I'm late to the party as usual. Only recently (2021) got around to watching the series. This fic's tone varies from humorous to pitch black angsty. Trigger warnings for violence, PTSD, depression and thoughts of suicide. Slow burn with an eventual happy ending.


Age to age

I feel the call

Memory of future dreams.

You and I, riding the sky

Keeping the fire bright

From another time and place.

~Two Steps to Hell "Star Sky"

I am my mother's savage daughter

The one who runs barefoot

Cursing sharp stones.

I am my mother's savage daughter.

I will not cut my hair,

I will not lower my voice.

~Sara Hester "Savage Daughter"

CHAPTER ONE

An Unexpected Meeting…

Katie "Pidge" Holt hated runny egg yolks.

It was a texture thing: runny egg yolks had the consistency of snot. Any variation of runny—poached, soft-boiled, over-easy, sunny side-up—made her stomach turn inside out.

Which was why approaching Sandleman Space Station always made her queasy. The station's round, pale gray shape was broken on one side by a cascading, vomitous-yellow docking structure that spilled into the blackness of outer space. A few dozen spaceships, ranging from heavy transports to small hoppers, buzzed around the yolky docks like flies. The award-winning design, an homage to 22rd Century architect Phillip Nez, was supposed to emulate Native American pottery.

All Katie saw was Humpty Dumpty awaiting all the king's horses and all the king's men.

Of course, architecture and aesthetics weren't her thing. When she looked at the station, her mind's eye overlayed the structure with technical specs, everything from life support to the station's adaptive radiation shielding and element recyclers. That's why machines and Katie went together like peanut butter and well, everything, because peanut butter was the perfect food, wasn't it? Technology needed no messy emotions, just pure science generating reproduceable outcomes. Even peanut butter was a product of science, invented by Marcellus Gilmore Edson, a chemist.

Better living through chemistry, indeed.

She rolled her shoulders and massaged her neck, loosening sleepy stiffness, and then slumped comfortably into her hopper's pilot seat. Several million nano-gel beads obligingly rearranged themselves to the exact shape of her back and bottom and she lifted her coffee cup, toasting the engineer who designed the seat, whoever they may be.

Taking a long sip of coffee, she watched the proximity meter tick down klicks as her vehicle approached the station. The little hopper, a sleek Zephyr LT, an upgrade from her Cardinal B10 rustbucket, required little-to-no user guidance, its fully autonomous systems handled navigation and docking at most spaceports. She wrapped both hands around the coffee mug, not for warmth, but because her hands itched to do something. She could switch off the auto-pilot, but doing so made her feel like a luddite, a supreme irony for someone whose only gods were technology and science.

Hopper was a synecdoche for any one-to-two-person interplanetary ship. The name originated from the first, single-person, interplanetary ship, the Grasshopper. Both the ship model and its maker, Tesla-Lear, had gone the way of the dinosaurs, but the moniker lived on for any of the smaller space cruisers currently on the market.

Not for the first time, Katie looked around the small, but elegantly appointed cockpit, and felt positively decadent. A Zephyr was several orders of magnitude beyond what she could afford. The life of a world-renown technobotonist was all prestige, no paycheck.

"It's not charity, Pidge," Shiro had said, when Katie rebuffed his offer to give her the ship. "It's a tax write off for my company." The company being Leonine Spacecraft, Shiro and his husband, Curtis's, bold new venture into manufacturing. "We lease the ship, below market cost, to your non-profit. Tax break for Leonine and a safe ride for you." Even now, twelve years after he'd retired as leader of Voltron's Paladins, Takashi "Shiro" Shirogane still played "Space Dad" to his team.

Katie relented because her old Cardinal was held together with string, paperclips, and liberal applications of the word "fuck." Pride wouldn't save her butt when the rustbucket left her stranded in deep space.

The small cockpit's lines were composed of graceful geometry, every seam and intersection fit with tight precision. Acacia wood, blondish red with a sweeping dark grain, was the dominant veneer, covering the dashboard and walls. The floorboards were also acacia. Leonine's logo, a lion's head silhouette, was inlayed in gold in the dashboard. Brass trim gave the controls an ancient, old world, airship aesthetic.

The dash included a small nook for keepsakes. Katie had populated it with image crystals of her family and friends. The spot included a small santo: St. Elmo, patron saint of space travelers and pilots, clad in blue robes embroidered with star constellations. A marble desk plaque, "Katie Holt PhD," sat on the dashboard. She sucked in a deep breath. Athena, though now about eight months old, still had that sublime, new ship smell: probably off-gassing carcinogens, but…wonderful.

Katie ran her thumb over the control pad located on the chair's arm. From the holoscreen that popped up, she confirmed her berth reservation at the station, and meeting time with Yrtra, and then checked her PlentiHarvest messages.

PlentiHarvest was an Earth-based NGO whose mission focused on bringing emerging technologies in food production, both in space and in challenging planetary settings, to underserved peoples throughout the galaxy. The challenges of feeding people weren't limited to humans, and the organization now included Galra, Alteans and other alien species in its membership.

Her current assignment was to rendezvous with her best friend Yrta, then the two women would continue on to Nuñes horticultural facility on Titan. Katie's gaze swept over the cockpit dash, seeing, but not really seeing the rich wood grain, her mind turning over the mystery of not one, but two failed chlorobot incubators. Like everything engineered for space and the colonies, the incubators had failsafe on top of failsafe. Under normal operating conditions, the damned things should be nearly bombproof.

"Athena 505684CT, you are cleared to land at air-berth 52FF." The dulcet, feminine tones of the space station's AI broke into Katie's reverie. "Welcome to Sandleman Station, Dr. Holt."

"Showtime." She glanced down at her pajamas and fuzzy green lion slippers. "Time to put on some pants."


Athena's AI deftly dodged and weaved through the heavy dock traffic, skirting the cheaper standard docks, and aiming for the air berth section. Swooping under a boxy Ox tug, the little hopper slowed, ceding right-of-way to a Galra starfighter. For a second, a happy jolt ran through Katie, until she remembered that Keith was still on Daibazaal. The fighter slid by and Athena's thrusters smoothly pulsed, propelling the hopper into low acceleration. A Russian-made Troika paused, giving her the right-of-way. Out of politeness, she gave the other hopper a polite wave, even though both ships' cockpit window glass was set to black-mode, obscuring the occupants and protecting them from hazardous cosmic wavelengths.

An air berth cost more than a standard dock, but it was the smart option on a budget. With Athena tucked into a berth with full atmo and life support, Katie could turn off on-board life support for several hours, saving resources for the trip to Titan.

After the hopper had equalized with the berth's atmo, Katie disembarked and made her way into the station. Inside the dock's bright yellow superstructure, a system of lifts transported visitors to the station's leviathan complex of commercial and residential space. The station, orbiting the sun between Earth and Mars, was home to twelve thousand souls, and base of operations for dozens of interplanetary corporations.

Besides meeting her best pal, Yrta, she'd scheduled an appointment with a representative from ChemLore, a corporate partner of PlentiHarvest. But because she wanted time to chat with her friend, without some corporate flunky lurking in the background, she had postponed that meeting for later, after an early lunch.

Even with the station's zoomy lifts, it took 40 minutes to reach the level where Chan's, her favorite restaurant was located. Stepping off the lift, she was immediately assaulted by a tall Galra woman, who swept her into an effusive hug.

"Sister, Katie. You are late again."

"Ooph!" Katie wheezed, vital organs going "squish." "And you're punishing me by breaking my ribs?"

"Yes," said Yrtra. "Should I buy you a timepiece?"

Katie laughed, ignoring the looks, ranging from amused to irritated, of the many passersby. They were on MidGround, a level characterized by retail shops and restaurants that catered to clientele with modest means. Comprising a vast, mall-like, corridor, MidGround's more reputable vendors rented retail space bordering the corridor. The rest of the space was cluttered with pushcarts and mobile booths where a population of vendors sold everything from counterfeit luxury goods to hallucinogenic drugs. The air carried the raw funk of a place well-used, and pickpockets were a feature, not a bug, but Katie loved it as a respite from the sanitary perfection of the station's more respectable regions.

It was also a good place to go with a Galra. In the decade following the defeat of the Galran empire, humanity had, for the most part, come to terms with the aliens living among them. But the Galras' fierce appearance, coupled with a reputation for megalomania, made them persona non grata in some places. MidGround was typically a welcoming community.

Well, usually. As the two women moved through the crowds, someone muttered, "Fucking goyle."

Katie stopped, pummeling the source of the comment—a scabby, dark, human woman with dreadlocks—with angry eyes. She started toward the woman, only to have a large, clawed hand wrap around her upper arm and drag her back.

"No!" said Yrta. "Bad Katie."

"I need to have a quick chat with the xenophobe," protested Katie.

"You converse with your fists, sweet sister. A trait I do appreciate." Yrta rubbed her stomach. "Today, however, I am dying with hunger. An evening spent in the local gaol will delay nourishment."

"Once," said Katie. "That only happened once." True story. One perk of being an ex-Voltron Paladin was a kind of get-out-jail-free card, provided the crime wasn't too heinous.

She understood what drove xenophobia, especially toward Galras. After all, she had lost her teen years, her innocence and ultimately, her friend Allura to the Galran empire's depredations. If she could forgive, anyone could.

It was fortunate that she had left academia. Her habit of defending the universe from xenophobes, one bloody nose at a time, would see her denied tenure at any reputable university. Which was fine with Katie. She was done chasing "reputable" and "normal."

Winding through the messy thong of people, folk of all human ethnicities and a healthy sprinkling of aliens, Katie felt more at home than in the tidy corridors of academia or the corporate meeting rooms where her job sometimes took her. She missed the university, but this…places like this smelled of adventure. And also piss and body odor, but mostly—adventure!

One booth earned an annoyed side-eye. "Only authorized vendor of Voltron gear and collectables!" proclaimed the barker, a middle-aged man with a shiny, shaved head. Despite entreaties to do so, no one in Legendary Defenders' leadership had authorized anything of the sort.

The majority of merchandise was focused on Vehicle Voltron and Atlas, but a collection of Paladin action figures contorted her face into a scowl. Pausing for just a moment, she contemplated flicking both the Pidge and Lance figures off the shelf. Pidge, because she'd never get her head around the idea of being reduced to a tiny neoplastic toy. And Lance, because—

"Lo, bella Eloi!"

"Oh, no," muttered Yrta as Katie's attention moved to another vendor, this one a pushcart filled with random bits of antique tech.

A Unilu Tinkerer, four arms holding examples of her wares, grinned at the two women. "Primo alta calida tech anciene," she said in Titan. Sensing a buyer, she held out a small digital calendar, probably from the late 22nd century. "Quotidian keeper. Drop da chere!"

In a repeat of the xenophobe incident, Yrta grabbed Katie again and hauled her away. Katie smiled mournfully at the vendor, but submitted to her friend's urging. Yrta knew from hard experience that antique technological junk was Katie's catnip.

As they neared their destination, the acrid smell of burning paint and hiss of a laser washer hit their senses. A couple of maintenance workers were removing graffiti from a boarded-up, empty shop front. The "Now Leasing" sign and most of the wall were covered in colorful vandalism, most benign, some vulgar. Among the usual phalluses and clan sigils, were red handprints denoting Reds and the Xiphoid sword.

Yrta spat. "Terrorists. Like fucking Varge hounds. Lifting their legs everywhere."

Katie nodded. Xiphoid, in particular, with their rabid desire to destroy the Galactic Coalition, put a bad taste in her mouth. Her gaze swept the messy tableau, stopping on two words scrawled in stylized, almost unreadable text: "Honerva Lives." Someone had struck through "Honerva" and written "Allura" above it. The taste in her mouth moved from bad to bilious.

A long string of Galra curses rumbling from her mouth, Yrta nudged Katie. Looking up, Katie saw that her friend understood the dark undercurrent running through her. Yrta gestured down the corridor with her chin. "Let's eat."

Chan's was situated between a bodega selling both modern and antiquated hair styling tools, and a grimy shop filled with used and after-market hopper parts. Katie was a frequent shopper at both businesses.

Yrta led them to a table at the back of the little diner where she claimed a chair facing the doorway with a triumphant smile. Old habits died hard for old warriors. Katie accepted the loss with good grace and took the chair opposite. After all, she knew Yrta had her back. The two immediately ordered off the tabletop holoscreen, because, like all soldiers, they knew a girl never turned down a chance for sleep or a good meal. Both ordered a dish that was a hybrid of Pho with spicy Galra herbs.

"I like your hair," said Yrta, gesturing with her chopsticks. "A program on Athena's stylist?"

"Yeah." Reflexively, she touched the loose sections around her ears. The Zephyr came with an autostyler, and this morning she'd gone with a style that pulled most of her light-brown, shoulder-length hair back in an elaborate braid, leaving a portion free to artfully frame her face.

"I wonder," Yrta said, pushing fingers through the tuft of white hair on her head, "what it can do with this?"

"The manual says it's programmed with styles for Galra and Alteans." Honestly, Katie didn't see the point. Yrta, with her dark, blue-purple fur, large butterfly-shaped ears, and stunning, upswept amber eyes, was enviably naturally gorgeous.

"So, how's Kav?" Katie asked. Kav was Yrta's boyfriend.

"Insufferable," was Yrta's expected answer. Yrta and Kav had been in a high drama romance since childhood, the relationship swinging between murderous loathing and I'll-die-for-you devotion. Katie listened as Yrta expounded on the melodrama's latest chapter and felt a mixture of envy and relief. Envy, because with the exception of a brief foray into marriage, ended mercifully by a swift divorce, her romantic life consisted of a glass of wine and taking matters into her own hands.

Relief, because, sweet quiznak on a cracker, Yrta and Kav's relationship sounded exhausting!

After lunch, they made their way up two levels, where the station's many meeting and conference spaces were located. At this level, the atmosphere took on the pristine, sophisticated aspect of a place that hosted the rich and powerful. The floors were covered in expensive tile and hardwoods and the air antiseptic clean with a hint of lavender and sandalwood. The people were predominantly well-dressed humans and Alteans who carried themselves with an air of self-importance.

"Room 562, right?" Katie asked. Yrta nodded. "We go in, make polite noises, get the bots, and then blow this joint. Just us girls, out in the black."

"This will be a good journey, my sister," said Yrta, dropping an arm around Katie's shoulders.

"Katie and Yrtra, goddesses of the harvest. Famine, fear our coming!"

Yrta laughed. "I think, in this matter, I am, as they say on Earth, 'the muscle.'" She flexed her arm. "It is you who is the sovereign of chlorobots."

"Sovereign? I like that." Raising a fist, Katie intoned imperiously, "On your knees, knaves! My kingdom be tiny, but strong." She slowed, noting the numbered plague by one door. "This is us."

The two women strode into the room, still laughing.

"Pidge?"

That voice! Neurochemical signals that managed walking went "Bzzzt" and misfired. Katie stumbled and might have fallen if not for Yrta's strong arm. The small meeting room had an equally small, round table with four chairs. A compact refreshment console was situated in a corner and from this spot, a tall, lean man turned and repeated, "Pidge!"

And…the face matched the voice.

"Uh, hi?" In the years following her tenure as Voltron's Green Paladin, Katie had commanded the attention of many audiences, most friendly, a few not, overcoming nerdy insecurity to become a respected professional in her field of expertise. She'd gone toe-to-toe with mercenaries, gunrunners, and that obstinate bureaucrat at Mars' Department of Space Vehicles who insisted the "real" Pidge Holt was four-feet tall and male. But at this moment, "Uh, hi," was the all she could manage.

"Is there a problem?" asked Yrta, her tone mild, but a suggestion of the former warrior in her posture.

Still standing by the refreshment console, a glass of something murky brown in his hand, even Lance seemed confused by Katie's demeanor.

"It's fine, it's fine. No problem." Stepping away from Yrta and farther into the room, she composed herself. "Lance McClain," she said. The name, which hadn't passed her lips in years, felt awkward on her tongue. "This is my colleague and best friend, Yrta."

Looking at him, after all this time, she was overwhelmed by competing desires. One, the need to punch him in the handsome face, because he was still damnably pretty. And two, a yearning to grab him, clinging like a space barnacle, and never let him ghost her again.

Shoving aside messy feelings, she turned to Yrta and spoke. "Yrta, this is Lance McClain, former Voltron Paladin who's been pretty much MIA for the past twelve years."

"Eh, o-kay," said Yrta. Her gazed darted between Katie and Lance and she then strode forward and offered her hand. "It is good to meet you, Lance McClain."

With a quiet, almost shy, smile, Lance shook Yrta's hand, his blue eyes never leaving Katie.


Titan translations-
"Lo, bella Eloi": Greetings, beautiful wealthy woman.
"Primo alta calida tech anciene": High quality ancient technology.
"Quotidian keeper": Calendar (digital).
"Drop da chere": Price reduced.

1. I am taking a number of liberties with the canon Voltron world-building, though not enough to call this AU.
2. The Titan language is not representative of any modern culture, but rather a feeble extrapolation of what might develop away from Earth after a few hundred years. I speak Spanish and a smattering of French and Italian, but again, Titan is not representative of any contemporary culture
3. The title takes most of its inspiration from the song by John Parr; the phenomenon of St. Elmo's fire; and the saint, but not the 1980s movie, which, had a gorgeous cast, but was otherwise horrible.