I don’t miss the shade that darkens her tone, just a touch of rancour. “Do you?”
“Army brat.” She hikes her thumbs towards her chest. “Both parents.”
I file that away carefully to exhume later. For now, I merely nod in understanding. I was the first to enlist in my family, but I can imagine what being raised by military parents was like. Often, it’s not an environment that appreciates or fosters softness, affection, or patience.
“I don’t mind talking about it. I just don’t, usually.”
“No one ever asks?”
“No one ever notices.”
Marlowe hums in surprise. “They must not be paying attention, then.”
My chest feels a little tight and I breathe around it. “I’m starting to think so.”
Or Marlowe sees too much, even though she pretends otherwise. With a wry smile, she turns back to the display. Irrationally, I find myself grasping for her attention.
“I was almost blown up by an IED during my third tour,” I blurt out. “I nearly lost my arm.”
I cringe internally. What. The fuck. I wish I could slap myself and cram the words back in.
Shock lances through her, and she whirls around. “Lost?”
Extending my right arm, I indicate the faint scar that encircles it just above my elbow. She practically yanks me forward, lifting my arm to the light and twisting her head this way and that to inspect it. At one point, she brings her face so close that the tip of her nose rests against the sensitive inside of my upper arm. I try not to squirm, but she spares me an impish smile before becoming serious again.
“You can barely see the scar. They reattached it?” She sounds awed.
“I was lucky. I had minimal loss of feeling and a relatively simple, if long, healing process. Most days, I manage to forget about it.”
Her eyes are comically round. “Minimal? It’s numb in some places? Where? Can I test it?”
It makes me laugh. There was always the possibility that learning about my traumatic amputation might unsettle her, but I didn’t expect this level of curiosity. I point to the three biggest places where I can’t feel anything, the underlying nerves dead.
“I guess we have that in common,” Marlowe muses. “Dodgy nerves.”
“Something like one per cent of the nerves in my body compared to the whole of yours? Yes, sure.”
“Okay. I don’t think I like it when you get sarcastic on me. It’s unbecoming, Tanisira.” Her cheeks twitch as she turns her back on me. “Kit, is the list of damages in order of priority?”
“Of course, Marlowe.”
“You legend.” Marlowe sighs in pleasure and says, almost to herself, “I’ve got to get me one of these.”
Given the nature of the repairs and the urgency with which we need to do them, it’s inexplicable that I suddenly want to impress her. I find myself wanting more and more of her regard by the day. I’ve never cared so much about what another person thinks about me. It’s maddening.
“In the grand scope of Kit’s capabilities, this is nothing. Want to see something really interesting?”
Marlowe squints at me, nods with interest and approaches as I start tapping away at my screen, making selections and applying changes. A moment later, her muffled shriek rings out across the bridge. A woman has appeared before us, cradled in the space between all the stations. She’s of average height and peers at us through wide, dark eyes. Her hands are clasped in front of her, demure against the immaculate creases of her suit. She would look perfectly normal, if slightly out of place, if it wasn’t for the fact that she has no hair on her head, no eyebrows and no lashes. The shiny dome of her bald, brown scalp takes me by surprise, though I don’t think that’s why Marlowe startled.
“Hello,” the woman intones.
“Is that...” Marlowe stares, eyes wide. “Kit?”
“It is.” I frown, peering at my screen, trying to figure out where I went wrong.
“She’s bald.”
“I believe Captain Tanisira forgot to customise my hair colour. Would you like me to do it?”
