HMS Valediction

Chapter 30.3

The cracked screen on my old PAHLM lights up as I rub it against the scanner in front of my old cabin. Old room, old device, old life—it's all archaic like some undisturbed monument to the woman who lived here a long time ago. 

When the door slides open, I'm hit with a rush of cold air. Scanning the small space, I take stock of what's left of my previous life, narrating through it to remind myself of why its nothing but scraps and broken bits anymore. 

If you direct your attention to the floor, you'll find the remains of your demolished stuff, courtesy of your mutinous passengers and the destruction they inflicted before you were flung into potential slavery and-or death.

Along with my belongings, blood stains and garment scraps criss-cross the area around my lopsided bed. Underneath, Dean's trunk's corner peeks out from sheets draping around its edges. Of course, as my luck would have it, Dean's possessions seem to have remained intact while everything I've ever owned is splintered.

I pull the trunk out and open it.

His mother's books are in perfect condition.

Well, perfect for them. They're still floppy, dog-eared and flimsy with excessive bending, but they're exactly as I left them. Exactly as Dean left them in my care.

"Ledi," I say into the communicator pinned to my lapel.

"Yeah?"

"Think you can get to me without being detected?" I press the silver button on my shoulder to alert him of my coordinates.

"Yeah. I can manage that. What do you need?"

"I need you to haul out a few things for me. They don't belong here anymore."

"Hold tight. On my way."

I shake away the lingering hope that bubbles up, thinking maybe it's really Dean heading over. "Great. Thanks."

In the meantime, I'll pack what stays here in Commander Country's shell while I gather my valuables and keep them closer to me. My small wardrobe doesn't hold much. It's a few quilt-sized shirts and jackets specially-made for my pregnant body. My fancy officer grays for when more formal attire was needed—but it never was—and, of course, my old jacket.

Its brown leather is rough in comparison to whatever creature's hide Moon used to make his. It's starchy in contrast to the thin, luxurious fibers of my current threads. I unbutton and shrug off the blue jacket Teeno insisted I use for my return home and slide my arms through the old familiar shape of my favorite wardrobe item. Its brown furry collar tickles my chin and brushes up against the upturned scar. I zip it up and stick my hands in the pockets. This feels right.

"It still looks better on me."

Somehow, Moyra has managed to sneak up on me again. Shrugging, I grin and hide my surprise. "I doubt it."

She accepts the jacket when I unzip and hand it to her. It slips over her body like water. "Still fits perfect. Like it was made for me. Because, you know, Sister, it was."

"I had first dibs when you died."

Moyra leans against my doorframe, her hands stuffed in the jacket's pockets. "If you promise to never wear that again—" she nods toward the powder-blue draped across my bed—"I'll give it to you. For keeps."

I pick up Teeno's jacket and hold it up, showing her the front and back, the cinched waist, the tall collar and squared shoulders with its myriad of shiny, silver buttons. "This thing? It's not so bad."

"It's not ours."

"No. But technically, neither is that."

She hugs the weathered leather tighter against her. "Hey. I knew where this came from. Jacob handmade this thing with love. Remember? After I complained about it being so cold on the Topside during driver training, he bought the material, sized it up, stitched it together, and gave it to me for my sixteenth birthday. He said it was a perfect match for my Pop's from when he flew."