A ship has appeared on the radar.
They are so used to being isolated on the edge of emptiness that they no longer worry about keeping a lookout for fellow travelers. One morning she darts in the cockpit to grab something and catches the blip blip blip of blinking pixels. She runs to alert him and they gather around the screen in disbelief.
He punches in a few commands. "Looks like it's a freighter, a bit larger than us. It must have dropped out of hyperspace fairly recently. Otherwise we would have seen it earlier."
That's not entirely obvious to her. "What about the identification string? Can we at least tell if it's friendly?"
He types and frowns. "Definitely not Imperial. But the beginning and end of the sequence don't ring a bell. I'll have to do some digging, see what I can turn up."
"Fine, but what do we do now?"
At that they are quiet. Defensive capabilities are at approximately normal, but they have no way to flee if an attack goes against them. They are like a children's cartoon character, energetically swinging all possible weapons while their feet are stuck fast in molasses.
"Are they getting any nearer?" he asks, half to himself. They peer closer to study the coordinates, calculate which way the numbers should change to indicate a closing of distance. For nearly a minute, the direction and velocity of the mysterious craft hold steady.
"It's almost as if they have the same destination," she says quietly.
He meets her eyes briefly and then re-focuses on the screen. "Doesn't make any sense. Why wouldn't they just jump there?"
She shrugs. "Why aren't we just jumping there?"
He shoots her a glare and heads out of the cockpit. His sudden absence, by this time in their journey more notable than his presence, threatens to unnerve her. She watches the blinking light and tries to find solace instead of anxiety at the fact that they are no longer alone.
-000-
Hours later the mysterious ship is still keeping time with them. They gather at the table to debate their options.
"We should send a message," she says. "A neutral greeting across all channels. Maybe they'll respond."
"If they haven't contacted us by now, I'm not sure they're gonna want to chat."
"We don't lose anything if we try," she insisted. "They must know we're here and they haven't made an aggressive move yet."
He drums his fingers on the table. "Fine," he says shortly. "But I want us to be prepared in case the answer isn't as friendly as we hope."
Systems are double-checked, weapons readiness is confirmed, guns are loaded and on stand-by. She perches tensely beside him as he keys in a standard greeting across the usual frequencies.
They wait. And wait. The blip blip blip competes with the tapping of his boot in the absence of a response. She paces the deck, tries to keep her cool.
One minute. Two. Three.
"I'm calling it." He stands up abruptly. "If they respond later, we'll see it when we see it. They probably just want to be left alone."
"What if they're in trouble?" she argues. "They could be unable to respond. Life support systems could be down."
"The first thing they would do is send out a distress signal." He scrolls through the data coming back from the scanners.
"Unless they're dead."
"If that's the case there's nothing we can do anyway."
"I don't like it," she snaps. The walls of the cockpit are closing in. She would give just about anything for a wide-open space in which to think through the problem. "We have to do something."
He throws up his hands. "What would you suggest? You know what the options are. You wanna scoot a little closer and see if they wave at us?"
"Yes."
"Fine." Judging by his expression he is clearly humoring her. "We'll set coordinates to two-seven-four mark eight."
The ship noses to port and putters smoothly toward the new location. They watch the blinking light drift closer to the center of the screen. After a gentle narrowing, they right themselves to their original direction. There is no deviation in the behavior of the collection of pixels.
He sighs and rubs his face and focuses on her. "Look. It's gonna be okay." He rubs her shoulders and neck, determined in his effort to make her relax. "There's lots of ships like that: on an odd route somewhere, trying to outfly whoever is chasing them, leery of communicating with strangers. It's not an unusual situation."
The fight leaves her and she slumps against him. "One that you have been in yourself," she guesses.
"Yeah." His hands smooth up and down her spine. "I remember this one time, we had several cruisers on our tail and we could only outrun them for so long. I jumped to a random spot, put up false distress signals, swapped our id code, just so any other ship who happened to be on the lookout wouldn't recognize us right away. Buy us some time." He nods in the direction of the radar screen. "What they're really worried about is that we're gonna sound the alarm to whoever we're in league with. Score some points with a big shot by being helpful."
"Did you ever do that?"
"No." His tone is firm but she would have believed him anyway. "I've been the little guy in that scenario too many times to count."
She feels marginally reassured. "Let's wait it out," she suggests. "See if they change their mind and reach out to us."
"That's the spirit." He smiles. "Look, it's not that I'm not worried. There's just only so much we can do."
"I know," she says softly. They are faced with too many unknowns, as usual. She wonders what it would be like to live a life without the constant dodging of risk, and then debates whether she could tolerate the banality.
-000-
That night they end up sleeping in the rear hold. Despite their uneasiness, he curls up behind her and drapes his arm around her waist. She lies awake and thinks about the spacecraft flying next to them, mimicking their velocity and trajectory. Even though it is off the other side of the ship, she searches the porthole for a glimpse of sentience, for someone to share the burden of empty space with them.
There have been times, on this heap of exercise mat and blankets and pillows, where if the angle is just right she can catch a blurred image in the transparisteel of the two of them. On those occasions she is startled by the movements and postures reflected back; the shadowy figure is not her, not how she is used to regarding herself, but a copy that exists on another path. One perhaps bound for a different life, though whether a better or worse one she can't say.
-000-
In the morning nothing has changed but everything is different. Instead of a leisurely breakfast before spreading out to tackle some light tasks, they scroll through databases and flip through a book of ship identification codes in an attempt to find a pattern matching the one of their neighbor.
"So you don't think it's specific to a particular cartel." She pages to the section on raw-material vessels. "But what percentage of ships even fall in that category?"
"Only about half." He punches an inquiry and rubs his eyes. "There are more small, temporary outfits than you might think."
"Here's a snippet of code that matches one used by the Hutts." At that name he is conspicuously silent. "But probably just a coincidence." She snaps the book closed. "If a ship can just choose any string as decoy, why are we even doing this?"
"Because even a fake string is constructed for a reason. You don't want to say where you're really from, but you need to maintain a plausible cover story."
The hours wear on. She paces through the ship trying to ignore their predicament, hoping a strategy of mental neglect will result in a flash of insight. They check the radar consistently now, at least once every half hour. That there is never any change in the other ship's position leads her to calculate the odds of multi-instrument failure. Maybe they are alone and have been the entire time. Maybe the sensors and scanners have joined the rest of the ship's components and decided to relinquish their proper functions until they are coaxed back to duty.
Another night, even more tense than the previous one. There is a separation between their bodies that didn't exist before. She sleeps fitfully and dreams more than she has in weeks.
-000-
On the first radar check of the morning, the ship is still there. On the second, the screen is blank.
They don't believe it at first and slap the instrument to jiggle the pixels back into existence.
"Huh," he says, when the screen stays stubbornly black.
A different kind of anxiety infuses them as if they have been granted a stay of execution. They confirm again and again throughout the day that absent any evidence of debris from a blast, the ship has apparently jumped somewhere else. She wonders what circumstances led to their decision. Maybe it was a case of simple repairs, a broken hyperdrive that was actually fixed, the polar opposite of their own situation.
Now that they are alone again, they are able to relax. Only now does she realize how much tension she had been storing up the last two days. She senses his relief too when he hugs her from behind and stoops down to kiss her neck. An easiness pervades the air and they are all loose and friendly with each other again.
That evening she is sitting in the cockpit, feet propped up, sewing a button back on her shirt. It is one of the few traditionally feminine chores she can tolerate because the replication of motion allows her mind to wander to more interesting things. He comes in, hands on hips, clearly confused by her activity.
She raises her head and smiles. "Surprised?"
"A little, yeah." He scratches the back of his neck. "Not what I expected. But then again –." He pauses. "Can you take a break? I want to show you something."
He leads her through the corridor to the rear hold, his hand tightly clasping her own. As they round the corner, she realizes she hasn't seen him since dinner and wonders what he has gotten himself up to.
When they reach the hatchway she freezes. Instead of the usual crumpled pile of makeshift bedding, two mattresses from the crew bunks have been pushed together and topped by what appear to be clean linens. Carefully arranged pillows outline the bed on three sides. Scattered lamps – one from his cabin desk, two others she doesn't recognize – have replaced the harsh fluorescents lining the wall. It is a vastly more welcoming space than what existed previously, so much so that she is momentarily speechless.
"Not sure why I didn't think of this before," he says. He is still holding her hand. "Seems kind of obvious in retrospect."
She turns to him. "You did all of this?"
"Yeah." He looks at her solemnly. "I thought if we were to – you know, tonight, if you wanted – it might be a more comfortable, uh —," he is a little sheepish, "— environment."
She blinks back the threatening tears. "It is. It does look — very comfortable. Thank you."
"Don't thank me." His voice is back to its usual tenor and he cups her head in his hands. "I should've thought of this sooner. Not that I was in a rush," he adds. "Well, not really. I mean, I've wanted this for a while of course, but I didn't want to pressure you because I know maybe you had reasons of your own for not doin' it right away, or customs you grew up with. Not old-fashioned ones," he says hastily, "but I thought given your background, maybe you were just –."
She smiles and stills his lips in reprieve. "I understand."
He takes her hand from his mouth and kisses her palm. His eyes burn dark and the fingers on her cheek trace a line from her ear down to her chin. She inclines her head, lingering against his touch, keeping her eyes on his.
"I'm not nervous," she blurts out. It's the truth; she would never be nervous, exactly, with him. But her desire, her anticipation, the way he is looking at her: all of it is working her body into a full-on shiver, causing her limbs and chest and hands to tremble out of control.
He embraces her firmly, kisses her, trying to soothe away her shakiness. It helps, the firmness of his touch, and she calms herself by drawing deep breaths through her nose as their tongues slide together.
"Come here." He steps over to the mattress and pulls her down next to him. Kissing her again, his fingers start to work the buttons of her shirt before he gives up and drags it over her head. Her cami soon follows and then she is naked above the waist and tugging his shirt off too.
"I'll help you relax," he whispers in her ear. He eases her onto her back and she shivers again as he mouths down her neck and over the curve of her shoulder. Winding a path around her breasts, he bypasses the peaks and instead smooths his forehead down her belly, up and down, a strangely hypnotic and soothing motion. He pauses to remove the rest of her clothes and she threads her fingers through his hair as he places soft kisses over her bare hip on the way to her thigh. He slows his pace, moving in minute increments down her leg, kissing the cap of her knee, the smooth skin of her outer calf, around her ankle bone to the arch of her foot. A giggle escapes as she squirms against the ticklish touch.
And then to the other foot, kissing the top of it tenderly before working his way up the inside of her leg, the bulge of calf muscle, the inside of her knee, more sensitive than she expects, up her inner thigh as her legs fall apart further. He pauses, and maybe he is looking up at her, but her head is back, her eyes are closed, and then she feels his mouth between her legs, just inside her lips, and his tongue starts lapping at the slick flesh, winding around in exploratory patterns, darting in and out of her opening.
He is too good at this, she thinks, before she stops thinking entirely and exists only in the moment. She can't say exactly what he's doing with his tongue and lips and nose, but it is entirely different from anything she has experienced. His motions narrow as he focuses on the bundle of nerves vibrating under his attentions, alternating a prodding and sucking action that slowly migrates to the tip of her clit. The buildup is devastating and she tries to prolong the pre-orgasm crest, the heady rush of weightlessness, but he is relentless and there is only a second or two of freefall before she is gripping the back of his head and spasming on his mouth.
When she opens her eyes he is hovering over her, a smug grin plastered across his face. "Did it work?"
"Work?" she mumbles. It's a miracle she can form words.
"Yeah." He's never been so pleased with himself. "Are you, y'know – relaxed?"
She summons the strength to sweep her hand through his hair. He seems satisfied by the feeble response and stretches his body out on the bed. He touches her breast, gently at first, and then less gently, and gauges her reaction when he grazes her nipple. Her pulse quickens, a flush comes over her, and she pulls him down to her.
As if a line has been crossed, he is suddenly feverish, sliding out of his pants and boxers in one swift motion before she can undo his belt. He slides his naked body against hers, his cock rubbing hotly up and down her leg as they adjust themselves to find the right position with the right pressure. His mouth is on hers, on her neck, her shoulder, murmuring into her hair as she centers herself underneath him.
He slides into her and the first stroke of pleasure-pain subsides as quickly as it blooms. He feels her flinch and raises himself up, endeavors to slow the thrusts of his hips. "You okay?"
She nods, clings to his neck. "Keep going. I want to feel it." There is only a blink of hesitation before he pulls all the way out and thrusts back in, and then repeats the movement. "I want to feel it," she breathes. "I want to feel you."
A growl escapes and he snakes his arm under her hips and hoists her half off the mattress. He pumps his hips over and over as her head falls back and her body threatens to sink beneath the surface where nothing exists except for the rhythm of their bodies separating and joining again. Her nerves are tingling but she is in no hurry to come and instead moves her mouth in languid nips across his collarbone, giving him permission to focus on his own pleasure. A fullness saturates her limbs, one she could never have anticipated, manifesting itself in new kind of physical awareness. She revels in the waves of sensation and then he clutches her thigh tightly and crashes over the edge with a moan.
They don't speak at first, letting their fingers and lips and limbs calm each other in post-coital intimacy.
"You feel okay?" he asks after a while.
"Mmm-hmm." She feels grounded and lethargic in the best way; spent from exertion but not worn out.
"Was it —," he alternates playing with her braid and lightly fingering her spine. "Was it as you expected?"
"Better." She lifts her head to kiss his jaw in emphasis.
He grunts in response. "You didn't – come – during –." He dips his head down, his face hidden. Maybe she senses insecurity. Maybe.
"The first one took everything out of me."
He breathes deeply into her neck. "We'll work on that," he promises. His lips dot around her ear. "Lots of things we can try."
Her breath catches and she thinks she might find herself in range of a second one. "And you?" She nudges him with her shoulder. "Was it as you expected?"
"Sweetheart." His expression is solemn before his smile lets the light in. He shakes his head between her hands. "You have no idea."
She exhales, relishing his conviction, and is surprised by the part of her that is relieved. Then his words sink in. "Oh, is that what you think?" she teases.
"Maybe?" He turns his head and kisses her palm. "I've been sure for a while. About this. Before you were, I think."
She pauses, thoughtful. "It took some time for me to figure things out."
He pulls back, serious once again. "I know it did. I knew why I was waiting." He grins a little wildly. "Wasn't always easy, though."
There is nothing she can say to that; if she had the words to explain, she would have used them long ago. But she knows now the unspoken dialogue that flowed between them has either resolved itself in action or will meander along neatly, no longer the threat it once was.
He reaches around them and clicks the lamps off one by one. She draws the blanket over their heads where it tents like a shaman's hood, promising protection from spells cast by the jealous spirits of times future and times past. Their breaths mingle in the hot blanket darkness and she kisses him gently, softly, again and again: in apology, and forgiveness, and joy, and maybe also, almost, in love.