Lace diverted her look as she knelt to pick up one of the magnetic claws of the dismantled drone. “I haven’t been back in forty years … Maybe it’s some kinda new slang.”
“Maybe. I’ll ask and let you know.”
“Good idea.”
Adequin eyed the alarming number of parts surrounding the workbench. “I’ll leave you to whatever this disaster is…”
Lace smiled and reset her goggles, giving a curt nod. “Sir.”
Adequin cut across the operations deck and entered the chilly docking bay, stepping up the steep ramp to duck into the air lock of the Tempus. Only modestly above average in height, she knew she had plenty of headroom, but still instinctively hunched as she crossed through the air lock into the main corridor. The passageways weren’t any more cramped than any other vessel its size, but five years of living among the roomy corridors and high ceilings of the Argus made the barely over two-meter overhead seem that much more confining.
A flight of stairs took her down into the main cargo hold, split by four long aisles of metal shelving, two on either side of a wide thoroughfare. She found Griffith working in the main aisle, his silver and copper Imprints buzzing along his arms as he moved a storage crate from one side to the other. His nexus projected an inventory database screen, the orange glow of the holographic display casting his brown skin in an even warmer tone.
Adequin halted her approach, fists on hips. “SGL?”
Griffith flashed a grin. “Welcome aboard. Wasn’t sure you’d remember that one.”
“What shit could possibly have gone lateral in the practically empty cargo hold of your docked ship?”
“I need to report an infraction,” he said, a furrow pinching his eyebrows. “The EX lied to me.”
She glared.
“She swore we’d see each other before I left and…” He glanced at his open nexus. “We’re T-minus fourteen hours and counting.”
“Well, that’s a shame. She’s your CO, best you can do in this situation is file a motion of no confidence.”
He gasped. “That’s mutiny.”
“Bloody void,” she grumbled.
He laughed, shoving another crate across the aisle. “Figured you’d be stuck up there doing something stupid. You’re welcome for saving you.”
“Saving me by making me do inventory with you? You know you have subordinates to do this?”
“Look who’s talking.”
She rolled her eyes and stifled a yawn.
He grunted, pulling another crate from the bottom shelf and sliding it into the aisle. “Betcha haven’t heard SGL since, what…？”
“Well before Paxus,” she said, wringing her chilled hands.
His lips pressed into a grim frown. “Yeah, well before, indeed. You know where it came from?”
“Assumed it was an old Titan tradition.”
“Nah, I brought it with me from the Vanguard.”
She quirked a brow. “You did?”
“Except we used it as a signal to switch to a new channel so we could rail on the brass behind their backs … rather than for arranging alcoholic rendezvous.”
“Leave it to the Titans to make it about booze.”
He chuffed a laugh and activated the control screen on the crate. Adequin smiled, surprised he’d offered up that bit of history. He rarely talked about his days in the Vanguard, even in generalities.
But even the brief mention seemed to affect him. His contentment faded and a frown flattened his lips as he refocused on his nexus to take stock of the crate’s contents. He absentmindedly tugged at the left side of his collar, stretching it up over the tattoo at the base of his neck. Though over the years, the black ink had faded into his russet skin, the details of the emblem were still clear—Volucris scripted between two laurels of angular feathers, like dozens of keen-edged blades fanned into a crescent ring.