by H. E. Trent
The door pulled in with a creak and one foggy eye appeared in the crack. “Who there?” the old man asked in his typical half-hearted English. He’d speak pure Jekhani if he were certain no one would overhear, but certainly not to a stranger.
Trig wasn’t a stranger, but Captain was nearly blind.
Trig leaned in and whispered in Jekhani, “It’s Trigrian Beshni. Do you have fish for me today, old man?”
Captain chuckled and pulled the door open a little wider. “Come back tomorrow if you want fish. Some Terrans bought everything for next to nothing. Practically robbery. Called it capitalism. Puh. I used to be able to make a living.”
“Know the feeling.” Trig slipped in, closed and locked the door, and then let his hood down.
He took in the small living space. One room, barely larger than Courtney’s basement closet. Narrow bed in the corner. A table with one chair. A tiny sink and an electric cooktop. Just enough space for an old man who no longer had lovers and who hadn’t heard from his children in fifteen years. He likely shared a toilet with everyone else on the floor. There was a door near the table that led to the shared hallway.
Captain hobbled to his chair and sat heavily into the thin cushion. “Where have you been keeping yourself, Trigrian Beshni?”
Trig shrugged off his pack and set it down beside the sink. “Been hiding out with Murk. After what happened, we figured disappearing was a good idea.”
“Well, that was a good idea. They’re still looking for him.”
“They’d kill him if they get him.”
Captain grunted. “So, what brings you out of hiding? You certainly didn’t come here just to trade with an old man who’s run out of fish.” Captain nodded toward Trig’s bag.
“Nearly blind or not, nothing gets past you, huh? But I do need some help. We’re in a bit of a tight spot and need to leave Buinet.”
“For how long?”
“Maybe forever.”
“Where are you going for maybe forever?”
“My farm.”
“That’s far.”
“I know.” Trig squatted and draped his forearms over his thighs. He stared at the cracked cement floor and gathered his thoughts. “We’re still trying to work out transportation. There’s no longer a functioning air rail, and our flyers are hard to come by. We believe we can get one, though. It just might take a while. What I need to know is what’s between here and Little Gitano.”
When he’d told Courtney the name of the town nearest the farm, she’d been surprised. Apparently the Tyneali had lifted the word from Earth when they’d abducted all those Romani. Where Trig came from, the genetics aligned more closely with their human cousins than their Tyneali ones. Murk was, for lack of better terminology, a Jekhan mutt. His grandparents had each been from a different continent.
“I…looked up the maps in the Terrans’ information system, but I had to be careful because certain search phrases get flagged.”
“How do you have access to a com terminal?”
“I…” Cringing, Trig looked up to find the old man furrowing his brow. Might as well try truth. “The woman we’re living with lets me use it. She showed me how.”
“Who is this woman?”
“That’s hard to explain.”
“I’m old, not stupid.”
“You’re right. I apologize.” Trig told him all the sordid details.
Captain tipped his head back over the chair and sighed. “First time that’s happened, as far as I know. Usually they rape our women and take the babies. We never find out what becomes of them. The babies or the women.”
Trig didn’t particularly wish to think about Jekhani women. He’d been thinking about his sisters again, and he couldn’t afford the crippling anxiety that would come soon after—the feeling of helplessness and stifling regret.
“We’ll do everything we can to keep Courtney safe. That’s why we need to leave.”
“You trust her?”
He opened his mouth to say yes, but stopped. The fact he had to really think about it didn’t sit well with him. Courtney hadn’t done anything to abuse his trust or Murk’s. Hell, Murk trusted her. That was obvious. But, Murk wasn’t afraid of her. Murk had never been afraid of anyone.
Trig…well, he couldn’t make sense of the things he felt for Courtney. She was alluring. Beautiful. Smart. Inquisitive. Demanding, when she wanted to be.
Strong.
He liked that fierceness she had about her. Found it to be so fucking arousing. He’d fallen asleep many nights thinking of all the ways he could submit to her. To please her. What he felt toward her was very similar, in fact, to what he felt for Murk. The difference was that he knew that Murk wasn’t going to cast him aside. He’d never be an afterthought to Murk.
Jekhan men were used to their women being fickle—to them picking one lover over the other as the women’s moods changed. They could go weeks without touching one of their men, without showing them any affection. That was expected, and yet Trig was afraid the rules applied to him.
But, that wasn’t what Captain was asking about.
Trig studied the pencil sketch of Captain’s boat tacked beside the door, comforted by seeing Murk’s familiar, bold style. “I…trust that she’ll do her best to keep me and Murk safe. And the baby.”
He just didn’t trust her with his heart.
“I see,” Captain said. “Well. I’ll tell you what I know, and let us hope that it is enough. First, tell me what you’ve got in your bag.”
Trig chuckled and opened it. “Chocolate and also Irish tea. Unbelievable stuff. You’ve got to try some.”
___
Trig left Captain’s feeling upbeat and hopeful. The way to Little Gitano was still mostly unsettled beyond the desert, and their biggest concern would be avoiding the infrequent pass-overs by satellites fixed on the area. There were ways of obfuscating a flyer so they wouldn’t be picked up on long-range radar, but they’d need to fly at a high speed that wouldn’t be sustainable without a secondary fuel source. The minerals some high-performance flyers required to maintain speeds over the sound barrier were harder to come by than Marscadrel. Still, once they got past the desert and near the mountains, they’d be less likely to get apprehended.
Trig left Zone Seven the same way he’d came, through the gap beneath the barrier fence. Standing, he straightened his much-lighter backpack and took off toward the alleyway behind a warehouse.
“Hey, you there!” shouted a man maybe half a block away. “Need to see your ID.”
Fuck. Trig scanned the alley around him and up at the roofs. He couldn’t climb into a window, as there were none on the backsides of the structures. He couldn’t hide in the garbage skip, because doing so was just too obvious a strategy. His only sensible options were scaling the fence to disappear into the neighboring yards or else to keep running past the building.
“Stop where you are!”
Trig kept running. Fuck. Fuck. He didn’t think to ask anyone about the cop schedules in the area. Someone in Seven probably could have clued him in. He’d obviously left his common sense back at Captain’s along with that chocolate and tea.
Trig cleared the building, barely missing getting a nasty burn from the officer’s weapon as he scrambled over the chain link fence. Instinctively, he went right. The route would put him out into the open for longer than he would have preferred, but the other way would eventually lead to series of dead ends, and he’d be cornered like an Earth rat.
He looped back around to Seven and rather than exposing the breech he’d used to get in, he scaled the wood plank fence and hurled himself over the top. Wood slivers stung in the broken skin of his palms, but he didn’t have time to pull them out. He made straight for the river.
He could disappear—hide in some fellow Jekhan’s home for a few hours until the officer gave up, but that would only make more officers come out in force. They’d disrupt everyone—harass and intimidate anyone they encountered until someone confessed.
/> Trig refused to do that to them, so he needed that officer to see his face.
He slowed, waited for the huffing cop to catch up. When he got close enough to level his gun at Trig, Trig plunged into the cold river like a heavy rock and didn’t move a muscle until his feet hit the bottom.
Then he swam as long and as far as he could beneath the aqueduct until he could take a breath.
He knew the cop wouldn’t follow—wouldn’t go looking. There’d be cops patrolling the river wall for days, probably, but at least they’d be looking for one specific person and not taking their hostilities out on an entire race.
The Terrans may have taken Buinet, but they didn’t know the city the way the Jekhans did. Water had always meant safety for them.
There was always another way out.
He’d just have to wait to make his move. Jekhans were good at waiting. Unfortunately, sometimes, that was all they ever did.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Courtney woke up at around two in the morning to hang her head over the toilet seat, and regretted for the third time in twenty-six hours having consumed the coffee at work.
Her head throbbed, diaphragm ached, and throat burned from the violent vomiting, and she rolled her eyes at Brenna’s earlier statement that nausea was simply proof of the miracle of life.
Murk joined her in the bathroom, and pulled her hair back from her face.
“Didn’t mean to wake you,” she said.
He rubbed the back of her neck, her shoulders. A gesture of I forgive you, the best she could tell.
“I’m going to go downstairs and get something to settle my stomach. I’d kill for a TUMS right about now.”
He furrowed his brow.
“TUMS are a kind of antacid on Earth. Chalky things that make the rumbly in your tumbly go away.”
“Ah.”
She couldn’t help being startled by his occasional vocalizations. They were still so infrequent they were such a novelty. She couldn’t tell for certain, but she suspected that his voice was even deeper than Trigrian’s, and Trigrian was a firm resident in the baritone range. She’d always been a sucker for bassos.
As if I need more reasons to get turned on.
Murk helped her to her feet, or rather they helped each other to their feet, and they made their way to the hall.
“Surprised I didn’t wake Trigrian, too,” she said. “I was probably loud enough to rouse the dead on Earth, and the guest room certainly isn’t so far as that.”
She stopped them in front of the guest room door and pushed it in, expecting Trigrian to spring up from his pillow as he always did. He’d probably trained his body to be on high alert at all times in case he needed to grab Murk and run. He always seemed to sleep more deeply when he shared a bed with Murk, but Murk slept with Court, and Trig tended to keep his distance from them for some reason.
“Trigrian?” She would have tapped the illumination panel, but there was enough light through the thin drapes that she could see without question that there were no lumps in the bed. No long body under the covers or dark hair peeking over them.
Murk sidled around her and, as if for confirmation, pulled back the sheets. Looking to her, he shook his head.
“Maybe he’s downstairs.”
She padded down the stairs with Murk on her heels and went straight to the office.
No Trigrian.
“Where the hell is he?”
Officially worried, she moved a little faster to the kitchen.
Jerry skittered in, licking his chops and eying his empty food bowl.
“It’s not breakfast time yet, meatball,” she snapped.
Unchastened, he nudged the bowl toward her.
“Ugh.”
“Mmm.” Taking her arm, Murk pointed to the basement door.
“Okay. I’ll go look. You stay up here.”
She had her hand on the knob and had even turned it halfway when the back door slid open. She looked, expecting to see Murk stepping out to search, but instead, gasped at the sight of a soaking wet Trigrian squeezing through the opening.
“Shit,” he muttered when Murk—scowling and with his arms crossed over his chest—stalked toward him.
“Where the hell were you?” Court hurried upstairs and grabbed some clean towels out of the dryer. Downstairs, she thrust them at him and sank onto one of the kitchen chairs, watching as he shed his sodden clothes in front of the stove.
“Answer me,” she said.
“I didn’t want to worry you. I’m back now. Everything’s okay.”
“Well, you certainly won’t be winning a prize for logic tonight,” she snarled. She put her hand over her thrashing heart and forced herself to breathe deeply.
Murk, leaning against the counter nearby, ground his teeth and stared coolly at the other man.
Trigrian winced and wrapped a towel around his hips. “Look, I didn’t think I’d have any trouble, but I’d forgotten there are more cops in Buinet now. I needed to go talk to someone I know in Seven to get some information. Got there fine. Getting back was the problem.”
“You let a cop see you?” Court asked. “Goddammit, Trigrian. Did he follow you?”
“Yes, and no. I didn’t see where I had a choice. I’m sure I’ll be the buzz at your station tomorrow.”
“Well, I’m glad you know what kind of trouble you’re causing for me.”
He sighed, pushed the teapot onto the burner, and turned on the flame.
“How close did he get?” Court asked.
“Not close enough to scan me to see if I was chipped, if that’s what you mean.”
He removed the towel to dry his legs, and stood gloriously nude for a brief moment as he patted himself dry, and suddenly Courtney forgot all about her gastrointestinal distress, and everything else for that matter. She should have been debriefing him about what he’d done and what he’d seen, but his body hinted to unimaginable pleasures and looking at him made her tongue heavy and throat tight.
His taut skin was flushed pink from the chill, his ruddy nipples at hard peaks, and his belly quivered as he rubbed—likely him fighting his own body not to shiver.
In spite of all that, he didn’t take his hair down. His knot sagged and dripped even more water onto his goose-pimpled flesh.
“I’ve been in the river which is very cold this time of year,” he said. “I’d like to take a hot shower. Maybe by the time I’m done, the tea will be ready.”
He looked to Murk, who rolled his eyes then walked into the pantry, ostensibly for the loose leaves.
Court made a be my guest gesture. “Have your shower, as long as you don’t think you’re off the hook.” She grabbed a handful of saltines from the pantry, scooped Trigrian’s wet clothes off the floor, and followed him upstairs.
As she loaded the washing machine, and chewed her dry, bland crackers, she listened to the patter of water against the tub floor and Trigrian’s voice as he recounted his ordeal to Murk, who’d followed him up.
She moved through the master bedroom and leaned against the bathroom doorway.
Trigrian was in the shower and Murk sat on the closed commode.
“The way to Little Gitano is more or less clear if you bypass the industrial areas.” Trigrian handed his leather hair thongs over the shower door and Court took them. “Captain said if we can get our hands on a fast enough speeder, we shouldn’t have too many problems.”
“And who is this captain?” Court didn’t mean to sound tart, but anyone in her shoes would have been.
Through the frosted glass of the shower door, she could see him pause the scrubbing of his hair. “An old friend,” he said. “A fisherman.”
“What would a fisherman know about overland travel routes?”
“He’s fished all over the continent. He used to go where the money was. Before the settlers came, he used to do a lot of trade inland…before the market dried up. He still has contacts there. Word is slower, but he does manage to get some on occasion.”
“Did you, perhaps, stop to think that I could have come by the same information, and by safer means?”
“Did I think that? No.” He started moving behind the frosted door again, turning so Court could see that his wet hair hung past his ass. Murk’s was shorter—cropped just beneath his shoulder blades. Though, really, she couldn’t exactly call that short, either. The latest style trend most Terran men embraced was a severely short cut. Perhaps the proclivity was some subconscious act of defiance—an attempt to be different from what they all perceived Jekhans looked like. Maybe they thought short hair made them look more masculine, but Court had always thought the other way around was truer. Well-cared for hair on a man made her think he was of robust health. Virile. Certainly seemed true for Trigrian, anyway.
“And besides,” Trigrian said. “It was faster for me to get the information. I knew whom to ask. Who to trust. One less thing for you to have to worry about.”
“You could have told me what you were planning.”
“You would have told me no.”
She opened her mouth to rebut, then thought better of responding. He was right. She would have. She didn’t want him taking unnecessary risks. He’d been through too much already, and she had privileges to move around on Jekh that he didn’t.
“You don’t trust me to make good decisions.” He leaned and deposited the soap in the wall inset. “But you don’t know me. You don’t know what I can do.”
“You’re right. I don’t. I know next to nothing about you. I know your history, sure. I know what you and Murk are to each other. I know you love him. Those things, I can say for sure.” She pressed her hand against her sternum and rubbed. She would have killed for another cracker or two, but dealing with her reflux could wait. “But, I don’t know you or even what makes you tick besides seed catalogues and a well-stocked refrigerator.”
“You already know more about me than most Jekhan women know about their men.”
She moved farther into the steamy room and leaned against the sink edge.
Murk, still on the commode, met her gaze and gave her a doleful nod. Then he backed out of the room making the intergalactic sign language gesture for “tea”—pantomiming raising a cup to his lips.