by Amanda Milo
Lem releases her just as she tosses her weight into throwing him off. Thrown off her balance, she’s going to crash to the floor.
But she doesn’t fall.
Brax catches her with his tail.
Slowly, he uncoils it from her person, but they remain staring at each other, silent.
I’m gaping. And I know I am when Brax makes an impatient crest-trill at me—it makes the Gryfala jump and it makes me remember I’m being timed.
I try for a placating tone. Three clicks. I take a deep breath. “You uploaded our severance credits, but Lem and I don’t want to leave, so we agreed to bank them—collecting interest—and sign up with you for another set of solars.”
At this, the lines on either side of Brax’s mouth soften, I think. Or not. Because his spines snap down suddenly before spearing up even higher than before.
No idea what to make of that.
How much time now? Two clicks left? I scramble to finish on my own before he decides to assist me by using that tail he’s swinging in short, angry flicks. “And, ah, I was bounding around, wondering which pen it was that you bought me from: everything looks different when you’re older, you know?” Brax’s tail lashes hard enough to make an audible snap, and the Gryfala’s body flinches but it’s like she's hypnotized: she isn’t breaking eye contact with him. I talk faster. “Then the crowd got so thick, I almost gave up and turned around, but I kept hearing the word ‘Gryfala’. They were auctioning them. They were… there were so many! They pulled this one—” I lean my upper body over, and cant my head to indicate our princess. “—out by her mane.” Lem looks at her mane in dismay.
Probably worried about germ transference. I sigh.
But Brax pins me with a furious stare that has my quad muscles tensing. “A group of Gryfala? Auctioned. Impossible.”
I gesture to the evidence. “Okay.”
Brax scoops up the wrench I’d abandoned on the floor after my attempt to distract Lem. With a growl that makes the Gryfala jump, Brax hurls it through the wall.
We all gape at him.
“Hey!” a new voice yells. “That almost hit me, teveker!”
This must be the mechanic Brax set out to canvass for and employ today. The sound of a new, shouting voice has the Gryfala shifting and I reach for her hand. The new hire comes storming around the corner… and stops dead.
So do I.
It’s a hob.
“What are the odds?” Lem says under his breath.
“Today? I don’t know whether this has all been a sign from the universe that we should buy a lottery ticket, or not.”
“Depends on whether you survive the day,” Lem returns.
I straighten enough to shove his shoulder with mine. The hob doesn’t even seem to see us as he clearly struggles to process the unexpected presence of a princess. He jerkily drops to one knee, but he can’t take his eyes off of her enough to fully bow his head.
Apparently a good thing, because the Gryfala becomes extremely ...uncomfortable at his paying of respect. The hob swiftly moves to stand, and he’s so focused on her it’s like he’s in a trance. He moves to take a step towards her, but she makes this unexpected, apprehensive noise.
And Brax is suddenly in front of us.
I involuntarily hop back. He’s face-to-face with the Gryfala, who stays rooted, staring up at him.
Brax must have made the protective block without conscious thought because right now he’s is appearing thoroughly horrified at himself.
He swallows hard and breaks the Gryfala’s stare—looking away first.
You could knock me over with a yanak right now. Brax too, because he jerks hard, before he swings his flinty gaze back in her direction. He’s wearing a killing glare. He aims it just over her head though.
I rest on my haunches and stretch my spine. Well! This is the most interesting day I’ve ever had in all my years on this ship. I wish I had a bucket of cheatigs to crunch on while I watch this.
Behind him, the hob shifts uncomfortably.
Smoke rises from Brax’s nostrils. “New hireling.”
“My name is—”
“I do not care. I’ll learn it if you stick around. For now, your job is to keep this ship’s engines running, and now take this… take care of her. Do whatever it is you’re supposed to do.”
His horns swing as he pins a glare over his shoulder at the hob, and holds it. He grates, “Just keep her far away from me.”
He slowly faces forward again, and his wide, wedge-shaped toes tap on the floor in agitation before he crosses his arms over his chest. “Why is she bleeding?”
The words are benign; the tone is not. Accusatory, is what it is.
I scratch behind my ears. “The Culc suckered her.”
Brax, who never has anything but vitriol to hiss about Gryfala—growls as he spits on the back of his hand. The Gryfala doesn’t even seem to breathe as he crowds up to her, and—teeth bared—he moves in close enough to gently brush his saliva coated knuckles across her injured cheek.
Brax told me once if Gryfala ever succeed in synthesizing Rakhii saliva, they will have no reason to deal with his kind any longer.
However, I am strongly doubting this assertion. He is dismissing a telling, unexpected aspect: there is an undeniable, strange appeal between the species, as made obvious right here, between this female and Brax himself.
Brax has never suffered for female attention when he steps off this ship in places that actually have females—perhaps he is underestimating his effect on them; any of them. But there is certainly something here, something different.
A bucket of cheatigs to snack through while I watch on indeed. I bounce a little, enjoying the show.
Regrettably, this action breaks whatever spell these two are under, and Brax’s departure is as abrupt as it is swift.
I watch the Gryfala. I watch her staring after him and think, You are wrong, Brax.
Yes, he healed her cheek. But she doesn’t look as if she’s weighing the benefits of adding him to her service. This is not cold, shrewd calculation in her eyes right now. Curiosity, yes. And as her face-furs furrow with confusion: I see it in her eyes—this is heat. Heated interest.
CHAPTER 10
TAC’MOT
The new hire—Grake, he introduces himself—approaches her slowly.
She’s checking her face, seemingly unable to believe she’s no longer bleeding, and it must not sting anymore either, because she’s feeling all around like she can’t quite find the injury site anymore.
Not hard to imagine. It was likely shallow enough it probably really did heal completely over. Rakhii saliva is a miraculous substance.
The hob suddenly flares his wings for her and succeeds in catching her attention. But instead of appearing bored, or forcing a flattered politeness like I’d imagine a princess would react if she regularly gets such attention—she stiffens and takes a wary step back.
Lem’s got his chin in his gloved palm like he’s observing a nature documentary on the holograph. “Female rejects the potential male suitor…”
I wince at her fear smell. “How… unexpected. I’d have thought having a hob would have been the perfect solution. Most welcome.”
Grake’s face is set in grim lines. “With the right hob, normally yes. But I wasn’t fit for service. I was given a rejected label thus I never even saw the inside of the academy.”
“You were still raised by a Gryfala,” I point out. “At least you’ll know better how to care for her than we do. You’ll know what she needs.”
“She seems like she would be high maintenance.” Lem pipes in, lips pinching, eyes back on her mane. I hope he’s not about to obsesses over it. His various eccentricities can get so tiresome some rotations, but for her—not being used capitulating to random full-cleanse nanobaths at some stranger’s whim in order to keep the peace—they could be especially alarming. Since she has already shown discomfort around Lem, there is actually quite a high probability that she would find h
is eccentricities extremely alarming.
Grake bends the top of his wings outward, making a sort of dismissive gesture, the talons on the tops glinting, and for the first time, I see the potential harm a hob could cause. Though I’ve never viewed them as a threat before, I suppose if you’re a Gryfala who doesn’t desire one’s attention…
Not that hobs would hurt a Gryfala. Wear on her patience maybe, but not hurt her. Yet this female seems so very wary.
Grake holds up his hands, conveying his sense of baffled helplessness. “My sires were completely dedicated. I have no idea what my dam ever needed because they made sure she never needed for anything.”
I clack my teeth.
The hob circles her slowly, having to distance himself quite a bit before she relaxes enough to let him get a look at the sleek line of her wingless, smooth back.
Lem was not incorrect earlier—with nothing else plaguing my mind, now that I really look, there are no wings under there.
Grake whispers, “This is unthinkable...”
I nod. “Take a peering at her fingers.”
“Declawed!” He’s aghast. “My dam would have scratched their eyes out if someone tried to so much as clip her nails.”
Lem pipes in. “I heard once that there is a place women spend leisure time in shops and pay others to clip their nails.”
Ha. That’s ludicrous. What a waste of a good, natural line of defense. No female would pay for that.
At our looks of disbelief, Lem sniffs as he tugs a lens wipe packet open and swishes it over his shield in a slow, meaningful manner. “Seven. Years’. Wages,” he reminds me.
I clear my throat and mumble, “Right, Lem,” and decide that it’s going to be a bit of a long while before he lets this rest and really, it is of utmost importance that I turn my attention to watching the hob interact with the Gryfala.
Grake tries for a little while longer to engage her, but the most she does is dart her eyes towards him and edges away whenever he tries to talk or circle closer to her. It seems to be setting her on edge. “Better give that up,” I warn him.
I suppose he needs no warning, since he can surely read a Gryfala better than I. But he inhales like he has a hard time believing her scent isn’t letting up its anxious cast. Appearing completely dumbfounded, he asks, “Why won’t you speak, princess?”
“I don’t think she understands you,” I inform him.
That gets his eyes off her. “What…?”
I wave my hand to indicate her. “Whenever she has spoken, either my translator is faulty—or she doesn’t speak Gryph. I was going to see if Lem here could verify for me either way in case his works fine and mine’s just non-operational, but since she isn’t responding to you, I’m not sure how to relay that we want her to try talking.”
Grake looks her over thoughtfully then says, “This freighter’s hold is filled with diamonds. It looks like a treasure cave down there. Have you seen it?”
He lies—this is absolute falsehood. A Gryfala though, would be far too curious not to verify it, no matter how far-fetched a claim it was. But it’s of no matter: her expression doesn’t even flicker.
“Crite,” Grake breathes. Then his brows furrow in extreme concern. “How?”
Lem fiddles with the one of the oxygen tubes on his suit. “You said you’re a reject. Doesn’t that happen fairly young? Have you traveled off of your homesoil ever since?” The hob flinches, causing the princess to send a sharp look at Lem.
“That... is correct.”
“Is it possible Gryph isn’t the only language spoken in the time you’ve been gone?”
Grake looks like this is ridiculous. “They’ve never spoken anything else. What reason have they to add now?”
Lem’s face screws up. “Don’t you all have a translator implanted so you can communicate in other languages?”
“You mean like you do? Sure. You know how that works, don't you? I can speak any language that’s uploaded into the system.”
“Hmm. Why isn’t hers in the system?”
He holds up his hands. “Do I look like I’m important enough to rate an explanation for anything? I’m a reject. I haven’t stepped foot on homesoil in so long, I’m starting to forget what it looks like.”
Lem sniffs. “It was a rhetorical question.”
Apparently not ready to give up just yet, Grake waits until she’s looking at him again. A shimmering cloud is kicked up when he attempts to be clever by preening at his wings—letting some of his marking dust fall off the thin membrane.
It works in that he has her attention—but she doesn’t seem hopelessly attracted.
In fact, when I nudge her in his direction, her eyes go wider and she scrabbles back to stay with Lem and I, holding onto us—me, even though I know she’s feeling suddenly resentful towards me.
I can smell it.
“My apologies,” I say, feeling contrite. I’d been trying to help, not terrify her.
Grake is continuing his endeavors to win her favor. “Here, let her go, and I’ll call her,” the hob insists.
“Last attempt,” I decree. “I believe you’re stressing her out.” I gently pry up her fingers—to which she responds by clamping her other hand on my person.
“You’ll have to be quicker than she is,” he points out.
I let out an exasperated noise. “Don’t you think I’m trying?”
When he opens his wings again, his colors going brighter with his excitement, I try to give her a last little nudge, steering her towards him. “It’ll be alright: he’s your kind. Let him serve you properly while you’re here.”
But she clings to my hand, gaping at the hob as if he’s announced an intention to chew off her feet.
“Why would she react like this?”
I stop trying to force her, and end up with her fairly fused to me. Acting relieved, she buries her face against my arm a moment. Just as quickly though, she must think better of this plan because she adjusts so that she can keep an eye on—what she obviously believes to be—the untrustworthy hob. “Maybe stop with the wings. She’s responding as if you are threatening her every time you open them.”
“Maybe it’s not so much that she’s opposed to taking you into her service as it is her not being interested in mating right now.” Lem is examining his suit for slices in the material where she scrabbled at it trying to hold on to him. “After all, Tac did just beat her.”
Grake’s wings slam open, and the Gryfala scrambles to get behind me. He looks distressed when he sees this and sounds confused when he shouts “You did what?”
“I didn’t beat her!”
Lem calmly talks over me, still addressing Grake. “That could be why she’s refusing your display.”
I wonder if I did strike her too hard. Even if I didn’t, but she feels like I did that would—
Lem continues conversationally, “It might not be you. Could be that she just hates the pattern on your wings.”
Leveling him with a look, Grake takes a deep breath. “That makes me feel so much better.”
With that possibility hanging in the air now, he folds his wings back, keeping them tightly pressed together behind him. After that, she lets me go, avoiding me entirely.
“You struck her?”
I groan. And, I note, his demeanor towards me has gone frosty.
It is so similar a reaction to hers towards me that there’s no mistaking they are a species match.
Now he eyes her protectively before turning a warning glare on me. It’s a tense few clicks until our stare-down is cut short by the afternoon alarm going off.
I trill as I try to think. “I don’t know what to do with her. I’ve got to get to work.”
Obviously, I can’t let her have free run of the ship. She doesn’t trust us, she can’t talk to us, and as evidenced by the run-in with the Culc, she could hurt herself with many dangers even once we’re in the air. What else am I to do if she won't go with the hob? She certainly won’t enjoy spending a rotation with
Lem—not that he’d let her anyway. I sigh. “She’s not going to like this.”
The hob is instantly prepared to defend her. “What are you—”
I stave him off with upraised palms. “My quarters. She’ll have to stay in my quarters. But I’ll have to lock the princess in so that she doesn’t wander off and give Brax a reason to shove her out of airlock.”
CHAPTER 11
TARA
One minute, I’m starting to quietly state my case, as futile as it might be with our inability to communicate and all—but I itemize everything: the absolute insanity of being taken from my babies to being spanked by an alien—and the next thing I know, the Kentaur is sort of herding me down yet another spaceship hallway.
Still miffed at him for shoving me at the one with the wings, I march well ahead of him, all while casting a wary eye over my shoulder to keep him and the Biohazard Suit in my sight.
I stop when the Kentaur calls to me. And stiffly, I even approach him and the door he’s standing next to when he motions for me to come closer.
The door slides open almost soundlessly, and I peer inside.
I can’t see a thing.
It’s a dark room on an alien spaceship. I shake my head. “Nope, no way, I’m not going in—"
A hand lands midway on my back and gives me a little ‘prompt’. Enough with the pushing me around! “Arrgh!” I snarl as I fight not to be shoved into the dark.
But this room must have a sensor, because as soon as my bare feet cross whatever invisible boundary, the lights flood on.
It isn’t creepy or scary like I thought it would be. In fact, neither is it prison-cell styled like I was starting to imagine nor is it overtly a torture chamber. It’s… odd. The most normal thing about it is the large built-in cubbyhole in the wall, the blanket and the pillow confirming that it’s a bed.