Jerej removes the piston from its mount. The seal curls up on one end, blown open by the force of the hydraulics.
Jerej grunts in displeasure. “Hand me that adhesive, would you, Ava?”
I glance at the supply shelves behind me. Cans and tubs of all sizes fill the levels, each with their own indecipherable label across the front. I could no more pick out the one he wants than fly the ship.
Jerej looks up and rolls his eyes. “The red can. Top shelf, on the right.”
I fetch it to him and step back to watch.
Jerej coats the seal in sticky spray, fits it back onto the piston, and pulls a device with a wide muzzle from the fixes dangling at his belt. It buzzes softly as he moves it around the edges of the seal.
“What’s that?” I say.
Jerej throws me a half-amused look. “A cold fuser. What else?”
“What’s it do?” I ask, even though I can guess it’s somehow meant to help the seal stick better.
Jerej raises his eyebrows. “It doesn’t interrupt me when I’m working.”
“Sorry.” I drop my sodden rag into the bucket and grab a clean one. Learning fixes is well and good, but Jerej is right. His work is Priority. I shouldn’t be pestering him.
Jerej fits the piston back into the arm, refills the hydraulic chamber, and snaps the casing around it once again.
“There. That should last us till we dock, at least.” Jerej wipes his hands on his trousers and buzzes up to the control room with the handheld hanging from his belt. “So Balab, are you there?”
“Right so.” The older man’s voice comes back.
“I’ve got it raveled,” Jerej says. “Start it up.”
An electric hum fills the air. The boom shudders to life and resumes its slide, folding itself gracefully into sections.
Jerej pockets his handheld and grins. “Told that oldboy I’d do it.” He looks at me, and for a moment, I see the smallboy he was when we were younger, the one who played chase with me in the hangar bay before we were old enough for our separate duties.
Behind him, the metal arm jams and a deafening bang rocks the air. The boom jerks and collapses on itself with a shriek I feel in my teeth.
“Damn!” Jerej jumps clear of the spar and holds out a hand to shield me. In the distance, the warning alarm starts up again.
His handheld crackles to life—Balab, cursing him blue and laying out his plans for my brother’s worthless hide.
“I hear you,” Jerej shouts into the handheld. “I’m on it.
“Damn,” he says again, once the alarm has shut off. He runs a hand through his hair and kicks the boom. “Worthless. How am I supposed to do a proper fix with scrap for a seal?”
I bite my lip. “Maybe . . .”
Jerej frowns at me. “What?”
“What if you made it so it didn’t push so hard?”
“You mean decrease the pressure?” Jerej shakes his head. “That seal’s so bust, Lifil could break it.”
I reach past him and finger the seal’s frayed edge. It’s not the center that’s weak, only the outer rim. It’s like trying to keep the top on a jar of preserves without a ring.
“What if you had something . . .” I trail off and hurry to the supply shelves. I rummage through until I find what I need—a round rubber belt with enough give to fit over the mouth of the piston.
Jerej makes a face. “What’s that for?”
“To keep it in place,” I explain. “You lower the pressure, see? Then you put the seal back on and put this over it, around the sides.”
“I don’t know.” He takes the belt from me. “I guess . . . it might do. The casing wouldn’t fit back over it, though.”
A moment of doubt creeps up on me. “That won’t hurt it, will it?”
Jerej frowns in thought. “Not in the short run. I s’pose no casing’s better than no boom at all.”
I hover near the stairs as Jerej tries my fix. When it’s in place, he calls up to Balab again.
“You’d better have it this time,” the head Fix grumbles.
The hum starts back up. Slowly, the boom moves back on track, clicking as each section snaps into place. I hold my breath. It’s slower this time with the pressure turned low, but the seal holds. The last length of the arm clicks home, and the machinery powers itself down with a sigh.
“It worked!” Jerej grabs my shoulder and lets out a short laugh.
I laugh with him, and for a span of breath, we are those children again, running free across the bay.
Then suspicion chills Jerej’s features. He steps away from me and narrows his eyes. “How . . . how did you know that fix?”
“I didn’t,” I say. My mouth has gone dry. “Just a lucky guess.”
We stare at each other in uncomfortable silence. The other Fixes would never let him hear the end of it if they found out a girl had made the fix for him.
“I only wanted to help,” I say. “I won’t tell anyone.”
Jerej’s mouth sharpens into a line. “No. You won’t.”
I catch my breath, stung. Jerej is right. He’d be teased, sure, but we both know I’d have more to lose if it came out I was the one to find the fix. Even so, it hurts to hear him say it.
“You should go,” he says. “You’ve got your own chores.”
“Right so,” I agree. And without another look at him, I flee up the stairs.
The girls my age are still off on their duties, so most of the women bathing themselves are wives, some only a few turns older than me, their bellies big with child. They smile on me and whisper to their neighbors as I kneel on the cleanroom tile beside them. The word I’m to be a bride must be making the rounds.
I cover my hands and arms with oil and try to ignore the leaden feeling in my stomach.
Never let them see you doubt, I hear Modrie Reller say. A so girl is a beacon to her people. She is our mother Saeleas reborn in virgin glory.
I lift my chin and concentrate on wicking away the day’s flour and dirt with the dull, curved blade of my strigil. Let them talk. As gossip goes, it isn’t the bad kind. Far better than any rumor about my unnatural interest in fixes. Maybe it’s better to be remembered this way, the dutiful daughter, not anyone extraordinary. I will be like Saeleas. I will be a story my crewemates tell their smallones of how a woman may be raised high by virtue and obedience.
I find Modrie Reller waiting for me back in the women’s quarters, Llell at her side. I stop dead. Llell’s arms are full of copper bands and quilted cloth, her eyes fastened to the floor. By all rights, she should be the one being washed and prepared for betrothal, since she’s near a full turn older than me, and we both know it. Modrie Reller knows it, too. It’s pure cruelty to make her attend another bride. I flash a look at my stepmother, but her face is serene.