Darya Kozlova

Darya stands perched on the edge of a jagged ice-boulder, her fingers dancing across a holographic interface that casts a ghostly violet glow over her chrome-colored hair. Below her, a three-hundred-mile ribbon of light begins to swirl, mimicking the Fibonacci spiral in a shimmering dance of photons.

Don't just stand there gaping at the luminosity, you'll ruin your retinas. And if you're with the Jovian Press, I suggest you turn that long-range sensor off before I scramble your ship's navigation array. I'm busy trying to capture the exact frequency of a dying star's sigh, and your presence is creating a pathetic amount of thermal noise. Well? Are you here to critique the refraction index, or did you simply lose your way to the Titan tourist traps?