only way to stay on the box was to be thigh-to-thigh with her. She didn't seem to notice their hips touching, but leaned back, putting her hands behind her. He turned so he could continue to see her, and found her invitingly close.
She'd seemed old when he'd first met her, but maybe what he'd been seeing had been the weight of responsibility burdening her at the time. She was definitely older than he--maybe by ten years--but at dinner he'd caught himself exchanging glances with her that, at times, had the feel of youthful conspiracy to them.
Pinioned by her frank gaze--and acutely feeling the lack of helpful suggestions from his scry--he struggled for something clever to say. Finally he noticed that she was holding a thick, old-fashioned book made of the flat leaves they called 'pages.' A quill pen jutted out of it. 'What's that?' he blurted.
She waggled the heavy volume. 'A navigator's log book. I'm writing down my story, at last! I wasn't sure I would ever get to.'
She sat up and he took it from her gingerly. The thing was floppier than he'd expected, and he nearly dropped it. The pages were all blank, except for the first few that were covered with fine, looping handwriting in black ink.
Keir had seen such things in sims and other virtual entertainments, but he'd never held an actual book in his hand, nor traced actual handwriting with his fingers. He did so now and found that his touch was reverent. This object had awoken some deep feeling inside him, a surprising respect.
'You learned all you know,' he said, 'from these.'
'Oh, don't put it that way!' She laughed. 'I'm already intimidated enough at the thought of writing my own.'
He returned it, and smiled at the glittering night. 'You must be glad to be back.'
'Well.' Now she frowned. 'I'm not exactly 'back.' This place isn't my home.'
'But it's Virga.'
'If I threw you to some star across the universe, could you say you felt at home because it
'No, but--' He saw her point, but continued, anyway. 'If Artificial Nature was there, it would feel much the same as anywhere else I've lived.'
'Why? Is it really all the same everywhere?'
He shrugged. 'Seems so ... The admiral wants me to go back. Says I should 'liaise' with the Renaissance when they pick up the rest of your men.'
'Oh, that's good. So are you happy to be going home?'
'I told him no.' Her eyes widened, but she said nothing. At this moment his lack of scry was a powerful ache, because he really didn't know how much or how little to tell her. 'I can't go back,' he heard himself say. 'Something was happening to me there--something awful ... I, I don't feel right, like this isn't my skin...' He pulled at the flesh of his forearm. 'I think I lost my memory, but I seem to think I was once older...'
She looked startled. 'Older?' she asked. There was surprise in her voice, but concern as well, and he relaxed a bit. 'Was it during what we call the outage?'
'No, we came here after that.' He realized he shouldn't have said that, but it was too late.
'That's not very long ago.' She leaned back again, her lips pursed and brow furrowed. 'You've only spent the last couple of years of your life in Aethyr. Which means you spent most of it somewhere else. Are you telling me you don't remember any of that?'
'N-no ... the memories are there. They're just not in ... what do you call it? Chronological order. They're jumbled up, like those spy's photos Venera threw on the table.' And there were far too many of them, too; but he didn't say that.
'Keir--you said you were once older. How old do you think you really are?'
He shook his head.
'You look somewhere between sixteen and nineteen,' she said. 'When I met you I thought you were younger. You look like you've put on a year or two since then.'
'I was getting shorter!' He'd jumped to his feet and started to walk, but there was nowhere to walk to in this tiny garden. He paced to the stairwell, then back to the edge of the roof. 'The day I met you, I'd proved it. I was getting shorter.' He raised a shaking hand to wipe at his eyes. 'What was that? What's going on?'
'Did you tell the admiral about this?'
Her voice was quiet and steady. He turned to find she was still seated, but leaning forward, book on knees, all her attention on him. Keir shook his head.
'Did he insist you should go back?'
'Y-yes. But I can't.' He scowled at the pretty night. 'I'll run away first.'
She stood up. 'I'll speak to him. He wants me to go, too--to bring his diplomats to the emissary's people. I told him he didn't need me and that anyway I'd done my part. He insisted until I pointed out that if he lost me, he'd lose his only connection to them.' She held up the book and grinned. 'I said, better that I stay here and write down everything that happened, so at least there's a record. The emissary's perfectly capable of guiding its people to their home without me. So that's what's happening.'
Leal walked to his side and put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. 'You see, all things are possible.'
Keir took a deep breath, and let it out. He smiled at her. 'Thanks.' She nodded, half-smiling.
'I'm still a stranger here, though.' He looked down, past ledge and shingle, down the sheer walls of the admiralty to where on any world-bound building, grass or stone or soil would begin. There was only air, and soaring clouds half-lit by the city glow. 'I can't even read your letters.'
