Page 14 of Adrift!
But the hazardously hopeful part of her that had left Nebraska—the same part that had left Earth?—kept circling back to Ikaryo. How he’d shared his own story of displacement and transformation and his continuing search for what eluded him. The way he’d looked at her like he wanted to hear more from her, holding his breath when she’d leaned closer.
Are you so afraid of the thorns that you can’t evensingabout the rose? Much less touch it?
The question stung because she knew the answer. She’d rather sit alone in the concealing comfort of fabricated fuzz than risk another rejection, another failure, another confirmation that the light in her heart was invisible to everyone else.
So then why did she keep replaying that moment when his augments had sparked under her touch, like her very presence ignited him from the inside? Why did her lips tingle every time she thought about the charming quirk of his not-Earther smile?
“Because all the worst poetry is patchworked from broken hearts,” she muttered to the empty room. “And somehow you think this time will be different.” Furiously, she jolted to her feet and swiped her hand—left—across the screen interface. Because it wouldn’t matter in the end.
But as the fabricator hummed to life, she caught herself humming too—that same melody from a moment before, with a fragmented lyric about the liminal infinity between almost and always.
She choked back the tune, but the unsung words lingered like an itch in a phantom limb.
If she hadn’t made a promise to Mariah, she would’ve stayed hiding in her cabin. The show could go on without her. But she half suspected Felicity would come knocking, button shining gold like they weren’t all lost in space, and she didn’t want to be caught in the lacy underwear that was basically the only pattern in the fabricator.
So she yanked on the new clothes and forced herself out the door.
Chapter 6
With Griiek’s four arms assisting, Ikaryo helped retrofit the Starlit Salon from spaceship lounge into something that Felicity called “cozy cosmic chic”. They dragged most of the low couches into a rough circle, and votive lighting gave everything a warm, intimate glow with enough lumens for working.
Right before the would-be knitters arrived, the cruise director turned to the viewport where the energy anomaly had first manifested.
“Maybe too much cosmic?” she fretted. “What do you think about curtains?”
So he quickly rigged up a few extra tablecloths to hide the empty blackness of the Zarnax Zone.
Now some of guests sat cross-legged on cushions with skeins of yarn scattered among them, while others reclined on the couches with drinks in place of knitting needles, content with the company instead of the crafting.
Ikaryo moved discreetly around the perimeter, refreshing beverages and careful not to disturb the peaceful atmosphere. He’d expected the knitting circle to be awkward at best, an anxious attempt to forget their plight. But everyone seemed genuinely relaxed, more comfortable even than when they’d first come aboard, before the energy anomaly had hijacked their cruise.
“Let’s start with the basics,” Mariah said, settling into the center of the circle with a ball of shiny fiber. “Knitting is about connection. Continuous threads and interlaced stiches. Thoughtful knots and a touch of good tension. Creating something beyond any single strand alone.”
She began working her needles with practiced ease, the soft clicking rhythm oddly hypnotic. “When we knit, we’re creatingsomething that didn’t exist before, even if we’re following a pattern. We’re choosing different elements of fiber type, weight and texture, pattern and color, and combining them into something new, something that can provide protection and comfort and beauty.”
By the time Ikaryo had completed his third round, a few of the passengers had the start of their projects—some more successful than others. One couple sat shoulder to shoulder, sharing a single skein from opposite ends. With the Love Boat I currently unpowered and unmoving, the Tritonesse pilot Delphine had joined them, and she had already produced an impressive length of what might be a scarf.
“Here’s the really fascinating part,” Mariah continued, her voice taking on a dreamy quality as her own stitches expanded into wilder loops. “Maybe you already know about quantum entanglement. When two particles become connected, they stay linked across impossible distances. Change one, and the other responds instantly, no matter how far apart they are.”
She held up her knitting, the metallic strands catching the light. “I think that’s what we’re really doing here. We’re not just working fibers—we’re creating connections that transcend space and time. Every stitch is a chance to link one moment to the next, one person to another.”
Transfixed by the shimmer and the cadence of possibilities, Ikaryo almost missed Remy sneaking into the salon, keeping to the back of the room, like she wasn’t ready to be looped into the group. And despite the calming whisper of moving threads, his pulse kicked up.
He’d thought she wasn’t coming, but here she was. Then he had to look again.
She was wearing… Actually, he wasn’t entirely sure what she was wearing.
To his eyes, the long tunic and short, flowing trousers had the subtle sheen of fabricator filament, but the new outfit also had a panel of the natural fibers from the dress she’d been wearing before. The floral design that had decorated the front of her previous dress was expanded and twisted into vibrant geometric lines, like a fantastical star map. The tessellation continued all around the hem and sleeves, the weave breaking into eyelets smaller and larger to reveal glimpses of her skin, as if she were walking through the floating depiction of some impossibly flamboyant universe—or wrapped in musical notation where the hints of her body were notes.
Instead of fuzzy orange socks, on her feet were low-heeled boots.
Fuzzy purple boots.
She sneaked all the way around the salon to his bar, avoiding the edge of the knitting circle, gaze averted. But when he nudged a drink across the counter toward her, one eyebrow raised, she finally peeked up, her freckled cheeks bright. “I tried recycling in the fabricator, but apparently it has fashion opinions.”
Despite everything—her disgruntled tone, his professional boundaries, the whole situation—he found himself smiling. Really smiling, not the practiced expression from his training materials.
With Mariah’s presentation complete, conversation had picked up along with a sprinkling of laughter and some cheerful complaining as people practiced their new hobby. Remy half turned to watch them, resting her elbow on the bar.
