Page 206 of Seven Oars
“Thank you, Bro,” she said. She wasn’t sure it understood, but not thanking it seemed impolite.
And every time she said Bro, it reminded her of Fawn and of Seven Oars.
Outside, Rosamma stopped and raised her head to the sky. It was only a synthetic barrier without dimension, a flat ceiling lit by several orbiting asteroids set aglow with sophisticated technology to mimic sunlight.But she knew how deep the vastness of space behind it was. She’d heard its silence and touched its mysteries. Boundless and untamed, it beckoned and enticed.
Where are you now?
Her heart ached with a familiar dull throb of yearning. She blinked quickly, as if that might sharpen her vision and pierce the“sky” bubble to the vacuum. As if she might look deep enough to know the answer.
Finn.
Dots danced on the backs of her eyelids.
Holding her parcel, Rosamma walked to a small, spartan room she called home. It was hers alone, a generous living accommodation on Priss, where most people shared their homes.
The arrangement had been Paloma’s doing. That woman was a whirlwind. She was feared around here for things she could—and had—unleashed to establish dominance.
Rosamma didn’t know what she would have done without Paloma and Ren. They had picked her up and carried her forward. Her family.
But she was working on her independence. Her translation work brought in a little bit of money, and she volunteered at the People’s Center twice a week in exchange for food rations.
Ren and Paloma bristled at that, finding it demeaning and a slight on their ability to provide, but Rosamma didn’t care. It was long past time she cut the cord.
Most of all, she wished to shed the perception Ren continued to hold of her: his beloved, invalid sister.
*****
Gro came by after dinner.
“So, the first attempt was a wash,” she announced, disappointed but not dejected.
“Oh, no. What happened?”
“Could be one of two things. Either we didn’t sterilize the substrate well enough, or the humidity was too iffy for a proper incubation. Lars thinks the latter, and he’s probably right. We did sterilize the bejesus out of the substrate.”
“I’m sorry, Gro. Is there anything I can do to help?”
Gro gave her a look.“I thought you didn’t like gardening. You said it wasn’t your thing.”
Rosamma laughed.“I wouldn’t mind a small garden. It’s propagating mushrooms for commercial application that’s a little out there for me.”
“A real garden is tough here.” Gro shook her head.“That woman at the water plant? She crows about growing tomatoes. Tomatoes! You should see them. More like raisins, and about as juicy.”
Rosamma made them both herbal tea while Gro plied her with niche facts about growing mushrooms in a rarified atmosphere with zero-percent humidity.
There was no cake to go with their tea, and Rosamma fretted over that. The cooking skills she had loved to hone on Meeus were wasted on Priss. Everything came pre-packaged and pre-prepared. The closest she’d come to fresh ingredients in two years was a pack of dried apples Paloma had stolen from some uppity client and brought to Rosamma. They had shared the pack without remorse.
“I’m impressed with you, Gro,” Rosamma said, stirring sweetener into her tea.“You’ve learned all of this complex mushroom stuff in such a short time. You deserve a degree.”
“What’s me! You should talk to Lars. That boy’s a walking encyclopedia on mushroom science. No, don’t laugh. He putdiagramson the walls. Full biologist mode. It’s wild.”
“I’m so glad he’s found something he likes.” Rosamma took a drink.“Is he happy here?”
Gro shrugged.“It’s taking him a while. Priss is gray and rocky. Everything is rationed and regulated—not a good combo for someone who’s done time. Walk here, eat there, don’t touch that. He isn’t comfortable around aliens, and almost everyone here is one. Plus, the space travel did a number on him.” Gro took a deep breath.“But he’ll get there. He just needs more time.”
Rosamma nodded.“You should bring him over again. I’ll ask around if there’s flour to be had. A cake would be nice…”
Rosamma and Gro sipped their tea in companionable silence. It was an established routine. Sometimes they talked non-stop, and other times they just sat quietly, with no words needed.
