It wasn’t love at first sight. No.
There was no first day we met. Not really.
But there was the first day of us.
It wasn’t the first day of our junior year, though that second-period class opened the door.
Almost exactly twelve months ago, I walked into the one course I hadn’t chosen on my own—Corporate History and Field Integration—and started sizing up the other students. Only one of them was from my career path, Joaquín Valderrama, that weird kid who’s obsessed with waste disposal.
The rest of y’all were strangers. So, like I do when facing any new problem, I started with the superficial.
Looks.
A couple of gorgeous guys with administration patches. Ugh. Power trips.
Nondescript everybodies studying transportation and civil defense.
Then there was you, Mar.
Tall, thin, your curls streaked with purple, big eyes framed by long lashes, thin mustache emphasizing pouty lips. Way too much glitter on your sandy skin. A uniform that had been specially tailored, almost too sexy for corporate regulations.
Whoa, I thought. They really must like to push the limits.
Turns out, your pouty lips had something to say to our instructor.
“Mr. Sánchez, for the life of me, I can’t understand why Enjovian would force me into a room with people I will never see again after this year.”
That haughty tone made everyone turn to look at you with disbelief.
“Señorite Mostrenco,” the instructor warned. “The corporation expects its salaried families on this orbital platform not only to be familiar with its history and divisions, but to work well with all Enjovian employees. Many students in this room will have contact after graduation, via memoranda and interdepartmental collaboration. Even those as famous as yourself.”
Just then, a girl a few seats away gasped. I hadn’t noticed her before, but she was incredibly cute. A black stream of hair, delicate and dark features, compact and curvy form, rooted in an Indigenous heritage like my own.
It was you, Atzimba. Small. Quiet. So adorable and sweet that anyone would want to wrap you in their arms and protect you.
“Are you Mar Mostrenco?” you asked. “I’ve always wanted to meet you!”
And Mar smirked at you. “I can’t imagine why. What could a girl from Pedagogy and Therapy discuss with someone like me?”
Your face scrunched up like they had slapped you, Atzimba. I couldn’t keep my mouth shut, even though I knew exactly who they were. Who their family was.
“From that passive-aggressive superiority complex of yours, I’d say you’ll be needing her counseling services in a few years, science brat.”
Oh, that pushed your buttons, Mar. Your blazing gaze fell on me, and your lips curled into a twisted smile.
“No one asked you for your opinion, techie,” you said.
“You’ll want it if there’s ever a Systems Control issue in your family’s lab,” I shot back. “Bio-engineering can’t reroute power or reboot crashed consoles. So maybe don’t be such an asshole.”
“Enough!” Mr. Sánchez demanded. “However you may personally feel about it, this course is required of every junior on Plataforma La Mancha. It’s written into your families’ contracts. Save your weak barbs and transparent flirting for lunch or after school. Right now, eyes to the front. Let’s watch this holo introduction from Enjovian’s CEO.”
For the rest of the first month, our roles were defined by that initial interaction. Cautious Atzimba tried to have conversations with you, Mar, but you were busy acting stuck-up or flinging witty putdowns. I would parry and return the attack, hoping Atzimba would find me heroic or handsome or something.
Day after day.
Mr. Sánchez tried to take control of the situation. No luck.
Finally, when the class had to research and present on one of the founding board members of Enjovian, he pulled an ace from his sleeve.
“Mar Mostrenco, you will be working on Sandra Lovato.”
An audible groan escaped your pouty lips.
“And Diego Quispe will be your partner.”
You were not happy. When I joined you at the workstation, tablet in hand, you rolled your eyes flamboyantly.
“First, he assigns me the one founder who knew nothing about science. Then, he makes me work with a repulsive techie who probably doesn’t know the difference between a stop codon and a nullomer.”
“You’re a real jerk, you know?” I told you. “But you’re right. I’m just a techie. No famous fathers. Not the wealthy heir to reams of valuable genetic IP. All I know is that both stop codons and nullomers are nonsense sequences in DNA. But only one of them ends the process of translating information into proteins.”
That got your attention.
“Wait, how—?”
“Mar,” I told you, leaning close. I could see you swallow heavily. Pheromones. Always my secret weapon. “Engineering excites me. Electrical or biological. I know you’re brilliant enough to see the overlap, lovely.”
Your eyes were wide, a little red, and glued to my face for way too many seconds.
Then you gave a dismissive laugh.
“Compliments will get you nowhere, techie. I have standards. Now pull up the public-facing dossier on Lovato and read it to me.”
Despite your bluster, you kept stealing glances at me as I recited her biography.
I could see through your facade.
You were falling for me.
We finished that research project with just a few emotional scratches. After we presented and got the highest marks in the class, we became begrudging friends.
One day I was sitting alone in the cafeteria, feeling frustrated at my dads, who had interrogated me relentlessly before heading to school.
Unexpectedly, you set your tray down in front of me, Mar. With that careful elegance of yours, you folded your slender limbs into the chair.
“You look positively miserable,” you remarked.
“Just annoyed at my dads. All four of them quizzed me this morning about my love life. Do I have a crush on anyone? Am I secretly dating? When am I going to finally have sex?”
You leaned your head back, half-closing your eyes in exaggerated empathy. “Ugh. I know the feeling. My mother constantly bombards me with those sorts of intimate questions. My fathers never would have. They would have stopped her from making me miserable. But…”
Your voice trailed off. Mentally, I finished the sentence for you:… they’re dead. I could see tears trembling in your eyes. My chest ached at the idea of you crying.
“I guess we’d better start looking,” I said, sitting up, trying to distract you. “There’s got to be a couple of contenders in this goddamn cafeteria.”
Sniffling a little, you laughed and turned in your seat.
“What about that one? The redhead by the view port?” you asked.
“Mmm, they’re not bad. A little too obsessed with Jupiter’s atmosphere, though. Maybe the girl in the anti-grav chair?”
Your tongue flicked out as if by impulse, the sexiest thing I’d ever seen.
“Yes, she’s luminous. Techie, I think we have the same taste.”
I reached out, my hand trembling a little, and touched your arm.
“It’s Diego, Mar. Please.”
You looked down at my hand, then raised your gaze to meet mine. Your bronze cheeks were flushed.
Someone walked by at that moment, drawing my attention away.
It was you, Atzimba.
For a second, you turned and looked at the two of us, hopeful and happy.
But then you saw my hand on their arm, beautiful contrast of mahogany and cedar.
Smile fading, you turned and headed off in a different direction.
“Mother of God,” I whispered. “Now, she’s on a completely different level.”
You watched her walk away, Mar, nodding appreciatively. “You’re not wrong.”
Then, with no warning, you grabbed my hand and stood, pulling me to my feet.
“Come with me. Now.”
No idea how, but you knew the ins and outs of that level as well as any technician. In a matter of seconds, we had ducked inside a dusty diagnostic niche in an empty service corridor.
“Don’t say a word,” you breathed as you reached up and twined your fingers in my hair. “Just kiss me, Diego. Kiss me.”
My heart aching with the frenzied beating of my heart, I pressed my mouth to your pouty lips, felt them open with intoxicating hunger as your warm tongue twisted against mine. My arms went around you, pressing your body close, the fluttering of your pulse a dizzying counterpoint to my own.
When our tablets signaled the end of lunch to us, we ignored them till their AIs threatened to alert school counselors. Then, reluctantly, we pulled away from each other and hurried to our next class.
You in your career path, me in mine.
It became a pretty regular thing, consuming more and more of our lunch period until finally, we skipped the meal altogether.
Atzimba, this was about when you had a breakthrough with Mar.
“Mar?” you asked one morning, having screwed up the courage to strike up a conversation again.
“Yes, sweetie?” they answered, not with arrogance but with genuine friendliness.
“Um, is it true that you engineered the pazbosa when you were just ten years old? Our psychopharmacology instructor mentioned you the other day.”
Mar smiled at you, pleased. They love to be reminded of how badass they are.
“Well, Aztimba, is it? May I call you Zim? You see, Zim, I was really just assisting my fathers in the lab, but yes, I came up with the sequence that made the slugs secrete mood-altering proteins.”
You brightened like the petals of a rozochi when UV light hits them. “You are a pinche genius!”
Mar waved the adulation away, though they couldn’t help grinning. “Tell me more about how y’all use pazbosas in therapy. I hadn’t even thought about such applications.”
And just like that, the two of you became friends, spending more and more time together in class every day. I’ll admit I was a mess. I was doubly jealous.
On the one hand, I wanted to get to know you, too, Zim. At the same time, I was afraid you might come between Mar and me.
You always make fun of me for this, Mar, but I’m a big believer in fate.
I think mine was sealed on that evening near the end of the first trimester. I was helping Papa Manny in our kitchen when a call came through from Papa Santos.
“Diego,” he said, “can you meet on level 12, section E? There’s been a glitch that’s sealed the doors to all the households. I could use an assistant.”
I headed down five levels and hurried to the right spoke. There were people, mostly children, and teens, milling about in the corridor. Some were banging on the doors to their households.
Papa Santos was at a diagnostic station, looking frustrated.
“Son, it looks like I’m going to have to crawl into the access tube. It’s a physical short, and I don’t want to leave all the kids in the hall waiting for automated repairs.”
I nodded. “Okay. Want me to monitor from the diagnostic console?”
“Yes, that would be great. Field questions from folks as they come up, too.”
After he disappeared into the access tube through a nearby panel, a familiar voice called out.
“Diego Quispe?”
I turned. It was you, Zim.
“Atzimba Sainz!” I said, a little too excited. I tried to recover my cool immediately. “Um, what are you doing here? It’s a little dangerous.”
You smiled, and my heart skipped a beat. “My family lives here, in 1212-E. I was just about to cycle open our door when they all sealed up.”
“Oh, shit. Are your parents freaked out?”
“Yeah. They’re super paranoid about possible raids.”
I raised an eyebrow. “By?”
You shrugged. “Pirates? One of the syndicates? Papá has been convinced for years that La Ermandá wants to push its way into Jovian space.”
“Station security is pretty good, Atzimba. And the UJH Constabulary has patrols near all Enjovian platforms.”
You smiled. “I know. But Papá’s been preparing me, just in case.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “How?”
Looking me up and down, you took a step back. Then, before I could even blink, you spun toward me, aiming a kick right at my head.
Your little booted foot hovered there, centimeters from my face.
“He’s a captain in Station Security, Diego. Taught me capoeira.”
As you lowered your leg, I struggled to find a response. Anything. It didn’t even have to be snappy. But I was too surprised. Fortunately, Papa Santos spoke over the diagnostic station com right then.
“Okay, Diego. Found it. Check the power levels. I’m going to bypass the short.”
There was a crackle of energy, then all the doors up and down the corridor hissed open.
“Good job,” you said, Atzimba. “I’m going to head inside. But first—do you, um, have your tablet with you?”
“Huh?” I muttered stupidly. “Yeah, in my back pocket.”
You pulled out your tablet, and with a flick of your wrist toward my butt, you sent your percom ID to mine.
“In case you want to give me a call,” you said, ducking your head, “or message me.”
Then you rushed to your household, not waiting for an answer.
Needless to say, I couldn’t get Atzimba out of my head, Mar. Not even when you and I were kissing the next day during lunch. You noticed I was distracted.
“What’s wrong, Diego?”
“I … well … is this it, Mar? Is this what we are, two virtual strangers who make out every weekday?”
You looked at me with the gentlest expression I’d ever seen on your face.
“I do want something more.”
“Like, what, dating? Should we start?”
You pursed your lips, thinking. “I’m not sure. I like the idea, but something’s, you know, missing.”
It took me only a few moments to understand what you meant.
We were both raised by polyamorous parents. The most loving relationships in our lives have been bigger than two people. It wasn’t that something was missing.
Someone was missing.
“We won’t be satisfied with just each other, will we?” I asked you. “Won’t feel complete.”
Relief bringing tears to your eyes, you shook your head. “No. We won’t.”
We stood there for several minutes, staring into each other’s eyes.
Then, at the same time, our lips moved by fate, we whispered her name.
“Atzimba.”
The last week of the trimester, right before First Break, our Corporate History and Field Integration group went on a tour of the central hubs of the station. Mr. Sánchez organized us into triads.
Again, fate. Laugh if you want.
He put the three of us together.
You two.
Me.
Yes, I showed off a little when we were in the Systems Control Hub. I’d been there so many times that I wanted to let you in on all the hidden secrets and cool backstories.
Atzimba, come on, you did the same thing when we were in the Station Security Hub. And we almost got busted checking out that weapons locker.
Your father’s boss came around the corner, and you screamed, “Run!”
Laughing like weirdoes, we hurried back to the main group, hand-in-hand.
Did you two feel it then? The spark? I sure as hell did.
It lit my damn blood on fire.
The Administration Hub was so freaking boring. Ditto Pedagogy and Therapy. Sorry.
Then we came to the Science Hub.
And everything changed for everyone, but especially for the three of us.
“Come with me. Now,” you said, Mar, taking us both by the hands again. We were at the back of the crowd of students, so it wasn’t hard to slip away. You dragged us through a twisty labyrinth of narrow hallways and then dropped my hand to punch a code into a lock.
On the other side of the door was an empty office with a massive viewport overlooking Jupiter’s kaleidoscope clouds.
“My fathers used to work in here,” you explained as you herded us in.
“Uh,” Atzimba asked, “why are we here?”
You gestured at the viewport. “If we stick with the group, you won’t get to see my family’s most amazing creation close-up.”
Zim looked at the chronometer on the wall. “No way, Mar. They’re about to breach, aren’t they?”
I was clueless as per usual. “What are you two going on about?”
“The sipacas,” Atzimba explained. “Mar’s grandfather Bartolomeo engineered them fifty years ago.”
“Ah, the gas whales,” I blurted.
Mar, you rolled your eyes at me. “Sipacas, Diego. Our organic solution to mining—rather than human-piloted ships or AI scoopers.”
You didn’t add that the creatures had made Enjovian very profitable—and your family very rich, as primary stakeholders in the technology. We already knew that. Everybody does.
“Look,” you told us, tapping a nail against the viewport. We crowded close, Atzimba in the middle. She glanced first at you, then at me. It felt like sparks were arcing between us. “A school of sipacas, gliding just at the edge of the atmosphere, buoyed by the massive gas bladders in their guts.”
Gas whales, I was tempted to repeat. But the sight shut my big mouth. Even a future engineer like me had to admit that the wetware folks had outdone themselves.
The creatures were magnificent. Bursting through the exosphere, their colossal blue bodies trailed ions and heated plasma like ribbons of rainbow fire.
Atzimba gasped and grabbed both our hands. “It’s beautiful!”
You looked at her as she turned her pretty face up at yours.
“I so want to kiss you right now,” you muttered.
Atzimba looked over at me, eyes wide.
“Me, too,” I added. “Can we?”
Trembling as she squeezed our hands, Atzimba nodded.
“Yes,” she whispered. “To both of you.”
And she stood on tiptoes and kissed you, Mar.
I don’t think either of us was expecting that reaction.
Zim, your black eyes closed, and you gave yourself over completely to the moment, eating Mar up with your pomegranate lips.
I could hardly breathe, watching you—the two people I most desired in the world, in each other’s arms. The fire in my veins threatened to set the whole world ablaze.
Mar pulled away, glancing at me. Then you reached up, pulling me down. When our lips met, it felt so right.
As we kissed, Mar wrapped their long arms around us, and there was no doubt in my mind. Fate.
Perhaps ten seconds later, the Science Hub was rocked by a series of explosions.
The lights in the office shut off, leaving us in total darkness.
I could feel the two of you. Mar, you started to shiver with fear. Atzimba, you tensed up as if ready to spring into action.
Then the emergency lights came on, casting a purple hue over everything.
“W-what the hell?” you muttered, Mar.
Atzimba pulled away from us, walking over to the door and peering outside.
“I think we’re under attack,” she said. “I can hear hissing like they’re pressurizing a new airlock.”
My ears suddenly popped. “Ugh, yeah. Someone’s connecting a ship’s narthex to this level.”
“Papá was right,” Atzimba said, cycling open the door.
“Wait!” you shouted, sounding frantic. “W-what are you d-doing?”
“Mar,” Atzimba said calmly, “pirates or syndicate criminals are about to pour into this level, and the other eighteen students are wandering around with Mr. Sánchez and a couple of scientists. We have to warn them. Just stick close to me.”
I took your hand, and we followed you. I knew then, I’d follow you anywhere.
Zim, you had no problem remembering all the twists and turns that Mar had led us through. Soon we were peering around a corner into the main corridor.
Figures in black jumpsuits and masks were herding our classmates at gunpoint into a lounge. Most of the students were crying or begging not to be hurt.
“I don’t get it,” I muttered. “UJH Constabulary is probably just minutes away. Station Security will get here soon as well. Why would pirates risk an attack?”
Mar was still trembling, but they cleared their throat and said, “It’s probably corporate espionage. All they need to do is enter the lab, grab a couple of specimens and a computer or two. Then they take it all with them, sequence our proprietary DNA, and steal our genetic IP.”
“Shit,” I muttered. Enjovian was widely known for its bio-engineered solutions to all sorts of gas-mining problems. The sipacas were too big to fit in a lab. But there were plenty of other creatures in there, weren’t there?
“The only good thing,” Mar whispered as a pair of intruders fiddled with the access panel to the main bio-lab, “is that the access codes rotate daily. They can’t get in.”
I grunted. “They’ll just blow the lock.”
With a gasp, Mar pulled us down a side corridor.
“There’s another entrance. We’ve got to reach the lab before they do. Stop them, somehow.”
“But,” you protested, “didn’t you just say the access codes are changed every day? How do we get in?”
“We’ve got Diego. Show us some of that technical prowess.”
Finally, you were giving me my due, and I couldn’t quite appreciate it. I took a deep breath. “Okay, I’m not supposed to, but I may happen to know the master code that chief system analysts use to bypass security protocols. I saw Papa Santos punch it into a diagnostic station the other day.”
We reached the anterior entrance. I closed my eyes, hand above the access panel, trying to remember the numbers Papa Santos had entered when we were down in Atzimba’s level a few days earlier.
You kept talking to yourself, Mar, reciting the different bio-engineered species housed in that lab.
“The tragones. They eat industrial waste. Lure the assholes to them? No, I don’t think I can stand to see anyone die. Plenty of pazbosas, but even calm corporate spies can steal. Oh! I know! The afferadores.”
“What do they do?” Atzimba asked.
“Rescue. When technicians spacewalk, if something happens and one floats free, an afferador can seize the person with long tentacles, pull them into a pressurized bladder and return to the station by expelling air from another bladder.”
“Shh,” I hissed. “Trying to remember.”
You both fell silent, and the image of my father’s hand moving over the keys came into focus in my memory.
Quickly, I entered the code, holding my breath.
The door slid open.
The next things happened in a blur.
Mar, you flung a pair of gloves at me and pointed me to a huge vat.
“That’s full of pazbosas. Grab a couple of handfuls and get ready. That misty zero-gee chamber behind us has a half dozen aferradores inside. When those assholes come through the door, distract them long enough for me to open the chamber with your father’s code, then get the hell out of the way. Zim, honey, I’m not sure what you…”
Atzimba tilted her head back and forth, popping her neck. Then she raised her fists and assumed a capoeira stance.
“Don’t worry about me, Mar. I’m going to kick some pirate ass.”
I think you were about to give some witty reply, but then the corporate spies blew the lock, and they came spilling in.
I slammed my hand against the release button, opening the lid of the vat. Reaching in, I grabbed a handful of the slimy drug slugs and started flinging them at the invaders.
A few landed on bare necks, foreheads, and forearms. Those spies became immediately bewildered, their steps slowing.
Zim, meanwhile, was kicking weapons from the hands of the others, punching a few in the throats and groin, generally wreaking havoc on the unsuspecting invaders.
“Out of the way!” you screamed, and Aztimba and I dove for either end of the lab as you opened the chamber.
Out of the foggy interior shot long, gelatinous tentacles. They encircled the corporate spies and dragged them, kicking and screaming, into the zero-gee containment area.
Then you slapped the button for emergency seal and trapped those assholes inside.
I took a couple of seconds to catch my breath and clamber to my feet. Atzimba, you had kept your wits about you and were already contacting your father on the lab’s com system.
“Yes, Papá. I’m serious. We just trapped them in the afferadores chamber. I’m fine. We’re all okay.”
Mr. Sainz’s voice sounded thin but relieved through the speaker. “Okay. Stay put. They put up a barrier, but we’re almost through. Constabulary ships are inbound.”
“Okay. Over and out, Papá.”
I pulled the gloves off my hands and carefully stepped around the pazbosas that covered the floor, heading toward you.
Mar fanned themself and sighed as they walked toward us.
“That,” they said, “was entirely too freaking close.”
“Yup. But we make a great team, don’t we?” I asked.
Mar gave a weak laugh.
“You’d better believe we do.”
Then, Atzimba, you whispered nervously, as if afraid we might say no.
“Are … we … together now?”
Both Mar and I took one of your hands in ours.
“Yes, our beautiful Zim,” Mar answered.
“Mark the date on your calendars, lovelies,” I added.
Then the three of us—novia, novio, and novie—kissed one another gently to make it official.
That was the first day of us.