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THREE

Klay was late, but Squithy didn’t worry that he’d forgotten his promise to come talk with her when his shift was done. She didn’t start counting, either. If she checked the tray of snacks and the pitcher of ice cold water she’d put in the middle of her desk three times, that was, according to the norbears who were keeping her company in her head, only a reasonable precaution. She’d brought food for sharing, and it was important to be sure that it hadn’t been eaten or snuck away.

Exactly who could eat or sneak the tray away out of Squithy’s own quarters while she was there, she didn’t ask, just being grateful for the company.

Which reminded her that pretty soon she wasn’t going to want norbear company.

Carefully, she formed a picture of Klay sitting against the door to the norbear area, being quiet, quiet, not listening, quiet.

A ripple of amusement greeted this, and a picture of two norbears snuggled in a grassy nest, lazily feeding tender leaves to each other.

Squithy felt her cheeks heat.

“We just want to talk,” she said, aloud. “In private. You wanted to talk in private when you were deciding who was going to go—”

She was interrupted by the wrist-patting sensation, accompanied by a feel of fur and comfortable drowsiness, before the presence of norbears inside her head was—gone.

The door buzzed, which meant that somebody—that Klay!—had put his hand over the plate and was asking if she would let him in.

She crossed the cabin to do just that.


The first thing they did was laugh, because Klay had brought snacks, too, and a bottle of the citrus juice that was her favorite.

“Just like norbears,” Squithy said, delighted. “Feeding each other!”

“No higher praise,” Klay said, not quite in the tone he used when he meant the opposite of what he said, but not quite delighted either.

“I think it’s a good system,” Squithy said. “I feed you, and you feed me. Nobody goes hungry.”

“Something to that,” Klay said, looking up from the tray where he’d found room for the things he’d brought. “Speaking of norbears, where are they?”

“They promised to let us be private,” Squithy said, and met his eyes. “Though they might just have promised to be very quiet.”

“Well, they’re doing a good job of being quiet,” he said, and she could feel him listening inside his head. “I don’t hear a thing. You?”

She shook her head. “It feels…empty.”

He gave her a quick look.

“You mind?”

“No,” she said. “It’s just—different than it’s been. I like having…room. And we did want to talk, just us, didn’t we?”

“We did,” Klay said with a grin. “Glass of juice?”

“Yes!” she said, and he filled a glass for each of them.

Squithy looked around her cabin. Some ships had the space for an all-purpose room, where crew could meet, or play games, or talk over private things, like her and Klay were setting up to do now. Dulcimer didn’t have that kind of room, which was why Tranh’s quarters doubled as his office, and if crew wanted to be private with crew, they decided between them who would be host.

After the crew meeting, Klay had asked specifically if he could visit her in her cabin, and she’d—she’d liked that he’d given her the decision to say yes, or to say that they could talk in the galley.

The galley was less private and open to people coming through for a snack or some ’toot, not meaning to interrupt, but interrupting, anyway.

And if there was going to be more kissing, Squithy definitely didn’t want to be interrupted.

It did mean that they were a little cramped, and there was only one chair, but they could sit on the bunk.

She took her glass of juice.

“Thank you.”

“Glad to oblige,” Klay said, sipping from his glass. Squithy sipped from hers, remembering Dulsey’s lesson about social rules.

“I’m glad we trust each other,” she said, and Klay looked surprised, then pleased.

“I’m glad we trust each other, too,” he said. “Bunk or chair?”

“Bunk,” she said, and sat down. Klay nodded, and pulled the chair closer before he sat down, their knees almost touching.

It was an awkward distance for kissing, Squithy thought. But, then, they’d want to have some snacks first, and talk, share news—oh!

“I was on clean-up after the meeting,” she said, “and Uncle Rusko came in. He had the results from the aptitude tests I did, and he says I can start in studying pilot math, if I want to.”

Klay smiled at her.

“Do you want to?”

“Yes!”

“That’s enthusiastic,” he said. “That’s good, because the math gets hard, as any pilot’ll tell you.”

“But not too hard.”

He frowned a little.

“For some people, it gets too hard. It’s a specialization, and not everybody’s head is good for it. And some other people, their heads can only hold so much.”

Squithy nodded.

“That’s all right,” she said, sipping juice. “I want to go as far as I can. Those equations you showed me—they were so pretty and they made so much sense! I want to learn more.”

“Tell Rusko that?”

“I did, and he said he’d look out a dummy board and the first level learning modules for me.”

“You need help, you can come to me,” Klay said. “I’m closer to Level One than Rusko is.”

“Thank you, Klay,” said Squithy.

“No thanks involved. I’m proud to help.”

He sipped his juice, and looked at her seriously.

“Speaking of proud, I was just that to hear you give Susrim some of his own.”

Squithy bit her lip.

“I thought, after, that maybe I shouldn’t’ve spoke so hard. Susrim’s been through a scary thing, and—”

“And,” Klay interrupted, “he’s been pushing at limits since way before that! He’s been after getting rid of the norbears since first he saw one; he don’t listen to the fact that, whatever they are, they ain’t animals, and that’s aside him shoving his work onto Falmer, and refusing to see that you’re up a grade—at least a grade!—and that you’re not going back to permanent Stinks, and—well, what you said. He doesn’t see you as a person.”

“No, he doesn’t,” Squithy agreed. She took a drink of juice.

“You know what made me really mad? That he tried to trick me into counting.”

“I saw that,” Klay said, real quiet. “Thought about reaching over and thumping his—”

He paused, but Squithy had caught it, too—the feel of norbears listening close. Or, she thought, norbear.

“Mitsy,” she said sternly, “you promised. This is our time—me and Klay.”

The sensation she received was something like a blush—then Mitsy was gone. Or at least quiet again.

Klay tipped his head.

“Think we’re alone?”

Squithy considered the inside of her head.

“I think so,” she said.

“Good,” said Klay, taking her glass out of her hands, and reaching a long arm to put both on the desk with the tray. He moved over from the chair to sit beside her on the bunk.

“Now, there was something I thought we might practice before we get to the snacks.”

Squithy smiled, and leaned close, putting her lips against his.

It was, she thought a pretty good kiss; they were both breathless when it was done, and Klay was outright grinning.

“I take it you agree. Mind if we try again?”

“No,” Squithy said, and her voice was a little shaky, but that was all right, and then she didn’t have to worry about that, or about anything, because Klay was kissing her again.


They were both warm with practice, but Klay had called them a rest time, and served them out some snacks and cold water. They sat on the bunk, knee pressing against knee. Squithy felt like her whole body was smiling. Klay was smiling, and she wondered if he felt that way, too.

“Don’t wanna rush,” he said. “Just like piloting, you go slow, and you learn the base ’quations so hard you never have to worry about getting them wrong. You move on to the next level when the foundations are firm.”

Squithy nodded. “You work that out yourself?” she asked, and was willing to credit Klay with wisdom in all things.

He looked startled.

“Me? No, my cousin Vilma, she told me that.” He took a bite of dried fruit bar, and chewed, frowning at a place on the bunk near his knee. “She was senior to me, and my piloting tutor, too.”

He looked up.

“Listen, Squith, I just thought. We need to work out a way we’re on the same shifts, mostly.”

“So we can practice?”

“Definitely so we can practice, but so I’m nearby to help you with your study if you happen to need me.”

He frowned at the bunk again.

“That’s gonna take some finagling, on account Rusko and Tranh want to be overlapping, and we don’t want the pilots stretched too thin…”

“I’m on as back-up to Susrim,” Squithy said, and stopped. “That’s gonna be…tricky.”

“You remember what Tranh told you—Susrim gets mad or pushy, you tell the captain, and he’ll sort it out.”

“Yes,” said Squithy, and sighed. “Still, that’s my schedule right there. Unless Falmer’s study-shifts move…”

“Might be the answer right there—talking easiest and cleaner. I’m not hearing Falmer say anything about when she studies, just so she’s studying.” He drank some water. “I’ll bring it up with Rusko.”

Squithy ate the rest of her fruit bar, drank her water and sighed.

“Done?” Klay asked, and she nodded.

“I’d like to practice a little more,” she said.

“That sounds like a good idea,” Klay said, slow and thoughtful. He put the glasses and the plates on the desk and turned back to her. “I’m wondering though, Squith, how you might feel about this—”

He leaned over and put his lips on the edge of her ear. Squithy shivered.

“I like it,” she whispered, and he did it again.


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