ONCE THEY fixed the control board, the boy asked for a tour of the ship. Afterward, Brock hesitantly took Taren up on his offer for a shower. Now, the boy wore some of Taren’s clothes, his golden hair combed back, while he scooped reepa into his mouth with a fork. The PDA sat on the table in front of him, displaying the list of supplies Taren had managed to gather.

Brock made a series of enthusiastic honks. “You have done impressive work.”

Taren blew over his hot klii and vegetable sandwich. “I’m sure you could’ve done better.” Taking a too-eager bite earned him a burned tongue. He dropped the sandwich onto its plate, exhaling.

“Perhaps,” the boy said. “But Mr. Taren is not a gifted mechanic that knows everything about the fixing of things.” Grimacing, he lowered the tablet. “Was that too prideful a thing to say?”

“It would’ve been if anyone else had said it, but since it’s you, it’s fine.”

Brock nodded, relaxing back in his chair. He reached for his can of peach Carbajoo as he continued scrolling. “The engine can work as is.”

Taren stopped blowing over his sandwich. “Really?”

“It will not last long in open space, but it can get you off Cartiss and to a neighboring planet. What your ship needs is more power and a functioning shield generator. Two more fission pods are needed for taking off and landing.” Brock sipped his Carbajoo. “Mr. Eli sold them for many credits, but his store has more than likely been ransacked by now. Possibly he kept a secret stash of parts?”

“I’ll check it out the next time I’m in Hurren,” Taren said. “There’s also Supply and Demand.”

“They do not sell to individuals.” Brock nodded. “Of course, you would steal. Apologies. Pods are heavy, however.”

“Very,” Taren muttered, braving another bite of his sandwich. He chewed as he mulled over possible ways to get two fission pods out of the supplier warehouse without breaking his back or being spotted on camera.

“Concerning the shield generator—it is possible to build our own. A fluron battery and connector will suffice to provide power. Those are sold at the store of the weasel-faced Jerome. All generators need a plasma particle compartment and emitters strong enough to project the shield around the entire ship.” Brock drummed his fingers against the tabletop, his lips puckered. “Taking plasma particle compartments from select heavy weaponry and connecting them to the emitters with telanium piping would, theoretically, create an adequate substitute.”

Taren’s head was spinning. “Telanium?”

“It is a form of rock,” Brock honked. “Absorbent and indestructible. Malleable when heated.”

“How do you know all of this? I thought you repaired hovercars and gadgets.”

“I enjoy learning how things work,” Brock tooted. “I have seen many a vid concerning the creating or dismantling of things.”

Taren grinned. “That’s impressive, kid. You’re incredible.”

The boy stared, his mouth agape. Then he lowered his eyes. “I-I would need to consult the schematics of this ship to be certain, but I believe the emitters of the Fusion Five series generators are compatible with those from the Aux Eighties. They are commercial interplanetary jump ships, most used by the slavers,” he added at the look of confusion on Taren’s face. “I have noticed them when they land. Slavers have yet to visit Hurren this month. I would not be ashamed to steal from them for Mr. Taren.”

“I’ll do the stealing and building,” Taren said. “Just give me a list of what I’ll need. I don’t want you doing any more work here, Brock. You’re just consulting.”

The boy made a harsh flatulent sound. “It would please me to help.” Then, true to his character, he sunk down low in his chair. “I understand you want to be different from Stepmother and not allow me to overwork myself. Many thanks for this. But Stepmother also denies me things I wish to do. I wish to help. Truly. Do not deny me this.”

“All right,” Taren said with a sigh. “I appreciate that. Thanks.” He waved a hand at Brock’s empty bowl. “Still hungry?”

The boy sat up. “No.”

“Go ahead and get yourself another serving. I don’t mind,” he added when Brock hesitated. “Truly.”

The Danto’Sal abandoned the PDA with a grateful toot and ambled over to the cabinets.

Lenore wandered into the galley then, shaking her hands out and sprinkling water over the floor. “Taren, there’s something wrong with the water. It won’t run hot.”

Brock swiveled around so fast his large ears flopped against his cheeks. By the look of mortification on his face and the high-pitched trumpeting noises he was making, Taren assumed the boy thought he was at fault. Lenore leapt back in alarm.

“Don’t worry, Brock. It couldn’t have been you,” Taren said, raising his voice to be heard over his apology. “Let me finish my food and I’ll check the water heater, Nora.”

She eyed Brock with a wrinkled brow. “Why is he cowering?”

The boy straightened up and scooted closer to the cabinet with a soft honk.

“Bad habits,” Taren said with a shrug.

Brock nodded, chuckling uneasily.

Lenore shrugged before sauntering over to the fridge. Brock shied away when she approached and kept his eyes lowered. She opened the bottom freezer, reached in, and pulled out a mock ice cream cake. Holding it out to him, she said, “Want to try it? It’s cold but sweet. I think you’ll like it.”

The boy plucked it from her fingers with a bow of his head.

Lenore smiled before closing the freezer door and opening the fridge. “I’m going back to bed.” She took a bottle of water out of the fridge and nudged the door closed with her hip. “It was nice to meet you, Brock.”

The Danto’Sal nodded while picking at the dessert wrapper.

She smiled before leaving the galley.

Brock cast a furtive glance at her back before opening the snack she’d given him and sampling it. His eyes widened as he chewed. He took two more fervent bites, groaning appreciatively.

“Good?” Taren asked.

Brock returned to the table and pulled the tablet close to him again. “It’s wonderful,” he trumpeted. “What is it?”

“It’s called mock ice cream, and girls love it, apparently.” Taren finished his sandwich and used a napkin to wipe the fat drippings from his fingers. “Try not to eat them all. Nora won’t thank you for that.”

Brock gazed at the galley door in wonder. “She is nice and has much beauty, that one. I did not expect either from her kind.”

“Her kind?” Taren asked.

“Human females.”

A giggle drew Taren’s eyes to the counter, where Kylee stood, leaning beside the Waterborne Zapper. She pressed her lips together, but the smile remained. And her eyes danced.

“Don’t move,” he mouthed.

“I take it you don’t have a lot of experience with girls,” Taren said to Brock.

The boy must’ve blushed because his yellow freckles became all the more pronounced on his already red cheeks.

“Oh, it’s all right,” Taren said. “Just be the friend you’ve always wished you had, and she’ll respond in kind.”

Brock contemplated this while finishing his dessert. “I think I would like to take one more look at the ship to see if there is anything I can bring from the repair hangar to help with the fixing.”

“Sure. Just shout if you need anything.”

After depositing his trash into the chute, Brock took the PDA and ambled out of the room. Taren turned in his chair so that he could face the ghost of his princess.

“Where do you go when you disappear?” he asked.

She chuckled, but it sounded off. “Where is this coming from?”

“Before you decided to give me space, I saw you all the time. I wanted you to stick around—”

Kylee frowned.

“—so I didn’t question it. But now, you stay away even when I beg you to make yourself known. You pop in unexpectedly and at the most inconvenient times. It doesn’t make any sense. You’re a figment of my imagination. Shouldn’t I be able to control you to some extent?”

“Can a schizophrenic control their hallucinations?” Kylee countered with a shrug. “The mind is a tricky thing. How many years has humanity studied it? And yet we still don’t understand the extent of its abilities.”

“I still want you here.” Taren rolled his eyes at her look of disapproval and stood. “I can’t control that. I won’t apologize for that. So, how is it that you can disappear whenever you want? You’re not even real.”

Kylee crossed her arms and turned away from him, displaying a perfect view of her profile. “I don’t know. Honestly, I’m always here. Sometimes I can hear and see you clearly; sometimes you’re distorted. But I’m always aware of you. It’s you who can’t see me most of the time.” She sighed. “Which leads me to believe that you’re more in control of me than you realize.”

“What? You think I’m subconsciously blocking my connection to your memory?” Taren said, snorting. “That’s—”

“Incredible, when you think about it. Your brain is trying to protect you from yourself.”

Taren pressed his fingertips against his temples. “I don’t need protecting.”

They stood in silence while he tried to collect himself. What he needed was a doctor to scan his head and fix whatever was wrong with his brain. But that’s not something he actually wanted. What he wanted was to go back to when Kylee was still alive, which was impossible, and he knew it all too well.

His hands fell back to his sides with soft slaps. “Neither of us can do anything about our predicament. I need all the help I can get with this ship and these kids.”

“That’s true,” Kylee said slowly, “but, in the end, your brain will show you whatever it wants.”

He nodded. Hopefully, this conversation would do something about that. After gathering his trash, he went to deposit it in the chute.

“Terry.”

When he turned, she was there, cupping his cheeks with her hands, pressing puckered lips against his, overwhelming him with her familiar scents of lavender and honey. But it didn’t feel like a kiss—not really. The leaping of his stomach was the same, as if he’d missed a step on the stairs, but there was no pressure as their lips met, no passion, no moisture, no taste. Just the sudden appearance of warmth in all the places where they would’ve touched had she been alive.

He was never going to kiss her again.

Sadness rushed in, a fathomless, consuming void that left him breathless. Then he was sobbing and crumpling back against the wall.

“I’m sorry!” Kylee said, crouching before him. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Taren couldn’t speak, but he nodded, wiping his tears, hating the sounds he was making. They echoed off the walls—moans and sniffles and obnoxious blubbering.

“I miss you too.” She leaned back on her heels and brushed the hair out of her face to reveal teary eyes. “So much.”

Holding his breath, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes, Taren tried to force himself to stop crying. But that just seemed to intensify his pain. The pressure built in his chest. He released an explosive breath, inhaled greedily, and continued sobbing.

“It’s all right to cry,” Kylee said. “You’ve been strong for too long.”

Bare feet slapped against the floor. Taren looked up, dread mixing in with the sadness, the loneliness, the anger. The children stood in the entryway.

Brock tooted. “Mr. Taren,” the PDA deadpanned. “What—”

Lenore closed the gap between them, her rigid arms swinging at her sides, her brow flattened in determination. When she was near enough, she didn’t hesitate to get down on her knees and weave those little arms around his shoulders. She pressed her face into the side of his neck and held on.

“Broken pieces stick together,” she whispered.

He laughed and cried some more, hugging her tight.

“FLURON BATTERY and connector, plasma particle compartments, and telanium pipes,” Taren murmured as he searched through their shopping bags. “What else do we need?”

Brock read off the list they’d made on the PDA, and the tablet translated. “New burner for hot water heater, new oxygen filter, water capsules, more food, and the fission pods.”

Taren nodded. “Right.”

The charging station dinged, letting them know the hovercar fusion tank was full. Taren climbed out of the vehicle to disconnect it from the station and pay. The screen told him to have a nice day. He slid back into the hover and closed the door. Holding his wallet open a second longer, he counted his remaining credits. He’d have enough for what they needed but not much left over.

Taren closed the wallet and pushed against the floor with the balls of his feet so that he could slide his wallet into his back pocket. “Listen, we should establish a rendezvous location, just in case something goes wrong tonight and we need to split up.”

“Like the restaurant that sells fenta steak?” Brock asked.

“Sure. That’ll work.” Taren settled back into the driver’s seat. “If we have to go our separate ways because we’re being chased by someone, I’ll draw their attention and lead them away from you. No objections,” he added when Brock opened his mouth to speak. “You find someplace safe and stay there for two hours. Then go to the fenta steak restaurant and hide in an alley or an alcove that’ll give you a good view of the street. Stay there for an hour and then leave.”

“But—”

“It’s safer if you stay on the move,” Taren said. “Find someplace new to hide for two hours and then come back for one. Keep it up until we see each other again. I’ll do the same. Once I know you’re safe, I’ll go back to The Andromeda and you can go back to your stepmom.”

The boy gazed down at the tablet, rubbing the edges with his thumbs. He had a purpling bruise in the shape of four fingers circling his wrist and a fresh scrape across his cheek that neither of them was talking about.

“Hey.” Taren elbowed him. “Everything’s going to be all right. Supply and Demand has a terrible security system. There aren’t any guards or Regime officers to show up if the alarms are tripped. Worst-case scenario: the owner or maintenance man will receive a call from the camera company, letting them know there’s been a malfunction. They might not even come by to check it out until morning. It’s just good to have a plan in case things do go wrong.”

Brock nodded. “Mr. Taren is right. It is only—I am fearful that I will be captured by whoever protects the warehouse, and then I will be in great trouble with Stepmother.”

“I won’t let that happen, kid.”

The Danto’Sal managed a small smile. “Many thanks.”

Taren started the hovercar and pulled away from the line of fuel stations. “Why don’t you text Lenore and see if she wants us to buy more of those mock ice cream cakes?”

“That would be wise.”

Taren glanced at The Rusty Generator as they drove past. Looking through the broken windows, he could see that most of the shelves had been stripped of their merchandise. Some things had been left behind, however. Making a snap decision, he pulled into the parking lot of the store across the street.

“Think you can go into Mr. Eli’s store and see if you can find anything that’ll help us? I’d do it, but the Acadiens might be watching.”

“I understand,” Brock said, glancing up and down the street before opening his door. “I will return shortly.”

Taren watched the boy’s progress through the side and rearview mirrors. Brock scurried around the building, probably to sneak in through the back. A little while later, Taren spotted a silhouette moving behind the broken front windows, picking its way through the items littered on the floor and the few parts still on the shelves. A pinprick of guilt made Taren look away.

That was Eli’s livelihood. If and when he got out of the clinic, he was going to have trouble paying his bills.

Taren gritted his teeth and banged his head against his headrest. Would he ever be able to forgive himself for stealing from a man who had treated him fairly, a man who had stood up to the Acadiens for him?

A group of Queen Miyako’s soldiers marched across the street.

Taren ducked down with a curse. He had to get out off Cartiss. The pressure was building. What had he earned by playing it safe and trying to stick to his morals? His shoulder throbbed, reminding him what happened the last time he’d chosen not to steal. It was what had to be done.

He peeked over the dashboard to see the soldiers hassling a group of teenage humans loitering outside a sandwich shop. They pointed at the wanted holograms on the side of the building. The teenagers sneered and shook their heads, openly showing their disdain despite the weapons at the soldiers’ sides. Eventually, Queen Miyako’s men moved on. A young man flipped them off. Taren didn’t move until the soldiers had turned the corner and vanished from sight. Then he straightened up.

He’d shaved his patchy beard and mustache and had chosen to wear a blond wig and goatee combination. As usual, he wore Axel’s sunglasses. Through the tinted windows of his hovercar, he wouldn’t be easily recognized. Still, his heart beat fast. He was so tired of being afraid.

The passenger door opened, and Taren flinched.

Brock slipped in, dumping three coils of different colored wire and a jumble of transmitters at his feet before shutting the door. He honked several times, and the PDA in his pocket chirped, “Success. Now let us go.”