“Battling something?” Her original cousin this time, sidling next to Bartleby, squinting through his fray of curls at her screen. “You’re working on the ship’s logs?”
The why of Farway’s question was missing, and there all the same. Imogen looked back at the letters she’d typed and the emptiness beyond the cursor—so much unwritten. She became a speck where she sat. Itty-bitty, infinitesimal. Yellow-haired pollen dot drifting through galaxies. There were too many battles to fight: Aunt Empra’s unmaking, the Fade, world in the balance. Little wonder she opted for an angst that made her feel life-sized, focusing on boy problems when existence as they knew it was about to croak.
“I’m about to go through the wardrobe again and map out more decaying dates. Everything else on the Historian end is sorted. Eliot’s going to wear one of her old Corps uniforms.” A disguise that wouldn’t hold up under scrutiny. The sleeve’s badge had the same infinity hourglass symbol, but an alternate universe meant an alternate motto. Spes in Posterum in Praeteritis Latet was replaced by Temporem Ullum Homo Non Manet.
Translation: “Man Waits for No Time.” New twist on an old phrase, far cleverer than their Corps’ “Future’s Hope Is in the Past” maxim.
“We’re set up on the comm front.” Eliot’s datastream was already linked to the Invictus, and when Imogen pulled up the feed, she could see herself seeing herself: lemon-bright hair, killer denim jumpsuit. Dressed to go out with a bang. “Gram’s connection is all we’re waiting for.”
“Oh?” Farway’s head cocked, a reminder that he, too, had seen Blubbering Heart à la Imogen.
“Don’t you have some jitters to exercise out or something?”
Her cousin’s eyebrow waggled. “Depends on how long that connection will take.”
Oh really.
“It’s going to be a few more minutes—” Gram was immersed in his work, fingers glued to keys. It was hard to tell if the light honing his face was from the screen or within. “I want to make sure we do this right.”
This was the puzzle of a lifetime, everything Gram never knew he’d been looking for. Life had gone so far outside his imagined possibilities: multiple universes, teleportation, the entropy of universal constants… Eliot had disassembled his Rubik’s Cube knowledge, shown him he didn’t just have to twist along the axis.
Brain = unleashed.
Slipping through the Corps’ security system’s firewalls was a hack of epic proportions, even with Eliot’s coded shortcuts. Corps techheads were among this world’s best, and their digital fortress was chock-full of defenses. Such stakes should’ve coiled around Gram’s throat, but the fact that everything was going to Hades in a bluebox regardless took the pressure off. Things he used to fret about—complications, probability, everything in its place—were inconsequential.
He understood now why Eliot had gambled so manically at the Fortuna Pool’s blackjack tables. Shuffled cards and some dollars couldn’t crack the immutability threshold, but what did it matter when everything was breaking anyway? Chaos was inevitable.
Might as well roll with it.
He was knee-deep in code, covering his tracks with Eliot’s program, grafting her forged credentials into the system as seamlessly as possible. Door badge scans, facial ID, mission records. The profile wouldn’t fool a full-on manual read, but it was enough to keep the alarms at bay while Eliot accessed the server. Speaking of—
“Did we keep that networking cable Far used during the 2318 heist?”
“I think so. Let me check.” The question was directed at anyone, but Imogen caught it. She flounced off to the common area, too colorful not to look at. Her hair was the same yellow as on the evening they’d met. Gram wondered if she chose the pigment on purpose, if she knew it reminded him of dissolved sunlight, laughter, and birthday sparklers, and all the shine his life had taken on with her in it.
1.2191 meters was too far.
Especially when she felt the same way.
Especially when the world was ending. That made things much less complicated.
It was so unlike Gram, to jump from his seat and into the moment, go with the flow, climb onto the ash-strewn couch where Imogen was reaching above the pipes for the cable he’d asked for, close enough to note that her hair smelled of lemons.
“Imogen, there’s something I want to—”
“Ilikeyou.” She blurted this out as one word. Gram didn’t have time to dissect the syllables before she went on. “There. I said it. I like you, Gram Wright, and I meant everything I said about math and chinchillas and—”
“I know,” Gram broke in.
“Well, then.” Her face fell. “Don’t mind me.”
“No, I mean, I like you, too.”
Imogen stared at Gram. Gram stared at Imogen.
Her eyes were galactic—green swirling with stars. Her laugh soared. “Really?”
“Really.”
“FINALLY,” Far called through the open door of his bunk.
They had an audience, Gram realized. Priya’s hands clasped together over her heart as she peered from the infirmary. Eliot sat by Gram’s console, grin strung ear to ear. Even Saffron stirred from sugar-induced dreams: pink yawn, paws stretching over wardrobe hangers.
Their captain set down the kettlebell weights he’d been lifting. The look on his face could only be described as impish. “This is the part where you kiss.”
Kissing? Gram hadn’t thought that far ahead. Kissing Imogen would be the next logical step in this series of events, but there were so many things to consider. Eyes open or—closed, definitely closed. Was he the one who was supposed to lean in? What if they bumped noses or, worse, teeth?
It turned out kisses didn’t have to be planned. Imogen’s citrus hair tickled his face as their lips found each other. He was surprised by how well she fit. Steps A, B, C melted away, and Gram found himself on a Mediterranean beach, bottle of sparkling water in hand, watching the sun drip orange against evening clouds. Pebbles—still hot from summer’s languorous day—kneaded the arches of his bare feet. Wind whispered secrets down the shoreline. Horizon turned to neon dream. It felt like one of his favorite memories, but he wasn’t even sure it was a memory at all. Just a summation of feelings—glow, fizz, fresh, warmth, rest.
Just Imogen.
“Crux,” she swore when the kiss ended. “I mean, definitely the good kind of Crux. But Crux!”
Gram couldn’t agree more. His dopamine levels surged as if he’d hit the highest possible Tetris score. How had it taken this long to find her?
“A chinchilla, huh? I’m more partial to sugar gliders. Or a quokka.”
Imogen smiled. “Then we’ll get one of each.”
“I refuse to let any more fuzzies onto this ship!” Far hopped from his bunk, glaring into the pipes where the red panda was crouched. “That ginger devil is enough of a handful.”
“Saffron saved your life, thank you very much!” Imogen reminded her cousin. “He’s the unsung hero of an unborn world!”