The Long Way to a Small, Angry Planet

Day 245, GC Standard 306 INTRO TO HARMAGIAN COLONIAL HISTORY

Sissix peeked around the doorframe. The hallway was empty. If she moved fast, she might make it to the med bay before anybody saw her.

She hugged a bathrobe—borrowed from a pile of Kizzy’s clean laundry—around herself and hurried forward. As she moved, the itch spread up from her thighs and over her belly. She rubbed her palms against it through the fabric, barely resisting the urge to dig in with her claws. She wanted to throw off the robe and roll around against the metal floor, against a rough-barked tree, against a sanding block, anything, so long as she could rid herself of this dry burning aching shallow hateful itch.

“Whoa, Sis,” Jenks said, skidding to a halt as she rounded a corner. “You almost ran me—” His words stopped once he got a look at her. “Holy shit, you look terrible.”

“Thanks, Jenks, you’re such a help,” she said, continuing on her way. She wasn’t embarrassed, she told herself, just angry. Yes, angry that this had happened at all, angry at how many times in her life she’d had to put up with it, angry at people not just leaving her the hell alone.

“Sissix, hey,” Rosemary said, appearing from behind a door, scrib in hand. “I was coming to see—oh.” Her dumb, wet mammal eyes widened. She brought a hand to her mouth.

“I’m fine,” Sissix said, never pausing for a moment. With as big as the ship was, you’d think it possible for a person to get from point A to point B without constantly running into—“Fuck off, Corbin,” Sissix said to the pink Human, who had just ascended from the lower decks. He froze at the top of the staircase, looking stupid and confused as she hurried past.

She burst into the med bay, shutting the door as soon as she was through. Dr. Chef looked up from his work station. He rumbled sympathetically.

“Oh, poor girl,” he said. “You’re molting.”

“I’m early, too.” She glanced at herself in the mirror. Blistering pockets of dead skin had separated from her face, tearing raggedly at the edges. “I didn’t think I’d start for another three tendays, and I haven’t—aargh!” The itch started up again, though it had never really stopped. Her whole face felt like it was crawling with flies. She gave in to the impulse and clawed.

“Hey, now, none of that,” Dr. Chef said, coming forward to take her wrists. “You’ll hurt yourself.”

“No, I won’t,” Sissix said. She was acting childish, but she didn’t care. Her face was about to fall off. She had a right to be petulant.

Dr. Chef pushed up her sleeve. “Really,” he said. He lifted her arm so she could see the light claw marks on her flaking skin. A faint crust of blood lingered where her claws had scratched too deep during the night.

“Stars, you’re parental sometimes,” Sissix mumbled.

“I feed you and heal you, how else am I supposed to be? Take off that robe. Let’s sort you out.”

“Thank you.” She took off her robe as Dr. Chef opened a storage panel. He took out a misting bottle and a riksith—a small, flat board with a rough coating on one side. Kizzy had once called it “a nail file for your entire self.”

“Where’s worst?” Dr. Chef asked.

Sissix lay back on the examination table. “Everywhere.” She sighed. “My arms, I guess.”

Dr. Chef gently took her right arm, the one with the bloody patch, and sprayed medicated mist over it. The dry skin went translucent, lifting at the edges. He went to work with the riksith, rubbing the wet pieces away. Sissix breathed a little easier, urging the rest of her body to be patient. Dr. Chef took one of her fingers between his own, examining it. “How’s the skin feel here?”

“Tight. It’s not ready to come up.”

“Oh, I think it is. It just doesn’t know it yet.” He moistened her skin, and with steady pressure, massaged her hand from wrist to claws. After a few minutes, she could feel an edge come loose near her wrist. Dr. Chef worked his fingers underneath, carefully, gripping it between two fingerpads. In one swift motion, he tore the dead skin free from her entire hand, like pulling off a glove.

Sissix yelped, then moaned. The new skin was sensitive, but the itch there was gone. She exhaled. “Stars, you’re good at that.”

“I’ve had some practice,” he said, continuing up her arm with the riksith.

Sissix craned her neck up to make sure the door was fully closed. “Do you ever get tired of Humans?”

“On occasion. I think that’s normal for anyone living with people other than their own. I’m sure they get tired of us, too.”

“I’m definitely tired of them today,” Sissix said, laying her head back. “I’m tired of their fleshy faces. I’m tired of their smooth fingertips. I’m tired of how they pronounce their Rs. I’m tired of their inability to smell anything. I’m tired of how clingy they get around kids that don’t even belong to them. I’m tired of how neurotic they are about being naked. I want to smack every single one of them around until they realize how needlessly complicated they make their families and their social lives and their—their everything.”

Dr. Chef nodded. “You love them and you understand them, but sometimes you wish they—and me and Ohan, too, I’m sure—could be more like ordinary people.”

“Exactly.” She sighed, her frustration simmering down. “And it’s not like they’ve done anything wrong. You know how much this crew means to me. But today… I don’t know. It feels like having a mess of younger hatchmates who won’t stop playing with your toys. They’re not breaking anything and you know they’re only trying to please you, but they’re so little and annoying, and you want them all to fall down a well. Temporarily.”

Dr. Chef gave a rumbling chuckle. “It seems your diagnosis is more complicated than just a premature molt.”

“How so?”

He smiled. “You’re homesick.”

She sighed again. “Yeah.”

“We’re stopping off at Hashkath before the end of the standard, right? That’s not so horribly far,” he said, patting her head. He stopped and rubbed one of her feathers between his fingerpads. “Have you been taking your mineral supplements?”

She glanced away. “Sometimes.”

“You need to take them all times. Your feathers are a little limp.”

“I’m molting.”

Dr. Chef frowned. “It’s not because you’re molting,” he said. “It’s because you’re deficient in the basic nutrients that every Aandrisk needs. If you don’t start taking your minerals regularly, I’m going to start feeding you moss paste.”

She made a face. The very mention of the stuff brought back childhood memories of the taste: bitter, dusty, lingering. “Okay, hatch father, whatever you say.”

Dr. Chef rumbled in thought.

“What?”

“Ah, nothing. The phrase just struck me as odd,” he said, his voice light. “I was only ever a mother.”

“I’m sorry,” Sissix said. “I didn’t mean—”

“Oh, don’t. It’s only true.” He looked back to her, the twinkle returning to his eye. “Besides, if you think of me as a parent, maybe you’ll listen when I tell you to take your damn minerals.”

She laughed. “I doubt it. There was a stretch in my childhood when my hatch family couldn’t get me to eat anything but snapfruit.” She hissed as he worked the riksith against a stubborn patch on her shoulder.

“At least snapfruit’s good for you. And somehow it doesn’t surprise me that you were a willful child.” He thought aloud, and laughed. “I bet you were a real pain.”

“Of course I was,” Sissix said with a grin. “I wasn’t a person yet.”

Dr. Chef’s cheeks rippled in disagreement. “Now, see, there’s something about your species that I will never understand.”

She let out a congenial sigh. “You and the rest of the galaxy,” she said. Honestly, what was it about that concept that was so difficult for others to grasp? She would never, ever understand the idea that a child, especially an infant, was of more value than an adult who had already gained all the skills needed to benefit the community. The death of a new hatchling was so common as to be expected. The death of a child about to feather, yes, that was sad. But a real tragedy was the loss of an adult with friends and lovers and family. The idea that a loss of potential was somehow worse than a loss of achievement and knowledge was something she had never been able to wrap her brain around.

Dr. Chef glanced over his shoulder, even though no one had entered the room. “Hey, I have a confession to make.”

“Oh?”

“I haven’t told anybody else this. This is secret. Top, top secret.” He had lowered his voice as much as he physically could.

Sissix nodded with exaggerated seriousness. “I will say nothing.”

“You know how you said Humans can’t smell anything?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“I’m sure you’ve noticed that the Humans aboard this ship don’t smell nearly as bad as other Humans.”

“Yeah. I’ve gotten used to them.”

“Wrong.” He paused with dramatic importance. “I routinely mix a potent anti-odor powder into the soap dispensers in the showers. I rub it into Kizzy’s solid soap, too.”

Sissix stared at him for a moment before crooning with laughter. “Oh,” she said, gasping for breath. “Oh, you don’t.”

“I certainly do,” he said, puffing his cheeks. “I started doing it not a tenday after I took this job. And do you know what the best part is?”

“They can’t tell the difference?”

Dr. Chef let loose an amused harmony. “They can’t tell the difference!”

They were both still laughing when Ashby walked through the door. His hair was wet. He had clearly just bathed. Sissix and Dr. Chef fell silent. The laughter returned, even stronger than before.

“Do I want to know?” Ashby said, his eyes shifting between them.

“We’re making fun of Humans,” Sissix said.

“Right,” said Ashby. “Then I definitely don’t want to know.” He nodded toward her. “Molt came early?”

“Yeah.”

“My sympathies. I’ll take over your cleaning shift.”

“Oh, you’re the best.” That was wonderful news. Cleaning products and new skin did not mix well.

“Remember that next time you’re laughing at us lowly primates.”

Rosemary sat flicking through files in her office—well, what passed for an office. It had been a storage room before she arrived, and technically still was, given the modest stack of crates against the far wall. The whole setup was a far cry from the sleek desk she’d had at Red Rock Transport, even as an intern, but she liked Dr. Chef’s snack counter far more than the austere corporate cafeteria, and besides, she didn’t need anything fancy to do her job. She had a simple desk and a big interface panel, and a small pixel plant Jenks had given her to make up for the lack of window (why was it that people who worked with numbers always got tucked away in back rooms?). The plant looked nothing like the real thing, of course. The smiling face and color-changing petals resembled nothing in nature. It was programmed with some behavioral recognition software that could tell when she’d gone a while without standing or drinking or taking a break, and would chirp cheerful reminders in response. “Hey, there! You need to hydrate!” “How about a snack?” “Take a walk! Stretch it out!” The effect was cheesy, and sometimes a little jarring when she was focused on her work, but she appreciated the sentiment.

She sipped a mug of boring tea as she puzzled over one of Kizzy’s expense sheets. The mech tech had a habit of annotating things with shorthand that she alone understood. At first, Rosemary had assumed that it was some sort of tech lingo, but no, Jenks had quietly confirmed that this was Kizzy’s own special way of staying organized. Rosemary squinted at the screen. 5500 credits (ish)—WRSS. She made a flicking motion with her left hand, pulling up a file entitled “Kizzyspeak,” her cheat sheet for acronyms that she had deciphered. ES (Engine Stuff). TB (Tools and Bits). CRCT (Circuits). But no, WRSS wasn’t there. She made a note to ask Kizzy about it.

The door spun open, and Corbin entered the room. Before she could say hello, he set a black mechanical object on her desk.

“What’s this?” he asked.

Her heart hammered, as it usually did whenever Corbin approached her. Speaking to him always felt like more of an ambush than a conversation. She looked at the object. “That’s the saline filter I ordered for you.”

“Yes,” he said. “Notice anything?”

Rosemary swallowed. She looked harder at the filter, which she only recognized as a filter because there’d been a picture of it on the merchant’s Linking page. She gave an awkward smile. “I can’t say that I know much about algae tech,” she said, trying to keep her voice easy.

“That much is obvious,” Corbin said. He flipped the filter around and pointed to the label. “Model 4546-C44.” He stared at her, expectantly.

Oh no. Rosemary’s mind raced, trying to remember the order form. There had been so many… “Was that not what you wanted?”

Corbin’s sour face answered her question. “I specifically asked for the C45. The C44 has a coupling port that is narrower than the junction in the tank. I’ll have to add a new attachment in order to make it connect properly.”

Rosemary had been pulling up archived forms as he spoke. There it was: Triton Advanced saline filter, model 4546-C45. Shit. “I’m so sorry, Corbin. I don’t know what happened. I must’ve selected the wrong model. But at least this one will work, right?” The second the words were out of her mouth, she knew they had been a mistake.

“That’s not the point, Rosemary,” Corbin said, as if speaking to a child. “What if I had required something more vital than a saline filter? You said it yourself, you don’t know much about algae tech. You can get away with mistakes like this in some cushy planetside office, but not on a long-haul ship. The smallest component can be the difference between getting to port safely and decompressing out in the open.”

“I’m sorry,” Rosemary said again. “I’ll be more careful next time.”

“See that you do.” Corbin picked up the filter and walked to the door. “It really isn’t that hard,” he said with his back to her. The door spun shut behind him.

Rosemary sat staring at her desk. Sissix had told her not to let Corbin get under her skin, but she had screwed up this time, and it was a careless mistake, too. Decompressing didn’t sound so bad right then.

“Aw, it’s not so bad!” chirped the pixel plant. “Give yourself a hug!”

“Oh, shut up,” Rosemary said.

Ashby tripped over a length of tubing as he walked through the engine room. “What—” He craned his head around the corner to find an avalanche of cables pouring out of the wall. The entire bracing panel had been removed. He tiptoed his way around the tangled mess, careful not to step on any fluid-filled tubes. As he approached the open wall, he heard someone sniff.

“Kizzy?”

The mech tech was sitting inside the wall, hugging her knees, tools scattered alongside. Her face was smudged with gunk and grease, as usual, but a tear or two had created clean pathways down her cheeks. She looked up at him pitifully. Even the ribbons in her hair looked limp.

“I’m having a bad day,” she said.

Ashby leaned inside the open panel. “What’s up?”

She sniffed again, rubbing her nose with the back of her hand. “I slept awful, I had nightmares out the ass, and by the time I got to sleep, my alarm was going off, so today was dumb from the get-go, and then I was like, hey, I’ve still got some jam cakes left, and that cheered me up, but then I got to the kitchen and somebody ate the last of ’em last night and they didn’t ask me at all, and I still don’t know who it was, so then I went to shower, and I whacked my knee against the sink, like a genius, and it’s totally bruised, and I had a mouthful of dentbots at the time, so I kinda swallowed some, and Dr. Chef says it’s okay but I have a tummyache, which he said would happen, and then I finally got to take my stupid shower, but I noticed that the pressure was weird, so I started poking around the water reclamation systems, and I can tell there’s a whole line of cabling that’s fucked up, but I haven’t found it yet, and now there’s this big mess on the floor and I still haven’t got to any of the other stuff I needed to do today, and then I remembered that today’s my cousin Kip’s birthday, and he always has the best parties and I’m totally missing it.” She sniffled again. “And I know how stupid that all sounds, but I am just not with it today. Not at all.”

Ashby put his hand on top of hers. “We all have days like that.”

“I guess.”

“But you know, it’s not even lunchtime yet. There’s time for it to get better from here.”

She gave a glum nod. “Yeah.”

“What was on your to-do list today?”

“Cleaning, mostly. The air filters all need a scrub. A sunlamp down in the Fishbowl needs new wiring. And there’s a floor panel coming loose in Ohan’s room.”

“Is any of that vital?”

“No. But it needs to get done.”

“Just worry about getting the water lines fixed today. The rest can wait.” He squeezed her hand. “And hey. There’s nothing I can do about your cousin’s birthday, but I know how tough that is. I’m sorry we’ve got such a long haul this time.”

“Oh, stop,” she said. “It’s oodles of cash and I love what we do. It’s not like I’m your indentured servant or something. It was my choice to leave home.”

“Just because you leave home doesn’t mean you stop caring about it. You wouldn’t get homesick otherwise. And your family knows you care. I keep an eye on our Linking traffic, you know. I see how many vid packs get sent to your family.”

Kizzy gave a mighty sniff and pointed to the hallway. “You have to go now,” she said. “Because I have to work and you’re making me cry more. Not in a bad way. But you’re making me all mushy and if I hug you I’ll get gunk all over that nice shirt, which really brings out your eyes, by the way.”

“Hey, everybody,” Lovey said through the nearest vox. “There’s a mail drone inbound. Packages on board for Ashby, Corbin, Jenks, Dr. Chef, and Kizzy. It’ll be here in about ten minutes.”

“Eek!” cried Kizzy. “Mail! A mail drone!” She tumbled out of the wall and ran down the hallway with her arms outstretched like shuttle wings. “Interstellar goodies iiiiiiiincomiiiiiing!”

Ashby grinned. “Told you the day would get better,” he called after her. She was too busy “whoosh”-ing to reply.

The cargo bay hatch adjusted itself, shrinking down to fit the mail drone’s delivery port. As Ashby and the others waited, Sissix walked through the door. She’d put on a pair of pants, and it looked like Dr. Chef had taken care of the molting problem.

“Hey,” Ashby said. “Feeling better?”

“Much,” she said. Her skin was oddly bright, and a few dry ridges still lingered, but at least she didn’t look like a peeling onion anymore.

“I don’t think there’s anything for you.”

“So?” She shrugged and smiled. “I’m nosy.”

“Just a moment,” Lovey said. “I’m scanning the contents for contaminants.”

“Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy,” said Kizzy. “It’s my birthday!”

“Your birthday’s not until middle year,” said Jenks.

“But it feels like my birthday. I love getting mail.”

“It’s probably just those lockjaw clips you ordered.”

“Jenks. Do you know how great lockjaw clips are? There is nothing they can’t hold down. Even my hair can’t work its way out of them, and that’s saying a lot.”

Ashby glanced over his shoulder at her. “I’m going to pretend like you weren’t talking about using the tech supplies I buy as hair accessories.”

Kizzy pressed her lips together. “Only in emergencies.”

“All clear,” Lovey said. The hatch hissed open. A tray slid forward, holding a large, sealed container. Ashby took the container and swiped his wristwrap over the scan-seal. The container gave an affirmative beep. A corresponding beep echoed from the mail drone on the other side of the hull. The tray retracted and the hatch closed. There was a muffled clank as the mail drone detached, off to find its next recipient.

Ashby unsealed the lid and sorted through the parcels within. They were all plainly packaged, but even so, there was something charming about a bunch of boxes and tubes marked with his crew members’ names. It did feel a little like a holiday.

“Here, Kizzy,” he said, handing her a large package. “Before you explode.”

Kizzy’s eyes grew wide. “It’s not lockjaw clips! It’s not lockjaw clips! I know who makes labels like this!” She slid back the lid and cheered. “It’s from my dads!” She dropped cross-legged onto the floor and pulled the lid open. Atop the package’s contents—snacks and sundries, it looked like—was an info chip. Kizzy pulled her scrib from her belt, plugged in the chip, and began reading the text that appeared on the screen. Her face melted with sentiment. “It’s a just ’cause box,” she said. “They are the best. The best.” She tore into a fresh pack of fire shrimp as she continued reading.

Ashby pulled out a small domed container blinking with biohazard warnings. “Do I even want to know what this is?”

Dr. Chef puffed his cheeks. “Those will be my new seedlings. Completely harmless, I assure you. They have to put those warnings on any live cargo.”

“I know. It’s just… unnerving.”

Dr. Chef leaned close to Ashby, his eyes twinkling. “Don’t tell, but if this is the order I think it is, I’ve now got a few starters of rosemary plants.”

Ashby flipped over a box with a familiar brand logo, the same one he’d seen on a lot of algae tech. “Corbin,” he said, handing over the box. “This looks like it’s for you.”

Corbin opened the box and took out a circulation pump. He peered at the label and gave a short nod. “Seems our clerk can read order forms after all.” He headed for the exit.

“Well… good,” said Ashby noncommittally. He pulled a tiny box from the mail crate. “Jenks.”

Jenks opened the box and removed an info chip.

“What’s that?” Sissix asked.

“It’s from Pepper,” Jenks said. He stared at the chip for a moment. “Oh, I bet it’s those lateral circuit specs she mentioned last time I saw her.”

“Those sounded sweet,” Kizzy said. She frowned. “Why not just send them to your scrib?”

Jenks shrugged and put the chip in his pocket. “You know Pepper. She does things in her own special way.”

Ashby leaned over the mail crate. There was one small, flat package remaining, addressed to himself. The label had no indication of who had sent it, but it required a wristwrap scan. A flap snapped open as his wrist passed over it, and a frail rectangular object fell into Ashby’s waiting palm.

“What is that?” Sissix asked.

Jenks let out a low whistle and stepped closer. “That’s paper.”

Kizzy’s head snapped up. “Whoa,” she said, goggling at the object. “Is that a letter? Like a physical one?” She jumped to her feet. “Can I touch it?”

Jenks smacked her hand away. “You’ve got fire shrimp crumbs all over your fingers.”

Kizzy stuck a finger in her mouth, sucked it clean, and wiped it off on her worksuit.

Jenks smacked her hand again. “Now you’ve got crumbs and spit. A letter’s not a scrib, Kizzy. You can’t wash it off.”

“It’s that fragile?”

“It’s made from very thin sheets of dried tree pulp. What do you think?”

Ashby ran his fingers along the leaf-like edges, doing his best to look nonchalant. It was from Pei, it had to be. Who else would go to that much trouble to send a message that couldn’t be monitored? He turned the letter over in his hands. “How do I… uh…”

“Here,” Jenks said, extending his palm. “My hands are clean.” Ashby handed over the letter. “Kiz, do you have your knife on you?”

Kizzy unsnapped a folded utility knife from her belt and handed it to Jenks. Her eyes widened with realization. “Wait, you’re gonna cut it?”

“That’s how you get the letter out of the envelope.” He flicked open the blade. “Would you rather I tear it?”

Kizzy looked horrified.

Jenks deftly sliced the paper open. “My mom used to give me letters on special occasions when I was a kid,” he said. “Very special occasions. This stuff’s expensive as hell.” He raised a wry eyebrow at Ashby. “Somebody must like you a lot to send you this.”

“Like who?” Kizzy asked.

Jenks put his fist up to his mouth and gave an exaggerated, harrumphing cough.

“Ohhh,” said Kizzy in a stage whisper. “I’ll be going back to my snacks then.” She backed away with a knowing chuckle.

Ashby glanced over to the others. Sissix was smirking. Dr. Chef’s whiskers twitched in amusement. “Alright, alright, shut up, all of you.” He walked away, leaving the others to examine their new items while he read his letter in peace.

“Jenks, Ashby, Sissix, anyone.” It was Lovey. She sounded frantic. “We’re in trouble.”

Everyone in the cargo bay stopped to stare at the vox. Out in the open, trouble was even less of a good thing than it was on the ground. “What’s the problem?” Ashby said.

“There’s a ship, another ship, coming in right at us. They’ve been blocking my scans with a dispersal field. Ashby, I’m so sorry—”

“That’s not your fault, Lovey,” Jenks said. “Stay calm.”

“What kind of ship?” Ashby said.

“I don’t know,” Lovey said. “Smaller than us, pinhole drive. I think it’s a very small homesteader, but I don’t know why a homestead ship would—”

Corbin came running back into the cargo bay. “Ship,” he gasped. “Out the window. It’s—”

The whole ship rocked. The sounds of falling objects clanged down the hallway. Everyone started shouting. Ashby’s stomach dropped. Something had hit them.

“Lovey, what—”

“Some kind of weapon blast. Our navigation’s knocked out.”

Sissix hissed profanities. Kizzy nodded at Jenks and jumped to her feet. “Let’s go,” she said.

“No,” Lovey said. “I can get us moving in five minutes, but the primary navigation hub’s completely fused. I can’t tell which way we’re going.”

“Fused?” Kizzy cried. “What the fuck did they hit us with? Lovey, are you sure?”

Sissix looked at Ashby. “I can navigate the old fashioned way, but not in five minutes, not if we want to be safe about it.”

“Pirates,” said Jenks. “Remember, Kiz, on the news, fucking pirates following mail drones in, using scatter bursts to fry nav systems—”

“Oh, no,” moaned Corbin.

Ashby stared at Jenks. “Lovey, how long until they reach us?”

“Half a minute. There’s nothing I can do. I’m sorry.”

“This isn’t happening,” Kizzy said. “They can’t.”

“Shit,” said Jenks. “Quick, everybody, hide your stuff.” He pulled open an empty crate and threw Kizzy’s package in. Dr. Chef followed suit. There was a crash, a horrible, scraping, wrenching crash, right into the cargo bay doors. Corbin jumped behind a crate and covered his head.

“They’re overriding the door controls,” Lovey said. “Ashby, I—”

“It’s okay, Lovey,” Ashby said. “We’ll take care of it.” He had no idea what that would entail.

“Oh fuck,” Kizzy said, tugging at her hair. “Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck.”

“Stay calm,” Dr. Chef said. He put his arm around Kizzy’s shoulders. “Everyone stay calm.”

Ashby took a few steps toward the bay doors, dumbfounded. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. A whirring sound on the other side argued otherwise. The doors clanked open. Sissix stood beside him, shoulders back, feathers on end. “I don’t know what to do,” she said.

“Me neither,” Ashby said. Think, dammit! His brain cycled through a jumble of options—find a weapon, run away, hide, hit them with… with something—but there was no time. Four sapients in hulking mech-suits came through the bay doors, all carrying battered pulse rifles. Their suits were large, bigger than a Human, but the creatures housed within were small, spindly, bird-like.

Akaraks.

Ashby had seen Akaraks before, on Port Coriol. Everyone knew how the Harmagians had treated them, back in the colonial days. Their planet was left barren, their water sources polluted, their forests stripped. Their homeworld had nothing for them, but neither did anywhere else. They were a rare sight out in the galaxy, but they could be found here and there, working in scrapyards or begging on corners.

Or, if they had run out of options, boarding ships and taking what they pleased.

Ashby put up his palms. The Akaraks’ voices came from tiny voxes inlaid below their helmets, shrieking and shrill. They weren’t speaking Klip.

“Don’t shoot,” Ashby said. “Please, I can’t understand you. Klip? Do you speak Klip?”

There was no discernible response, only shrieks and clicks and angry waves of their weapons. The words meant nothing to him, but the guns did.

Ashby felt a bead of sweat trickle down his brow. He brushed his hand across his face. “Okay, listen, we’ll cooperate, just—”

The world exploded in pain as an Akarak swung the butt of its rifle up to meet Ashby’s jaw. The Akaraks, the cargo bay, Sissix shouting, Kizzy screaming, Jenks cursing, all of it disappeared behind a curtain of red light. His knees buckled. The floor rushed up to meet his face. Then, nothing.

Rosemary wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting to see when she ran down to the cargo bay, but there was too much going on for her to think clearly. The bay doors had been wrenched open. Four armed Akaraks—Akaraks?—wearing mech-suits were yelling at everyone in some weird Harmagian-inspired dialect she couldn’t make sense of. Ashby was unconscious (she hoped) on the floor, cradled by Kizzy, who was crying. The rest of the crew were on their knees with their hands in the air. Rosemary barely had time to process any of it before the Akaraks, startled by her sudden appearance, pointed their weapons at her, croaking strange words in a tone that would’ve sounded angry in any language.

“I—” Rosemary stammered, raising her palms in the air. “What—”

The Akarak closest to her—xyr mech-suit was trimmed with blue—ran at her, croaking the whole way. Xe shoved a gun in her face. Jenks started yelling back at the other Akaraks: “She’s unarmed, you fucking animals, leave her alone…” The biggest Akarak, xyr suit nearly three times Jenks’ size, shook xyr weapon at the comp tech and pointed toward Ashby. The threat was unmistakable. Be quiet, or the same will happen to you. Jenks’ hands balled into fists. There was a hum as the Akaraks’ weapons began to charge.

Am I about to die? Rosemary wondered. The thought was bewildering.

“Rosemary,” Sissix said over the din. “Hanto. Try Hanto.”

Rosemary wet her lips, trying to ignore the weapon beneath her nose. She met Sissix’s eyes—scared, but insistent, encouraging. She dug her fingernails into her palms, so that no one could see her hands shaking. She looked down the gun barrel. She spoke. “Kiba vus Hanto em?”

The Akaraks fell silent. Everyone froze.

“Yes,” Blue Suit said. Xe turned xyr head back toward the others and pointed at Rosemary. “Finally.” The gun did not move.

The big Akarak stormed toward her. “We will take your food and all supplies that are of use to us,” xe said. “If you do not comply, we will kill you.”

“We will comply,” Rosemary said. “There is no need for violence. My name is Rosemary. You may call me Ros’ka.” This had been her chosen name in secondary school Harmagian class. “I will speak your needs to my crew.”

Blue Suit pulled the gun back, but kept it pointed at her. The Akaraks croaked among themselves.

The big Akarak gestured acknowledgment to Rosemary. “I am our captain. You will not be able to pronounce my name, and I will not pretend to have another. Are there others elsewhere aboard your ship?”

“Our navigator is in his quarters. He is a peaceful man and is of no danger to anyone.” Rosemary thought it best to not confuse the issue with plural pronouns.

Captain Big huffed. “If this is a trick, I will shoot you.” Xe turned and croaked to one of the others, who ran up the stairs.

“What’s going on?” Sissix asked.

“They’re going to get Ohan,” said Rosemary. “I’ve explained he’s no threat, and that we’re willing to cooperate.” She cleared her throat and switched back to Hanto. “My crew agrees to help. Please tell us what you require.”

“Food,” Blue Suit said. “And tech.”

A thought appeared. Rosemary knew little of Akarak culture, but from what she had read of them, she did know that they greatly valued the concepts of balance and fairness. The idea of taking more than you could make use of hadn’t even occurred to them until the Harmagians showed up. She had heard that those values still lingered; that much was apparent even in the phrasing that Captain Big had chosen: We will take your food and all supplies that are of use to us. In Hanto, the semantics of those words strongly implied “and nothing else.” Her mind raced, wondering if that scrap of knowledge was enough to gamble with. A large part of her argued in favor of self preservation—shut up, just give them everything, you’re going to get shot—but the braver thought won out. “How many are aboard your ship? Are there any children?”

Blue Suit snarled and raised the gun again. “What difference does it make how many we are? You will do as we say!”

Rosemary wiggled her fingers in a calming gesture. “I will. But if there is any way that you can spare us enough food to last us until the next market, we would be humbly grateful. We do not wish to die out here anymore than you do. Furthermore, I have read that Akarak young have very specific nutritional needs. If you have children aboard, we must make sure that our food does not lack for nourishment.”

Captain Big considered this. “We do have children aboard,” xe said at last. Rosemary took this as a good sign. Ashby’s injured face and the pulse rifles aside, these people didn’t seem violent. Just desperate. “And yes, their needs are great. We may not find what we need aboard your ship.”

“Then let me offer this,” Rosemary said, treading carefully. “One of us will show you our food stores. As I understand it, the Kesh To’hem market is less than a tenday from here. We will not be traveling there, as we cannot stray from our flight path. Take from us only what you need to last you the trip to Kesh To’hem, and we will give you credits and trade-worthy supplies so that you may purchase more suitable food. This way your young will get what they need, and we will not starve on our journey.”

The Akaraks talked among themselves. Rosemary dug her nails in harder, hoping the pain would quiet the tremors beneath her skin. Her entire offer banked on a tiny piece of possibly erroneous info that she’d tucked away during one lone semester of Intro to Harmagian Colonial History. If she was wrong… well, she’d find out soon enough. At least they were all still breathing. Ashby was breathing, right?

“Rosemary?” Sissix said. “How are we doing?”

“We’re okay,” said Rosemary. I hope. “Hang on.”

“We find this acceptable,” Captain Big said. “What sort of fuel do you use?”

“Algae.”

“We will take some of that as well.”

“Are they asking about fuel?” Corbin said. “Because I just siphoned off the skim yesterday, and it’s taken five tendays for this batch to get—”

“Corbin,” Dr. Chef said with deadly calm. “Be quiet.”

And for once, Corbin had nothing further to say.

“What did the pink man say?” Captain Big asked.

“He is our algaeist,” Rosemary said. “He is merely… concerned about the product he has worked so hard to produce. But you will have fuel. There is no trouble.”

Captain Big tapped xyr chin within xyr mech suit. “If we take ten barrels, will you have enough to reach your next destination?”

Rosemary asked Corbin the question. He nodded sullenly. “Yes, ten barrels will not be a problem,” she said. The conversation had gone from frightening to bizarre. The inflections that Captain Big was using didn’t have a parallel in Klip, but in Hanto, they were downright polite. She would expect to hear this kind of talk in a shop or a restaurant, not while standing at gunpoint. It was as if the Akaraks thought of her as a merchant, with the threat of violence serving as currency.

“We will require technical supplies as well,” Captain Big said. “Our engines are in need of repair.”

Rosemary gestured understanding. “Kizzy, do you know anything about the ship they’re flying? Would any of our tech be compatible?”

“Some of it, maybe. I dunno.”

“Our tech believes some of our equipment may work with yours, but she can make no promises. She will help you find what you need.”

“Very well,” Captain Big said. “You will accompany me, along with your tech, so that you may translate our needs. She—” xe gestured at Blue Suit—“will go with one of your crew to gather food. The others of my party will stay with the rest of your crew here. You seem to be a reasonable people, but we will not hesitate to kill you should you try to overthrow us.”

“You have our complete cooperation,” said Rosemary. “We do not wish for either of our crews to come to harm.”

Rosemary began to explain the deal to the rest of the crew. Everyone nodded, looking a little less tense, though still afraid. The humming of the guns had stopped. We might just get out of this, Rosemary thought, just before the fourth Akarak reappeared and threw Ohan into the room.

The other Akaraks went nuts. A frenzied conversation took place, with the Akaraks all talking over one another and Rosemary trying to interject where she could.

“What the hell is going on?” Sissix asked.

“They want to take Ohan,” Rosemary said.

The Wayfarer’s crew exploded.

“What?” said Kizzy.

“My ass!” said Jenks.

“For what?” asked Sissix.

“To sell them,” Rosemary said.

“What?!” Kizzy cried.

“A Pair would fetch a fine price on the right planet,” Dr. Chef said.

“If it keeps you all from harm…” Ohan began.

“No,” said Jenks. “No way. Rosemary, you tell those fucking birds in their fucking hackjob suits that they can shove—”

“Jenks, shut the fuck up,” Kizzy said, holding Ashby’s head protectively. His blood looked sticky on her hands.

“Stop it, stop it, all of you, you’ll get us all killed,” Corbin said.

“You shut up, too, Corbin.”

“Calm your crew,” said Captain Big. “Or there will be violence.”

“Shut up, everybody, shut up,” Rosemary yelled. She turned toward Captain Big. “Ohan is part of our crew. We have cooperated with all your other demands, but this—”

“This man could end our poverty,” said Captain Big. “He would be of great use to us. You would do the same in our place.”

“No, I would not.”

Captain Big pondered this. “Perhaps. But even so, you have little choice right now.”

“Offer him something else,” said Sissix.

“Like what?” Rosemary said.

“Ambi,” said Kizzy. “Give him the ambi cells.”

The Akaraks froze. At last, a word in Klip they understood. “You have ambi aboard your vessel?”

“Yes,” said Rosemary. “We will give you the ambi freely if you leave the Navigator with us.”

“What is to stop us from taking both the ambi and the Navigator?” Blue Suit asked, raising her rifle.

Rosemary felt her stomach sink. Fair point. “They want to know why they can’t take the ambi and Ohan.”

“Shit,” Jenks said.

“Why do I ever say anything?” Kizzy moaned.

Dr. Chef spoke. “Tell them that Ohan is of no value to them.”

Rosemary translated. The Akaraks demanded an explanation. “Why?” she asked Dr. Chef.

“Because Ohan is dying.”

The Wayfarer’s crew turned to stare at Dr. Chef. Ohan closed their eyes and said nothing. Rosemary collected herself. It was a bluff, surely. She relayed the news to the Akaraks.

The Akaraks shrunk back. The one who had thrown Ohan into the room recoiled. “Is he contagious?”

“I… don’t think so,” Rosemary said. “Dr. Chef, some help, please.”

“Ohan is in the final stages of a Sianat Pair’s life,” Dr. Chef explained. “They will not last more than a year.” He paused, and added: “Any buyer who might consider purchasing a Sianat Pair would be familiar enough with the species to know the signs.”

Rosemary translated.

“You may be lying,” Captain Big said. “But the risk of wasting fuel and food on useless cargo outweighs the possible gains, especially in light of the ambi. We will leave him, then, but you will give us your entire stock of ambi cells.”

Rosemary agreed. “Ohan stays,” she said to the crew.

“Oh, stars,” Kizzy said.

“But they want all the ambi.”

“Fine,” Sissix said.

“Good thing the GC’s got our tab on this one,” Jenks said.

Rosemary and Captain Big discussed logistics. Groups from both crews split up, leaving Jenks, Ohan, and a barely conscious Ashby—stars, his eyes were finally open—under guard in the cargo bay. Rosemary took Kizzy’s hand as they walked out the door with Captain Big. Kizzy squeezed back so hard that one of Rosemary’s knuckles popped.

Jenks’ voice followed them. “Have fun stealing our stuff, assholes! Rosemary, you want to translate that?”

She let that one go.

Ashby lay on the bed in the med bay, trying to move as little as possible. Both his hands were occupied. His right hand was outstretched beneath the medical scanner, where a thick beam of light showed him where to position his wrist patch. Dr. Chef sat on the other side of the scanner, hrrming as he input directions for Ashby’s imubots. Somewhere beneath Ashby’s skin, two platoons of bots had separated off from their daily patrols and were now repairing the fracture in his jaw and the bruise on his brain. Dr. Chef had said a lot about “granulation tissue” and “osteoblasts,” but those things wouldn’t have meant much to Ashby even if he hadn’t been drifting along on a slow tide of painkillers. The part about lying still and not moving his jaw, though, that much he had understood. He could manage that.

His other hand was gripped tightly within Sissix’s claws. She sat beside him, giving a play-by-play of everything that had happened after he’d blacked out. Every so often, she let go of his hand to let him type a question on her scrib. Dr. Chef had banned talking for the time being.

No one else was hurt. The ambi, the food, none of that mattered. They were things, and things could be replaced. His crew couldn’t be. The relief he’d felt upon learning he was the only one who’d wound up in the med bay topped anything that the painkillers could give.

Where’s everyone now? he wrote.

“Kizzy and Jenks are fixing the damage to the bay doors. They say it’s mostly superficial. They already replaced the navigation hub, so that’s working fine. Corbin started prepping a replacement algae batch the minute the Akaraks flew off. I think Rosemary’s tallying our losses.” She smirked. “And guess where Ohan is?”

Quarters?

Sissix shook her head. “He’s sitting down in the cargo bay with the techs.”

Ashby stared at her. He blinked.

“I know. They’re not talking or anything, just sitting there in a corner, in their own little headspace, like always. But they haven’t been back to their quarters at all, and they followed Kizzy down the hall when she went to grab some tools. Never thought I’d say this, but Ohan doesn’t want to be alone right now.”

Ashby blinked again. Huh, he wrote.

An hour passed. Dr. Chef gave a pleased nod and turned the monitor around for Ashby to see. The screen displayed a camera view from one of his imubots, which was doing… something to a big, white spongey wall (his jawbone, he supposed). Other bots scurried around the peripheries of the frame, like swimming spiders.

“You’re coming along fine,” Dr. Chef said. Ashby took his word for it. He had no idea what was going on in there, and he always found the experience of seeing inside his own body to be unsettling. “You can talk now, but small movements, please. The fracture hasn’t fully healed yet. And your brain still needs some work.”

“I could’ve told you that,” Sissix said.

“Thanks,” Ashby said, moving his mouth gingerly. “Your sympathy is appreciated.” He licked his lips. The inside of his mouth felt stale. “Can I have some water?”

Sissix filled a cup from the sink. She held it to his mouth, helping him drink. “Need anything else?”

“No,” he said. “Or, wait. Can you bring Rosemary in here?”

Sissix cocked her head toward the vox. “Lovey, did you catch that?”

“I’ll get her for you,” Lovey said. “It’s good to hear your voice again, Ashby.”

“Thanks, Lovey,” Ashby said.

A few minutes later, a curly-haired head peeked around the doorway. “You wanted to see me?”

“Hey, Rosemary,” Ashby said. “Have a seat.” The pain meds made his speech sound sloppy, as if he’d had a few too many drinks. He sincerely hoped he wasn’t drooling.

Rosemary pulled up a stool beside Sissix. “Are you okay?” she asked Ashby.

“I’m fine. Bastard busted my jaw, but it beats getting shot.” He leaned his head back into the pillow, trying to think through the concussion and the medicated haze. “I don’t know why that guy hit me.” He rubbed his eyes, trying to fight the wooziness away.

“Just to scare us, probably,” Sissix said. “Show us who’s boss. I know I was scared.” She lay her head on Ashby’s arm.

Rosemary studied Ashby’s face. Something had her attention. “What?” he asked.

“Did you touch your face at all while you were talking to the Akarak captain? Like you’re doing now?”

“Um, yeah, maybe.” Ashby pushed through the fog, trying to remember. “I don’t know, it all happened so fast.”

“Something like this, maybe?” Rosemary rubbed her eyes with her palm, as if she had a headache.

“Possibly. Yeah. Yeah, I think I did.”

Rosemary grimaced. “That explains it. See, this—” She tucked her thumb back and held her fingers straight and flat, making her hand into a rough imitation of a Harmagian dactylus. She flexed her hand over her eyes, twice. “—is a really offensive thing to Harmagians. And those Akaraks’ gestures and dialect were very Harmagian-influenced.”

“What’s it mean?”

Rosemary cleared her throat. “It means you’d rather rub shit in your eyes than keep talking to them.”

Ashby blinked. He and Sissix both burst into laughter. “Oh,” he said, grabbing his jaw. “Oh, ow.” His jaw wasn’t quite ready for laughter yet.

“Careful,” said Dr. Chef. “If it doesn’t heal properly, we’ll have to do this all over again.”

Sissix was still chuckling at Ashby. “I’d have hit you for that, too.”

“Yeah,” said Ashby. He held his lips tight, trying to keep his jaw from moving too much. “Likewise.”

“At least you told them off, right?”

“Right,” he said, with a restrained smile. “I’m sure the psychological damage of my accidental insult cut them real deep.”

“Speaking of damage,” Rosemary said. She held up her scrib. “I’ve tallied our losses, I filed an incident report, and I’m currently drafting a list for the Transport Board so they can cover—”

Ashby waved his palm at her. “We can talk about all that later. That’s not why I asked you here.”

“Oh.”

“I wanted to thank you. Without you, I’m not sure we would’ve gotten out of this one as well as we did.”

Rosemary looked embarrassed. “I don’t know. I just got lucky. There are a lot of cultures I know nothing about.”

“Maybe, but it was good luck nonetheless, and luck we wouldn’t have had otherwise. More importantly, you had a cool head and kept everyone safe. Today would’ve been much, much worse if you hadn’t been here.” He reached out to take her hand. “I’m glad you’re on my crew.”

Rosemary started to say something, but whatever it was shifted into: “Oh, no.” Her hand darted up to catch a tear running down her cheek. “Oh, stars, I’m sorry,” she said. Another tear fell, and another. Rosemary put her face in her hands. The dam broke.

“Aw, hey now,” Sissix said with a kind laugh, putting her arm around Rosemary’s trembling shoulders. “Have you not had a chance to freak out yet?”

Rosemary shook her head, pressing her hand against her nose. Her whole face was leaking. Poor kid, Ashby thought. He wouldn’t blame her if she wanted to take a safe planetside job after this. Hell, even he found the idea appealing.

“These Humans, huh?” Sissix said to Dr. Chef. “I took some time to freak out. Didn’t you?”

“I sure did,” Dr. Chef said. He handed Rosemary a clean cloth. “Once I’d medicated Ashby and got his bots going, I locked myself in my office and yelled for a good ten minutes.”

“That’s what that was?” Ashby said. He had a dim memory of layers upon layers of haunting chords, cutting through the waves of pain. “I thought you were singing. It was really pretty.”

Dr. Chef gave a short, loud laugh. “Ashby, if the Akaraks think rubbing shit in your eyes is bad, the things I said in my office would have permanently scarred them.” He rumbled and cooed. “But Sissix is right, dear,” he said, placing a hand on the back of Rosemary’s head. “Your species does have a knack for emotional suppression. And as your doctor, I would like to say that diving straight into paperwork after negotiating at gunpoint wasn’t a very healthy decision.”

One of Rosemary’s sobs turned into a solitary chuckle. “I’ll remember that next time.”

“No ‘next time,’ please,” Sissix said. “I’d rather not do this again.”

“Agreed,” Dr. Chef said. He glanced at the bot monitor. “Ashby, you’ve got about two more hours before you’re all patched up. Nothing you can do but lie there and take it easy.”

“That’s fine,” Ashby said. “I could use a nap.” The drugs were weighing on him, and conversing had worn him out.

“And I could use a meal. Ladies, would you care to accompany me to the kitchen? Let’s see if we can’t throw together some comfort food from whatever the Akaraks left behind.” He patted Rosemary’s back. “I’ve got some new seedlings that I think will make you smile.”

Rosemary inhaled, pulling herself back together. “One more thing,” she said. “About Ohan.”

“Ah,” Dr. Chef said. “Yes.”

“Was it—”

“True? Yes, I’m afraid so. And I’m sorry I had to tear down Ohan’s privacy like that. It was the only thing I could think to do.”

“Stars,” said Rosemary. “I had no idea.”

“I just found out, too,” Sissix said. She frowned at Ashby. “And I still don’t understand why that is.”

Ashby sighed. “We’ll argue about this later, Sis. My head is swimming.”

“Fine,” she said. “You get to play the injury card this time.” She tapped a claw on his chest. “Later.”

Once alone in the med bay, Ashby reached for the paper letter tucked away in his pocket. He made himself push back the drugs’ call for sleep just a few minutes longer.

Once the bay doors were fixed and a meal was consumed, Jenks did several things. First, he took a shower. The whole ship felt gross now, after having those mech-suit bastards pawing around. He couldn’t scrub out the ship, but he could clean himself, at least. He ignored the fifteen minute shower rule. It wouldn’t be that much extra work for the water reclamation system, and today of all days, Kizzy would forgive him for it.

Back in his room, he retrieved the info chip from the pocket of his crumpled pants. He sat naked on his bed, plugged the chip into his scrib, and read the message.

His eyes lingered over the word “kit.” He knew what Pepper meant. He thought about what she had said at Port Coriol, about responsibility and consequences. He thought about it just long enough to be able to say that he’d done so. He put on some pants and walked down to Lovey’s core.

They talked for hours. All the risks and dangers had been spoken of before, a dozen times over. But as both comp techs and AIs knew well, redundancy in the name of safety was always a good idea.

“There are two things that bother me,” Lovey said. “Not enough to say no, but we need to make up our minds about them.”

“Shoot.”

“First, if I transfer into a kit, the ship will be without a monitoring system. Since I’ll effectively be quitting a job I care very much about, I want to make sure I have a good replacement lined up.”

Jenks drummed his fingers against his lips as he thought. “I don’t know why, but something about installing a new AI feels strange, under the circumstances. Do you think she’d be jealous, seeing you walking around while she’s living in your core?”

“Depends on the AI and whether or not she’s interested in a body to start with. But I do think it could cause problems. Say, hypothetically, she sees me walking around, and she wants to know why she can’t have the same opportunity. Why I got a choice that she didn’t.”

“That’s a good point,” Jenks said, frowning. “And it wouldn’t be fair.” He sighed. “So then—”

“Don’t give up yet, I’m not finished. What if a non-sentient model replaces me?”

Jenks blinked. A non-sentient model could do Lovey’s job, yes, with some heavy tweaking, but it would never be someone they could speak to in a relatable way. It would never really be part of the crew. “Wouldn’t that bug you?”

“Why would it?”

“Living with an AI that was designed to be less intelligent than you, just smart enough to do hard work, but not allowed to grow into something more? I dunno, I’ve always been on the fence about that.”

“You’re sweet, but that’s silly.”

He smirked. “Why?”

Lovey paused. “Are you comfortable with the idea of beasts of burden? Horses pulling carts, that kind of thing?”

“Yeah, so long as they’re treated well.”

“Well, then, there you go.”

“Hmm.” He’d need to chew on that. “It’d be Ashby’s call, in the end.”

“That’s the second thing that bothers me. We keep glossing over what Ashby’s going to do when he learns what we’re up to.”

Jenks sighed again, heavily. “I honestly don’t know. He’s not going to be happy about it. But he won’t report us. That’s not his style. Best case, he gives me an earful, but lets us stay. Worst case, we have to leave.”

“That worst case isn’t unrealistic. He could lose his license if he’s found knowingly carrying illegal tech.”

“Yeah, but how often do we get searched? And when we do, it’s not like—”

“Jenks.”

“What? The chances of us getting caught—”

“Exist. I’m willing to take that risk. Ashby might not be. Is that something you’re ready for? I’m not going to make you lose your job and your home over me. That’s your choice, not mine.”

He laid his hand against her core. “I know. I love this ship. I love my job. I love this crew.” He ran his palm down the smooth, flawless curve. “And I don’t want to leave. But I won’t be on the Wayfarer forever anyway. Someday, when the time’s right, I’ll go do other things. If that time gets chosen for me, well… okay.”

“You’re sure?”

He sat thinking, watching her light shine between his fingers. He thought of the familiar insides of the walls of the ship, the way Ashby trusted him to tweak them just right. He thought of the groove in his mattress that fit no one but him. He thought of drinking mek in the Fishbowl, Sissix laughing, Dr. Chef humming. He thought of Kizzy, who he knew he’d be sitting with in some sketchy spacer bar sixty years down the road, both of them old and obnoxious. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

For a moment, Lovey said nothing. “Even if it came to that, they wouldn’t hate you. These people are always going to be your friends.”

“Yours, too.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“I do.” He fell quiet. “So. We’re doing this?”

“Sounds like it to me.” There was a smile in her voice, a smile he longed to see.

“Okay.” He nodded, and laughed. “Wow. Okay. I’ll contact this guy tomorrow.”

He slept in the AI pit that night, his head nestled against a cold interface panel. He could feel the dull metal pressing little hatchmarks into his skin. He fell asleep imagining soft arms across his chest, warm breath against his cheek.