Free Paragaea by Chris Roberson Page A

and back again.
    â€œWhat is it you say?” she demanded.
    â€œWell,” Hieronymus began sheepishly, “we never said that no one knew the way back to Earth. Only that most people don't believe in its existence, and that you'd find no answers among the learned men and women of the cities.”
    â€œChto?”
    â€œI mean, in all the world, there must be someone with that knowledge,” Hieronymus went on. “There are whispers and rumors aplenty,out on the fringes, of those who know the secret ways. One of them must be true, it only stands to reason.”
    Leena looked into the depths of her mug, the fumes from the spirit stinging her eyes.
    â€œBut how will I find them with this knowledge?”
    Hieronymus and Balam exchanged glances over her head. The jaguar prince laid a clawed hand on her forearm, gingerly.
    â€œWe have no pressing business, at the moment,” Balam rumbled.
    â€œYes, things have been getting a little dull, of late,” Hieronymus said. “A proper quest would give my life a bit of shape, a sense of purpose. What do you say, Balam? Shall we help the little sister in her hour of need?”
    Leena looked up, not willing to trust to hope.
    â€œWe've taken on harder tasks for less reason before,” Balam answered. “Which is not to say it will be easy.”
    â€œEasy?” Hieronymus said, pushing off the stool and jumping to his feet. He mimed a martial pose, like a comic opera hero. “And where would be the fun if it were easy? If we have to storm the walls of the Diamond Citadel of Atla, if we have to scale the fire mountain of Ignis itself, well…” He tapered off, looking around the pub and realizing his drink had gone empty. “Well,” he went on, sudden inspiration striking, “isn't that better than hanging around here till death takes us in our sleep?”
    â€œIf you say so,” the jaguar man rumbled with an easy shrug, and turned his attention back to his drink.
    Hieronymus dropped back onto the stool, and laid a comradely hand on Leena's shoulder.
    â€œLittle sister, tomorrow we will set off in search of safe passage back to Earth, so that you may fulfill your duty. For now though, if you please, will you stop looking so damnably depressed, and have another drink with us?”
    Leena looked at the pair, one a time-lost officer from a capitalistnavy, the other an impossible animal man straight out of her childhood fairy tales, and offered a weary smile. Perhaps it was the cheap spirits, but she was beginning to feel something not unlike hope.
    â€œAnother,” Leena said, motioning for the barmaid with her empty mug. “If there is a single thing the Russian understands, besides their duty,” she explained with resigned humor, laying an arm across Hieronymus's shoulder and another across Balam's, “it is the value of a drink.”

The next morning, with Hieronymus leading the way, Leena was dragged through innumerable market stalls and upscale shops and boutiques. Her ragged orange nylon oversuit was quite the worse for wear, and her two companions had insisted that she be outfitted with clothes and supplies immediately.
    Leena was less interested in fashion than in function, saying that she could make do with Hieronymus's castoffs, but Hieronymus had urged that she should be able to blend in as much as possible with the populace. Not all of the Sakrian cultures were as cosmopolitan and welcoming of outsiders as Laxaria, and it would be useful to learn now how to blend in unnoticed with a crowd.
    Leena was unused to the range of choices presented to her, and even more unused to being followed around each stall and outlet by a sales clerk, eager to meet her every desire. Even in the days before she wore nothing but uniforms—and she'd worn nothing but the standard issue for the Cosmonaut Corps, the Air Defense Forces, and the Red Armysince she was in her teenage years—her clothes had been