The Colonisation of Hetra - (Part 1)

Coco jetted through the doors just as they closed behind the applicants. She breathed a sigh of relief that accidentally blew small bubbles into the faces of the other candidates. It would have been a disaster if she'd been even one second later. For the whole of her four-month life, she had been studying and practising for this interview.

She imagined how angry her parents would be with her if she'd been stuck outside of those doors. They were always chiding her on her oversleeping and constantly giving her advice, despite how much she insisted she could look after herself. After all, she was already a month past adulthood.

Coco shifted her colour to suit that of the other nineteen candidates, and adjusted the miniscule monitors on each side of her head. If their language technology didn't translate as well as the advert said they would, she would be in big trouble. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and steadied the beat of her hearts. Get through the tour without revealing where you come from, and the interview should be a breeze. And then – she barely let herself form the thought – she'd be the first Common to be assigned to The Project.

She opened her eyes and looked around. To her left and right were walls of glass – one-way, the guide said, so the workers on the other side could concentrate – behind which, scientists, architects and engineers worked at building the spaceship that would, hopefully, take them to Hetra. Coco doubted that any real work was being done behind that glass; there were so many reasons why that would be a bad idea. If they were obvious to her, a four-month-old, surely it would be obvious to the experienced scientists that ran the project.

To the front of her was a long white corridor, empty of anything. Coco's eyes shifted around for any signs of change on the walls. Irrational thoughts of mental torture appeared unbidden in her mind. She shook them out hastily.

She swam with the others along the corridor, clutching her notebook close to her. It was hugely outdated, the pages made from thinly-sliced molt-rock, but she'd been too scared to try a more modern way of taking notes. She had been offered a thought-to-text processor after gaining her chemistry-physics degree, but she'd quickly given it back after testing it once and finding only singular letters appear. She couldn't risk trying again, since the scientist she'd asked for an explanation from had hinted at the reason for the malfunction being her race. No-one would employ a Common when Cocos were available.

Finally, they entered the first room through the door at the end of the corridor. Coco jostled with the other candidates to get the first glimpse of what was inside.

It was a small room, almost entirely empty, with the same dull white paint as the corridor. When everyone was gathered inside, squashing together, the guide floated upwards so they could all see her, and gestured to the only objects in the room – two circular, inch-tick slices of metal facing each other so the applicants could see the meter-long, seemingly empty space between them.

“This is a sample of the engine that will be used.” The voice came clearly through Coco's monitors in her own language. She inspected the engine, and realised the empty space was vibrating slightly, shifting.

The guide spoke again. “Can anyone tell me what's powering this engine?” she asked as if they were school children.

When no-one else attempted to answer, Coco raised a tentative arm. The guide looked at her and nodded.

She cleared her throat. “Hydrated electro-turbulence?” She blushed, painfully aware of her accent. That, if nothing else, would surely give the game away. A pang of guilt for her deceit hit her, but she shoved it away. What she was doing now was the surest way to get her family on board the spaceship when the inhabitants of the city migrated.

The guide smiled. “Correct.” She swam around the engine a few times, describing and explaining features to the candidates before continuing to the next room.

This continued for another hour. Thankfully, Coco managed to hide her monitors and cover her accent enough to avoid detection – or at least, she supposed no-one had discovered her. She hadn't been picked out of the group, for good or for bad reasons.

Eventually, they separated the candidates, taking them into separate rooms. Coco was shown into a plain room with nothing but a desk with a simple green plant in a plant-pot, and a soft chair on either side. Coco sat down in the nearest chair and stared at the plant, willing it to grow, out of sheer boredom.

Twenty minutes later, an important-looking person in a suit jetted through the door and sat in the other chair. Coco hastily adjusted her colour, and sat up.

The man addressed her without a hint of emotion. “Miss Coco?”

Coco shifted in her seat. “That's me. Sir,” she added quickly, just in case.

“As you probably know, you are one of twenty young scientists who volunteered to help with our Project.” Coco nodded, unsure what else she should do. “It is my duty to inform you that the time for departure is, according to our astrologists, only three days away. There is minimal work left to be done before the final check. I have been given the task of asking if you still wish to join our Project, given the minor amount of work you will have to do.”

Coco opened her mouth, then closed it quickly. She didn't have anything to say; to open her mouth in that state would be pure employment suicide.

“But–,” she managed, before shutting herself up. What was she thinking, with the words But I'm a Common on her lips? She'd spent so long trying to cover it up.

The manager – as she had labelled him – smiled, and she relaxed a little. Emotion made him more relatable, which made him less scary. It was ridiculous, with her job, but she had a constant fear as well as awed respect for the unknown.

“I'll be completely honest with you. The public relations department is aiming for a new angle for publicity, and they've decided to admit to their 'abominable acts' and become 'more diverse and inclusive', as the message from the press will doubtless say. We've decided to open the Project to Commons, if they are intelligent enough. As little as that will help us, in these late days.”

Coco's mouth fell. How did they know? Maybe it was her name? Don't Cocos name their children after the city?

The manager laughed gently. “It's not that we don't name our children after our city. We don't name them after our race. It's the same thing, but there's a difference.”

Coco's mouth opened wider. Can he read my mind?

“No, but you seem to have a habit of thinking out loud when your mouth is open.”

Coco blushed.