by H. E. Trent
“That’s where she told me to go. For breakfast.”
“Where who told you to go?”
“Her name was Amy. She knows this place better than I do.”
His jaw hinges twitched and eyes widened momentarily, but he quickly smoothed his expression. “Yes, she should.” He’d said the words so low under her breath that Court wasn’t certain he’d meant her to hear them.
She didn’t press. Just filed his response away to ponder later.
A little face pressed against the downstairs window of the short apartment building, and as Court smiled at the child, the man made a shooing motion at the window. The child scampered away, letting the curtain fall.
“My mother used to do that,” Court said, chuckling. “Every time someone came to the door, my siblings and I would sneak up to the window to see who was outside. My mother would try to shoo us away before anyone saw. We didn’t understand why she did that until we were much older.”
He raised his chin slightly, and she noted that his former slump upon her approach had gone away. Maybe he viewed her as harmless, or maybe he was annoyed with her. Either way, his spine was straight and head held high. The posture suited him much better in Court’s opinion.
“And why did she hide you away?” he asked.
Court shrugged. “Because she didn’t trust anyone. She wasn’t paranoid, either.”
“Nor am I.”
She nodded and let silence stretch between them for a moment. She scanned the street around them, seeing more childish faces in windows, and a few men on the steps of their faux-brownstones.
Where are all the women?
When that little face appeared in the nearest window again, Court reached slowly into her jacket pocket, grabbed the sweet inside, and held out a small parcel to him.
He made no moves to take the candy, so she turned it over in her hand and pointed to the label.
“Still sealed. I’ve got low blood pressure. I always carry a little chocolate with me when I’m out in case I get dizzy.” She smiled. “It’s my mother’s favorite kind. I figured you could share some with your little window spy. Can Jekhans digest tree nuts?”
“Tree nuts?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“What kind?” He moved his fingers slowly toward hers. She held very still to let him bridge the gap.
“This kind has almonds.”
“Walnuts give us problems, not almonds.” He took the candy. Studied the wrapper and nodded his head with finality. “Thank you. I don’t have anything to pay you with. I always pay.”
“The candy bar isn’t charity. It’s a gift. I brought a whole crate of them. I had to choose between those and a crate of shoes.”
He slipped the chocolate into his shirt pocket and looked down at her feet. “You are a strange woman. Most settlers would bring the shoes. There is no manufacturing facility here for the styles your kind prefers.”
She shrugged again. “There will be soon enough, I guess. And I’m a strange woman from a strange family. I’d rather have candy than shoes. Besides, I could always wear the style you guys prefer. Looks comfy.”
He looked down at his feet and wriggled his toes inside his lightweight shoes.
From what she’d observed during her short tenure on the planet, Jekhan footwear tended to be soles made of a latex-like product and fiber uppers. They tightened at the ankle with two small tabs. Definitely nothing like the shit-kickers she’d be wearing at work.
“They’re custom-made for the wearer to slip on and off easily,” he said. “Removing our shoes while in the home used to be customary. Of course, our homes weren’t…like these. We’re more likely to keep them on now.” His voice went soft at the end and he looked wistfully toward the window. This time the child didn’t run away.
Court smiled and waved at the child. Cutie.
“You’ll find Spilled Milk near the river,” he said. “Continue down to the end of this street and turn right at the river wall. The café will be two doors from the end.”
“Thank you, sir.” She gave him a wink and started on her way.
“Madam—” he called out.
She stopped. Turned. “My name is Courtney.”
“Courtney.” He enunciated the name as if trying the word on for size, and then walked to her side. In a low voice, he said, “I am Herris. There are eyes all around.” He pointed to this and that as if he were simply indicating the landmarks she should explore. “Everything is monitored. You know that?”
She pointed, too. She knew the game.
He shook his head dramatically.
“What do you mean? I figured you guys were getting the Big Brother treatment, but I suspect you don’t mean that.”
“Big Brother?”
“Earth saying. Comes from a book by George Orwell. Big Brother is government, and government is always watching.”
“Ah. I see. But, I meant through your com. Every time you pass through a gate or make a call to certain parties, the activity is recorded.”
“How do you know?”
“Others told me. I believe them.”
And Court didn’t think he had any reason to lie to her about that. If he wanted to get rid of her, he would let her keep on in her current manner. Eventually, she’d find her own trouble.
“So, you’re saying I should stay out of Zone Seven.”
“Unless you have a compelling reason to be here, Miss Courtney.”
“Thank you.”
“We reap what we sow.” He gave her a slight bow and climbed the few steps to his building’s door.
Her grandfather had always said that. “If you sow discord, don’t be surprised to reap bitter fruit.”
She was but one person. She couldn’t undo what had already happened on Jekh, but she could do her part to not plant any more toxic seeds. Being on the losing side all her life had put a fire in her belly. She could take the easy way—be comfortable. Absolve herself of her own nastiness so that over time, she didn’t know she was losing her humanity one interaction at a time. McGarrys didn’t want to evolve that way.
Too many people already had.
___
When Murk opened his eyes and his pupils adjusted for the dim light, he found Trig squeezed into the corner near his feet reading the same book of fables he’d already read dozens of times.
Trig closed his book, set it on top of his bag, and squeezed his body into the narrow crevice at Murk’s left. He twirled the ends of Murk’s hair. “You in there?”
Murk closed his eyes and nodded. For once, his mind was clear. At least for the moment, though he could have sworn he’d felt something licking his face earlier. He rubbed his chin, furrowed his brow.
Trig grinned. “The licking? That wasn’t me. That woman’s pet did that. It—he, I think—seemed quite taken with you.”
What was the pet doing in our secret place?
Trig let out a breath. “He’s upstairs now, I guess. I sent him out. For all I know, he could be sitting in the closet staring at the wall. The lady, she left the door open, so I had to do the same.”
Murk nodded. He was glad that Trig was thinking ahead. Trig had a tendency to be rash—to act without considering repercussions. Murk sometimes found that charming, though. Trig’s zest for life and devil-may-care attitude had brought Murk out of a very dark place when they were younger. Murk was burdened with too much knowledge—too a heavy a future, before his future got ripped away by the settlement movement. Trig had helped him come to terms with his adult responsibilities—of being a merchant when Murk would much rather have been a painter.
Now I’m neither.
“We all have to do things we don’t like to get the things we want,” Trig had always reminded him. Of course a farm boy would have that attitude.
Murk turned his face toward Trig, and noticed the jacket under his cheek had become very luxurious all of a sudden. He tried to squint at what was beneath him without lifting his head.
“A real pillow,” Trig said.
“Hers. She slept on it last night. I swapped it for another pillow in her closet.”
How long before she notices?
“I’ll make another swap tomorrow. I’ll take that one back and bring down the one she uses tonight. And…I have this.” Trig sat up and reached for a white wad. He handed the fabric to Murk—a shirt
“Smell it.”
Murk didn’t hesitate. He put the shirt to his face and inhaled deeply, knowing that what he was doing would have been strange and unseemly just a year ago. He couldn’t think of a single culture where personal property theft was condoned, and especially not of intimate clothing articles. He was like a junkie who’d gone too long without a fix, and there was no one to fix him. There were too few women left, and they’d only comprised a third of their population to begin with.
“Smells right, huh? I bet she could get you on your feet, Murk. Level things out?”
Murk rolled his eyes. He wouldn’t dare hope for things he couldn’t have. His hormones were fucked, The Ague was obliterating his immune system, and he held no real hope he’d recover. But he could admit her scent aroused him a great deal.
Jekhans considered many qualities when picking mates, but smell was an important factor. Just like how not every perfume suited everyone’s personal body chemistry, not every person’s scent registered to others as compatible.
The woman’s scent was…alluring. Beyond the slight artificial tang from soap or lotion, there was health. Vitality. If he had to guess, she was nearing her fertile period.
He wondered what she looked like. Wished he could see her face, and her his. Would she find him repulsive? Would she take one look at him and decide he wasn’t worthy of her attention—that he should be hidden away somewhere and left to die like all the rest?
He set down the shirt and let his head loll toward the moveable panel.
“Her name…I read it on her documents when I was upstairs,” Trig said.
Curious, Murk nodded for him to go on.
“Courtney McGarry. Which comes first?”
Murk fidgeted a bit of loose string hanging off his pants and closed his eyes to think. McGarry. Why is that name familiar?
He guessed it was probably Scottish—from a little corner of Earth where the people wove delightful plaids and thrived on fog. Or maybe Irish. He’d read about the area. His father had discussed the wealth of the region. There was something in his memory he couldn’t quite grasp. The knowledge was gained too long ago or was maybe too obscure.
Anyway.
He held up one shaking hand and formed his thumb and forefinger into a C.
“C? She’s called Courtney?”
Murk nodded. He didn’t know if the name held any significance to her or her family. Terrans had so many different naming conventions, and he’d only studied a handful of them—just what he’d need to know to do business with them. English-speaking people generally had two or three names. A given name, a family name, and sometimes a middle name. Though their Tyneali forebears influenced Jekhan naming habits somewhat, Jekhans also shared a surname with their family groups. All the names that came before that one, however, were chosen in an ongoing and complicated system.
When Murk’s parents had finally stopped naming him at age seven, he’d had five names. Trig managed to only have four, but he lost one when his parents died. He’d become Beshni just like Murk’s family when they’d taken him in.
Courtney Beshni.
His name fit.
Too bad it fits. Why his brain had even tried to put those names together, he didn’t know. He knew nothing about the woman besides the fact that she smelled right, that she had dark hair, brown skin, and that her dog had licked him.
“How’s your bladder?” Trig asked.
Murk gave a dismissive hand flick. His bladder was nothing to be concerned about at the moment. Most of what he drank, he sweated out.
“Hungry?”
Murk nodded.
Trig helped him sit up.
With his back against the wall, Murk closed his eyes until his head stopped spinning. When he opened them, Trig pressed some cheese into his hand and pushed the water bottle closer to him.
“Maybe we can get you up and on your feet tonight or tomorrow. I bet you’d love a shower. I sure would.”
Murk let out a voiceless scoff. He’d love a lot of things. A soak in hot water—in a real tub like Jekhans preferred. A soft bed. Falling asleep with his cock pressed against Trig’s willing body. Things he’d probably never have again. Perhaps his thinking was defeatist, but the only thing keeping him from going crazy in his current state—besides Trig—was his acceptance of what was happening to him.
He was going to pass. He could embrace the coming hereafter and welcome its sweet relief, or he could be bitter. Bitterness was contagious, and he didn’t want the negativity affecting Trig, who was already so uneven in mood. Trig used to be more even, but things had changed. They’d all had to change.
The front door opened and shut overhead, and Murk and Trig locked gazes.
The dog’s nails skittered across the wood floor upstairs, and it let out a friendly-sounding bark.
Trig reached up and adjusted the small vent that fed into the compartment. The vent not only allowed air to freely circulate, but also helped them hear the goings-on upstairs. They’d discovered that early on when the contractors were stomping around. Trig thought it had been an intentional feature placed so people in hiding knew when they could safely move.
Are Terrans paranoid or am I?
“Hey, Jerry,” came a husky feminine voice. “You want out?”
Courtney’s voice?
Murk took a tentative bite of the cheese. Creamy and smooth. Nice. He took another.
The dog barked.
“I’ll be back in just a minute, Amy. I’m going to let him into the backyard.”
“No worries,” came the other female’s voice. Amy’s, apparently.
Footsteps overhead. The slide of a door, open, then closed.
“All right, so you’re going to show me how to freeze these pastries?”
“Yes,” Amy said. “Jekhan pastry is so delicate. If you’re not careful, you’ll end up with little shards of ice between every layer when you defrost. The texture will be absolutely ruined.”
“Why did he give me so many? And don’t tell me the pricing was the special friend-of-Amy discount.”
Amy laughed, a high-trilling sound that actually seemed genuine.
Amy likes the woman Courtney. Murk laid his head against the wall and stopped chewing as if doing so would keep them talking.
“That’s not funny,” Courtney said. “The only times people give away free stuff nowadays is when they’re afraid of you or they want something from you. I understand why they’d be afraid of me. I mean, hell, even without the badge, folks could guess I’m here in some official capacity. Why couldn’t you pick a place out in Buinet proper? I’ve been here a day and already half the folks in Zone Seven know my name and face.”
She’s been in Zone Seven?
Trig must have made that connection, too. His violet eyes suddenly went very round.
Either Amy was a trusting friend or a conniving one.
“Maybe he was a little suspicious at first, but I honestly think he gave you the extras for the same reason any man would give a pretty girl an extra portion.”
“You think he was coming on to me?”
“Flirting? Yes. In the only way he could.”
The floorboards shifted slightly. Just a creak. Perhaps a transfer of weight from one foot to another.
“That’s flattering,” Courtney said softly.
“Think so?”
A pause.
“He was handsome. A bit tall for me, though.”
Trig pushed up an eyebrow. Is this a Jekhan man they’re discussing? If they’d been in Zone Seven, the man being Jekhan was likely. The Terrans only let Jekhans out of the Zone to work.
“Jekhan men are tall as a matter o
f course,” Amy said.
Trig nudged him.
“The height is due to the same genetic contamination from the seeder aliens that causes Jehkans to make more red pigment in their hair, skin, and eyes,” Amy said. “The Tyneali are genuinely red. If you ever see one, you’ll say, oh. I get it now. Supposedly, there aren’t too many genetic disparities between Jekhans and Terrans aside from coloring and certain hormonal divergences.”
“Yeah, I was wondering if we were really as different as the folks on Earth made out. My grandfather said we shouldn’t fall for the stories. There aren’t very many images of them available to dispel the propaganda, though.”
“You won’t get anyone attached in an official capacity to the colony here to admit the truth. Trust me on that.”
“Why is that? I mean, what good could come of having people think they’re so weird and belligerent when they’re not?”
“Courtney,” came Amy’s voice in a tart tone.
“Right. Duh. Pretty sure money and power comes into play somewhere.”
“Bingo. That Manifest Destiny bullshit.”
Trig gave Murk’s foot a squeeze.
Murk nodded in acknowledgement. He could guess what Trig wanted. He’d explain what Manifest Destiny was when he got a chance.
“So…” Courtney said. “Are Jekhan men naturally flirty?”
“No. Why?”
“I’m just wondering why he would flirt, given I’m apparently a scary overlord or something.”
“Shush. The better question is why wouldn’t he? He probably knows nothing will come of the flirting and that you’re already matched up with someone. But there’s nothing wrong with letting someone know that you see them and that you would pursue them if you could.”
“I don’t mind that, if that’s what it really was.” Courtney laughed. “I could get used to the height thing. Hell, I’m always looking up at people, anyway. What’s a few more centimeters?”
“So, you would?”
“Would what?”
“Be with a Jekhan man?”
There was scratching up above. Sounded like nails against glass.
The dog at the door.
Footsteps sounded across the floor.
The dog skittering overhead?
Murk squeezed Trig’s foot.