Page 211 of Seven Oars
Her heart pounded with each step. Out of habit, she braced for shortness of breath and vertigo, but her body held strong.
Yes, she still needed her medicine.
At home, time sped up. Constricted. She suffocated from the urgency.
Doubts swarmed her. What if this was a cruel trick? What if she had misread the numbers, her judgment clouded by her desire to be with Fincros?
No fear, only faith.
She paused and took a deep breath.
Ren, Paloma, Gro. Uncle Zaron’s infrequent visits. She was poised to lose a huge part of her life. It made her incredibly sad, but she knew that leaving Priss behind wouldn’t kill her; staying here would.
She opened the door—and ran smack into Ren.
They stared at each other.
“I thought I’d come check on you,” he said quietly. His gaze slid to the bag she was holding.
“How did you know?”
“We were once one, remember?”
“Always.”
He nodded at the bag.“Where are you going?”
“I don’t know.” The ticket didn’t say.
Ren took her hand in his. As always, energy flowed between them. They were one again, surrounded by a warm bubble of invisible light. Whole. This experience was as much a part of Rosamma’s existence as breathing, a connection formed before they were born.
“I will miss you, Rose.”
“Am I making a terrible mistake, Ren?”
He held on tighter.
“We were never meant to be inseparable. That was a lie. We just didn’t know better. As forhim? Time will tell.”
He let her go and watched her leave.
*****
Rosamma had only been to the port once, when she landed on the trampoline, pushed out of the capsule by Fincros. She couldn’t say she remembered much detail about the area.
It was a busy port, full of the noise and bustle of workers and cranes. They loaded and unloaded cargo, moving containers back and forth. Aliens of all shapes and sizes dragged heavy sacks and rolled barrels down lowered planks. A cart piled high with loose metal parts clattered by.
Amid the chaos, the docked freighters loomed like towers—white, black, or silver. Some were new, others weathered and tired.
It was easy to get lost in this chaos, but Rosamma had the numbers to guide her. And there it was: Berth number three hundred and fifty-two.
The freighter docked there was medium-sized, with a dusty gray hull showing signs of wear. The gangplank was down and creaking ominously under the weight of a forklift crawling up with a pallet of goods.
Rosamma followed the forklift and presented her ticket to a Tana-Tana crew member in heavy uniform.
“Where’d you get this?” he asked her in a rough Universal.
“It’s for a commissioned transfer.” At least, that was how Rosamma thought of it.
