Set

Its been three months since I climbed aboard Roller with Holmes Caban on yet another one of my fruitful whims. And now we're alone again, Oberon is all in order thanks to Ice's compulsive cleaning, and the days slip comfortably past. The time has passed more quickly than expected, but so too have gone the past fourteen years of my life. I barely notice anymore. There have been periods of time much longer than three months in which I've done nothing; squatted or drifted or wasted my time with petty jobs and nothing new. I look back in this log and see what I've written...and everything I have yet to relate. I seem so sad, sometimes, but so hopeful. Earth-born optimism, Tambor called it.

Caban sits hunched over at the control desk, searching for something on the often faulty Comweb connection. He is lean, mostly muscle, only a few inches taller than me. Not big enough to shield me from anything, but strong enough to pick me up and force me into an escape pod. That shouldn't be how I judge a man's size, but now it is.
He hasn't been onworld anywhere long enough to lay down a tan, so the fact that he's mostly unmixed is as obvious for him as it is for me.
He's noticed me looking at him, now, his brown eyes searching for the clues he always manages to find in my face. His own is thin, with strong cheekbones and chin. His nose has been broken at least once and reset (or not set at all) at a slightly rakish angle. There is arrogance, there, confidence in the way he moves and speaks. As I write this he rubs his hands tiredly through his cropped brown hair and tries to lean the chair back, forgetting once again that it is bolted to the floor.

Now he is accusing me of being a spy, so I'll lay off the log for now.