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Just forty-eight hours ago, everything had been under control. The wormhole was intact. Dubauer had assured her that the ship was camouflaged where nothing and no one could run across it. Dubauer was alive.
Now she was in the middle of a forsaken desert, with no connection to Beta or the rest of the civilized galaxy, and the only other human around assured her that they had a hundred and twenty miles to get back to a village. (She wasn't sure what she would do with one copy of her father, let alone ten dozen of them. Had they never heard of kilometers?)
Also, she had to shit. Like, a lot.
"Drink this," said Rowan. "You need to replace the water."
"Thank you," said Cordelia. She could be polite, in this, at least. "You still haven't told me where we're going."
"You're still under ban."
That again. "I would have been perfectly willing to submit to your authority if you could have helped me with my comrade."
"The outskirts kill," Rowan said, as if observing a fact about the weather. "It was hard for me, too, when I first came here. This way you might stand a chance of making it home. Not today," she added, before Cordelia could protest. "Drink."
Cordelia drank. She didn't bother explaining that her home was a little out of reach. This woman wouldn't understand.
She needed sleep, but it was excruciating to lie down. Instead she paced. And she prayed. Seeking forgiveness for what she had done to Dubauer. Consolation for his family. Hope that the Magritte, on the other side of the wormhole, was safe. She didn't expect an direct answer to her prayer, of course. That wasn't how it worked. But the ritual gave her stability, in such a strange place.
Rowan regarded her oddly. "You're a Christer."
"A Christian?" Cordelia echoed the alien pronunciation. "Yes, I am."
"Your god must really have a sense of humor, to lead you out here."
Had some semblance of organized religion endured out here, when they'd forgotten everything else? Did they have scriptures that talked about Jerusalem and Rome? Did that mean anything to them? She yearned to ask, but Rowan would not answer her questions. "I suppose."
"That doesn't bother you."
It wasn't a question--Rowan had been very clear about speaking in a flat, indicative tone, to her, ever since that "ban" nonsense had first come up. "God's creation is a big place," said Cordelia, carefully. "You have to laugh, sometimes."
Rowan regarded her with a degree of respect. "I suppose."
Cordelia nodded. Then she went to shit again.