by Ruby Dixon
Some of the tension eases in his shoulders and he looks oddly relieved. "What's wrong, then?" There's an oddly gentle tone to his voice that seems…new. "Don't tell me that sight moved you to tears." He gestures at Sleipnir, who's busy trying to rake leaves over his business.
I let out a little snort-giggle. "No. I just…didn't expect to see this." I reach up and touch a plate-sized leaf, feeling the waxy surface. "My mother had a garden and it made me sad."
"Just as long as it's not me."
What a curious thing to say. He cares if he makes me sad? After being so brutally mean to me? I arch a brow at him but he's deliberately looking anywhere but at me.
14
SOPHIE
Sleipnir paces warily around my legs but doesn't attack. He watches Jerrok the Jerk closely, his big, catlike body tense as if he's ready to spring for the alien's throat at any minute. It reminds me that I need to keep my tone sweet, my comments neutral. After all, if Sleipnir kills Jerrok, I won't cry over his death, but I also don't want to put myself into a situation where I end up starving because I can't figure out how to work the equipment here on this broken-down station. So for now…I need him.
He's also being polite, which is throwing me for a loop. Well…not entirely polite. Jerrok-polite, which means he's being caustic but not terrible. He also seems to be a little distressed at my tears, which tells me he has a heart somewhere under there. My old praxiian owner used to growl at me if I cried, because it made my face puffy and he found that unattractive.
I'm also bored as hell, and if Jerrok's not snapping at me, it might be nice to have a conversation. I run my fingers along one of the huge leaves near my head, still utterly fascinated that this place exists in the midst of what feels like an interstellar junkyard. "What is this place?"
"Terrarium," he says, studying the unlit cigar thing in his hands before putting it into his pocket.
"Yes, but why is it so overgrown?" I glance over at him.
His mouth—arguably the prettiest feature he has—twists into a sarcastic expression. "Because when they replaced my thumbs I forgot to ask for a green one."
I resist the urge to snap at him, because Sleipnir's tail is thrashing. I turn back to the leaves, and the next one I touch feels fuzzy soft, like lamb’s ear. I lift it to my cheek and rub it against my skin, enjoying the sensation. "You don't have to be so unpleasant, Jerk." I keep my voice sweet, even if it sounds fake to my ears.
Jerrok shoots a look over at Sleipnir and rubs his arm. "Don't I?"
"This will go a lot better if we're friends, you know. Sleipnir doesn't eat my friends."
He grunts and leans back against the door jamb again, still rubbing his arm. It's the one that Sleipnir mauled, and I feel a twinge of guilt. Does it hurt him? He deserves it, of course, but I'm not cruel or hardhearted enough that I like the thought of any creature in pain. I sniff the leaf, and it smells a bit lemony. I can already tell I'm going to be spending a lot of time here in the terrarium in the future. All these plants—maybe I can clean this place up a bit, figure out how to make them bloom…something.
Even the best of books wears thin on you after repeated readings, and I'm there with Outlander.
I move to the next plant, and the small tendrils and stalks remind me of cucumber plants back on Earth. I wonder if there's an equivalent here in space?
"Your pet shits everywhere," Jerrok says in a quiet voice. "I…thought it was you. I found it here in the terrarium and thought you'd made a mess on the floors."
My lips twitch, and I turn to look at him. "Me?"
His face is a little flushed, his shoulders hunched as if he's uneasy. Or shy. "Didn't know it was here," he mumbles. "And I've never been around humans before."
"Is that an apology, Jerrok the Jerk?" I ask lightly.
His jaw flexes. "No."
"I think it is. Apology accepted." And I laugh when he shoots me a hot look. Oh man, Sleipnir being around gives me control, and I have to admit I love it. "If it makes you feel any better, I'll clean up after him. I imagine he can help with the fertilizer here in the terrarium and the floors could use a good washing anyhow." There's pretty tilework under my feet, but it's covered over with grime and dead leaves.
"Do whatever you like." Jerrok shrugs. "Just…don't cry."
"That's like asking you not to be unpleasant." I deliberately work on my tone being airy and carefree as I move toward him. Now that he's clean, I can't stop staring at him. Jerrok looks very different now. He's not wearing the goggles that cover half his face, and it's easier to make out his expressions. His nose is narrow and a little long, but still larger than any human nose I've ever seen. His eyes are jarring to look at—one normal and one so very obviously cybernetic—but I'm getting used to that. Gone are the heavy layers of filthy rags, and today he's wearing an old station jumper of some kind, the type Kaspar puts on when he's doing mechanical work. It doesn't fit him quite right—the arms are a little tight and the cuffs too short—but it emphasizes how powerful his form is. In a way, he reminds me of Adiron in physicality. Big and imposing, but also not too terrifying. He's wearing a glove on one hand, though, and keeps touching his false arm. I can't help but notice that the material over his thigh fits tighter on one leg than the other, and I wonder how much of him has been replaced.
I want to ask what happened, but it seems impolite, and we're being decent to each other. I'm not going to mess that up just yet. I study his face and notice that he's got dark circles under his eyes. I wonder if he has nightmares every night. "So what's with the counting?"
Jerrok stiffens. "Counting?"
Something tells me he knows exactly what I mean. "When I woke you up from your nightmare—you're welcome, by the way." He snorts, but it's not in a cruel sort of way, so I continue. "You were counting in your sleep. It seemed important."
He's silent for a long moment and then pulls his cigar thing out again, scraping a nail across the tip. It flares to life, and he puts the stick between his lips and gazes out at nothing in particular, avoiding eye contact. I'm just about to give up on getting an answer when he says, "They didn't have time to put us through a bunch of rigorous training for the war. No time for mental strengthening classes. So they told us that if we got captured by the enemy and tortured for information, to count. Just count. They said it'd help us keep from breaking." His jaw flexes. "Bunch of keffing liars."
My mouth goes dry. "Torture?"
The look he gives me is hard. "I don't want to talk about it."
I get that. If someone sidled up to me and started asking about my time on Praxii Minor, I wouldn't want to talk about it either. "Sometimes it's best to let the past die. Not everyone gets that."
He grunts, glancing over at me. "You ever go to war?"
I shake my head. No war, but I know something about going through hell. Sleipnir pads away, losing interest in our conversation, and I guess that's my cue to go, too. I don't want to talk about war, or my past, or anything uncomfortable. Not with a stranger. Not with anyone. "I guess I'll go read my book again. Thanks for the conversation. It was a nice change of pace." I give him a faint smile and walk away.
He clears his throat before I get too far. "Noodles tonight."
I turn. "Is that an order or an invitation?"
Jerrok's mouth twists in that self-effacing, almost angry way. Like he can't decide if he's being wry or if he's pissed at himself. "Neither. I'm just letting you know I'm making noodles tonight. Come eat some if you want. Or don't. I don't care."
"I think that sounds like an invitation." I smile over at him, and his expression changes when I do. His gaze goes to my mouth and the cigar in his mouth bobs.
Just as quick, he looks away again. "Don't get too flattered. I don't want to be friends. We have to discuss a game plan."
Something tells me that the “friends” jab is a lot of bluster. God knows we aren't friends. We're barely civil. Does he think I'm going to declare never-ending love over a bowl of grudgingly prepared noodles?
Please. "Game plan?"
"Yeah. Your pet's eating all my food. We're going to have to go on a supply run unless you want to eat him."
"I'm not eating Sleipnir!"
"Then that settles it, doesn't it?"
15
JERROK
Even though I have an endless list of tasks I have to complete before I leave my asteroid on a supply run, I keep thinking about the female. I think about her sad eyes and the way she rubbed the leaves against her cheek. I think about the time our hands touched. I think about jerking my cock to her again.
I think about that a lot.
I tell myself she's an irritating distraction. I tell myself that she doesn't matter, but when I work up a sweat and smear grease all over the front of my clothes, I find myself heading to the shower to wash up, just because she looks at me different now. I tell myself I don't like it, even as I carefully comb my too-shaggy mane out and wonder if I should shave my head. As I leave the lavatory, the scent of cleaner touches my nose and I hear humming. A quick glance down the hall shows that she's wiping down panels and cleaning the floors, both of which have probably not seen a cleansing agent in the eight years or so I've been living here. A little part of me is irritated that she thinks she should just sweep in and take over, cleaning everything she sees…but another part of me kind of likes the humming. So I don't tell her to stop. What do I care if she cleans a few dirty walls?
I don't. It's not like she's staying.
I clean off a table in my work area and set up two empty crates to work as seats. I tell myself it's because we're going to need to have a serious discussion, not because I want her to sit and eat with me. I like being alone just fine. I'm humoring her.
I make a big pot of noodles and find a few capsules of tea from my last supply run. I heat more water for the tea and then wait for her to show up. After about ten minutes of waiting, my mood sours. Wasn't she paying attention? Can't she smell the keffing food? Irked, I head down the hall toward her room, ignoring the twinges my cybernetic leg is sending. She's asleep in her bed, curled around her pet. I raise a fist to bang on the wall and wake her up, and the carinoux's ears go flat as he stares at me. Waiting.
Something tells me if I startle her, I'll be pulling my arm out of his mouth again.
I glare at the animal and shuffle back to my workstation. Kef it. She can come eat when she wakes up. It won't be my fault if it's cold.
I get back to work, pulling out an old compositor and prying it apart. If I check on the noodles and keep them hot, it's just because I'm not ready to eat yet…or so I lie to myself. I scrap the compositor and start on a dark matter converter, one of the more expensive pieces I've been holding onto for an emergency. I have a buyer at a nearby station and I can sell this in a heartbeat, but I always hold a few things back in case I need a quick influx of credits. Like now.
A sleepy groan draws my attention. The female stands there in the doorway, rubbing her eyes. "I'm so sorry. I think I fell asleep. You wanted to meet for dinner, right?"
I grunt and straighten, my limbs creaking. "Food's just now ready," I lie. "Come sit."
I wipe my hands and gesture at the table I've prepared, and she thumps down into one of the seats. I can't help but notice that her small feet are bare, peeking out of the cuffs of her jumper, and they look odd with all their tiny toes. Interesting, though. I make a mental note to look at her hands again, to see if her multiple fingers look strange and disgusting. She yawns again, showing white, square teeth.
"Where's your pet?" I ask.
Her smile is slow and easy and makes me feel…strange. "Probably visiting the terrarium. Don't worry, I'll clean it up."
"I know." My tone's a little rougher than I intended, and I grab the bowls and dish out noodles, thumping a bowl in front of her. "Eat."
"Thank you," she murmurs, and her voice is still sweet despite the fact that her cranky pet is nowhere around. For some reason, that bothers me. I don't want her to be nice. It's easier for both of us if we can't stand the sight of one another. Then we'll be relieved to part ways. So I put her cup of tea down with a bit more force than I should, ignoring the way she jumps. I thump down onto my seat and glare at her. I'm mad at myself for this stupid set-up. Why did I make a table so we could eat together? Why does it keffing matter? She's not staying. That's how I like it. I'm better off alone in the universe. No one has ever had my back, so why set myself up for pain?
Better to be alone.
I dig into my food, my mood sour. Eat quickly, I tell myself, so you can get up and leave. I shove noodles into my mouth with haste, barely using my serving sticks. My fingers work better. I slurp and chew, and then glance over at her.
The female's eyes are wide, her serving sticks poised over her bowl. She's watching me eat with a slightly horrified look on her face. She blinks. Twice.
"What?" I bark, swiping my sleeve over my face. It comes away soaked and covered with bits of noodle. I feel like an idiot. I'm eating like a rabid beast, like some sort of fool that's never seen serving sticks before. Like I've been starved…and I push my bowl away, no longer hungry, because I don't like that I'm turning back into that half-feral creature I was when I was freed from the war camp, the grimy, broken half-man who ate scraps on the ground because that was the only way to survive.
She toys with her noodles, unaware of the torment in my mind. "You wanted to talk about…food supplies?"
Maybe I did earlier. Right now, I just want her to stop looking at me with distaste. "Yeah, your pet's a problem. Unless you want to space him out the airlock, we're going to have to get supplies."
Her jaw drops. "Space him out the airlock?"
"What else do you do with unwanted pests?"
"He's not unwanted!" Her eyes shimmer with unshed tears again, to my dismay. "Someone stole him from his home. It's not his fault he's just trying to survive." Her mouth trembles. "It's certainly not his fault if he's not accustomed to station living. Blame those that stole him, not him."
Now I feel worse. I've wounded her, and I hate that she makes me feel like this. "Whatever. He's still a problem."
"Why are you such a jerk?"
"Jerrok," I snap. "For the millionth time, human, it's Jerrok."
"Sophie."
"What?"
She flings her serving sticks at me, the utensils thumping against my chest. "If you're going to chastise me for saying your name wrong—which I didn't, I was insulting you—at least have the decency to learn my damn name."
I rub at my new uniform, now covered with wet splashes of noodle broth. "Let's just make a plan so we can end this conversation, all right?"
"Fine!" She crosses her arms under her teats, and I can't help but notice they're rather large and prominent. That's why humans get stolen, isn't it? Because they have large teats even without reproducing, and because their cunts are supposed to be tight and soft and—
I squeeze my eyes shut, my cock responding at the thought. Kef me. "Here's how it's going to go."
16
JERROK
The little human—Sophie—sits ramrod straight across the table from me, bristling with irritation. We've managed to get on each other's nerves again, but I'm not apologizing. She's the interloper. She's the one that's the problem.
Not me.
"We can do this one of two ways," I say, flicking a stray bit of noodle off my sleeve. "We can send out a call for a corsair cruiser to meet us somewhere and pay an obscene amount for their food supplies, or we can venture out to a station. I vote station."
To my surprise, she pales. Her pink tongue darts out and she licks her lips. "I-I would prefer pirates, I think." Her voice is trembling. "Are they nice pirates? Like…the va Sithai?"
I snort. "What do you think the odds are of that?"
Her hand—small and delicate for all its many fingers—moves to the collar of her jumper and she clutches it tight at the throat, her shoulders shrinking. "I'm just…I can't go to a station." Sophie swallows hard. "What about the Li
ttle Sister? Any word from them?"
I shake my head. "Nothing. The Slatra system is a pretty large system. It doesn't matter if they have a map—it still might take them a lot longer than anticipated before they find the wreckage. Longer still if they run into other pirates. We can't wait for them if we like eating."
Her eyes are huge as she looks at me. "Can I stay here?"
"No."
She thinks for a moment longer. "I still vote pirates. You have guns." Her hand tightens on her clothing, and she looks extremely nervous and fragile. "I'm not the best shot but I-I-I can try."
"You do realize if we invite pirates here, they're just as likely to loot the entire place and leave us with no food anyhow?" I offered it as a suggestion, but in my mind, it's not an option. I don't want to invite anyone to my home that doesn't already know it's here. Half the time I don't want the few visitors I have anyhow.
"Yes, but…I can't go to a station." She reaches across the table for my hand, her fingers skimming mine. "Please don't make me go."
My brain feels as if it's overloading. The hand she's reached out to touch is the gloved one, the artificial one, but I still feel as if I'm burning from that small contact. I don't pull away. Something about me wants to keep touching her. Why did she reach out to touch me? Touch my bad hand? The one I'm so ashamed of that I keep it covered at all times? I keep my voice reasonable, even though I feel like my mind is drowning in a sea of emotions I didn't realize I still had. "I…grew up on them…stations. They're not bad."
Sophie still looks terrified. "But if we go…what happens if someone sees me with you? I'm a runaway slave. I can't go back to my old master. Please, Jerrok. I'll cut my portions in half. I'll only eat once a day. I'll see if Sleipnir can eat less—"
"Sophie," I murmur, turning my hand over so I can awkwardly grasp her hand in mine. Fear of captors, of being caged again? That's something I understand very, very well. "You will be in no danger. I won't let you come to harm."