“You ever done carpentry before?” she asked.
“No,” he replied. “I’m surprised they didn’t put you in the pottery shop.” She’d been assigned to the loom studio.
Refuge tried to align asylum grantees to jobs in their area of expertise, but obviously, that didn’t always work out. There couldn’t be much call for his skill set—undermining foreign governments, infiltrating citizen organizations, and disseminating disinformation.
“I’ve never thrown any pottery. I just ran the business side of All Fired Up.”
“Have you done any weaving?”
“No.” Her lips quirked in a merest smile. “I feel like we’re visiting a pioneer village. I guess the name, Artisan’s Loft, should have been a clue.”
He chuckled. “It’s no bigger than a loft either.”
“And I thought Willow Wood was small!”
With a sweep of his silvery arm, Lucento had been able to point out the “village” in its entirety—a mercantile, a mess hall doubling as an auditorium, a tiny infirmary, the “woodshed,” loom and pottery studios, an admin office, which included a library, and a laundry. If you rode through Artisan’s Loft and blinked, you’d miss the entire “town.”
“After the probationary period, we might be able to transfer elsewhere, but I doubt another hamlet will be much bigger,” he said.After the probationary period, we’ll no longer be together.
“I assumed in an age of faster-than-light space travel, an inhabited planet would be a little more advanced.” She blew on her cupped hands.
“I think eventually it will be, but building infrastructure takes time. Any new colony starts from scratch—everything manufactured must be shipped over. Hence, they rely on the natural resources. Living off the land lends itself to a primitive existence. At least the domiciles are composite prefabs and not log cabins.”
She blew on her reddened hands again. “I’m not sure that makes a difference. It’s freaking cold in here.”
“Let’s try out those herb cakes,” he suggested.
He took a quick gander at the antiquated stove, figuring out how it worked then stepped outside. He eyed the row of identical white cubes, wondering which one the others had been assigned to.
Grimacing, he grabbed two herb cakes barehanded and reentered the unit and shoved them into the belly of the stove. He lit them with a striker then ducked into the lavatory. For a man his size, the bath was a claustrophobic fit, reminding him of the clone tank that had birthed him.
Geneticists insisted clones had no memory of gestating, but Marshall did, recalling the confinement, floating in a viscous liquid, green light, voices, and other sounds. He’d get flashbacks and panic attacks during times of stress or extreme confinement, which was why his duty in the field had been shorter than most, and he’d been reassigned to a desk job.
He’d freaked while tunneling under the Kremlin and had blown the mission. Gods of space only knew what had been imprinted on his permanent record as a result. Ironically, aged clones unable to physically perform in the field got released like racehorses put out to pasture. With two decades of service, he should have been retiring around now. But since he’d beenpulled from the field early on and been given a “cushy” desk job, Dark Ops would have kept him indefinitely. The only way out was to die—or desert. Given those options, he’d chosen the latter.
I’m free now.
Except for being shackled to a resentful, snippy ball and chain. But she’d be gone a year from now.
They seemed to be getting along at the moment, but he wouldn’t hold his breath as to how long that would last.
Stepping into the lav, he broke into a cold sweat and his heart began to pound. Quickly he washed his hands and leaped out. “Water’s hot,” he announced. When he showered, he’d have to leave the door open to get through it.Ifhe could get through it.
“Are you okay?” Warming her hands over the stove, she peered at him. The smoldering herb cakes had begun to throw heat.
He strove to gain control of his breathing. He could feel a full-blown panic attack building. “Fine. Why?”
“You seem…I don’t know…forget it.” She shrugged.
He raked a hand through his hair and redirected the conversation. “You have any idea which unit is Bragg and Faith’s?”
She shook her head. “I came inside when Lucento led them down the street. We did talk about the four of us going for dinner at the mess hall.”
“When?” He struggled to sound normal. He felt like he could leap out of his skin.
“Dinnertime? We didn’t mention a specific time. They know where we are, so I imagine they’ll come here.”
Bile rose in his throat. The cabin seemed to be shrinking. He needed air, space. In two strides, he’d reached the door.
