by Kelly Jensen
“Everything’s square!”
Surprisingly, Bram laughed.
“What?” Gael quickly checked his section of the conveyor. Nope, all lined up. “Did I do something wrong?”
Bram shook his head. “No.” Pink highlighted his cheeks. “I just never heard much enthusiasm for packing work before.”
“Oh.” Gael took a turn at blushing.
“It’s pretty boring.”
Should he agree or? “The process is . . .”
“If you didn’t nudge a cube now and again, it would line up in the chute.”
“Then why are we standing here?”
“I dunno. I’m so used to supervising stuff, it’s hard to let go sometimes.”
Gael offered a small smile. “That makes sense.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Want to go play with the rabbits?”
“Did you just ask if I wanted to play with the rabbits?”
Bram’s smile took on a coy aspect. “Don’t tell Aavi, but I kinda like petting them. It gets . . . quiet out here.” Gael suspected he actually meant lonely. “I’ll show you how to clean out the pens,” Bram continued. “Then we can call it work.”
“Okay.”
That first day, Gael had thought the rabbits were odd. He knew what a rabbit was, but figured Bram had stocked his farm somewhere other than Zhemosen, or any Commonwealth planet. Bram’s rabbits had bright-red tails, for a start, and fur of a deep russet that blended alarmingly with the dirt scattered around the edges of the farm terrace. They didn’t look exactly cuddly, either, with their long, sinuous bodies and huge ears.
“I make the bedding out of soy fiber,” Bram explained, pulling out a bin of fresh straw-like packing.
“Is there anything you don’t make out of soy?”
“Coffee, though someone will figure it out one day and then the galaxy will become a one-crop wonder.”
“You’re growing other things, though.”
Bram made one of his gruff throat noises. “Soy is practical, but sometimes you gotta have a little fun.”
After cleaning the pen, they sat cross-legged, side by side, each with a lap full of rabbits curled into lopsided balls. They might be strange, but their fur was soft. After cooing and petting his own bundles, Gael glanced over to find Bram tucking one into the space between his shoulder and neck. Obviously sensing he’d been caught in a not-practical moment, Bram made a show of inspecting the rabbit’s paws.
“Having fun over there?”
Bram arched a single eyebrow. “Might not look like it, but rabbits are great conversationalists.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Great listeners, anyway.”
Laughter bubbled behind Gael’s breastbone. His lips curved into a full-on smile. Bram’s eyes brightened, and they sat there looking at each other. It was weird and sort of nice. Gael had become used to spending evenings in Bram’s quiet company, but this was the first time they’d shared a daytime activity. He liked it.
At the hen house, Bram said, “I’m going to go get some more bedding,” and peeled off toward the gaping cavern of his garage and one of his multiple storage areas.
Gael hefted his shovel and rake and let himself inside.
Caroline, or maybe it was Martha, greeted him with a warm warble. Gertie flapped her wings. Gael waited for the hens to finish their conversation before edging farther inside the pen. The sight of the rake ruffled a few feathers, but they settled again, calling out occasional encouragement as he swept out the muck. The trouble started when he moved on to the nesting boxes. Aavi hadn’t been in to collect the eggs, so he did that first. The hens seemed okay with it. They didn’t like it when he swept the tangles of soy fiber out of the boxes, though.
Gertie squawked softly and Trixie snapped her beak. He had only a second of warning—a brush of air against his cheek—and ducked before a hen flew over his head. He wasn’t so lucky the second time. Barbara let out a shriek and launched herself right at him. Gael didn’t duck low enough, and her toes tangled in his hair. A sharp claw raked his cheek. Hissing, Gael lifted a hand toward his face, only to have another hen attack his fingers. He quickly tucked his hands into his armpits and made for the door, shaking his head from side to side in an effort to dislodge Barbara. She fell to the side, taking a clump of hair with her, but before he could escape, Trixie rushed him.
Yelling, Gael ran for the exit. He tripped over the sill and fell outside, the door banging open along the way. Would the hens—
Oh, yes. They flew out after him—those not attached to his hair or his clothing. Flapping feathers and harried squawking filled the air. Gael choked in a breath and pushed to his knees. A pair of boots stepped into his field of view. A recently cleaned pair of boots.
Gael lifted his head slowly, afraid of what he might find on Bram’s face. He didn’t relax when he saw the smile. Nor when Bram’s smile widened into a grin.
“Not as cuddly as the rabbits, are they?”
A few more hens used his back as a median launch point before Bram helped Gael to his feet. Bram’s brow wrinkled when he spied the cut on Gael’s cheek. He touched it and Gael winced.
“I’m sorry,” Gael said quietly—probably unconvincingly.
Bram moved his fingers away from the cut and flattened his palm over Gael’s cheek, just by his ear. “Are you hurt anywhere else?”
Only his pride. Gael shook his head.
Bram stood there a moment longer—close but not too close, hand still resting lightly against the side of Gael’s face. His expression shifted every few seconds, from the verge of laughter toward a question, maybe, and then back. Then he patted Gael’s cheek and dropped his hand.
“I suppose we better catch the hens before they take into their heads to fly out over the crevasse. Aavi’d be mighty disappointed if we lost one.” And there it was again, the edge of laughter.
Lips twitching in response, Gael ducked his chin and followed Bram as he started clucking and cooing and calling the hens by name. Every single one.
That evening, on the couch, Bram didn’t make mention of the escaping hens and cuddled rabbits, but the gap between them seemed to have shrunk by another degree—by a measure that couldn’t have happened on one of these quiet evenings in front of the HV. And every time he looked over at Bram, he could see the same thoughts reflected—in his expression, in the way he let his fingers linger next to Gael’s as he passed over a cup of coffee, in the way he shuffled closer and stopped just short of leaning against Gael’s shoulder.
Bram didn’t need help around the farm. He didn’t seem sorry to have it, though.
“Aavi, where are my boots?” Damn girl kept finding new hiding places for them. Also, she was getting a mite overzealous with the cleaning. Every time he arrived home with muck covering the fastening tabs, Bram felt a little guilty. A lot guilty, in fact. He’d taken to cycling through his serviceable pairs so as not to destroy the same ones over and over.
“I just finished cleaning these!” She had his good pair in her arms, and she’d carried them from the other side of the kitchen. Not his bedroom.
Thanking any god who cared to listen for the fact she’d—maybe—stopped tidying his room, Bram took the boots and sat to pull them on. “What do you have planned for today?”
Hopefully, no cleaning. She and Gael were making him feel like a slob.
“Would you show us the cloud garden? I want to see what you got growing up there.”
“Yeah, I suppose we could do that. I need to do a couple things this morning. Why’nt you and Gael make us something to take with us? It’s a bit of a walk.”
Aavi disappeared down the hallway toward the room she shared with Gael. Bram chuckled as he heard her voice rising and falling and Gael’s soft replies. It was nice those two got on so well. Gael talked more when Aavi wasn’t around, but she did make him smile, and Bram often found himself wondering how Gael could have considered leaving her behind.
They’d a
ll fallen into a comfortable routine over the past two weeks. Gael seemed to be having fewer nightmares, though Bram still found himself listening every morning as he rested his hands on either side of the coffee maker. The days were getting smoother as Gael and Aavi divided the chores they were good at between them. They both seemed to enjoy working with the animals most. After collecting the hens last week, Bram had shown Gael and Aavi the cages he usually moved the pesky birds to when he decided to clean the pens.
Evenings tended to pass in a pleasant blur of food, lectures from Aavi, and sometimes an HV after dinner.
Bram hadn’t had a plan for this, but a cautious sense of optimism seeped into his consciousness. It might have been the sight of Gael’s face every morning, looking a little less fatigued than the day before, or the sound of Aavi’s voice. Even the spaces of quiet between Aavi’s discourses were comfortable. They were making this thing work.
A trip to the cloud garden was a good idea.
By the time Bram was ready to go, Gael had packed enough food to feed them for a week. Bram hefted the pack onto his own back despite Gael’s protests. It must weigh as much as Aavi. Speaking of whom, “Where’s Aavi?”
“Here!” She appeared out of her mysterious corner again, carrying an old holo imager Bram recognized as one of his missing projects.
“Where did you find that?”
“It was in the storeroom. The first one on the ramp up.”
“I don’t suppose I’d find the rest of my carving tools in there? And those tablets I was fixing up?”
“All your old boots too!” One mystery solved. “Can I use this?” She held up the imager.
“Sure. We’ll need to find a cable or replace the Band chip if you ever want to share the holos, though. Got any rebreather masks in your secret stash? If you’re going to head up the road, especially to the cloud garden, you should always take a mask.”
Nodding vigorously, Aavi disappeared once more and returned with a selection of masks. Bram sorted through them until he found three that passed inspection, and instructed his charges to hook one each to their belts.
The walk to the cloud garden took about an hour. It’d be quicker to drive to the bottom of the trail leading up, but Bram relished the opportunity to stretch his legs, and both Gael and Aavi seemed to enjoy being outside. The weather had yet to turn, and though screened by the ever-present cloud layer, the sun was warm. Aavi snapped pictures of everything. She ran ahead and instructed Bram and Gael to walk slowly, and to “Smile! We’re having fun.” Then she filmed the sky, about a thousand rocks that all looked the same and, finally, the trek up to the high terrace.
The trail switched back and forth, carrying them ever higher up the side of the crevasse, and the clouds came down to meet them, closer with every turn until the trail above was obscured by haze, the turn at the end almost invisible. Bram led them into the clouds, smiling at the soft oohs and aahs floating through the mist.
“It’s not always this dense up here,” Bram said. “Clouds are low today. Aavi, don’t go too close to the edge of the trail.”
“I want a picture of the clouds.”
“Turn around, honey, they’re behind you as well.”
Gael made a slender shadow in the mist behind them, and after hesitating for only three or four heartbeats, Bram reached for his hand, sliding his fingers down Gael’s arm until he got to his knuckles, then grabbed hold. “Don’t want to lose you either,” he murmured.
The pressure of Gael’s fingers around his was more than nice.
They arrived at the terrace in time for a gust of wind to blow up out of the crevasse, stirring the lower edge of the clouds into streamers. Aavi gasped as the farm came into view, the upper terrace gray rather than green in the midday sun. When she continued gasping, Bram motioned her to put on her mask. Then he showed them the moisture collectors and pumps and the small gardens he’d planted in every shallow dip of stone that he’d been able to fill with soil. Most of the plants thrived—hanging vines, mosses, and ground cover. Some had wilted and he plucked those out, keeping them for compost. The wind continued to stir the clouds, heaving in soft bellows before falling away to let the mist descend once more.
As they sat eating their picnic, Gael leaned against Bram’s side. Aavi was behind them, talking to the moss.
“It’s so peaceful up here,” Gael said.
“That it is.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever been anywhere so quiet.”
“It’s pretty quiet on the farm.”
“Not like this. It’s serene.” The word was odd coming from Gael, as though he’d never had occasion to use it before.
Bram turned his head. Gael was staring off into nothing, but obviously seeing something. Hopefully whatever it was brought him comfort.
Gael’s hand rested easily in his on the walk back.
After they returned to the farm, Bram took his compost bag to the nursery and checked on his new seedlings. An odd sound distracted him from the seed tray, and he glanced around the nursery, bright under the grow lights he used to encourage new plants to strike out on their own. A sudden and expectant quiet closed in until Bram cleared his throat. The source of the sound came to him—he’d been humming.
Today had been a good day.
He put down the tray, washed his hands, and began the slow walk back to the living quarters. It was a little while before dinner. Maybe he could help out.
The kitchen was empty, but Bram could hear a low murmur from the HV room. He ducked his head around the open door. Gael was sitting on the couch, cloth spread across his lap. The HV was on, playing a serial drama Bram recognized but had never really gotten into.
Three neat stacks of clothing rested on the table. Laundry and—
“Are you patching my pants?”
Gael pulled a pin from his lips. “Ah, yeah, is that okay? I had some fabric left over from the coveralls I cut down, and it’s about the right color. I’m sewing the patches on the inside, and trying to darn the outside to hide them. I was never good at invisible repairs.”
“I usually just use a glue patch, and when that fails, I toss the pants. Ever seen that fabric that doesn’t tear? Or the stuff that eats dirt?”
Gael brightened. “Once! I heard it doesn’t last long enough to justify the cost, though.”
“Probably depends on where you buy it and what you do with it.”
Gael seemed relaxed, so Bram invited himself in and sat beside him on the couch . . . and noticed that Gael’s pants were actually an old pair of his, cut down and expertly stitched. If he hadn’t recognized the pattern of thigh pockets, he might never have known.
Gael glanced up and met his surprised gaze with a shy smile.
Bram looked over the neat piles and saw even more evidence Gael had been busy. Tunics for Aavi, leggings for her to wear underneath in the unlikely event the ambient temperature ever dropped below “comfortable,” another pair of cut-down pants, and a pile of clothes Bram had been ready to toss out, now returned to service. “You did all this?”
“Yeah. Thanks for giving me so much to work with.”
“You can sew.”
“Oh sure. I can follow a pattern too. I worked in a clothing factory for about five years when I was a kid.”
Bram’s mouth wanted to fall open. He held it shut by sheer force of will. The All Hands commune advocated for children doing their part—he’d rarely been idle as a child. But he hadn’t worked in a factory.
“How old were you?” he managed.
“Hmm, eight? It was right after . . .” Gael’s eyes darkened. “We needed a place, and they were good about me keeping my . . .” He sighed, looking away.
Eight.
Bram wanted to ask where Gael’s parents had been, what he’d wanted to keep, but he suspected the answers would be trivial in one sense and perhaps not so trivial in another. “Where did you work after that?”
“Kitchen jobs—that’s how I learned to cook. I can make a lot of things too.
Not just bread and stew and custard. I know about a hundred ways to cook tofu. It’s basically a staple. Well, that and beans. Um, let’s see. Fish too. We get a lot of fish on Zhemosen.” The planet was mostly ocean, after all. “I’m good at odd jobs as well. Small repairs.”
Gael held up his hands, displaying long, slender fingers. “I can reach into places other people can’t, and my hands are really steady.” He brightened. “I fixed the vacuum system for one of my bosses once by crawling into the ducts to find the blockage. Of course, that was when I was a kid too.” His smile faltered. “I’m a fast learner. Any job you have, I’m sure I can figure out how to do it.”
“You’ve had an interesting life,” Bram said.
The smile returned with a wry twist. “You could say that.”
“I’m glad you’re here.”
Bram hadn’t meant to say that out loud, and Gael’s startled expression indicated he hadn’t expected to hear something so, so . . . Clearing his throat, Bram rubbed his cheek as though the stain creeping across his skin was a rash rather than a blush.
Gael made a similar motion with his hand. His next smile was tentative and hopeful. “I’m glad to be here too.”
Acknowledging the reply with a jerky nod, Bram picked up one of the tunics Gael had made for Aavi. He shook out the fabric, letting the long shirt unfold, and sucked in a breath. Gael hadn’t just cut down a coverall. He’d remade it, taking panels of material and sewing them together so that the new garment wasn’t simply altered. He’d created something. And that wasn’t all. He’d decorated the tunic with fancy stitch work. Neat loops around the neck and arm holes and a design over the front that resembled the trails bees might make hopping from flower to flower.
“Gael,” Bram breathed.
“Hmm?”
“You did this?” It was a stupid question. Children’s clothing didn’t appear out of nowhere.
“I thought she might like some nice things. There’s not a lot of color in Zhemosen. Not in the undercity.”
“This is really well made. You have a lot of talent.”