Xena's Arc

Chapter 3 of 13

The galley smelled of old grease and burnt coffee. Xena set the sword against the wall behind a flour sack and rolled up her sleeves. Tom Paris leaned in the hatch and watched her take stock. She named the stores back to him: dried beans, salt pork, ship biscuit, the tank of protein paste that every freighter carried. She knew the burners. She knew the water ration. She knew how much grease a crew of seven would leave on a plate after a long shift. Tom Paris raised an eyebrow. Xena told him she could feed his crew for the whole run if he swore to keep her safe at the next waystation. He said the next stop was a small lodge on a forest moon, cedar walls and lanterns, a picture of an old starship nailed above the door. Rough traders passed through. He would walk her in himself and vouch for her sword. She spat in her palm and offered it. He shook. She cooked that night. Beans with pork fat, biscuit softened in the pot liquor, coffee strong enough to strip paint. The crew ate twice and pushed their bowls back for more. One man asked who the new cook was. Tom Paris said she was cargo crew and off limits, and no one argued. Xena scrubbed the pots down to bare metal and hung them on the hooks by size. When the galley was quiet she carried the sword back to her bunk and sat with the wrapped blade across her knees. Weeks of this. Beans and biscuit and grease traps, and at the end of it a cedar lodge on a forest moon where Tom Paris would walk her past the rough men at the door. It was not the Vega belt. It was not Seven of Nine. But it was one waystation closer, and the bargain was sealed.