by Ruby Dixon
A tear trickles down her cheek and she swipes at it with her other hand. "How do you know that?"
I notice she doesn't pull her hand out of my grip, and that odd, warm sensation fills my gut again. I should let go of her hand. I don't need to touch her. I don't need to touch anyone. I should let go. I should. Instead, my fingers creak as I try to rub the back of her hand in a comforting manner. "It'll be a short trip. We grab the supplies, load the ship, and come back here. It'll be less than a day."
"And you can't go without me?" Her expression is pleading.
I can. All the usual excuses pile into my mind. I don't trust her around my things. I don't trust her not to rob me blind. Someone might approach the station for a drop off and I don't want them to see her. There's a list of reasons a league long, but the main reason is that I just don't want to. I release her hand. "No. We're going together. It's decided."
She jerks to her feet, her expression miserable. Her warm hand leaves my grasp and I feel a sense of loss…and then I'm angry at myself for even thinking that. "If anything happens to me, the va Sithai brothers will kill you," she declares in a trembling voice.
"No they won't," I bluff.
"I hate you."
"I don't care." I get to my feet, hating the whine of gears that accompanies the movement and the surge of pain. "Your pet will stay here. We'll leave in the morning, after I lock up the remaining food supplies and gather up my scrap for trading."
Her jaw clenches. "You're such a jerk." She turns on her foot and storms away.
"Jerrok," I call after her, and then pull out a slab of meat to feed her carinoux. Probably a good thing that animal wasn't around for this conversation, or he'd be eating my face instead of roast. I think about Sophie's fear and the way she trembled. I hate that I'm feeling guilty. This is why it's better to be alone. If she wasn't here, I wouldn't have any of these problems.
If she wasn't here, my food would last for months, until I could buy more off of visitors that passed through. Scowling to myself, I get up and limp over to my comm station, rubbing my leg. It needs a few worn-down components changed out, but there's no credits for that right now, so they'll just have to wait—and ache—for a while longer. I pull up a comm channel and send out a ping, looking for any signals on this end of the galaxy anyhow. Just in case we can find a friendly ship and coax food from them instead.
There's nothing, though. Even if we wanted to meet with a pirate, there's simply no one around. It has to be a station. Has to.
She'll just have to get over it.
I spend the next few hours cleaning up. Her pet slinks in at some point and grabs the roast—and tray—I've left out for it. Sophie is utterly silent, and there's not a single sound coming from her end of the hall. I tear apart a few more matter conductors, and when I can't stand it anymore, I go and check on her.
The human is curled up in bed, asleep. The old-fashioned book she brought with her is still in hand, and the carinoux is on the floor, gnawing on what's left of the metal tray. He watches me as his teeth work over the metal but doesn't move. I notice that even though Sophie's asleep, her shoulders shiver and her face is wet, her eyes puffy and red.
I don't care, I tell myself.
I don't.
I don't.
17
SOPHIE
Disguises.
Of course. The answer is simple yet obvious. Of course we're going to wear disguises. I can't believe I didn't think of it when Jerrok insisted that we go to the station. I'm all prepared to fight him the next morning, to stomp my feet and declare that I won't go, when he shoves a heavy, cowled robe into my arms and a mask. "When you turn this on, it'll disguise your features. It's illegal tech and extremely expensive, so try not to break it, all right?"
"Illegal tech?" I ask, curious. I put the mask to my face and the plas-film molds itself to my features. There's a small switch by my ear, and when I touch it, a pinkish film falls over my vision, a sign that whatever “masking” this is doing is actually working.
"Yeah. Not everything I get here is on the up-and-up. Shocking, I know." His tone isn't as caustic as it normally is this morning. "I'm going to do a last-minute check on the shuttle we'll be taking. Make sure your pet is fed and then meet me at the docking bay."
I put the cloak on and notice the sleeves are long enough to hide my hands. I check my face in the mirror and the face that looks back at me is ooli. It's shocking to see a froglike face blink at me when I blink. The disguise looks…real, as long as I keep my hood up and my hands hidden. I grab the huge tray of meat that's been prepared for Sleipnir and haul it to my quarters. The carinoux barely glances at my face, far more interested in his breakfast. I kiss his head a dozen times anyhow, because I've grown fond of him. He's the only thing really looking out for me on this end of the universe. "You're the best boy, aren't you?" I coo. "I wish you could come with me."
Sleipnir tears at the roast, the meat making a wet, ripping sound, and I remember what Jerrok said about getting between a predator and his food. Right. I scratch behind Sleipnir's ears one last time, then head out toward the docking bay. Normally it's empty—well, if you ignore all the trash and hulled-out vehicles stacked along the walls—but there's a far-too-small shuttle parked near the hangar doors. It's no bigger than a compact car back on Earth, and that's a little alarming to see. "Please tell me that's not our ride."
"It's not our ride," Jerrok calls in a flat voice on the other side of the shuttle, his arms moving as he tightens something.
His tone tells me otherwise. "Are you lying?"
"Yup."
"Goddamn it. I hate you."
He snorts and moves from around the wing, picking up what looks like an extremely heavy crate. He lifts it with a grunt, and I can hear his replacement arm creak as he carries it toward the belly of the shuttle. I stare at his face, because he's wearing a robe almost identical to the one he gave me, but his features are still mesakkah. They're just that of a stranger. Instead of his mismatched eyes, he looks at me with a level black-eyed stare, and his nose is wider than it usually is, his mouth small and flat. He looks normal enough, I suppose, but I prefer his regular face.
"Just so you know, the moment we leave this place, I am Lankham os'Riit, a junker who lives near Kadesh Station. You're my new ooli bride who I just bought because she doesn't talk." He levels me a look.
I want to bristle at how sexist that sounds, but given as I only speak English and a smattering of praxiian, it's a good call. I nod.
"Good. The less you speak, the less chance we have of anyone figuring out you're human." He grunts as he hefts the crate into the cargo area of the shuttle. "Go ahead and get in."
I lick my lips, studying the craft. "Is it just me or is this…small?"
"I'm a junker, not a house lord from Homeworld. Small's gonna have to do, princess."
I bite back a scowl of irritation and touch the hatch plate, trying to figure out how to work the thing. Even though I've been gone from Earth for several years by now, no one ever let me operate equipment or tend to myself. My praxiian owner treated me like a dog that he just liked to fuck, and I shudder at the reminder. The va Sithai brothers were good to me in that respect. Ironic that I can force-dock a pirate ship to another in space and can't open the door on this stupid thing. "I don't know how to work this."
I brace myself for Jerrok's inevitable cranky response, but he simply comes to my side and grabs my hand, placing it on the panel and then tugging at the handle next to it. "You have to do two different functions at the same time," he murmurs. "So no one can activate the door open by accident."
I'm a little unsettled at how quickly—and easily—he reached for me and how I allowed it. I should snap at him for daring to touch me, but now's not the time. "Okay."
"Silent, remember?"
I stick my tongue out at him.
He huffs, but he sounds a little amused, at least. Jerrok releases my hand and moves back to the cargo belly of the shuttle. "Give me a few an
d I'll join you. I just need to secure our trading goods."
I grab onto the doors and haul myself into the cockpit of the shuttle. God, this thing is teeny-tiny. The interior reminds me of a tiny helicopter in that it's small and pod-like. There's no real “seating” like there would be back home, just a lengthwise bench we're apparently supposed to share. I'm a little appalled at how cramped the cockpit area is, but I guess the majority has to be for the cargo. Adjusting my robes around me, I straddle the back half of the narrow bench and look at the controls. There's a fair amount of them, but some of the symbols I recognize from my time on the Little Sister. That's the one for increasing speed, and that's the one to activate the sling-drive that propels you at hyper speed, not that we'll need that in the midst of an asteroid field. Jerrok joins me a moment later in a creak of cybernetic parts as he slides onto the bench in front of me. "Trying to figure out how to escape?"
"No, I don't know how to fly this thing."
Maybe there's a hint of longing in my voice. He grunts, tapping a panel to turn it on. "If I get bored enough, I can show you."
Huh. "I'd like that," I say softly. I want to learn how to take care of myself. I hate being beholden to everyone else.
He secures the hatch, locking and cross-locking the door until we're sealed inside. The environmental controls come on in a rush of recycled air and my ears pop. "Hold on," Jerrok says. "This one has a bit of a rough acceleration."
I put my hands around his waist, since there's not much else to hold onto, and brace myself. There's a loud warning beep as one set of airlock doors roll back and we jerk forward, the small shuttle creeping along into the next bay. I tense as the doors shut behind us and then a second round of beeping begins as the doors that will lead us out into space roll open. I hold my breath, terrified that this junky old shuttle isn't going to be sealed properly and we're going to be sucked out into space.
But then we surge forward, my head snapping backward. I dig my hands into Jerrok's waist as we fling forward, and bite back a scream of alarm as he narrowly dodges an asteroid floating far too close.
"Relax," he murmurs. "You're squeezing the kef out of my side. It's one of the few parts of me that's not metal, you know."
"Oh. Sorry." I let go of him. "I'll keep my hands to myself now."
He grunts. "You do that."
I set my fingers on my knees, flexing them just a little with the memory of how firm he'd felt.
18
SOPHIE
It's a little disturbing how easily Jerrok blends in at the station. Before we land, he's joking with the docking agents over the comm. When they come out to greet our little shuttle, he talks easily to them as he pulls out the crate of scrap and lets the authorities pick through it. They glance through the shuttle's windows at me, but Jerrok waves them off.
"That's my new mate. Bought her a few months ago."
"Ooli, huh?" The mesakkah officer makes a face, shrugging his shoulders. "Guess it's hard for someone like you to find a decent mate."
"Sounds like it being hard isn't a problem," his companion hoots.
Jerrok says nothing, but his disguised face breaks into a smile, as if he's in on the joke. Ugh. "So can I get a sled for my wares or not? You can't expect me to carry all this through the station."
"Not with those limbs," the officers joke. "You pick them out of the garbage?"
"If I did, would you be surprised?" Jerrok—sorry, Lankham os'Riit—jokes back. I'm appalled, but because I'm supposed to be silent, I say nothing. I just kind of hate them all.
They haggle over the price to rent a sled to carry Jerrok's scrap, and the port charge is added on for a day's docking. When the prices are settled and the sled loaded, Jerrok slips the men a few credits that they quickly pocket. The sled lifts up from the ground and settles in at a comfortable waist height in front of Jerrok, almost like a shopping cart with no wheels. He glances over at me, expression impatient. "Come on, female. We've got things to do."
I fight back the urge to kick him, because the station's port officers are watching us with amused expressions. I duck my head, hiding my hands in my sleeves as I scurry over to Jerrok's side. As I do, I hear one of the officers make a noise of disgust in his throat. "Keffing junkers. They'll stick their cocks into anything."
Well, this is a good disguise at least. If everyone finds me repulsive, I'm safe. Strangely enough, I'm growing more offended for Jerrok by the moment. First the cracks about his limbs, now his job? They're such assholes.
And he says nothing, which makes me a little crazy.
We head deeper into the station, down a crowded corridor. Jerrok shoves people out of the way with his sled, and I practically plaster myself against his back to keep up. It's wall to wall people in the narrow tunnels, and the air feels humid and gross against my skin. There's a low murmur of constant voices, but I can occasionally hear the raw creak of Jerrok's limbs over the noise, and I can't help but notice that he's limping more than usual. Eventually, we get to a larger area filled with booths and even more people. The scent of food is in the air, and it reminds me a bit of a run-down bazaar from back home. He heads unerringly through the crowd of booths and carts, heading for an oversized booth at the back of the shopping district.
Jerrok parks the cart in front of the shop. He glances around at the crates of neatly stacked parts and metal bits hanging from the top of the booth. "Rothort here? Got a delivery."
A small, hairless gray creature with big eyes makes a bird-whistle sound at us and hops down from his seat where he was piecing together bits of metal. He races back into the back of the shop, and a moment later, the curtain parts and an enormous, hulking figure that looks far too familiar ducks out of the back.
My fingers dig into Jerrok's belt, and it's the only thing that keeps me from falling over—or running away screaming.
Rothort is a praxiian.
He's not any praxiian I know, of course. The ones I knew dressed in all kinds of glittery jewelry and loved sweeping robes. They covered themselves with decorative ornaments and probably would be caught dead before going to a trading bazaar. This guy has his mane completely shorn except for a mohawk between his catlike ears. He's wearing a grungy work jumper and an even grungier apron over his chest…but he's still a praxiian, and every nerve inside my body is screaming for me to run run run run RUN RUN.
I try to step behind Jerrok to hide my panic, but he puts a big arm around my shoulders and tucks me against his side, as if I'm his little wifey. And, well…that helps, oddly enough. I feel a little more protected, and that feeling continues when the praxiian barely spares me a glance. He's far more interested in what Jerrok's brought.
"This better be a decent load," the praxiian grumbles. "Unlike that keffing ship-slag you brought me last time."
"If you don't like what I brought, I'll just take it somewhere else," Jerrok retorts. "You're not the only game in town, Rothort."
The praxiian snorts. "Yes, I am." But he picks up a piece of something that looks like just more garbage to me and studies it. "I might be interested in buying this lot." He shoots a look over at Jerrok. "Haven't seen you in a good year or so. What brings you crawling out this way, Lankham?"
"Got mated," Jerrok says, and pats my shoulder. "She eats more than I expected."
"Charming." The praxiian puts the part back on the sled. "Name your price."
I'm relieved when the conversation moves quickly off of me again. The two males haggle for a while. Jerrok names a price, and then Rothort replies with a price. Neither likes what the other is offering, and this goes on for quite a while. Sweat trickles down my face from the stagnant, too-humid station air. I smell something cooking in the distance, but even though it's long past lunchtime, I'm not hungry. There's a sour knot in the pit of my stomach and I just want to get away from this praxiian.
Actually, I just want to get away from everyone.
The small, gray alien assistant comes out with two cups of tea on a tray and offers them to me and Jer
rok. I'm just about to reach for one out of politeness, when Jerrok puts a hand up and his big body stiffens, joints creaking. "Did I say you could feed my mate?"
The creature freezes and looks over at his master, who shrugs. "Just a cup of tea, Lankham. Don't get your tail in a twist."
"My mate will drink when I say she can drink," Jerrok continues in a tight voice, and his tail starts lashing back and forth, whipping against my heavy cloak. "She's mine."
"Universe save me from overprotective males and their mates." Rothort throws up his hands. "Fine. Let's just agree on a price and get you out of my face."
They haggle for a bit longer, but the mood has changed. It's no longer easy and like a game, both Rothort and “Lankham” are tense, and I feel my skin prickling with alarm. I almost reached for the tea, and what if they had noticed my very non-ooli hands? Was that a trap to expose us? Or just kindness? I don't know and I feel like an idiot. When we leave Rothort's booth with an empty sled and full pockets, I breathe a sigh of relief. Hopefully we can get out of here soon.
But when Jerrok immediately wheels the cart over to another booth, I stifle a groan. Right. We have to buy food. I bite back a whimper of frustration as someone brushes against me, and when Jerrok growls at them and pulls me closer, I don't protest. I bury my face against his shoulder and let him shield me with his body as he haggles with the food merchant for pallets of cheap noodles and freeze-dried meat. The stink of this place—the nearness of everyone—it's getting to me. I can feel my body tingling with the onset of panic, my breathing raspy. I push my nose against his armpit, breathing in his slightly sweaty smell. For some reason, I like it. I like the strong scent of him, that normal scent of the body, the slightly spicy scent of mesakkah. Even though this is Jerrok, right now he's the only familiar thing I have to hold onto.
He leans his head down toward me, his hand on the back of my hood. "You all right?"