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“You still have your hard currency cards?”
“Yes.”
“And the ID chips?”
“ Yes .” There's an edge of exasperation in Secunit’s voice now, when they're about ten questions deep into Pin-Lee pestering it about a million details that don't really matter. Intellectually, she knows it's beyond capable, beyond competent, and more than able to get back to Preservation all by itself in the unlikely event that its newly minted working relationship with Perihelion and crew happens to turn sour. All the same, she can't quite quell the urge to be sure. The Preservation Responder is scheduled to depart within the next thirty minutes, and for the first time in a long time, Secunit will be fully out of contact again. It's already promised to send messages when it can, but those instances will be sporadic and dependent entirely on their missions taking them into space equipped with communication networks. And visits home will be even harder to predict. Once it's gone, it's gone. Indefinitely.
Pin-Lee manages to reel in the urge to ask if it's packed a toothbrush and deodorant the way she once did when seeing younger siblings off to college, but not by much. That had been her job, her responsibility, practically her duty as an older sibling. But that isn't something Secunit needs or wants from her. It may be physically younger, but they're equals in the important skills for navigating life: skepticism, sarcasm, and overpreparation. Secunit will be fine. And Pin-Lee…Pin-Lee is going to miss it a hell of a lot more than she could've imagined in the beginning, when they had hustled it out of the deployment center and into a whole new life. None of them had known then what it would be to them now. Sure, they’d had brief glimpses of who it was during the chaos of the survey… The courage, the loyalty, the stubborn, unyielding, teeth-gritted kindness that made it self-sacrificial rather than vengeful even after it had given itself a choice—those were the broad strokes, the lightning jolt of clarity that had meant they could never leave it behind. But there were heroics and then there were the smaller, quieter moments that had come later. Between the two, those are the ones that make Pin-Lee’s chest go tight when she ponders the fact that they really are leaving it behind this time. It's a friend now rather than just a trauma-bonded acquaintance. She's grown accustomed to drones hovering in her peripherals, to having combat-booted feet kicked up on her desk and a sardonic voice in her feed, and to having a bulky shadow looming in her wake whenever her work takes her into contact with corporate liaisons regardless of how benign the meeting may appear to be. It has a favorite spot on her couch and a standing bi-weekly date for them to watch the disaster documentaries that she's never able to wheedle anyone else into watching with her. They trade barbs and creative obscenities in the feed as a hobby, often while complaining about the same irksome council members. It has slotted comfortably into her comparatively small circle of friends, carving out a unique space for itself one blunt kindness at a time…A space that’s going to feel painfully hollow the moment their ships part ways.
Pin-Lee purses her lips and props her hands on her hips. They're idling in front of the airlock separating Perihelion from the Responder, but there's very little left to say. The others have already cycled through, saying their private goodbyes and imparting their well wishes while she was busy confirming the contact details for the University representatives that Preservation will be conferring with going forward. Pin-Lee is the last, not necessarily by design, but certainly by habit. She's used to having the last word. Today, though, it's difficult to find the right one. She had been the first to greet it when it walked back into their lives and now she was here, the last one to say goodbye as they stepped back from the next leg of its journey.
It isn't any easier figuring out what to say now than it was then.
“Okay, then.”
“Okay.” Secunit, clad in soft Perihelion-issued sweats, leans against the wall adjoining the lock as if it's been a part of this ship for years rather than just a month or so. The only hint that it isn't perfectly comfortable with the situation is the slightly pinched look on its face. It tends to forget to keep its face in check when too much of its focus is trained on another problem, like wading through its sixth goodbye of the day. So far, it's put up a valiant effort not to flee into the recesses of the ship and hide until all this emotional shit is over—an effort made even more impressive by the fact that one of those goodbyes was coming from a sensitive, possibly sappy-under-the-circumstances teenager. It had made a point of loudly and repeatedly reminding certain people that hugs were contractually prohibited before the goodbyes had even started, but the odds are high that some form of uncomfortable emotional farewell had still happened. Pin-Lee doubts it has the bandwidth to tolerate much more, and she refuses to ask it to do that. Still. Walking away from it without leaving any sort of parting words feels cold, even for the petty, pragmatic nature of their friendship. The first half of the conversation had been a duty. She was its legal counsel, after all, and making sure her client was equipped for success was second nature for Pin-lee. That came as easy as breathing. The friend half of this conversation, though…this is infinitely trickier.
“I’m going to keep the next season of Disaster Deep-Dive archived for the next time you're on Preservation Station,” she says, as if that will be next week rather than maybe sometime next year if they’re lucky.
“You said that before this survey started.”
“And it's still archived, because I keep my word.” Pin-lee considers tacking on a “you asshole,” but in this moment, she isn't sure if that will ease the tension or ignite it. She settles for an exasperated sigh that hurts a little as it clears her chest. She hadn't thought this would hurt this much in general. She’s said goodbye to friends venturing out on long, exploratory missions before, knowing that it would be years before she lays eyes on them again, and she’s always managed to be practical about it. But the difference lay in the fact that those trips had always had hard end dates to mark on the calendar. “It isn't going anywhere.”
Secunit's face freezes for an instant, the implication hitting just about like Pin-Lee had thought it would. She watches the emotion crystalize and then evaporate as Secunit scrambles to pretend that no emoting had occurred, all in a matter of seconds. She gives the drone whirring at her eyeline a taunt smile. Their shared shows aren't going anywhere, and neither is PresAux, regardless of how long it takes for Secunit to wander back to them this time.
“Be careful,” she says, even though she knows it won't be. “Don't die.” She puts that thought firmly away once the words are out. The risk is too high and her imagination too vivid. Best not to dwell on it. “And don't even think of engaging any hack legal representation if you run into trouble with anything out there—if you need legal services, send a message, and I’ll come wherever it is you’re going.”
“ART says it technically has a doctorate in Judicial Science.” It’s just shy of smirking when it points that out. Pin-Lee rolls her eyes. Of course Perihelion has a legal doctorate. She can’t say she’s surprised, given the caliber of document fraud it pulls off. Or that she isn’t a little relieved. After all, she would absolutely drop everything and come if Secunit called, but odds were that it would be too late to help with anything time-sensitive if its travels take it very far.
Still, it’s the principle of the thing. Pin-Lee smirks back.
“Good for ART–you’re technically still my client, regardless of where you happen to be. Don’t forget it.”
“You, too.” It pauses, grimacing a little with the pesky tangle of verbiage that comes with being flustered. “You’re still a client—my client—too.”
“I know,” Pin-Lee says, softly. That’s probably as close to outright emotional as either one of them can get without treading too close to a meltdown. She’s okay with that. After all, she knows better than anyone that—in the right circumstances—the word “client” confers a great deal of care. She’ll take it. “We’ll try to stay out of trouble while you’re gone. No promises on Ratthi, though.”
“Locking him in the shuttle worked well for me.”
Pin-Lee tamps down a snort at the image, but her retort is cut off by the two-minute departure warning. A feed message from Mensah follows it with a gentle reminder to hurry things along if she’s still talking shop with Turi. Secunit pushes away from the wall, straightening out of its slouch as the lock between ships hisses open with the slightly eerie sort of precognition that Perihelion seems to relish. Their time is up.
“I guess that’s it, then…” Pin-Lee hesitates, then takes a step forward to cross the line that demarcates the ships. She turns back to face the airlock for the moment before it closes and raises a hand to wave. It still feels a little strange, a little wrong, a little like abandonment…but this is what Secunit wants. And if, for once, it really knows what it wants, what else could she do besides wish it well? “Safe travels—”
Traditionally, this would be the place for something affectionate like “friend.” Pin-Lee lets a slow smile unfurl. In this case, there’s only one acceptable option. It feels like the right place for it now.
“—asshole.”
The corners of Secunit’s mouth twitch and it lifts a hand in an automatic rude gesture. Likewise, says the message that pops into her feed as the doors slide shut in front of her. Two ships’ engines begin to rumble, and for a moment, the last few lines of Secunit’s letter to Mensah roll through Pin-Lee’s head. Out of inventory and out of sight. There’s a tinge of déjà vu to it, even if “inventory” hasn't applied for some time now. It's out of sight certainly…but it won't be out of mind.