Page 210 of Seven Oars
“I thought we agreed it wasn’t your fault you ended up in a different cruiser. I don’t blame Paloma. I don’t blame you. I never have.”
He gave her one of his long looks that penetrated down to her very soul.
“You’ve become a stronger person than I am, sister,” he said with a measure of surprise.
“I… haven’t changed, Ren.”
He shook his head.“I hate thinking about what happened to you on that space station, what put the steel in your eyes. The horrors you lived through you never shared with us… It pains me, Rose. Paloma and I wish we could turn back time and play it all out differently. She can’t forgive herself. I don’t know if I can too.”
Rosamma closed her eyes.“I saw the vastness of space and the depravity of men. I was surrounded by both. I touched them. I saw the breaking of a good man and the remaking of a bad one. It was powerful beyond words.” She opened her eyes.“There’s nothing to forgive, brother.”
*****
Rosamma’s late nights paid off, and she had something of value to offer to the Universal Translators Association.
Of course, the Association members would gnaw at her translation before offering their verdict, but she had a good feeling about it.
She had first discovered the world of written artifact research while rummaging through the dusty, disorganized Priss archives in search of something—anything—to read.
That discovery had opened up a new world for Rosamma. She had dived in headfirst.
Two years later, she was making a name for herself in historical text translation.
Her multi-language skills helped, but it was the breadth of her knowledge of historical cultures that made her stand out. All those years spent on Meeus in the company of books had not been wasted.
She took the path through the Botanical Garden on her way to the post office. The Botanical Garden was too grand a name for the total of seven struggling trees and a patchwork of pitiful shrubs that clung to life along the winding path.
Survivors, all of them. Rosamma silently cheered each one on as she passed.
At the post office, Rosamma had to wait in line behind a flustered Sakka alien who tried to explain to nonverbal Bro that the urnmustbe insured. It contained the ashes of not one, but two expired relatives. She even popped the lid open for Bro’s inspection, like he might suddenly recognize them.
The mail-alien was unimpressed. It simply took the urn from the Sakka, taped the lid on, and pushed it onto the conveyor belt. There. Shipped.
Rosamma’s papers were subjected to the same treatment, but she’d dealt with Bro before. Her research was carefully packaged, with clear labels affixed on the sides.
Shuttling hard copies was an expensive nuisance, but the only way to prove the translator’s authenticity in this day and age of electronic fakes. So the Association insisted on handwritten work.
As usual, Rosamma thanked Bro. It gurgled some sounds and disappeared behind the counter. When it reappeared, it held a folded slip of paper in its claw.
“For me?”
Gurgle, gurgle.
Unfolding it, Rosamma saw a string of numbers and a stamp.
No name. No address.
A treasure map.
A ticket.
Clutching the paper in suddenly stiff fingers, she stepped outside and looked up at the gray“sky.” It held all the answers.
Her legs twitched. She wanted to run. To fly.
She glanced at the post office, then at the narrow roadway that split in two directions.
She chose the one leading home—but only because her medicine stash was there.
