She stared at the first two sentences of the journal tab while the Wadi crawled down her flightsuit and stretched back out along her thigh.
6/10/2414
Dearest Cole,
I got a new reader on Lok. So, here I am, writing you a letter on it.
Horrid. She deleted the entry. Then she wrote the exact same thing. She deleted it once more. She repeated the same stilted, juvenile wording over and over. Molly finally shook her head and decided to start from scratch, forgetting the need to make it perfect. She would simply write her thoughts as they came to her, unscripted and unedited.
Cole. I don’t know where to start. Trust me, I’ve tried. It’s just … I’ve always been bad at this, being faithful to a journal. I never know what to write. I think my last one had two entries in it. The first entry was about how many entries I was planning on writing. I remember composing that one on my first day of school at Avalon. My second entry was an apology to myself for going so many months between entries. I remember writing it on the Orbital Station while I was waiting on you. I’d love to read what I wrote back then. Can you imagine if I knew all the things that would take place as soon as we left Earth? I wonder if I would’ve gone. Anyway, that reader is long gone, probably being used by a pirate somewhere on Palan.
Speaking of Palan, Walter kinda saved my butt again. Some crazy stuff went down when we got to Lok. That guy from Dakura, the one who tied me up in his ship, he was here. I thought he was you when I landed. Walter and I zapped him to hyperspace, but we may’ve accidentally opened a very bad door in the process. I’ll tell you more about it once we’re back together…
Gods … who am I kidding? Who am I even writing this to? I think I’m getting too used to talking to machines. It doesn’t help that the only crewmate I have left is the color of metal and that my mom is a computer.
Speaking of mom, she told me where you probably are -- that you’d be in hyperspace somewhere. She also told me how awful it was there. And that my father is probably there, too. I hope you landed someplace safe. I hope you two already found each other and are just hanging out and swapping stories and waiting on us to come pick you up.
Just … watch each other’s backs, ok? I’m trying to get there, I promise. I’m coming to rescue you both. Just stay alive until i get there, okay? Cause I’m a little messed up without you…
Drenards … now I’m blubbering. I shoulda waited till Bekkie and bought a waterproof reader. This stinks.
You know what else stinks? Not telling you I loved you the second I felt it. It was years ago. I bet you don’t remember. It was after Hobbs showed us how we could stream vids to our school computers. You and I stayed up all night watching episodes of Water Marines and we had to hide under my bunk after lights-out with the sheets hanging over the edge.
Actually, you probably do remember, just … maybe not the same way I do. It was when our foreheads touched, leaning over the little screen, and you were laughing and I could smell your breath. I remember thinking how much I loved your laugh, and how normal everything felt. It was like being on a date. Like regular kids. I even liked the way your breath smelled, which has to mean something, right?
I’ve loved you since then, I’m pretty sure. Or maybe I’m just projecting back. That’s been, like two years? And I’ve told you what … three times? I feel like an idiot. And not just for typing you a letter you’ll never read. I should’ve let you call me “babe” or “sweetheart” or whatever you wanted to. If you were here you could call me anything…
Molly looked up as Parsona swerved to port a little. She checked the cargo cam to see if Walter was milling about, but the screen was empty, the boy still asleep. She bent back to the reader, annoyed at how stiff the buttons were on the keyboard and how her fingers throbbed after using them.
Anyway, you aren’t here, and I seem to have to lose crap before I appre-ciate it. My parents, my reader, you, Glemot, Lucin … everything I really love gets snatched away. Or that’s what I used to think. Now I think the things that get snatched away are the only things I can truly love. Jeez … I hope that isn’t true. I hope neither’s true.
Well, i guess that’s my first entry. I think it sucks vacuum and I’ll probably delete the whole thing later and this keyboard is the worst. Anyway, we’re on the last leg to Bekkie, looking for an old friend of mom’s so we can get some kinda special fuel for the hyperdrive. So, I gotta go. And now I can’t stop typing, like I’m hanging up on you or something. This is definitely getting deleted.
I love you I love you I love you. Now be alive when I get there, ‘cause I’m
gonna kill you if you aren’t.
You know what i mean. -Molly
She looked over the entry and felt like a fool, every sentence clumsier than the one before. Holding down the function key with one finger—the pressure causing her pulse to throb up into her wrist—she hovered another finger over the “del all” button.
She stopped and wiped at her eyes. She powered the thing off, instead.
“Whatcha doing?” Walter asked.
Molly jumped, and the Wadi shot up to her shoulder, wrapping its tail around her neck and licking the air.
“Good gracious, Walter, don’t sneak up on me like that.”
“That wass my loud walk,” Walter said. “What’re you working on?”
“Oh, just writing some notes to myself.”
“Like a diary?” Walter peered over at her reader.
“No. And don’t you think of hacking into it. You’ve got enough gadgets to play with that you can leave mine alone.”
Molly knew it was pointless as soon as she said it. Keeping the little pirate out of anything electrical was like tugging against the pull of a black hole. He was gonna get in, and she probably just made it more tempting to tell him not to.
“How far are we from the next csity?” Walter asked. He crawled over the flight console and into the navigator’s seat. Cole’s seat.
“Not far. Another half-hour. See where it says ETA on the nav computer?”
Walter leaned forward and glanced at the dash. He nodded, and Molly told herself he probably didn’t need the lesson. The kid had recently done stuff with the ship’s missile systems that she didn’t think possible. He was worthless with a physical tool but a wiz with the digital sort. Then again, that may have just been due to laziness—
“There it iss!” he hissed, practically standing up in the nav seat.
Molly peered through the carboglass and saw it as well. Beyond the prairies and past a long stretch of dry dirt lay Bekkie. The town was nothing more than a wide and growing sprawl of hastily-built wooden structures, yet it was as cosmopolitan a city as Lok could boast. Which wasn’t saying much.
“Careful where you put your hands,” Molly told Walter, urging him back in his seat.
“It’ss ugly,” he groaned. “Jusst like all the lasst placses.”
His disapproval was quite a blow to Molly’s birth planet, seeing that his home planet of Palan was the sort of place you wouldn’t strand an enemy.
“It’s just different, that’s all,” said Molly, not able to summon up any-thing more positive. “Hopefully this’ll be our last stop.”
“The friend I sspoke to on the radio iss here?”
“Yeah,” Molly lied. The truth was: Walter had spoken with her mother, but Molly had kept her presence in the nav computer a secret for so long, revealing her now would be hard to explain—and harder the longer the ruse lasted. She felt like a kid probably does who keeps something from their parents until they can’t figure out why they started lying in the first place. And then they find themselves trapped into lying even more.
“What’ss her name again?”
“Are you kidding me? We’ve been looking for her for two weeks and you still can’t remember her name? It’s Catherine. With a cee.”
“That’ss right. A hard csee.” Walter turned and smiled at Molly. “I like that name.”
“Yeah, well try and remember it. This is already taking longer than I’d hoped. Now, the mechanic I met in the hardware store said we’ll probably find her in one of the pubs, so I want us to stick together, okay? The election stuff will probably be worse here than it was in the smaller towns, so we really need to be careful.”
“Okay.”
“Another thing: No looting.”
“Fine.”
“I really mean it, Walter.”
“I ssaid fine!”
Molly narrowed her eyes at him to hammer it home, then leaned forward to disengage the autopilot relays, taking over from her mom. She pulled back on the flightstick to gain a bit of altitude. There was enough traffic in the air around town to feel safe from the fleet above, almost like a solitary bird feeling emboldened by joining a large flock.
With a better view of the layout of town, she started picking out which of the many stables to land in. There were several to choose from on the near side of town, all of them a few kilometers from the city center to minimize thruster noise. Most looked extremely busy, whether due to the Bern fleet or the upcoming election, she couldn’t know. She picked one in the middle of style, with not too many fancy ships, but no derelicts propped up on wooden stilts, either. Something she could afford, but where Parsona wouldn’t get robbed.
“There’ss a better one over there,” Walter said as she peeled away for the stable she’d chosen. He pointed to one closer to town where fancy hulls gleamed in the growing light of dawn.
“A little out of our league, pal.”
Molly thumbed the landing gear down and grabbed the radio. The town ahead stirred with plenty of activity despite the early hour. Headlights moved through the city streets, each pair kicking up a plume of dust that streaked off and thinned in the breeze.
Molly squeezed the mic. “GN-290 Parsona to . . .” she read the stable’s info from the nav screen, “. . . Pete’s Hideaway. Come in.”
She pulled into a hover and waited for a reply.
“Pete’s Hideaway, here. Come back.”
“Yeah, this is the Gordon Class ship hovering east of you. The two-ninety. We’re looking for a place to stay, over.”
“Roger and welcome, you picked the right place. Anywhere you like. Those small huts with lotsa room around them are the heads. Over.”
Molly laughed. “Thanks for the heads-up. Parsona out.”
She hung up the mic and brought the ship down between two other craft a little nicer than her own. The thrusters sent up a puff of dust, blocking out the view through the windshield. Molly moved the Wadi to the back of her seat and crawled over the control console to go check in at the stable office. As she crossed the cargo bay, she felt a sudden surge of giddiness, a rare crack in her two weeks of loneliness and dour moods. She could feel it as she lowered the cargo ramp into the cloud of swirling dust outside: today was going to be her lucky day.
“How many nights you need her stabled?” the man behind the counter asked. A patch on his coveralls said “Pete,” but it looked like a logo rather than a nametag. Molly pegged his age at sixty, but knowing Lok, it was probably a rough forty. They had skipped introductions, so she decided to think of him as Possibly Pete until she discovered otherwise.
“I’m not sure how long we’ll be here, to be honest.” Molly eyed the voting machine on his counter, the ‘L’ nearly worn off. “Should I pay as I go?”
“Yup, that’ll work. Just need you to fill out them papers. She need water?” Probably Pete bent down over the counter and squinted through a grime-streaked window in the general direction of Parsona. Like the pane of glass, Pete had a sheen of grease on him, almost like it oozed straight from his pores. Even his long hair, which fell out of a backward cap in stringy clumps, seemed coated in something foul.
“She need water?” he asked again, giving Molly a curious glance.
“Uh, no, but thanks. We filled up in Cramerton.”
“Cramerton? They got water out there?” Potentially Pete slapped the counter. “Don’t that beat all!”
Molly laughed politely, but wasn’t sure it was a joke. On her mental to-do list, she added dropping another iodine tablet into the freshwater tank, just in case Possibly Pete’s sense of humor wasn’t intentionally dry.
“There you go,” she said, handing back a form with mostly made-up information. She had checked the “Liberty” box under political affilia-tion to match his voting machine.
Probably Pete narrowed his eyes at the form, his hands coating the fresh paper with his oily perspiration. “Fyde,” he said. “Wait a second—” He pulled off his cap and ran a tarry hand through his hair, the black on him so dark it verged on purple. “I know your ship. My Uncle Pete did some work on her once. What was your father’s name?”
“Is,” Molly corrected him. “His name is Mortimor—”
“Mortimor!” Poseur Pete slapped the counter, leaving another hand-print. “That’s right! How’s your old man doing?”
Molly shivered, a sudden wash of paranoia tickling her scalp. Two weeks of traipsing across her childhood home had teased her with a weak sense of nostalgia, but she never considered the chances of bump-ing into someone who might know her. She had been six when she left and could barely remember anything from her childhood.
“My dad? He’s, uh . . . fine, I guess. We don’t talk much anymore. He, um . . .”
“He split on you, did he?” Pretend Pete pulled off his hat and slapped the counter with it, smearing the grease there. Molly was beginning to pick up on his unique brand of non-verbal communication. It made her feel sorry for the counter.