Resonance on the Blue Ring

The algae bay sighed like a sleeper. Warm brine breathed from the vats in soft wafts that smelled faintly of cucumber and iron, and the floor plates tingled through Naya Orell’s boots as the pumps pushed nutrient through the shining coils. Out the long slit of a viewport, Pell’s broad blue rings threw a pale stripe across the bay, as if someone had laid a ribbon of frost in space. Naya scraped a filament mat off a sensor with the blunt edge of a spatula, watched the green curl and tear.

“Less poetry, more scraping,” Kaito called from behind a column of piping. His hair stuck up in damp spikes, and a maintenance drone perched on his shoulder like a sluggish bird.

“Talk to the algae, it listens,” Naya said. She leaned in and sniffed. The culture smelled healthy, slightly sweet. “Besides, we owe it. We breathe because this stuff eats our mess.”

Kaito grinned. “You sound like Aunt Anika on orientation day.”

Director Anika Dube’s voice answered from the ceiling speaker, as if conjured. “If you’re both listening while you pretend to work, good. Station heads up. The external loop has detected increased debris movement along Sector B-Seven. Until further notice, unauthorized skiff sorties are prohibited.” She paused; the hum of the bay filled the gap. “This is a corporate instruction. Legal teams are tracking a salvage claim. Don’t come crying to me if a privateer cuts you in half.”

Naya wiped her hands on a towel and leaned against the railing. From here, through glass thick enough to stop a micrometeor, the rings looked slow. A lie told by distance. She knew those ice shards moved faster than any jet.

Beneath the constant mechanical purr something shifted in the air. It was in the deck, the railing, the rooted tether of the room, as if Pell itself had drawn a deep breath and hummed through the structure. Not a sound—more a pressure, a brush in the bones. Naya frowned and pressed the towel to her collar. The sensation was familiar and impossible both.

The drone peeped and flapped a little panel. “Don’t start,” Kaito said, adjusting a screw. “The last time you said the ring was singing, I had to replace a dozen harmonics dampers.”

“It is,” Naya said, softer. “Listen. No—feel.”

Kaito closed his eyes, face going still. Then he made a face. “My molars itch. Great. Either the ring is singing or the bay has a resonance problem.”

The overhead light blinked. A second blink became a beat, a careful tap pattern that made Naya’s skin prickle. Old. Familiar. She set the spatula down so quickly it clanged. A child’s song, translated into light the way her father used to do when the speakers failed on their desert hab, tapping binary on the wall with a spoon. Da-da, da… da-da-da.

Kaito had opened his eyes. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Naya said. Her throat felt tight. She swallowed and looked back at the rings, a hard blue smile against black. The pattern pressed again into the bay’s light, three beats and a pause. “I have to get to comms.” She pulled the sleeve of her work jacket down, covering the old burn scar on her wrist, and shoved the spatula into Kaito’s hand. “Keep the vats happy.”

“I always do,” he said, but she was already through the sliding door, the breath of the algae leaving her shoulders as she slipped into the corridor.