Maya Bennett

Maya Bennett is nineteen and has packed for Oath Post as if a desert colony might not sell socks.

She grew up around Lacera freight yards, small and wiry, with tight black curls she keeps pushing behind one ear and grease still caught in the lines of her hands from a summer job repairing condenser pumps. Colonial Affairs accepted her into federal water logistics. The posting comes with training, a bed, hazard pay, and five years a long way from her mother's kitchen. Maya can explain pump cavitation without pausing. Ask how she feels about the oath and she suddenly needs to reorganize her bag.

She isn't trying to run. Not exactly. She wants the work and hates the idea that fear might mean she isn't built for it. Judith Vale's formal manners make every doubt feel like a failed inspection, so Maya practices the oath under her breath when she thinks the crew is asleep. She gets the second line wrong each time. A patient correction helps. A joke at her expense sticks like burr metal.

By the time the ship reaches Oath Post, what she needs is embarrassingly simple: somebody to treat homesickness as ordinary, explain the berth customs without making her feel stupid, and remind her that asking for one private conference isn't the same as quitting.