45: Freighter Morning

IF Paul was surprised at what was sharing his cabin on the Largas Regal, he did me the kindness of not showing it. “Hello, Bess.” He tucked his carryall into the locker with mine, then took a moment to pour us glasses of juice from the container young Lance Largas—one of Joel’s numerous great-grands—had left.

Giving me time.

I’d wrapped myself in blankets, Human skin not as good with synth-grass as scales, and had done my best to worm myself deep in the box. It wasn’t comfortable.

I didn’t care.

He did. “That won’t do, Old Blob.” Paul put our drinks on the table, then reached in to gather me up, blankets and all. Synth-grass whispered as it fell to the floor and I made a broken little noise of my own as he cradled me in his lap, both of us sitting on his bed, and tucked my head under his chin.

“Now, Es,” Paul said, his voice as gentle as any voice could be, his arms around me walls of comfort, which was silly, because they were flesh and frail and wouldn’t always be here . . .

“Tell me about Pearl.”

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“Together, you showed the Mareepavlovax they could have a future,” he said when I was done, and when I’d dried my tears—that being the why of my being Bess, which he’d known, of course. Paul had shed tears with me.

Pearl would have liked that.

“An easier demonstration would have been nice,” I mumbled into my juice.

His eyes flashed. Not pleased with Skalet, not at all. And I thought to myself, be careful, web-kin.

But all Paul said was, “We’re on our way home.”

Neither of us mentioned what waited for us there. It wasn’t the time for mystery and missing ships. Corpses and puzzles. Recalcitrant family.

A home primarily in splinters—but, I perked up, there was a plus.

My Lanivarian-self loved renovating.

There might come an appropriate time, as Ersh would say, to share with my friend what bulged inside my luggage.

Or, I decided, not.