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With a grin he couldn’t suppress, Roy left to meet Cal at the pier.
Their little space freighter’s fuel indicator glowed green. When Roy stepped onto the pier, Cal was stretched toward the nozzle, unfastening the fuel line’s locks. The pipe curled back to its storage position.
“Ready?” Roy asked, his smile wavering.
“All set.” Cal wiped his palms on the purple jumpsuit stretched along his lean silhouette. “Shall we pray?”
“Come again?” Roy lifted an eyebrow.
“Well, it’s the start of a new mission, isn’t it? A new sail?” Cal side-eyed him. “You don’t need to join me.”
”No—sure, go ahead.” Roy shifted, scratching the back of his neck. Perhaps it was a silly superstition, but if it had the power to put his pilot’s mind at ease, he would sit through a whole sermon before taking off.
Cal’s posture straightened, his shoulders pulled back. His right hand curled into a fist and pressed to his sternum. Roy mirrored the gesture, mostly out of politeness, and for the faint risk the Universe would strike him for sacrilege.
Peace to the sailor,
who charts the limitless void.
Aether calls to quiet prayer.
Light the beacons,
and look to the firmament.
May the engine’s hum never cease.
Carry me through the endless sea,
let no one drift alone.
Ahoy.
“Ahoy,” Roy muttered.
A long time ago—in what felt like the previous life—Roy had been curious about the closing words of all spacefaring prayers. He’d turned to the best source of truth he knew then. Milo had been forced to interrupt his doctoral studies to navigate battleships. His thesis, left forever unfinished in the university’s system, had dealt with linguistic relics from pre-interstellar ages. Apparently, mentions of Ahoy had been discovered in ancient journals of the first settlers, but they’d considered it such a natural part of their speech that they never bothered to explain its origins.
Chasing the thoughts away, Roy hopped onto the ship and extended his arm to help Cal aboard.
Chapter
Five
Roy’s pulse rose in sync with the altitude indicator. His damp hands gripped the coffee mug, though his throat felt too constricted to actually sip it. He craved the warmth to ease his nerves.
The gravity field in their little flyvan fluctuated. Roy’s espresso curled into an oval shape, floating around his head. He snatched it back into the cup and slurped it quickly, before it had the chance to splatter on his shirt.
Cal tapped the touch panel and adjusted the horizon stabiliser. “Okay. Course set to Tipla. We should arrive in two days, galactic standard time.”
“Good.” Roy let out a breath and hooked the metal cup onto its magnetic stand. He’d been trained for low gravity, but after all these years, he might be rusty. His stomach reacted as soon as he unbuckled and pushed off, the soles of his boots lifting from the metal floor. Suppressing his panic, he took light, floating steps toward the couch, gripped the armrest, and lowered himself, barely touching the corduroy surface.
“Do you wanna cryosleep?” Cal asked.
“Nah, I’m good. For such a short journey, it’s not worth the headache. Got a book to pass the time.” Roy fished out the paperback from his inner pocket. It had been published as an e-Scroll years ago, but he clung to the physical copy with a strange devotion. Perhaps it wasn’t even the feel of pages beneath his fingertips that kept him tethered to such a relic, but rather the fading memories of Sunday bookstore hauls. He’d scolded Milo for buying way more books than he could read before the next trip—then lived off his collection for years.
Cal bounced off his seat and landed gracefully next to Roy. He craned his neck to see the book’s title. The proximity filled Roy’s senses with Cal’s scent, and for a moment, Roy wondered how much it would intensify if he had the chance to nuzzle that soft, slender neck.
“So…” Roy cleared his throat. “Any news from home?” The question fluttered out of his stupid mouth, and he fought the urge to slap himself. He’d already seen how Cal tensed every morning, scrolling through The Truth, Eiden’s latest propaganda journal.
