She perks up, excited. “On what?”
I hesitate. The truth would not be understood. A lie would insult her intelligence. So I settle somewhere in between. “Midwestern Earth culture.”
She blinks, then scribbles something fast in her notebook.
“Got it. Spy.”
“I’m not—” I exhale sharply. “I’m not a spy.”
She holds up a hand, like she’s mediating a council meeting. “Look, it’s okay. I read a lot. Spies never admit they’re spies. It’s, like, Rule One.”
“You shouldn’t read so much,” I say.
She tilts her head. “Why not?”
“Because you ask too many questions.”
She grins. “That’s Rule Two.”
A silence stretches between us again. The wind stirs through the hedges, rustling leaves. Somewhere, a dog barks half-heartedly and someone starts up a lawn mower that sputters like an aging war engine.
She turns to look at me, suddenly solemn. “Why are you alone?”
The question punches me. Unexpected. Deep.
I look away. My hands tighten. I hear the screams of a ship dying in space, feel the emptiness of the cockpit as jump-drive fire burned white and swallowed everything I knew. My fingers itch for a control stick that doesn’t exist anymore.
“I survived,” I say at last. It’s all I can say.
She doesn’t look away.
“That’s not what I asked.”
“No,” I admit. “It’s not.”
WhydidI survive? Why me? I wasn’t the smartest, or fastest, or most worthy. I was just there. Wrong place, wrong time. Or maybe... right time. Right place. Because now I’m here. And I’veseen her mother’s eyes. Felt the pulse of the Jalshagar stir and flare with ancient fire I thought extinguished forever.
I clench my jaw.
“I’m here because... fate is very inconvenient.”
Sammy lets that one sit. Then: “You’re not good at explaining stuff, you know that?”
I huff. “I was trained to command fleets, not small humans.”
She smirks. “We’re harder than fleets.”
“I believe you.”
She closes her notebook slowly, the snap of its elastic band loud in the air between us. Then she does something I don’t expect—she leans against my arm. Gently. Just a bit of weight. A tiny gesture.
“I think you’re okay,” she says. “Even if you’re a terrible accountant.”
Something catches in my chest. Not pain. Not the dull warning of an internal rupture or compromised organ.
Something... else.
I look down at her, this tiny, brazen creature with her ridiculous pen and alien suspicions and crayon-blue stained fingertips.
