I will never forget the first time I saw Black Rose.


    It was a morning of many firsts for me. First time riding in a cargo hold; first time seeing the Bramble Nebula with my own eyes; first time stepping foot on the Thorn, all my worldly possessions in a single barrel-shaped bag. Freshly expelled from the Keepers, a career I''d fought tooth and nail for, meant it was also the first day of my new solo enterprise: first time I''d leased my own office, first time I''d been solely in charge of my income, my new ''uniform'', and most importantly, the cases I chose to take on.


    Feeling eyes on me, I looked up the huge central vault of the Thorn. Black Rose stood at the apex, on a balcony, looking down on the new arrivals. Her modded skin was a perfect matte obsidian. She wore a gown like chitin, shaping her stiffly into the silhouette of a chess piece.


    Queen, naturally.


    She turned and swept back into her penthouse at the sharp tip of the space station I now called home.


    I would later learn that watching the new arrivals was not a habit of hers. You would think that, just maybe, it would all click in my head once I learned that little tidbit.


    You would be wrong.


    ---


    Who am I?


    Agathis, the Seed,


    Ligustrum, the Bed,


    Sophora, the Root,


    Aracea, the Stem,


    Amaryllis, Petal two of three.


    As if such things matter in a place like this, so far from Bed.


    ---


    The office was little better than a closet, and stunk of the algal bloom infesting the more neglected chambers of the Thorn. The leasing outfit had done a poor job cleaning it up before my arrival. I could hardly complain; I got what I paid for and was lucky for it.


    I dumped my single bag of possessions on the sorry excuse for a desk and turned around, taking in the room.


    There was a panel of root-stem weaving that hung next to the door, floor to ceiling. Now that was an odd touch. Had the leasing outfit left it here for me as a sort of present, knowing I was Gerondian? Was it left behind by a previous Gerondian tenant? Or did this have some other meaning in the Thorn, and its inclusion was purely coincidental? The intricate pattern of flat blue- and silver-dyed strips was unfamiliar to me. Someone more artistically inclined would be able to decipher it, could say to which Seed and Bed the style and the story told by the weaving could be attributed to. But I was, and am, no art historian.


    I crossed the room to look into the attached sleeping quarters. Those were equally as poor. A sad little cot for a bed, standard issue flimsy mattress denuded of any linens. An actual closet for a bathroom, but at least it was mine and mine alone. A few cabinets barely holding together, but no eating or cooking facilities. I''d have to start earning credit fast so I could partake in the culinary culture of the Thorn. For all that I heard horror stories about this station, the tales did speak of a diverse range of restaurants representing cuisines from all across the galaxy.


    Heading back into the office, I noticed something flat and black sticking out from under my bag on the desk. Card, thick and smooth under my fingers, a powdery black with gold lettering.


    Who even printed things on paper or card these days?


    Black Rose, of course.


    I have taken the liberty of loading the wristband you were issued by the leasing office with some credit to get you started. If they failed to explain to you, allow me: this wristband is also your access card to the places on the station where you have clearance to wander. You may grant or revoke anyone access as you wish to your office and adjacent apartment, and they may do the same for you should you make any acquaintance who wishes to grant you such intimate privileges. Be careful where you tread, as I should imagine there are many on this station who will not look kindly on you or your profession. All the best for your time aboard the Thorn.


    Well, golly, I thought to myself then, what a kind host Black Rose is. Interesting that she''d be so keen on having a private investigator open up shop on her station.


    Again, let me state for the court: I''m a damn idiot.


    There was no time to plant myself in here and wait for custom. I needed to advertise my services; both to cover for my true purpose in being here, and to earn the income I needed to be able to stay here. The severance package from the Keepers would only last me a hot Boranian day-cycle, and I had no inkling yet of how much Black Rose had gifted me or how long it would last.


    This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    Time to seed, as it were.


    ---


    Out on the Atrium, as I came to call the main public vault of the Thorn in time, a huge crowd clustered around the viewports on multiple decks, all out the galactic north side. I wandered by, and became transfixed for a time by the same sight as the rest of them.


    Beneath the Bramble (according to my perspective at least), there was a point of darkness which drew bright green gases off of the nebula and into its maw. Every few seconds, there would be a flash, like lightning, behind the darkness, revealing it to have the shape of a dark cloud.


    Awful sinister-looking, for something so dandelion-fluffy.


    "Is that safe?" I spouted.


    Next to me, a Perocian, with a blank circle pool of blue-green where a face might be on another species, regarded me. I felt the wave of indulgent grandfatherly-ness emanate from his chemical outpourings. "Nothing to be overly concerned about." I heard his voice, a warm tenor, resonating inside my head without touching my ears first. "Simply something embryonic forming in the darkness."


    "So, not a black hole then."


    "No, quite a different species of singularity."


    "All... right then." I flashed him a quick smile, and received back an emanation which told me he was pleased to receive such a bright smile from such a pretty lady.


    Sweet of him, but his standards really ought to be higher.


    I moved on from gawping at the celestial event to acquaint myself with the hustle and bustle of the Atrium. After about an hour of wandering around the shops and amenities at random, I gave in to the seductive summons of the information kiosk in the centre. I jabbed at the buttons so it would fast forward through the tourist spiel, and finally reached the directory.


    A quick search revealed that a community notice and job board of sorts could be found up on Level 7, hosted by the Vindemia Cafe. One short elevator ride, I found myself standing in front of a large board of assorted media: some paper, some card (again, this station surprised me with how analogue it could be) and a few cheap data plates displaying notices. The cafe behind it was doing a roaring trade with visitors from all sectors. The smell of coffee mingled with the tang of brewed pollen, and clashed with the seething sting of a brimstone scent I couldn''t place. Wait staff wove between tables, each, despite their various species with different heights, shapes and weights, wearing the same design of baby-blue- and white-chequered apron in one manner or another.


    How I would ever get spotted in this mess of words was beyond me. But I needed somewhere to start. At least the cafe seemed to get a lot of foot traffic.


    A stack of cards and paper and pens occupied the end of the cafe''s outer bar, so I found myself a suitably sturdy piece of card and began writing.


    When I penned the final stroke on my haphazard advertisement, a spine-warming feminine voice behind me chimed in, "Private eye, huh? I might have a job for you."


    The staff member behind me - for they wore one of the aprons and carried a tray with dirty dishes on it - smiled a disarming smile, one I couldn''t help but return. I wondered what the Perocian would think about this smile compared to the one I gave him.


    I couldn''t place what species this person was. They looked almost Terran, but with a lot of metallic, perhaps robotic components. A cyborg maybe? Under their long hair which shifted between brown and purple under the lights, their face was an oval of pleasant but clearly simulated symmetry and aesthetic organisation. Calming large blue eyes looked out of either side of a straight nose neither too small nor too large. Generous rose-pink lips ticked up at the sides as their smile deepened into a knowing smirk. Beneath their jaw, the simulation of skin continued, sandy-coloured flesh translucently projected over what was clearly a white-metal exoskeleton underneath. Still, with the quality of dermis-synthesis these days, their skin probably felt as soft and smooth as it looked -


    Marys. Focus. "You don''t say? A job, huh? I''m interested."


    They leaned over to peer closer at my scrawled handwriting.


    "A. Sophora. What''s the A stand for?"


    "Marys."


    Their nose wrinkled appealingly. "Marys doesn''t start with A."


    I let my lop-sided grin reply to that. "What can I call you?"


    "Xen."


    "Just -"


    "Just Xen."


    "And your pronouns?"


    "Again, just Xen. Yours?"


    "''She''s'' fine." It was a minor thing. The Petals of my world had accepted the Terran common language pronouns ''she/her/hers'' while the Stamens had accepted ''he/him/his''. While our biology was vastly different from the Terrans'', these pronouns seemed the most logical for us to adopt once we understood their typical usage.


    "So, Xen, if you have a job for me, would you like to accompany me to my office? It isn''t much, but since I have it, I might as well use it."


    Xen removed the apron and hung it up behind the counter. "My shift ended a couple of minutes ago. I was so caught up talking to you, I didn''t notice." For all that Xen said this, Xen''s eyes darted back in the direction of the kitchen like Xen was lying. Xen fluffed up Xen''s hair. The curled tendrils bounced in response, and the next thing I knew, Xen''s arm was linked in mine.


    All right, I confess: I foresaw a beautiful friendship between me and Xen. Maybe more. Hopefully more. I was sold already on Xen''s chirpy demeanour, and that synthetic voice of Xen''s was making promises that went beyond the mere verbal. I barely remember what I nattered on about while I walked Xen down three levels, and through the sadder corridors of the office spaces until we reached mine. Xen was friendly and bubbly throughout, and don''t ask me to recall everything Xen said, as I was too drunk on Xen already to bank it in my memory as anything other than ''a lovely chat was had''.


    Xen''s eyes remained kind but amused as I opened the door to my office.


    "So, these are my digs." I sat on the ancient chair behind the desk. In the split second before my backside touched the seat, I realised I hadn''t tested sitting in it prior to this moment. It could give way, for all I knew. Something in this office smelled rotted.


    But it accepted my weight, and allowed me to look what passed for suave in my dingy surrounds. I clasped my hands behind my head and stared up at Xen. "Now, how can I help you, Xen?"


    Xen stood before my desk and with a slight tilt of the head stared back, Xen''s smile never fading.


    "I need you to kill me."