Nessa shifted her feet. This was it. The proverbial ball was in Maz’s court now.
“J, you coming to eat?” Trevon interrupted the conversation. “Your food is getting cold.”
“J?” Jamison echoed. “Are you Mom?”
“I’m the parent who paid for this food. Are you eating or not?”
“We’re talking about something important,” Jamison said. “Just a few more minutes.”
“Take your time, Trevon said. “I’m sure Carson will heat it up for us.”
Jamison motioned for the nestmates to come closer.
You had better not be whispering, Nessa retorted in her mind, and after a pause, a slight dread set in. And I had better have ended the mental link.
Nessa scooted closer and strained to listen.
“The younger race is in trouble,” Jamison told his friends. “Their importers cut off all trade. They cannot self-sustain.”
His announcement was met by crossed arms, smirks, and exchanges among the nestmates. Finally, Skyla spoke up:
“Why should we help them? They ARE the reason we’re scattered to begin with, and we’re all stuck here.”
Jamison gave brief attention to Nessa and pointed to her. She rose. The nestmates pivoted. Scion nodded his agreement, and said, “Ah, 886.” They returned to the huddle with Jamison.
“Nessa,” Jamison corrected. “Her name is Nessa.”
“She helped us find you,” Elektra chimed in.
Jamison glanced back to Nessa. wiggled his index finger toward himself. Nessa chewed on her thumbnail and kept in a shrugging position as she moved toward the elder race.
“The first generation are the ones to blame,” she explained. “Most died out when my parents were my age--in their twenties. My parents are the second generation. I’m the third. Our people now have no idea their history. The first generation didn’t talk a whole lot about the war, and it’s been warped in our textbooks; no one had enough information.”
When she’d made her case, she waited in the silence for the nestmates and Maz to make a decision. Her future hung in the balance, but she decided to say one more thing.