Se me acaba el argumento

Y la metodología

Cada vez que se aparece frente

A mí tu anatomía.

~Shakira "Ciega, Sordomunda"

CHAPTER THREE

…Leads to an Unexpected Journey

Lance got the call, from none other than Kendra Waerea, vice president of ChemLore's agronomy division, just as he was about to leave Earth's moon for the return trip to Earth.

"Not so fast, flyboy. We need you to make a run."

"No. I've been in space for two months. I'm losing my gorgeous tan."

"There's a bonus in it. You can buy yourself something pretty."

"A bonus?" Interesting. Particularly since his billable rate was light years more than the usual pilot's rate. "What's the payload?"

"Chlorobots. Breeder stock."

"Chlorobots?" Lance frowned at the com's screen. "You're sending me to Titan, aren't you? No. I don't wanna go. Find somebody else."

Kendra rolled her eyes. "Want some cheese with your whine? You only have to take the payload as far as Sandy. PlentiHarvest will take it from there."

Later, as he dithered with the meeting room's refreshment console, trying unsuccessfully to teach it how to make a decent Cuban Malta, he recalled that Pidge worked for PlentiHarvest.

It wasn't like he had set out with the intention of ghosting the other Paladins. But in the years following Allura's death, his four closest friends and trusted comrades became an excruciating reminder of, well, everything, but especially loss. Every conversation heavy with the weight of Allura's death, his friend's pity fell on him like a suffocating blanket. When they'd call or message, he wouldn't respond, telling himself that he wasn't up to talking that day, but that he would, definitely reply the next day. But next days turned into weeks, then months, then years. Eventually, his habit of self-pity turned to self-loathing and he concluded that they were better off without him.

At the ripe old age of thirty-one, Lance wished he could punch the stupid out of his nineteen and early twenties age self. Actually, he wished he could punch the stupid out of his yesterday self, since even this most recent version of Lance McClain lacked the courage to call his friends and beg their forgiveness. Which, was why he'd hoped that whomever he was meeting wouldn't be Pidge Holt. And why now, seeing her, he felt a flush of happiness and simultaneously, mortified.

Pidge moved to stand beside the Galra woman, indecision on her face. Then after a millisecond's awkward pause, she lunged forward, wrapped her arms around him and said, "I missed you, Goofball."

He returned the gesture, gratefully. "I missed you, too, shorty." As she pulled back and scowled at him, he noted, "But maybe not quite as short."

"She was once shorter?" said Yrta. "Is that possible?"

"Oh, you too?" Pidge glowered theatric indignation at Yrta.

"We used to carry her around in our pockets," said Lance.

Yrta laughed and Pidge muttered, "I hate you both."

"Can I get you gorgeous ladies something from the bar?" asked Lance, gesturing at the console. "Though I'm pretty sure this thing can screw up ordinary tap water." He scowled at the sort-of-Malta.

Yrta shook her head. Pidge ignored the offer and said, "Wait. You work for ChemLore?"

He nodded. "Mas o menos. Off and on. More off than on, actually."

She stared at him, honey brown eyes assessing him though her familiar glasses. Her clothing, typical, practical Pidge Holt—dark green pants, long-sleeved gray tunic shirt, and white high tops—contrasted with the surprisingly feminine braids, woven with metallic green ribbon, into her shoulder-length, sandy brown hair. The years had added a few inches to her diminutive height, defined the curves of her hips, and sharpened the angles of her face. Those big brown eyes were still bright with uncanny intelligence. Her tomboyish charm remained, yet there was no way she'd ever pass for a boy now.

Pidge Holt, Voltron Green Paladin and girl genius, all grown up, was stunning.

Realizing he'd been staring, Lance prepared a witty quip, but Pidge spoke first. "Get me one of whatever that is," she gestured at his drink, "and then have a seat. You've got some explainin' to do."

Aware that Yrta was watching her and Lance with a bemused interest, Katie knew she'd have some explainin' to do later to her best friend.

Well…Hel! Lance-quiznaking-McClain, looking better than he had a right to. He could have done her the courtesy of looking like the ass-end of a Robeast. But nooo! He had to show up looking like an older, ruggedly handsome version of himself, but with the same sweet, sort of mopey expression in his eyes.

Her first impulse had been to drive a fist into his stomach. That impulse accompanied by a satisfying fantasy of his skinny ass curled up in agony on floor, like when she'd zapped him with her bayard years ago.

Her better angels prevailed and she'd hugged him instead. Should have punched him, a voice in her head still grumbled. She silenced the voice and got to the point. "I thought you were working on your family's farm. In Cuba."

Lance handed her a glass of dark brown liquid and took a seat opposite, settling into his customary rangy sprawl. Had anyone asked Pidge to describe Lance back in the day, she would have said "brown." Olive skin, dark sandy brown hair, and his beat-up brown jacket. All deliciously brown.

If anything, brown was more apropos now. His skin, at least a shade tanner, contrasted with his blue eyes and the cerulean Altean swoops on his cheekbones. His hair, however, was sun-burnished with streaks of lighter brown. The angles of his lean, handsome face were those of a man in his early thirties, as were the cute little lines around his eyes when he smiled. Which, she noted, he still did often, though his mannerisms were more restrained and guarded. A short vertical scar marked his jawline about halfway between his chin and right ear.

During their brief hug, she noted that any height she'd acquired since their last meeting, was negated by his corresponding extra height. His shoulders were broader, arms more muscled. His signature Paladin blue was absent save for his eyes and Altean facial marks: he wore black pants, high top work boots, fingerless black gloves, and a form-fitting, faded red shirt.

One thing hadn't changed. He was still built like a marionette, long limbs strung loosely together with a gangly grace.

"About," he began, "ten years ago, I re-upped my pilot's license and got a job flying deliveries for UPT. With all the piracy, corporate espionage and kidnappings, transport companies want pilots with combat experience.

"Then one day, between runs, I'm in a bar—"

"And in walks a priest, a rabbi, and a cat," interrupted Katie, rewarded by his grin and adorable smile lines. No, not adorable! Punchable.

"—and I'm talking to this guy who turns out to be a nerd," he winked at her as he said the n-word, "in ChemLore's agronomy division. I tell him about my family's farm, the tech we're trying to implement, the challenges of erosion, rising salinity in the ground water, soil acidity, all exacerbated by wild climate shifts.

"Then he says that the company could use someone with hands-on experience. They've got a brilliant team, but funny thing is most don't come from agriculture. He got me an interview; I was hired to pilot ChemLore's transports, but they paid for my degree."

"Degree?" said Katie.

"Yes, Pidge, a degree." His tone was mildly vexed, though he was smiling. "Lance McClain, goofball, has read a book. Or two or three."

"What field?" said Yrta.

"Agronomy."

"Agronomy?" Pidge choked, half inhaling, half spitting and managing to get whatever the strange drink was, up her nose. "You're an agronomist."

"I prefer combat agronomist, but yeah." He cocked an eyebrow at her, indignant. "Why's that so hard to believe?"

"It's not. It is, isn't, is…." Deflecting, she held up the drink. "What is this? I like it."

"Malta. A drink from home. Sort of." He flashed a flirty smile. "Next time you're in Cuba, I'll get you the real thing."

"Another please," she said, relieved when he jumped up, turning away from her and the horrifying blush that was spreading like wildfire across her cheeks. Yrta, however, was smirking at her. His charm, brutally familiar, but tempered by something—maturity? Lance?—threw her usually rock-solid equilibrium off kilter.

"So, what's your story?" Lance handed her a fresh drink. He gestured at Yrta. "How'd you and Pidge meet?"

"Before," Yrta began, "everything, I was a tech officer on a Galra warship. After…I lent my skills to the Holt family and the new generation of Legendary Defenders." She smiled at Katie. "Katie and I had many long conversations, and through them we realized that war is sometimes necessary, but it need not always be necessary."

"It's Hunk's fault," said Katie, referring to the former Yellow Paladin-turned-interplanetary-master chef and philanthropist. "We talked a lot about his work, and the challenges of not just getting food to people, but producing it. Humanity, and the Galra too, all races struggle to produce enough food to feed their growing populations. I loved working with my family, but I was tired…of combat…."

"When Katie applied for admission to MIT, I did as well," said Yrta.

"You were one of the first Galra to graduate from a human university," noted Lance. He grinned, throwing in a sheepish shrug. "Yeah, I admit it. I looked Pidge up from time to time, and Yrta's name came up too."

Katie cocked her head at that. "Are you stalking us, Lance?"

He held up a hand, index finger and thumb just a tiny bit apart. "Un poco. That means—"

"I know what it means," said Katie. "I took Spanish in college."

"Now Katie and I are a team," proclaimed Yrta.

"Team plants and dirt!" said Katie.

"Soil," corrected Yrta. "I do Quintessence-enhanced soil matrices. Katie does chlorophyll-nanobots."

"Ah, speaking of which," Lance said, "I've got two cryo-tubes worth looking for a good home."

"Right," said Katie, rising to her feet. "We've got a week's flight to Titan, and you've got…agronomy to do."

"In a manner of speaking. I prefer my space in moderation. I'm headed to Cuba for a dose of real sunlight and gravity."

Cryo-tubes were heavy and it wasn't smart to carry expensive agrotechnology cavalierly around a space station. Lance had rented a secure storage locker one floor above the docks, which is where he and the two women were, just as Yrta's datapen beeped.

Yrta tapped the pen's screen open and continued walking as she read her message. But after a few seconds, she froze, shock evident in her posture.

"What's wrong?" said Pidge.

"It's Kav," Yrta looked up from the screen, yellow eyes wide with shock. "He's been injured, seriously, in an accident at work."

Judging from Pidge's response, Kav was someone important to the Galra woman. Pidge clasped her friend's arm. "Oh, Yrta, you've gotta go to him."

"Yes. No! Our objective. There is no time."

"I'll figure something out. You go home."

"You cannot go alone," Yrta insisted.

"Sure, I can." Pidge waved her hand, dismissively. "I fly solo all the time." Her characteristic sassy confidence struck a melancholy chord in Lance's chest. Not surprising, since he felt like an overtightened guitar string.

The Galra woman crossed her arms over her chest and glowered down at Pidge, the kind of gesture that would have left a lesser mortal with soiled underwear. "For short hops. Not across your solar system."

Pidge, of course, was unfazed. "Athena practically flies herself—"

"I'm not abandoning you—"

"It's not 'abandoning.' It's taking care of family." Pidge paused, probably realizing this mountain of Galra wasn't moving. "I'll find somebody to help, or—"

"I'll go," said Lance. Wait? What? The words erupted from his mouth before his brain could stop them. Both women turned to him, as confused by his utterance as he was.

"I'll go with Pidge," he repeated, with growing certainty. He threw in a charming smile. Because if you're going to dive into the volcano, you should do it with style.

"I don't know," said Yrta, "if this is a good idea. Sending you off with this strange man."

"I'm no stranger," Lance said, feeling a spike of irritation.

"But you are strange," was Yrta's response.

"Yrta, you need to go home," said Pidge. "I've got this."

"I'll take good care of her," proclaimed Lance, then realizing his error, added, "if she agrees to let me come along."

Yrta closed the distance between them in one easy stride, her posture indicating he stood on the same gooey, evolutionary rung as slime mold. "If any harm comes to her, I will hunt you down and turn you inside out like an old sock," she said.

"Right." Lance reached for his old bravado and said to Pidge, pointing at Yrta. "I like her!"

Both women spared him an irritated side-eye and turned to walk away, obviously wanting a private moment.

"I think," said Yrta, "it would be best to call Neil." Neil Chiang was PlentiHarvest's CFO and a friend.

"He's busy. Why bother him?"

Yrta's amber eyes slid a wary look in Lance's direction. "You haven't seen him in years. And now, here he is. The word, sister, is 'convenient.'"

"Convenient isn't a bad word. It sells stuff. 'Conveniently located.'"

"I don't trust him. You are fierce, but…alone, with this man, for days in a small hopper?"

Katie took a moment to process this. "It's Lance…he's got his faults, but rapist isn't one of them." Although flirtatious to the point of being inappropriate, Lance had always been inherently kind. Even now, with years separating them, she couldn't imagine him ever doing anything cruel.

"Perhaps it is a cunning plan to steal Athena."

"Lance McClain? 'Cunning?'" She blew out a snort. "Even if his new vocation is hopper thief, he won't risk the wrath of the rest of the Paladins. If he stole Athena, you'd have to stand in line behind Keith, Shiro and Hunk to get a chance at turning him inside out. And that's assuming, after I was done with him, there were any pieces big enough to be found with a microscope."

An Altean couple walked past, one of the men glowering at Yrta. Katie fired off a death look and he flushed and turned away. "I think this will be okay," she said.

When she looked at her friend, she found her assessing her coolly. "You never blush. But I've seen you do this with him. He could use that to his advantage."

"Lance is just…Lance…flirty. This isn't an elaborate plan to get me in the sack. I'm sure he still sees me as one of the guys."

"Forgive me, little sister, but you don't understand men very well."

"I…hey, I…" Katie sighed. "Wrong. I'm equal an opportunity social dolt. I don't understand men or women."

She darted a furtive look at Lance and then cursed herself for it. Furtive looks were for lovesick teens. Belligerently, just to prove it could be done, she set her eyes on him as he leaned with indolent grace against a storage locker, and counted to ten before looking away. "I have it on good authority that Lance McClain doesn't need to go all Machiavellian to get a woman in his bed. I mean, you've seen the news feeds. He dates supernova-hot pop stars."

"Huh." Yrta's grunt and her face, writ large with skepticism, indicated she thought otherwise.

"Okay. I admit it. I want this. I want to…be his friend again. And I want to know what the fuck happened with him."

"Because…you want him."

"No. That ship sailed, exploded, sank and rotted at the bottom of the ocean years ago," Katie said resolutely. "I'm doing this because I'm inquisitive."

Lance waited, slumped against a wall, watching people entering and exiting the closet-sized storage lockers that lined the long hallway. His eyes casually panned over the security cameras, both those that were obvious, and those hidden in decorative wall panels. He'd kept his nose clean, as it were, for the last three years, his work for ChemLore strictly on the legal side, but cataloguing his surroundings remained a habit.

Rubbing his left hand, feeling the sense of not feeling as he pressed the glove's fabric into numb flesh, he squinted at something that had been scratched onto the locker opposite him. "4 buono humpy-humpy call Lenny. 43C-345-092."

"You sure you want to do this?"

Pidge's voice pulled him from his thoughts. She was standing alone, blinking up at him through her glasses.

"If you need the help, yeah, I'm game." He straightened and smiled down at her. "I know the site. My team developed the nitrogen-fixing corn they're using on Titan. And the flexible drainage substrate in the hydroponics. ChemLore will pay me a per diem since PlentiHarvest is charitable partner."

Indecision was clear on her face and he wondered at his impulsive offer of help. The last thing he wanted was more time in space. You can't love the sky if you don't put your feet on the ground sometimes. And yet, here he was, hoping she'd let him accompany her to Titan.

"Okay, sure." She gestured down the hallway. "Let's get the cargo to my ship."

Thanks for reading this far!