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“I am so sorry,” says the girl, kneeling down before Instance has even fully recalibrated, and reaching for the samples dropped when they’d banged into each other. None of them are dangerous, at least, which is why Instance’d been carrying them back to the lab in an open-top box to begin with, but she can spot at least one cracked petri dish. “Let me get those for you.”
Instance doesn’t bother trying to help, mostly because she’s past eighty and every time she bends over or stands up these days her knees hurt like hell. She’ll give the kid this--she’s polite about it, not groveling, and stacks the samples carefully so that the broken one’s on top and the big ones are at the bottom. Not a total idiot at least, and it’s just as she’s thinking that the girl looks up and Instance--
--stops breathing. Stares down at the person before her, long dark hair drawn up in a ponytail, eyes dark and vast and swallowing, looking back at Instance like she can see every damn thought in her head, just like always. Feels her hands hanging limply at her sides, no strength to pull down the body, no dexterity to untie the noose, and as she’s thinking that the person before her opens her mouth and says:
“Um, are you alright?”
That tiny bit of hesitation is enough to bring Instance back to exactly where she is and who she’s with: on the planet rather than aboard the ship, next to a person she’s never met instead of one decades dead. “I’m fine,” she snaps, and again, again, those dark eyes look up at her without flinching. Before she can stop herself her mouth’s open again: “Who’s your parent?”
“Aya,” says the girl, and then, “Cyanopica, that is. She’s affiliated with Engineering too.”
The Helio brat with the anxiety disorder, right. Now that she’s said it, Instance can see it in the shape of her jaw, but that’s about it. The rest just makes it glaringly obvious where Tangent’s donated genetic material wound up: her cheeks, her lips, her goddamn eyes. Even the inside of her hair, iridescent purples and blues and silvers, are reminiscent less of her mother and more of a woman long dead.
Strange. It’s only right now, looking down at this child, that it occurs to Instance that she’s known Besk as a corpse for longer than she ever knew her alive.
“Engineer Instance?”
The girl stands, still holding the box, still watching Instance carefully. “Would you like me to carry these for you?” she says. “I’ve got a little bit before I’ve got to get where I’m going, so it wouldn’t be any trouble.”
Well, it’s true that Instance’s joints were hurting even before she crashed into this kid, so: “Alright.”
Just like that the girl falls into line with her as they start off towards Engineering. Normally Instance would prefer to walk in silence, but today she finds herself snapping, “What were you even doing that you couldn’t look up?”
“I’m supposed to be meeting Cousin Nomi soon. They promised to help me look over my new story, so I was trying to get in some last minute edits.”
“You’re a writer,” says Instance. It comes out more neutral than she’d thought it might; a wisp of memory she hadn’t known still lurked in her head murmurs, Culture is necessary to nurture the human soul.
“Mm-hm,” says the girl with a little smile, as they draw close to Engineering’s door. “I like horror. Ah, here.”
Instance snorts as she takes the box back; she’s seen too much in her time to understand the appeal of watching people’s lives end miserably on a screen. “No matter how much you like it, there’s no excuse for not paying attention.”
“I’m sorry, Engineer Instance.”
Her words are routine and dutiful, but at least she’d said them, which is more than some of the other brats around here might’ve bothered with. Instance sighs, rolls her eyes, waves for the girl to get out of here. “Just be more careful next time.”
“I will.”
With that, she’s off right back the way she’d come towards the lounge. Her hair shines in the afternoon light; without meaning to, Instance finds herself paused in the doorway, watching that figure grow smaller and smaller.
Years and years ago, after Besk had died, Instance had found herself--of all things--dwelling. Going over each moment they’d spent together without even meaning to, picking them apart for clues that would still never help her understand the mind of someone like that, and though she’d thought she’d kicked the habit, one old memory surfaces now: Besk, a few years after Kombucha’s birth, leaning against the side of Instance’s desk and looking out at the vast expanse of space.
For once, though, she’s caught not on how Besk stared at some far-off star nor the listlessness of her voice, but the words that had come from Besk’s mouth. Isn’t that the point? Besk had said, in response to a question Instance no longer remembers asking. No matter how miserable our lives are, maybe the next generation can have a kinder world.
A kinder world, where a child could grow up writing scary stories because she’d never lived them herself. A kinder world, where a child could crash into someone she’d never spoken to, and in response offer a helping hand. A kinder world, where a child could smile without even a hint of shadows in her eyes.
“I guess so,” says Instance, in response to that years old question, and watches as in the distance, that girl moves unflinchingly forward.