“I know it,” said Casne, and Veling let them go. It was only after they’d parted way from the others that Casne leaned in to Triz’s ear and said, “And I’m going to do a better job of making sure you know it.”
By the time they arrived in the wrenchworks, Casne looked a bit more rumpled in her dress greens than would have passed Fleet codes, and Triz was sweating. She combed her hair back into her braid with one finger and looked around the works. “Quelian? You down here?”
A moment of silence, and Triz thought she’d guessed wrong. Before she could turn back to Casne, a balding head poked out of the office door. “What do you want?”
Casne’s strength and solidity behind her shoulder made her feel brave: not the superficial sort of brave that warded off problems with a cutting quip, but something more enduring. She could understand, briefly and piercingly, how much it must have hurt when Quelian had that pillar pulled out from under the ceiling of his life plans. It didn’t excuse what he’d done or who he’d become in the meantime. But she understood it. She understood it to an uncomfortable extent. “Quelian,” Triz said, “come up to Mirede’s and have tea and dinner with your family before you lose them.” An indrawn breath from Casne behind her and Triz quickly amended: “Before you lose us.”
Quelian huffed something like a laugh as he emerged from the office and crammed his discarded Justice wrap into a half-open locker. His jumpsuit was relatively clean, the sleeves still rolled down. “I lost the lot of you the day this one sailed off to the academy.”
“That’s the way you cast it for yourself. So you came out the tragic hero of the wrenchworks.” Casne spoke levelly, but Triz could feel the tension as each word snapped short between her teeth. “Poor Quelian. No one else understands how hard he has it. Me hitting the eject button out of here as a traitor, which, of course, made Mama and Dad and Damu collaborators.” Her hand found Triz’s waist and tightened. “And Triz here to take the place you’d made for me. You could never quite figure out whether or not you were glad of that. If the wound didn’t heal right, Quelian, it’s because you never stopped picking at it.”
Quelian didn’t answer, just crossed the works to one of the Skimmers. “We’re behind as it is. The Fleet’s penny-pinchers aren’t going to give two shits if the Hab’s had a hole blown in the side of it when it comes to pay.” He paused with a tension spanner raised halfway to the Skimmer’s hull. “I’d need another sure hand with a laser drill to help me catch up in time.”
That was an offer of her job back, if she wasn’t mistaken, in Quelian’s oblique way. Probably the most effort at an apology she’d see. She wasn’t sure it was enough of one. But it was somewhere to start. And life on the Hab wouldn’t be the same without her job. “Come uphab,” she said. “Everyone will be waiting.”
“I will,” Quelian said, and worked the spanner into position. “Just need to get an hour of work done. Get a batch of plastisteel curing. Keep things moving along.”
“I’d like you to be there, Baba,” Casne said, and the spanner froze for just a moment.
Then Quelian nodded. The spanner moved again. “I will,” he said, and this time his voice was thick.
Triz put her hand on Casne’s shoulder, and they moved back toward the lift. There was no hasty embrace this time, only Casne leaning her head to the side to rest it atop Triz’s as the lift mechanism whirred gently outside. Maybe Quelian would come and maybe he wouldn’t. Up to him, now. And up to them not to let him spoil the day in any case. There would be time to work over the engine of that relationship. And to consign it to the recycler if necessary, too. Triz could still work in the wrenchworks without having to particularly enjoy sharing it with Quelian. But she hoped that wouldn’t be the case.
The lift exhaled them onto the lowest level of the Arcade, and Triz wished Mirede’s tearoom lay just a little closer to the lift depot because it seemed like everyone on the Hab wanted to stop to greet Casne and congratulate her along the way. They were close enough to the tearoom doors for Triz to peep inside when they were waylaid once more—but this time, the would-be accoster grabbed both of their sleeves to spin them around.
“Kalo!” Casne exclaimed, and shoved his shoulder. “Where were you earlier? It’s not like you to wait to show up till all the drama’s over.”
“All due congratulations to my favorite ex-convict. It’s good to see you on the right side of Justice.” He pressed a kiss to Casne’s lips, then pulled back with a grin. “But I had a date that couldn’t be missed. With the technosurgeon.” He waved the fingers of his left hand, then further demonstrated their restored function by making a gesture that would have gotten him roughed up in at least three Habs and possibly arrested in another. “Happy to report all systems are back online. Which reminds me, now I’m able to do this . . .” He locked his fingers around Triz’s wrist and pulled her in close. “Triz Rydoine Cierrond. By the authority of Admiral Savelian Dustald-4 Edantha—”
“What?”
“—I hereby and thusly bestow upon thou the Doing Great Stuff Commendation for Valor Under Extremely Terrible Circumstances.” He pinned a small silver medal to the breast pocket of her jacket. When he let it drop down onto the coarse fabric, it didn’t quite manage to conceal a large grease stain. Kalo nodded in satisfaction as Triz canted her head forward to peer at it.
“It’s the Alchemy Medal,” said Casne, leaning forward for a better look. “That’s
