I think we'll live,
Which is strange enough to think.
Everyone was cheering
To push us from the brink.
We were entertaining.
That was never cast in doubt
But never mind about that.
We were not meant to get out.
~Rachel Rose Mitchell "Lost Again"
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
I'll Stand by You
Once upon a time, after a huge influx of Mammon from several multinational Earth and Mars corporations, Rinconada Space Station had been a thing of minimalist beauty. Designed on a "shard" layout, composed of six individual sections, each deep blue-gray and shaped like a long rectangular shard of crystal, it was heralded as a masterpiece of deep space architecture and christened Tourmaline Station.
Then the corporate cash ran out like so much water down the drain. In earnest, the corporate bean counters decided that a station, however pretty, in the far armpit of the solar system, just beyond Jupiter, wasn't earning out, in tourist monies and corporate rentals, and would better serve shareholders' interest as a huge loss and tax write-off.
Nothing goes to waste in space.
As the corporate fat cats fled the ship, the solar system's more enterprising rats moved in. First came the smugglers and pirates, then refuges from conflicts on Earth and beyond. And finally, the Tinkerers, the multi-species tribe of wandering traders, made Rinconada their base of operations.
The population grew and elegant architecture be damned, additions were made.
Nothing goes to waste in space. Certainly not abandoned or wrecked ships which provided the perfect structural bones for Rinconada's expansion.
Lance swept a long look over the station through Athena's cockpit window. He knew that under the chaotic mess of starship fores and afts and everything in-betweens was the original structure. But no evidence of it could be seen. The station's inhabitants prided their home for its rasquachismo style, everything and anything repurposed to make habitats in space. It looked like a giant toddler had glued all her toy spaceships, and even the odd land vehicle, together with superglue.
He aimed Athena at the bulbous red glob, named appropriately, Baboon's Ass, on one end of the station, where the docks were located. Rinconada didn't bother with niceties like dock reservations; you found an open berth; did a partial dock, paid the fee, and completed the docking. This close to St. Elmo's celebrations, with so many headed for Titan, the docks were packed with every kind of space vehicle: clunky space tugs, freight haulers, luxury hoppers like Athena and even a Galra starfighter.
Rinconada often played host to MFE and Garrison pilots on leave, but none of their ships were present; no fighters in the docks, no frigate hanging nearby in space. He'd sent Veronica a wave, apprising her on their misadventures with the Shrike and Ox, but he doubted that accounted for the lack of a MFE or Garrison presence. Things must be heating up in the Kuiper Belt again, he thought grimly, a spike of inevitable concern in his gut for his sister.
Yet another check of the status display showed that they had lost their tail sometime over the last few hours. He flicked the green screen, but the tagged ship seemed to be gone for now.
"Did you pay?" Pidge said, sitting down in the spare seat, as Lance finished the final docking procedures.
"Yup."
"I'll pay you back."
"Don't sweat it. ChemLore will cover it as part of my per diem." He gave her a long, once-over, because, usually, looking at Pidge made every cell in his body happy. The obvious pain, etched on her elfin face as tight lines and dark half circles under her eyes, however, made him hurt in sympathy.
Earlier, when she saw him pawing through her clothing locker, she had quipped dryly, "My underwear is in the other drawer."
"Ha, ha, ha." He was tempted to grab a pair of panties and put them on his head, just to make her laugh. But laughing made her hurt, so he opted for his original goal, a shirt with wide sleeves, easy to slide over her bandages. Now, she sat beside him wearing black pants, white high top sneakers, and a red and white wingball hooded jersey, emblazoned with a winged tiger and the words, "Carver City Tigers." The red brought out the auburn in her hair, but it was weird not seeing her wearing something green.
"Let's get you patched up."
Leaving the ship, they entered a wide corridor, dazzling with colorful storefronts, signage mostly neon, but also words and alien glyphs painted in vivid, saturated colors. "Parts." "Repairs." "Pharma." "Groceries." "Biomeats." "Laundry." With the feast of St. Elmo a little over two days away, many of the shops were festooned with blue and black banners, spangled with stars. Others advertised holiday sales: "St. Elmo's Day Sale. Drop the Chere!"
As they passed the corridor that led to the Tinkerer's market, Pidge's weary face brightened and then dimmed with disappointment. Her plan had been to stop at Rinconada for a fuel and supplies and to do some shopping at the market. (Lance's plan, assuming a shopping-for-techno-junk-Pidge was a happy Pidge, was to ask her out then.) Her injury had derailed both their plans since she could barely stand up, her brain pickled in pain and painkillers.
He tugged her sleeve and offered a comforting smile, debating whether stubborn-proud Paloma would chew off his arm if he offered support. She responded with a sad smile, and answered the unspoken question by wrapping her right hand around his upper arm.
Even at Rinconada, the divide between Morlock and Eloi cut through the trappings of homespun, rough egalitarianism. As the station was a favorite haunt of wealthy tourists looking to find local color, a corresponding trade, catering to the affluent, occupied a section, known as Elisión Alley, of the station. Among the expensive, but tailored-to-look rasquache, hotels and souvenir shops, was a medical clinic. The higher prices meant a shorter wait for care.
Lance opted for the low-cost clinic, instead. The waits often spanned hours, but care was good, and the docs had a no-questions-asked approach to the worst of battlefield injuries.
The clinic, funded largely by the Blade of Marmora, had been on the list of clinics sent to him by Keith, years ago.
I know you're not going to acknowledge this because you're an asshole. But if you ever need help, you can get it at any of the places on this list. Let them know who you are and you can jump the queue. I'll cover the cost.
Keith
Keith was right. Lance was an asshole and he didn't acknowledge the message. But he'd made use of some of the clinics Keith listed, including this one, although under an assumed name, paying his own way and waiting with the rest of the rabble.
The waiting room looked like any other in the universe. Dominated by rows of ass-busting, uncomfortable chairs (because being sick wasn't bad enough) situated before the reception desk and a doorway back to the surgeries. Health posters were plastered on the walls. "Know the warning signs of the slipperies" said one that depicted an elderly Altean. "I don't need a Zero addiction, Mommy," said another, featuring a cute baby. There was the usual admonition: "Don't drink and fly."
All five rows of the waiting room's seating were occupied, with just a few seats along the wall available. A lone Balmeran stood by the wall, because no one ever bothered to make seating for people with tails. The majority of patients were human, with a smattering of Galra, Alteans, and Unilu. A diminutive Krellian couple, blue antennae twitching, were having an animated conversation with the check-in nurse, a plump Olkari. Besides the Krellians, there were three people in line ahead of Lance and Pidge.
When they reached the desk, the nurse nodded at Lance, a smile on his pale gray face, ruby eyes friendly. "Carlos Ayala, right?"
"Do I get a frequent bleeder discount?" Lance joked. Pidge slid a bemused look between him and the nurse. Lance could feel the press of people waiting for care, and sighed, his next actions making him feel like not just an asshole, but a privileged asshole. This is for Pidge, not you.
He pulled his datapen from his pocket, and with a few swipes, pulled up his real identity card. "Carlos Ayala was my great-great grandfather. I'm…Lance McClain. And this is Pidge Holt." On cue, Pidge handed the nurse her identity card as well.
"Ah," the nurse said. "Paladins."
They were ushered into a surgery immediately. Just before they entered, the doctor, a short human man with dark brown skin and a ready smile, nametag reading "Dr. Ibrahim," motioned for Lance to wait. He and Pidge entered the surgery and Lance heard the doctor asking her something. Probably, asking Pidge if she wanted Lance in the room, doctor-patient confidentiality, blah-blah-blah.
The answer being yes, though Lance wouldn't have taken it personally if not, Dr. Ibrahim returned a minute later and gestured for Lance to come in. The doctor turned out to be a kindred soul with fun bedside manners.
After he and an attending nurse removed the temporary bandages, he tut-tutted and said, "I take it you didn't read your hand's user's manual? It clearly states, do not place in a meat grinder."
"She never reads manuals," said Lance. "Says manuals are for wimps."
Pidge played along. "I don't need no steenkin' manual."
When the process got to the part where a large incision was made to rearrange the shattered bones in her hand, Lance suddenly found a poster on the wall fascinating. An Unilu girl sat on a bike, a helmet on her head. The caption read: "You may have four arms, but only one head. Wear a helmet."
The doc obviously noticed his discomfort. "Boyfriend is turning greener than your lion, Ms. Holt."
"He's n—" Pidge paused a beat. "I'm okay, Lance, if you want to wait outside."
"I, uh, need to drop by the pharmacy." Answering the question in her eyes, he said, "I need a refill of PTSD meds."
Without thinking, he bent and kissed her forehead, and then cringed, expecting to get smacked. "I'll be back."
She nodded. "I know."
Two hours later, they were at the reception desk, settling the bill. A strong, but lightweight gel cast spanned Pidge's hand to her elbow, but her face had lost the hard lines of constant pain. The cast had a small, built-in auto-port that injected a bone builder and localized painkiller. As the nurse reached over the counter to hand her a package of meds, his posture straightened, ruby eyes fixed on something behind them. His dark gray, forehead appendages rose in surprise or possibly, respect.
At that moment, something cold and wet touched Lance's hand. Barely repressing a yelp, Lance looked down, his eyes meeting two liquid amber, lupine eyes, framed in cyan blue and an angular white mask against a long, dark muzzle.
"Kosmo?" A smile split Lance's face. "Is that you, buddy?"
With extreme dignity and a touch of reproach in his eyes, as if to say, "You left us," Kosmo nuzzled his hand. Lance dropped to his knees, and hoping the enormous cosmic wolf was forgiving, risked his arms by giving him a gentle hug, his fingers burrowing into luxurious, dark, blue-gray hair. The curious and painfully familiar scent combination of musky wolf with a hint of ozone—a consequence of Kosmo's ability to flit between dimensions—hit Lance with a sledgehammer of déjà vu. "Who's a good wolf? You are!"
"He remembers you," came a familiar male voice.
Not quite ready to face Keith, Lance nodded, moving his hand farther up Kosmo's neck to the spot where all canids love to be scratched. "Of course, he does. He's the smartest wolf in the universe." Pleased, Kosmo leaned into him, shifting position to guide Lance's fingers to the itchiest spots.
Emboldened by the wolf's offer of amity, Lance drew in a lung-filling breath, exhaling slowly as he stood. "Keith. How are you doing?"
"Better than Pidge." Keith Kogane's familiar posture, arms crossed before him, chin dipped toward his chest, radiated dull anger. His eyes dropped to Pidge's bandaged arm. "What did you do to my girl?" At this, Pidge rolled her eyes and huffed indignantly, shooting Keith exasperated side-eye.
Keith's expression, set in its well-schooled impassive state, gave nothing away, but a hint of humor in his dark indigo eyes told Lance that his words were meant to provoke. Lance took the bait like a starving catfish. "Your girl?"
Pidge made a choking noise, then a wheeze, then a ghastly hybrid of the two sounds. Both men turned to find her clawing at her throat with her good hand, face twisted in agony. Even the nurse looked alarmed. Kosmo whined anxiously and everyone in the waiting room looked up at the spectacle.
"Pidge," said Lance, "what's—"
"Testosterone…poisoning," she gasped. Her body swayed, unsteady; her feet taking short, staggered steps. "Can't…breath…so…much…stupid."
A ripple of laughter moved through those waiting nearby. Even Keith's mouth broke with a broad smile that gleamed in his eyes.
Ending her pantomime, Pidge said, "Would you two idiots just kiss and make up?"
Handed such an obvious cue by Pidge, Lance couldn't resist. He waggled his eyebrows suggestively. "You heard her, Keith. Kiss me."
"And somehow, against all odds, you've grown even more obnoxious," deadpanned Keith. He closed the distance between them and hugged Lance, clapping him firmly on the back. "Welcome back, man. You are back, right?"
Lance found his eyes drawn to Pidge, who was grinning. "Yeah. I'm back."
Keith was dressed in Blade of Marmora lite: a black shirt with the four distinctive luminous purple lines on his chest; a light jacket that emulated the black, gray and blue patterns of his usual armor; black pants and tactical boots.
Like Lance, Keith had filled out his lean frame with muscle. His hair was still a thick, black, shaggy mess, pulled back at his neck in a queue. His face, though slightly more chiseled, remained unlined and boyish. A consequence of his Galra heritage, no doubt. A scar still striped his right cheek. His human side exerted itself with a light sprinkling of premature gray in black mane. This gave Lance a quiet ache. They were, all his friends, in his mind, immortal, immutably trapped in youth. The little reminder of fragility, of mortality beneath the myth, hurt. He hadn't seen it in Pidge, her facial contours mature but skin still teen smooth. She was, however, the youngest of the Paladins. Glancing down, he found an itchy spot behind Kosmo's ears, and tried not to see the gray on the wolf's muzzle, or notice the slight stiffness in his stance.
"I thought you were going to meet us on Titan." Pidge gave Keith a hug. Kosmo, reunion with Lance accomplished, padded over to Pidge and pressed against her legs, giving her a wide, canine grin. Obediently, she sank her fingers into wolfen-thick hair and found more itchy spots.
"I had some business with the clinic. Then surprise, surprise, I get word from Garet here, that two Paladins are in the clinic."
"We ran into a little trouble," said Pidge. Her arm still around Keith's waist, she gave him an oddly sheepish smile. Lance chewed the inside of his cheek, reminding himself for like the billionth time that his adult self wasn't supposed to do jealousy.
Keith's mouth set in a hard line, brow furrowed, he began to say something, then he tilted his head, considering her. "You're shivering."
"I'm fine," she said, but he was already shrugging off his jacket. "Keith, just stop!"
The green monster expanded, an acid hot presence in his gut, swallowing Lance's determination not to be a jealous idiot. Just then Keith did something unexpected. His eyes met Lance's and they broadcasted a very clear message: Help me out here.
Suddenly united with his old friend in a quest to battle the worst of Pidge's stubborn independence, jealousy dissipated and he took the hint. "Station maintenance is conserving fuel by keep this place colder than an ice planet. Pidge, if you don't take his jacket, I will."
For an instant, he thought he'd be wearing Keith's jacket—and he would because the station's climate controls were set to arctic—but Pidge relented and let Keith help her into the jacket. Lance pulled her jersey's hood up onto her head and she said, "Thanks," before giving them both a look that somehow married baleful with grateful.
Keith motioned toward the doorway. "I'll buy you two lunch and you can tell me about your adventure."