Page 49 of Retrograde

Do they ever think about us? Do they know what it’s like here? Is life any better for them?

Or is it just hopeless everywhere?

“It was lovely meeting you, honey,” Lena’s voice draws me away from my thoughts: raspy, strained, like there’s something lodged in her vocal cords.

She clears her throat before pulling me in for a hug.

“You too!” I mumble into her shoulder.

She glances around, scanning our surroundings: the ashes and charred remains of last night’s campfire, and the ruins, sentinels of a bygone era. Aron’s nowhere in the vicinity. He’s putting our sleeping bags and equipment away. We can speak freely.

“I hope so too, honey.” She studies my face. “Can I give you a bit of advice?”

I nod, encouraging her with a smile.

“You’ve got a pretty face and a belting body. He’s already drooling all over you, even if it would kill him to admit it.” I open my mouth to protest, but she talks over me. “All you’ve got to do is grab him by his cock like it’s a steering rod and guide him to a place where common sense still exists.”

I burst out laughing, shaking my head.

“At least think about it, okay?” Lena chuckles too before growing serious. “I will talk to Tristan, the chief resistance commander, about you. But I need to get to him first. And even when I do ...” She sighs heavily. “Aron is a loose cannon, totally uncontrollable. He was a good man, once, a long time ago. But too many things happened that pushed him over the edge. He’s too volatile now, stubborn and fucking dangerous. He does whatever he wants and constantly drives Tristan up the wall. There’s no telling him what to do. But Retrograde completes more ops in the region than several other groups put together. The only reason Tristan hasn’t cut him off. Yet.”

Vague worry twists in my belly. I know too well what it’s like to tread a thin line between being useful and being a liability to someone holding your life in their hands.

“All I’m saying is ... like it or not, getting in his pants may be your best bet,” she finishes pragmatically, like she’s talking about gardening tools.

Then I’m fucked, I think grimly.

To change the subject, I consider asking her what got her into scavenging. But I decide against it, not wanting to be insensitive. People rarely have happy reasons for willingly shortening their lifespans.

Before I can think of another topic, Aron joins us.

“We’re going,” he barks at me, but his tone and expression change with the speed of a coin flip when he turns to Lena. “Take care of yourself, alright? You know how to get in touch if you need anything.”

Here it is again, a glimpse of a different man than the one I know. Curiosity burns in my chest, my heart is racing for absolutely no reason, and my knees go weak.

“Heh. What I need from you”—Lena flicks his nose, and he chuckles, if a little uneasily—“is for you to save your compassion for where it’s actually needed, yeah?” she tells him pointedly, and he narrows his eyes at her with a knowing smirk, even before she says, “I’m telling Tristan about Riley. I’m going to get him to intervene. I suggest you pull your head out of your ass before he pays you a visit.”

“Tell him I said hi,” he sneers.

Before he leads me away with his hand on the small of my back, Lena wraps her arms around me, whispering in my ear, “Give him hell, angel.”

19

FIVE YEARS AGO—RIFT DAY, LENA

Whoever called it “morning sickness” was a fucking idiot, I think as I flush the contents of my stomach down the toilet for the third time this afternoon alone.

And so was whoever said the waddle only starts towards the end of the second trimester, I add spitefully when I bump into the table with my hip, tipping the vase on it over.

I straighten it back up, giving the lovely pink roses such a look of disdain I’m surprised they don’t wilt on the spot. Women everywhere whinge how hard it is to get their husbands to bring them flowers. But why doesn’t anyone ever talk about how hard it is to get them not to bring them to you?

“I’d prefer a stick of salami,” I tell Oskar every single time, but it’s absolutely no use.

Pig-headed like all men, if with better intentions than most. But no common sense.

I stop to stand by the window, framed by lace-like net curtains that my mother-in-law gave us. She checks that we have them up each time she visits.

But who am I to criticise her? I don’t even know the sex of my child yet, and I’ve already decided that as soon as they’re old enough to crawl around, I’m going to tear these curtains down and blame it on them.