Page 39 of Adrift!
And now she couldn’t even tell Ikaryo she’d love if he played with her?
That she wasn’t sure she could do it without him.
Did some part of her want to fail again? Did she believe Evens was right to mark her a zero in the IDA book of matches? But how could she do this again when every other time had burned her even if no one else could see the scars?
Except…this wasn’t like the other times, a voice whispered.
This time she didn’t have to be alone.
Remy ducked her face into the deck jacket Ikaryo had given her. She’d skipped breakfast, too caught up in her own head even for coffee. And maybe she’d been feeling a little shy about facing him in public. Would they kiss or…?
Instead, she told herself she needed to work out a save-our-ship set. She looked at some fabricator options for a guitar while she had some tea, tried a few scales, hated the sound, so rough and out of tune…
Spiraling from there was as inevitable as the sun setting.
When she’d gone to the all-hands as summoned, she hadn’t realized how the ship had changed since launch. So much colder, the lights barely enough for Earther eyes.
She hadn’t noticed because being with Ikaryo made everything all right.
She took a shaky breath, scented of him—something metallic and shining, like rain. The coat had been so warm from his body when he wrapped it around her. The gleam in his half-moon eyes when he looked at her bright enough it dazzled her.
If she didn’t save him and the ship and the essential element of love itself…
Well, there was spiraling, and then there was crashing and burning so horrendously no one would ever find all the pieces.
Or maybe Ikaryo would be there, constantly creating anew: strange cocktails, an improvised purification contraption, pieces of himself. All of it beautiful.
Without conscious intention, she found herself in the atmo-hall. It had been thoroughly cleaned, although the big tube where Ikaryo had funneled the cinder seeds remained; in case of a reprise, she presumed.
The half-alien roses had blown wide, past their peak. Remy turned a slow circle. Everything was fading, maybe from the unavoidable cutbacks in life support, or maybe the garden glory had been timed for their three-sunset tour.
Only thorns left.
No, that wasn’t true.
There were buds, still small and tightly sealed, waiting for the next touch of light. But if anything was to come of them, that too was on her.
So was she going to hide in a hole in the wall, or haunt a dying garden in this pale princess dress that clashed with her hair?
At least she needed some whimsical boots.
+ + +
The corridor to the Starlit Salon felt longer than it should, each step carrying the memories of hopes dashed, with a chaser of cigarette smoke, stale beer, and shame. But she focused on putting one foot in front of the other.
Luckily, there were adorable knit flowers on her toes.
The thud of her boot heels on the decking syncopated with her rushing heart, but the drumming couldn’t drown out the sounds from ahead: chatter, laughter, clinking glasses, Felicity’s voice cutting through with the easy cheer of a hostess in her living room at the holidays. No smoke, only synthequer, and Remy was done with the past.
She paused in the doorway.
The ballroom had been transformed. Most people were milling around, drinks in hand, but someone—probably little green Griiek with her four efficient arms—had arranged the couches in a loose semicircle facing a small cleared space. Votive lights flickered everywhere, their glow softened by loosely woven drapery Mariah must have contributed. Thick yarn of every color had been knitted into expansive waves draped from the ceiling, like the softest surf crashing back upon itself, to create an intimate cocoon within the larger room.
It looked very different from the empty coffee shop and the dive bars and hotel lounges and the other places she’d played. Also, it was in space. But her problem had never been the place; it had been her.
And lightyears away, here she was again.
As if hearing the wry thought, Felicity called, “Remy!”
