Travel Log: To Remember

Today was a charging and maintenance day. I’d parked TW, the majestic H30K custom Beetlebus, near the entrance of the temple of the 10 gods in Beran. Exhaust valves at each of the joints hissed and groaned as excess steam was forcefully evacuated from the pipes. I, a cup of their best coffee in hand, stood by, leaned against the wall and watched the priests and mechanics work. I hated letting others work on TW, but being cut off from the gods meant there weren’t much I could do about it.

The priests, dressed up in their ceremonial robes, prayed and plead to Phanti to charge the crystals with the heat of the greatest of the suns. They prayed to Frintal to “bless this woman with the power of the oceans.” A small number of them prayed over the crystals that would power my dash and lights, imploring Stromm and Nishti for electricity and light.

In a secluded corner, Luccya’s priests wailed and prostrated themselves on the ground, trying in vain desperation to receive any form of power from her as fuel for my conditioned air. Symbols of kites adorned their robes, and elaborate cords dressed their arms and waists. They burned incense and effigies, honoring her in an elaborate dance of denial.

I took a sip from my coffee and observed them. It was hard to watch. Luccya was long dead. She would never return. Even as the world of Tehrin would end in the flames of three of the suns, those priests would still hold onto a shred of hope that She lived and would save them in their time greatest need. Their final breaths would be in tear-stained prayer.

I shook myself out of my pitying reverie and watched as one of the mechanics, a tall, mousey-haired woman, skittered up to me. In her hand was an old, browning photo. She’d been assigned to external detail work. I frowned, hackles already raised.

She stopped in front of me, looked me up and down, and finally spoke with a noticeable quiver in her voice. “Uh. Bretta. Ma’am,” she started. Her name tag read ‘Holly.’

I set down the coffee on the counter behind me with a clunk, arms folded, looking down at her. “I thought I told y’all the cabin’s off limits.”

She took me in, thick arms, glare, and furrowed brows. She began to tremble. “Sorry, ma’am!” She said, holding out the photo to me.

Two women stood in the photo with an earlier prototype of my TW H30 Beetlebus. Her beautiful, slender, insect-like legs still lacked a coat of paint. The women, both tall and covered in oil, grinned with pride at what they had just accomplished.

Holly’s mousey whine broke through my thoughts. “I didn’t, ma’am. I found it on the ground.” She shuffled, digging a hole in the tiled floor with her foot. “I didn’t mean to find it.”

Her own arms were covered in grease. Not oil. She must have only been working on reapplying the outer, protective layer. I grabbed the photo and held it close. “I’m glad ya brought it to me. I’d have hated myself for losing it.”

She looked at me then at the photo and turned to leave, but instead, she stopped herself, opened her mouth, squeaked, and with a hesitant step, turned to leave again.

I chuckled to myself and set the photo down on the counter next to the coffee cup. “You can ask.” I said, leaning back against the same counter.

Her light footsteps froze. “Oh! I didn’t. Well, I-I was wondering if that was someone you knew.” She wrung her hands together, fingers intertwining.

I took another sip of coffee and chuckled. “I’m in the photo, ain’t I?”

“I mean, you are. I just didn’t want to assume.”

I held up the photo again. “Yeah. We knew each other.” I said, mind on the lanky woman in overalls that held a wrench in her spare hand. Beautiful. Smart. And snarky as anyone could be. And a damn good kisser. I closed my eyes and imagined her calloused hands brushing my cheeks, bringing with them her irresistible smell of metal shavings and sweat.

Holly broke through my memory. “Who was she?” She had come to lean stiffly on the counter next to me. “I mean. Were you two. I don’t mean to pry. You don’t have to answer if you don’t—”

I laughed. “We are lovers, yes.”

“Are? Or did you mean were?”

“Are.” I started and paused for a long moment. “We’ve had to go our separate ways for a bit is all. We plan on meeting up again, eventually.” A scene played out yet again in my mind. She and I, huddled in a collapsing building, praying for something or someone to save us from the coming flames. I shook my head free of the pain. Remembering wouldn’t change what would happen. Nothing could.

“Bretta, ma’am?” Her voice broke through the cloud of memory. “Are you okay?”

I plastered on a smile and nodded. “Absolutely, I am.” I managed to say before pointing up at my TW Beetlebus. “We built this together years ago. Built it from scratch. She wouldn’t have had it any other way. She was always very particular about her projects.” I laughed, remembering the many, heated discussions we would have about using the gods’ power. I hadn’t been cut off back then.

Holly’s eyes widened as she looked up at my machine. “From scratch?”

“We sure did. Every piece is a ‘Lucya’ original.”

“Do you mean Luccya?”

I shook my head. “Lucya. She’s just named after Luccya. Her parents were devout followers and wanted to keep that tradition alive.”

“What,” She started; her eyes remained locked onto the photo in my hand, trying to choose her words carefully.

“What happened to her?” I asked and received a nod of confirmation. “We managed to get separated. We—"

Images of our final moments together returned to me. Heat. Flames. The suns had turned their anger against the world that had abandoned it. This was to be a final destruction. The torrent of heat and destruction approached, torching whatever it didn’t immediately melt. We cried, plead, wished, and begged the gods to do what they could to help. None of them answered.

Except one.

I managed to pull myself together enough to continue. “We both had work to do in two different places. Work that we simply couldn’t not do. And before you ask, the work is something I keep close to my chest. I’d appreciate being able to keep it that way.”

She nodded and paused, clearly reformulating her next words. “I can’t imagine being away from anyone I cared about that much for a lifetime.”

I put the photo back into my bag, safely tucked away. “It sometimes feels like two.”

A long moment passed between us. Only the sounds of chanting, grinding metal, and hissing steam scratched the surface of that silence. I shifted my weight, eyes unfocused and distant. Distantly, I could almost hear her voice. She had a voice like an engine. It could purr softly or scream when it needed to. I closed my eyes, remembering her crystal-blue eyes, tough skin the color of well-oiled leather. Strong, well-worked arms and an eye for detail no one could beat. She was perfect, and she would be perfect again.

“Bretta?” Holly asked, voice loud enough to indicate she’d called at least twice already.

“Yes?”

“I need to get back to work.” She said, pointing back to my TW again. “Thanks for your story.” She almost managed not to sound awkward. But I nodded to her in appreciation and finished off my coffee.

Once I had gotten back and settled into my TW, I reached for my journal. Normally, I could handle the distance, the two lifetimes I had now lived without her. Two lifetimes without her, and she was none the wiser about it. I held the journal close and checked my calendar. Our first, chance meeting at the scrapyard was to happen in just a few days. I would grab a small gear, my hand brushing on hers. We would lock eyes, I’d smile, and a few days later, we would share a first kiss.

I envied the woman that would enter that scrapyard, but work had to be done, and I had to be the one to do it. My story could wait.