Page 63 of The Brightness Between Us

“Like you might be of us.”

“I’m pretty sure my impressions of Fédération are spot-on.”

“Yes, we sneer in the face of history and turn our backs on anyone who dares to even remotely value the past.”

“See! I’m right.”

“I was being sarcastic.”

THUNK. “I was, too.”

Ambrose kneels, holds his hand out to Sheep. She watches him suspiciously. Ambrose scuffs the ground with his pointer finger, momentarily distracted by a beetle that scurries out of the upturned soil. “I got surprised by the EMP dust situation when I arrived yesterday.”

“I noticed, when you tried to use your arc thrower. I’m not surprised that the EMP dust might have gone underreported by the Fédération press.”

“Sure. Yes. The important part for us is that it means I’ve gotten a one-way ticket here, since I can’t exactly call myself a return ride. Which is good, because, well, I guess I’d like to get to know you, Kodiak. To maybe make a plan together. Sheesh, this is awkward. Let me just say for now that I’d rather not head out anytime soon, not if you’ll have me here. You and I could have a lot to talk about. We have a responsibility to our selves that will be up there, living out their lifetimes together. A responsibility that I’m only starting to wrap my head around.”

He goes quiet, and I realize he’s waiting for me to talk. But what is there to say? “Okay,” I finally reply.

“With the world at war,” Ambrose continues, “and with you and me both on the run from our governments, it would be useful to get some updates on how those two countries are doing. Whether they’ve managed to obliterate each other while we’ve been sipping our orange pekoe tea.”

THUNK. I take a moment to rest my muscles, blinking at Ambrose. “What are you asking?”

“Is there anywhere nearby that’snotcovered in EMP dust? Where we can link in and find out where everything stands? Maybe get some updates on whether Devon Mujaba has had a trial, too, and if there are any reportsof his brain being mapped.”

Has this princelet really never encountered or even studied the most influential dirty weapon of the past century? EMP dust creates a baseline level of electrical activity that scrambles tech—but sinks through water. As soon as the water is deep enough, it ceases to have any effect on the surface. “Yes, of course. There’s a lake not too far from here,” I say. “We can row to the center and check for updates.”

“Great,” Ambrose says, “let’s go.”

I don’t want to. It takes me a few seconds to come up with the reason why. “I’m not sure I want to know any updates. I’d rather not know about the doings of the world.”

“Even Devon Mujaba?”

I nod. THUNK. “I never had his zeal for taking down the system. I was just happy to have his help escaping captivity. But. I’m willing to give you the chance to look at the news and tell me if there’s anything I should know.”

Ambrose stands up tall, brushes his hands together. “You coming, Sheep?”

THUNK.

The rowboat is small. I’m at the oars, and Ambrose faces me on the opposite seat, his clothed knees pressing against my bare ones. He faces the open lake and I the shore, but we also face each other, which means our eyes can’t helpbut meet. It’s so unexpected to have human company that I find myself looking at him more than I’d expect. I hope he doesn’t notice. Each time I catch myself soaking in the lines of his face and body I turn my attention to Sheep, who is staring out at us from the waterline, tapping the surface with her nose, clearly wishing she could follow. I like seeing my home from this angle, so small and so easily hidden by the surrounding woods. It is a place I like. The newly cleaned glass wall gleams in the late morning sun. It was worth the risky trip into former civilization to get the cleanser—and of course, to get the shears that saved Sheep.

When I return my gaze to Ambrose, I find him staring right back at me. Highly alert. “What is it?” I ask, turning to see if I’m steering us into some obstacle.

“You’re very good at rowing,” he says.

I feel my face flush, and regret my choice to leave my shirt back at the shore. It’s just that it’s a pain to clean once it’s sweated through.

“I made you blush,” Ambrose says.

“Stop, please stop,” I say. I look down at the bottom of the rowboat, the small puddle that spilled in as we got in at the shore, that sloshes left and right as I stroke. I see my thighs in their leather skirt, my belly with this narrow line of soft hair. Unbidden, I imagine a set of hands on me, taking the oars away, running their way along my chest upto my neck. I swallow.

“How far from shore do we need to be?” Ambrose asks.

I row harder. “Almost to the middle. That will be our best bet.”

“I’m sorry,” Ambrose says. “Really. We’re not on a pleasure satellite somewhere. Here I go pretending I’m from the progressive country and then I go harassing you.”

“No, the attention is actually fine,” I say. I pretend to cough, to fill some space. “Uncomfortable but fine.” It’s been so long since I had an erotiyet. I had assumed that part of my life was over once I fled from training. That celibacy was part of the peace of my isolation. I had accepted—welcomed it, actually. But it turns out I would also welcome that set of hands. Discovering what is beneath Ambrose’s own shirt. Not that I would ever say so.

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