Ancestral Trauma

Tarrin Vex stepped off the hover-skimmer into the shimmering plaza of Sector Lux-7, his boots clicking against the iridescent tiles that pulsed faintly with renewable energy. The air smelled of synthetic lavender, a perk of the atmospheric purifiers that kept this quadrant of the galaxy pristine. He adjusted the collar of his void-weave jacket—practical, stylish, and rated for sixteen different planetary climates—and surveyed the scene. The Community Nexus of Lux-7 had pinged his comms with promises of “innovative collaboration,” and Tarrin, a freelance terraformer with a knack for turning asteroid belts into thriving trade hubs, was always on the lookout for sharp minds to partner with. He’d crossed three star systems for this, expecting a coalition of bold thinkers. What he found instead was… unexpected.

The plaza was ringed with floating holo-benches, each occupied by a cluster of Lux-7’s finest citizens. They wore shimmering tunics spun from nano-fibers—pricey stuff, Tarrin noted, the kind that self-cleaned and adjusted to your mood. A few sipped from crystal flutes filled with something faintly luminescent, probably that overpriced algae wine the upper sectors fetishized. Above them, a translucent dome showcased a curated view of the galaxy: stars twinkling just so, no messy supernovae or pirate skirmishes to ruin the vibe. Privilege radiated off this place like heat from a fusion core.

Tarrin approached the nearest group, catching the tail end of their conversation. A woman with hair braided into fractal patterns was holding court, her voice tremulous but insistent. “—and the epigenetics don’t lie, you know? My great-great-grandpod had to flee a mining collapse on Asteroid K-19. The trauma’s baked into my DNA. I can’t even handle low-gravity yoga without disassociating.”

A man with a wispy beard nodded solemnly, clutching a data-slate that projected a 3D model of his genome. “Same. My lineage survived the Great Oxygen Rationing of 2243. I get winded just thinking about cardio. It’s not my fault—blame the ancestral stress markers.”

Tarrin raised an eyebrow, but kept his expression neutral. He’d once piloted a derelict freighter through a meteor storm with a busted nav-system and a half-dead crew, so he figured he could handle a little whining. “Greetings,” he said, stepping into their circle with the easy confidence of someone who’d negotiated with warlords and AI overlords alike. “I’m Tarrin Vex, terraformer. Heard Lux-7 was looking for collaborators on some big projects. What’s the pitch?”

The group turned to him, blinking as if he’d interrupted a sacred ritual. The fractal-hair woman—her name tag floated beside her in holo-text as “Zynia, Pronouns: She/They”—frowned delicately. “Collaborate? Oh, I don’t know if we’re in a space for that. We’re processing right now.”

“Processing what?” Tarrin asked, genuinely curious. He glanced around for signs of a crisis—maybe a rogue asteroid or a glitch in the dome’s filtration. Nothing. Just the hum of luxury drones delivering artisanal snacks.

“Our Ancestral Trauma,” Wispy Beard said, as if it were obvious. “I’m Kael, He/Him. We’re unpacking how our privilege intersects with our inherited pain. Like, yes, we live in Lux-7, with infinite resources and zero mortality rates, but that doesn’t erase the epigenetic scars.”

“Scars,” Tarrin echoed, his tone flat. He’d once lost a finger to a malfunctioning plasma drill and regrew it with a black-market med-kit, so he was fuzzy on what constituted a “scar” here. “So, no projects then? No plans to, say, expand the sector or optimize the energy grid?”

Zynia sighed, a sound so fragile it could’ve been bottled and sold as a wellness tonic. “That sounds like a lot of pressure. We’re really focused on holding space for ourselves. Last week, I tried to meditate, but the ambient light was too bright—another trigger from when my ancestors lived in dimly lit hab-pods. I had to take a self-care day.”

Tarrin nodded slowly, resisting the urge to point out that the dome’s light settings were adjustable via a wrist-flick. “Right. Well, I’ve got a proposal—turn the outer moons into agro-domes. Triple your food output, cut reliance on imports. Low risk, high reward. Anyone interested?”

Kael clutched his data-slate tighter. “That sounds… extractive. What about the moons’ right to exist uncolonized? Plus, I’d need to check my cortisol levels before committing. Big decisions spike my inherited flight response.”

A third voice piped up, a person with a shaved head and a necklace of glowing orbs—Lirra, They/Them. “And the labor—who’d build it? Us? We’re not equipped. My lineage endured centuries of manual work; I get phantom wrist pain just holding a stylus.”

Tarrin glanced at the snack drone hovering nearby, which was currently assembling a tiny tower of caviar cubes with robotic precision. “Could use those,” he suggested mildly. “Or hire off-world contractors. I know some folks who’d jump at the gig.”

Zynia’s eyes widened. “Outsiders? No, no, that’s too disruptive. We’d have to onboard them to our trauma framework first, make sure they’re aligned. It’s a whole process.”

Tarrin opened his mouth, then closed it. He’d met sentient fungi with more ambition than this lot. “Got it,” he said, stepping back. “I’ll leave you to your… processing. Good luck with the epigenetics.”

As he strode back to his skimmer, Zynia called after him, “You’re welcome to join our next circle! We’re discussing how gravity privilege affects self-esteem!”

Tarrin waved without turning. “I’ll pass. My ancestors were nomads—sitting still gives me hives.” He climbed aboard, punched in coordinates for the next sector, and muttered to the skimmer’s AI, “Find me someone who’s heard of a wrench.”

The craft hummed to life, lifting off from the plaza of sparkling weakness, leaving the Lux-7 delegation to their shimmering, self-imposed fragility.