I wanna come home to roses
And dirty little notes on Post-its.
And when my hair starts turning gray
He'll say I'm like a fine wine, better with age.
I guess I learned it from my parents
That true love starts with friendship.
~Jax "Like My Father"
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
If I Only Had a Brain
The estimated required caloric output/input ratio (see Appendix A, calculations) of the system will see an increase from 1:1 to 2:1, resulting in….
Lance stopped typing, blew a raspberry at the screen, and slumped back into the cockpit chair, bored. The chair responded immediately to his change in posture, shifting to cradle his back and support his head where it rested against the seat's back.
"Athena, you are one fine lady." Almost as fine as the gorgeous, genius brunette who usually sits in this chair. He cocked his head sideways, listening. The faint squeak of the exercise bike had ended, meaning she was probably in the shower.
Shower. Naked Pidge. His teeth squeaked in protest as he ground them together. The pilot's seat needed an "ice cold shower" mode. In an attempt to draw the blood back into his head, he took in the vast panoply of stars and planets before him. Jupiter's features, the Great Red Spot and banding, were becoming distinct. As were its larger moons, including Europa, where Veronica captained Galaxy Garrison's Jovian command.
He sat up and leaned his elbows on the chair's arms, studying the collection of image crystals that filled the little niche on the left side of the control panel.
The largest photo featured Pidge and her mother, arms around each other, the backdrop the botanical gardens at Carver burb-city. Next to that one was a photo of the entire Holt family, taken on Earth on Clear Day. The family, including Bae Bae, the dog, wore alien costumes, eyes on stalks spouting from their heads. Pidge's expression was straight-up sullen teen.
There was a photo Lance remembered well—adolescent Pidge, with long hair and wearing a dress, standing next to a teenage Matt. In another photo, Pidge, Shiro, his husband Curtis and their two daughters (they'd had a third child since then, hadn't they?) were jammed into a tight selfie making funny faces. He chuckled at one where Yrta held Pidge in her arms, both grinning at the camera, Pidge wearing a Santa hat and Yrta, reindeer antlers.
His own sister was among the photos. Veronica sat on park bench, Pidge's brother, Matt, at her side. Each held a handmade sign. "Nerd" and an arrow pointing at Matt were scrawled on Veronica's sign. Matt's, with an arrow pointing at Veronica, said "Angry Amazon."
"We're great together, until we put our clothes back on, then…," Veronica blew a raspberry, "then it all goes to Hel." Matt and Veronica shared one thing: a lethal allergy to the c-word—commitment. And Veronica maintained an on-and-off again relationship with Acxa, with "on" coinciding with Acxa and Keith's periodic "breaks." Technically, this meant they all had some kind of weird love quadrangle going on, absent the love.
Lance's gaze lingered over one in particular. There were five people in the photo: Pidge; Keith and Acxa; and Hunk and his girl, Shay. Seeing Shay, Elda's second cousin, sent a hot shard of pain into his heart. Judging by their faces, he thought the photo taken several years ago. They were striding across a beach, toward the camera. Shay carried Pidge piggyback; Pidge was pointing at something and grinning at Keith. Keith, his attention on Pidge, a quiet smile on his face, walked hand-in-hand with Acxa.
Absent, of course, in the collection, were any pictures of himself. He had to admit it stung, even knowing it was his own damned fault.
He leaned forward, comparing teen Pidge with the photos of her older self. How had he not seen it back then; her beauty? The way her strong, resolute jawline tapered to a girlish chin; her thick, expressive eyebrows; those captivating, honey brown eyes. Looking at the photo of Pidge a decade past, thirty-something Lance saw a girl hardly beyond childhood, but teenage Lance should have made a jackass of himself, flirting with her. Her terrible, butchered haircut didn't make her any less attractive; in fact, it was kind of cute.
I didn't see it because I chose not to. She was smart—terrifying smart—and frankly, she'd made him feel stupid. Or rather, he made himself stupid around her. It was an easy pattern; one he'd fallen into early. Whenever he felt insecure, he fell back on his good looks and humor as a means of getting attention. The ploy was a smashing success, convincing everyone, himself included, that he had the cognitive acuity of an attractive houseplant.
I'm not that kid anymore. Not just a boy from Cuba. He was a man, a Paladin of Voltron, a hero in his own right. A pilot, capable, in Pidge's words, of some spectacular flying. He'd saved his family's farm from ruin. He was a degreed professional. His bank account was several significant figures (Yeah, math words, take that everyone who called him stupid!) away from wealthy, but he no longer lived paycheck to paycheck. The instrument panel in his Troika sometimes required the application of a hard-fisted thump, but the hopper was his, bought and paid for. Space travel was ubiquitous in the 23rd century, but ownership of private spacecraft was still rare.
Something else was missing—Yes!—from Pidge's photos. Evidence of a significant other. Her singleness confirmed by a message from none other than Veronica McClain, Galaxy Garrison Captain and infinite well of galactic gossip.
Hey Dumbass,
She's available. If you don't ask her out, I'm telling Mom, Dad, our ENTIRE family, about the kilt incident.
He reached to the St. Elmo santo in the niche, fingers running over the embroidered stars in the saint's blue vestments. Drawing back, he reflexively drew a spiral of obeisance in the air and then smiled. The festival of St. Elmo on Titan. Perfect first date event.
Lance's confidence scrambled like a newborn calf. Rising on wobbly legs, it looked around, shaky but resolute. Setting its eyes on Pidge's photos, her beautiful brown eyes, it prodded his reply to Veronica.
Wilco.
He hit Send and switched on his news feed.
"Another Xiphoid attack?" Pidge padded over, stretched and yawned. Lance breathed deeply, taking in the smell of freshly showered Pidge. For the first few days of the journey, she'd arisen as soon as he did, no doubt uneasy with his presence. But never a morning person, she stayed abed now when he got up, comatose even as he made coffee and breakfast.
She toed the switch on the extra seat; when it unfolded, she sat, rested her chin on her folded arms on the pilot's chair's arm, and read the article with him. His fingers flexed, repressing the urge to touch her. This was good; progress, a small victory. She was comfortable enough to tuck herself into his space. No sense in ruining the moment by getting grabby.
"London this time," he said. "At least fifteen dead." His heart ached for the families of the dead. "Biochem attack."
"Terrorists are evil. Xiphoid especially." She swiped upward on his screen, rereading a passage. "I don't condone the Reds' methods, but I understand some of their grievances, why they want more autonomy from Earth. They've got a good case for 'taxation without much representation' when it comes to Earth.
"But Xiphoid," she said, scowl scrunching up her face, "Xiphoid makes me ragey. You know? Everything we did, all the loss and sacrifice is meaningless to these assholes. Xiphoid is like a slap in the face."
The article didn't include much footage of the devastation, a detail that Lance was grateful for. He didn't need to take his PTSD out for a drive today.
"It's funny," he observed. "Not, ha-ha-ha funny, but weird funny, that Xiphoid is a coalition of human and alien species dedicated to dissolving the Galactic Coalition, which is a coalition of human and alien species." He rubbed the scar on his chin. "Does that make Xiphoid ironic or hypocrites?"
"Both." Pidge sighed. "If they didn't have the Coalition to hate, they'd kill each other."
She was right. Xiphoid was at best, a tenuous marriage of disparate subgroups, all unified by xenophobia of some sort, but their bigotry shaped in different ways. Rather than seeing alien species as sources of new technology and trade, Xiphoid humans viewed them as dangerous, a threat to their way of life. Whatever the fuck "Way of life" meant.
In synch with his train of thought, Pidge clicked on a related article discussing legislation, this time in eastern Europe, to outlaw anyone with alien heritage. "How do you outlaw someone for the crime of existing?" said Pidge. "This is why Keith avoids Earth."
Keith was a favorite poster child for the "Aliens are going to breed humans out of existence" crowd. Apparently, bigots feared they would be replaced by a race of cute, mullet-haired, emo boys.
The Galra segment of Xiphoid drew primarily from those who felt that the rest of the universe was made to be ruled and resented the fact that the universe objected. They chafed under peace and wanted the Galran Empire to once again rise ascendant.
Those Alteans who had joined Xiphoid did so because they viewed the other, short-lived races as inferior. The majority of Altean Xiphoids were adherents to either the cult of Honerva or Allura. The cult of Honerva saw themselves as the next generation of the fallen Altean scientist-witch-despot's Acolytes.
"The 'Allura Lives' crowd is fun," said Lance sarcastically. This was a topic he normally avoided, but it felt comfortable talking about it with Pidge. She'd been there, lived it with him.
"'Chosen One dies so that Allura may yet again rise.'" With her head still on the arm rest, she peered sideways up at him over her glasses. "I always wondered if that's why you dropped off the radar."
"Not the only reason. But, yeah, a part of it." Unconsciously, he rubbed one of the Altean marks, supposed sign of the Chosen One, on his cheek.
"Meanwhile, the Balmeran version of Xiphoid 'awaits' the day all us Paladins drop dead," said Pidge. Await, because Balmerans, even the terrorist variety, didn't seem to have it in them to advocated for the murder of Paladins. Instead, they were counting the days, a kind of doomsday cult, until Pidge, Lance, Keith, Shiro and Hunk shuffled off the mortal coil, which, according to prophecy, would cause the return of Voltron's lions, the one true version of Voltron. Several of the other species present in Xiphoid justified their desire to see the Coalition dissolved based on religious grounds.
"Interesting." She sat up and tapped another article. "Earth Gov and Mars Authority are partnering with ChemLore to develop counterterrorist tech with an emphasis on biochemical weapons mitigation." She looked at him. "Anything you're in on?"
"Nope. I'm strictly agriculture." He paused, eyes on the pugnacious curve of her lower lip, imagining himself gently nipping it, before taking her mouth to his. The thought sent his heart racing and he tore his attention from her, staring sightlessly at the article. "Uh, although, some of the shit I 'reclaimed' for ChemLore wasn't exactly fertilizer."
The screen's display flickered on her glasses as she read more. "Sounds like a lucrative deal for ChemLore."
"The rich get richer." He leaned way back in the chair, arms stretched to the ceiling, yawned and stretched expansively. "You eat breakfast?" This morning he'd found Hunk's version of shakshuka, poached eggs in spicy tomato sauce in the food preparator's recipes. Pidge, he'd learned, hated the snotty texture of yolk, so he made hers with scrambled eggs.
"Yeah. Thanks."
He looked her over. She wore black tights and a white T-shirt with embroidered, flowering vines on the sleeves and shoulders. Grownup Pidge was the perfect combo of unfussy feminine. "I like this." He tugged on the sleeve. "Green is your color, hermosa." If the universe didn't want him flirting, it shouldn't have made Pidge so sexy-adorable.
"Yes, it is." The corners of her cute mouth quirked in an almost sweet smile. 'Sweet' and Pidge? Uh-oh.
Thankful that she wasn't blushing—she must be getting used to his flirting—Katie looked at the shirt's verdant pattern, reminded why she wandered into the cockpit in the first place.
"Do me a favor," she said. "Tell me what you know about chlorobots."
His face lengthened, suddenly wary. "Uh, why?"
"Because I'm trying to work something out, and I need someone to bounce some ideas off of."
His expression moved from wary to mildly mournful. "Your ideas always bounce off me. Boing! I'm not sure I'd be much help."
Katie studied him. She knew that face; Lance's default, dumb jock face. Only it didn't fit the chiseled features of the man sitting beside her.
"Why do you do that?" she said.
"Eh?"
"Play dumb?"
He dragged his hands through his hair, the action revealing another small scar by the hairline high on his forehead. "I've read your research. All your research." His mouth quirked in a crooked smile. "I understood most of it. Except the mathematical models. Those broke my brain."
"So…?"
"I'd like to think, imagine more like, that I understand what you do. But you're gonna tell me I don't and that'll make me feel stupid."
Katie studied his words, shifting them about in her brain, trying to read between the lines. "Yeah, I know you thought I was stupid." True. His appeal had been good looks, goofy charm, and self-destructive heroism, not brains. But now….
"I still make you feel stupid?" she said.
"Yes. No. I make myself feel stupid. But you can be—"
"Obnoxious!" she said triumphantly. "Matt says I forget that not everyone processes the world like I do. And that sometimes makes me obnoxious."
"Will you hit me if I agree with him?"
"Yes." Making a fist, she bumped it gently against his upper arm. "How about I try not to be obnoxious, and you try not to play dumb?"
His explanation wasn't bad. "There are two types of bots, right? The breeders like we're transporting, and the…I don't remember what you call them, so let's say the worker bots. Like bees. The workers are injected into a plant or are taken up through the root system. In the plant, they function the same as natural chlorophyl, taking the energy from light photons and using it, along with CO2 and water, to created glucose and O2. Except the bots do this at a rate that's several orders of magnitude more efficient. And they operate within a much broader spectrum of light. Meaning, you don't need bright sunlight or high energy artificial lighting.
"Some of the bots are capable of transporting key nutrients to specific plant structures. And others, work in the roots, regulating water uptake and mitigating the effects of saline soils.
"They're all engineered to break down harmlessly in the plant's structure or within the digestive system. They're all structurally the same, but their function can be modified by exposing them to different chemical triggers. Same as a worker bee."
He pointed behind them with his thumb. "The breeder bots, like the name says, make more bots. They go into a primordial soup of amino acids in the incubators and do their thing. Depending on the composition of the soup, they produce bots with different functions." The wary expression returned to his face as he fell silent, watching her.
"It's not 100-percent accurate." She considered her words. "But it's a good laymen's explanation of how chlorobots function. I think I might use it next time I have a meeting with corporate bean counters."
"So…I'm pretty good at translating Pidge-ese?"
"Nearly fluent."
"Why are you asking me this again?"
"Because those incubators shouldn't have failed. I can't get my head around the problem."
His wary demeanor melted away. In a silky voice, he said, "Must be an enormous problem then, if your big brain can't wrap around it."
Against her best judgement, she met his flirtation with a playful shrug and said, "Aw, Lancey, you say the sweetest things." In what she now recognized as a precursor to a blush, he rubbed his hand over his face. I can make him blush. Cooool! She let a smug smile shape her mouth. And he, seeing that smile, laughed with a knowing arch of his eyebrow. This was fun, messing with him.
And easy. They weren't the Pidge and Lance of old. Those kids were shadows of their present selves. Yet they slid into old habits like a comfortable pair of jeans. For instance, his complete disregard for property rights. Then and now, her visceral response to anyone touching her stuff was, "I'll cut you." But she took Lance's hands-on approach to her belongings as an article of faith, an acceptable price to having his company. It wasn't like she had to go far to reclaim her property from her resident, sticky-fingered Paladin of Voltron.
Her eyes wandered to window, picking out constellations and Jupiter. The gas giant's rotational position made it so only a half moon of its Great Red Spot was visible. It's a good thing my clothes won't fit him, because otherwise he'd steal those too. She ran her gaze over him, the thought making her mouth tremble with suffocated laughter.
He canted an eyebrow elegantly at her, pointing at her face. "Okay, that look is new. What's it mean?"
Avoiding the question, she dipped her eyes to his shirt, a black Cryo Babies concert tee. The Cryo Babies were a rocking good Galra punk band. "I like this." She tugged his sleeve.
"I piloted a leg of their tour in the Tau Sector." His wiggled his shoulder, emphasizing the word CREW printed on the sleeve. Piloting bands and singers, including Zahra, on their tours was another of his side-gigs.
She nudged him with an elbow. "I flew the Cryo Babies around the universe and all I got was a lousy T-shirt."
He laughed, a companionable laugh between old friends. "Want it? It's yours. Payback for all your stuff I've 'borrowed.'"
Just like that, she was disarmed, another section of her battlements collapsed. He'd broken through her defenses, even if she couldn't quite bring herself to concede defeat. If she wasn't so terrified of where it might lead, she might have done something brave. The kind of brave where she immediately took the shirt off his back. The kind of brave that involved complicated geometry of their bodies in the pilot seat. Courage that risked breaking one or both their hearts.
He was watching her, his expression mild, but eyes penetrating under her armor, where her heart, like a kaleidoscope, broke fear and longing into many hues. Confused, and feeling exposed, her courage failed and she went with cowardice. "Uh, cool. Thanks."
Before things got out of hand, she steered the conversation back to the clinical safety of science and technology. "Now, let's talk about the incubators."
A shadow passed over his face—disappointment? —but faded in the light of a warm smile. "Sure. Need another translation?"
She returned his smile because this was good. Talking to Lance in her native tongue—science—was good. Probably nowhere as good as making biology with him, but safer. And still good.
Thank you for reading this far!