Page 73 of Escape Velocity

She went over to one of the ladies who had bought a dress and a shirt. “Can I help get the meal ready?”

Camille came over and looked her up and down. “You know how to cook?”

“Yes.”

“Real cooking—with fire? Not food from those . . .” she stopped and thought. “Those syntho things they use in town?”

“I know how to do it the real way.”

“Where did you learn?”

Maybe she should have just kept her mouth shut, she thought as she murmured. “My mother.”

She was relieved when the older woman said, “Then we’d appreciate the help.”

She followed Camille to another open area where cooks were busy stirring pots, cutting bread and putting food into serving bowls. Babies were in a penned-off area. Some older children played quietly at the side of the kitchen.

“Can you fry vegetables?”

“Yes.”

Camille pointed to a grill set over an open fire. On a table beside it was a large bowl of vegetables, some of which looked vaguely familiar. She thought she saw chopped onions and maybe carrots, but the color wasn’t quite right. Then there was a green thing that looked like a small tree.

“I need a pan and fat. What do you use?”

“Butter, made from sheep’s milk.”

After the woman brought a slab of butter, a skillet, and a large wooden spoon for stirring, Amber set the pan on the grill, added butter and waited for it to melt. Then she added the vegetables and stirred them while they cooked.

All too aware that the others were watching, she took extra care not to overcook the contents of the skillet. When it seemed like the vegetables were getting done too quickly, she grasped the handle of the pan with a wadded cloth and moved it to the side.

One of the women came over and inspected her work, pronounced it “bon.” Next, she was given a knife to cut up bread and put it onto shallow trays made of what looked like long strands of woven grass.

When the meal preparation was finished, she and the other women carried the food to the eating area and set it on the low tables. In addition to the vegetables she’d cooked and the bread she’d cut, there was a meat stew and chunks of yellow fruit she didn’t recognize. Dark was descending over the swamp, and the area was lighted by torches on long poles driven into the ground.

She’d been worried about when she’d see Max and Rafe again and had mostly succeeded in repressing her anxiety. Now she felt a little surge of relief when she saw them again. They were standing at one side, talking to the men and drinking glasses of amber, bubbly liquid. She recognized the first among equals and the security chief and some of the others who had surrounded the ship when they’d landed.

Because none of the other women were approaching the males, she hung back.

When Max saw her standing at the edge of the female group, he motioned her over.

She came slowly, ready to step back if one of the swamp rats objected to the intrusion, but none of them indicated she was unwelcome.

“What are you drinking?” she asked Max, gesturing toward the glasses.

“Beer. But you probably won’t like it.”

“Maybe I would.”

When he handed her the glass, she took a taste, then wrinkled her nose. “You’re right. It’s bitter.”

“You can get used to it—like coffee.”

Most of the women, along with the children old enough to join the group, were gathered together at one of the long tables, but before Amber could detach herself and sit with them, Max took her hand and gestured to a seat beside him.

“It’s okay to sit with you?” she whispered.

“It better be.”

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