have been thrown against the wall. My O2 tank floats away from me, it pulls tight. A sharp hiss begins. I kink the tube and gently pull it back and cradle it.
I try to maintain a level of calm while panic bites along my throat.
They have to dock and secure the escape pod and pressurize the loading bay. Then open the doors.
If I don’t un-kink the tube to the tank I will die, hopefully once I relax the hose, some of the air will make its way into my suit.
I have to count. Focusing on the next number keeps the cacophony of worries to the edges of my mind.
At one hundred, I relax my grip on the hose, count to ten, then stop.
Taking slow breaths, I try to remain still and use the least amount of air as possible. My suit becomes my whole world. Eventually the numbers won’t stay in my head, they jump and bounce. Gliding around the room in their own glittering colors.
Clanking and shuttering jolts the vessel again. I open my eyes to a glowing white light, the door is there and not there. Someone without a helmet floats into the room. The numbers buzz around, kissing the top of their head.
“Dr. Qwilantry?” The floating one asks.
I let go of the tube and pull my helmet off. Gulping in air, wheezing and coughing I inhale and exhale with relief.
I’m alive. We made it!
Fumbling with my straps I untangle myself, and demagnetize my boots, eager to float and be free. We were rescued, this isn’t the end.
“Yes. I’m Dr. Qwinlantry and…” No. It's just me.
I can’t look down.
I’m not ready to see Oren and Tval, still strapped in, the way they are now. I want to remember them laughing over meals as we gazed down at Hex, dreaming of a better future. They shouldn’t have had to give up their lives. I clutch the algae in my pocket.
T’val and Oren, I promise to carry you with me, into a better future for our people.
“I have to get to the lab.”
