by CJ Birch
Kalve presses a small button on his desk, and a clear thermos with dark-reddish liquid rises from some unknown recess. “Would you care for some juua?”
“What is it?”
“Originally it comes from the stones of a barb. I’m not sure if that’s the right word. Their bodies naturally produce pellets that taste sweet. When boiled it creates a pleasing drink.” He pours the liquid into a small cup and offers it to me. “We of course don’t have barbs on board, so this is synthesized to taste the same.”
I take the cup and look into dark, swirling fluid. It coats the sides and slides back. Steam rises from the surface. I take a whiff. He’s right, it does smell sweet. I don’t know if I should be happy that it’s synthesized. After all, if it wasn’t fake, it would be animal poop. I also wish he hadn’t told me what it was. I could probably have enjoyed it in ignorance. Now that I’m holding the cup in my hand I can’t refuse. That would be rude.
Kalve’s eyes close as he sips his. A murmur of satisfaction escapes from him. I stare into my cup, trying not to gag. Our eyes meet across the table, and his lips curl into an understanding smile. “It’s okay if you don’t want to try it. The idea must be foreign to you. You won’t offend me.”
No way am I going to back down from that challenge. I hold my breath and take a small sip and swallow fast. It’s synthetic, it’s synthetic, I tell myself. After a moment, when I don’t die, I take another larger sip. It reminds me of watered-down maple syrup. I don’t even want to know what was in this animal’s diet to make it so.
Kalve laughs, a boisterous sound that slams into me. It’s warm and accepting. Instead of being embarrassed, I’m delighted. I laugh too. There’s something comfortable about this encounter, and for the first time since Jordan left, I don’t feel lost. In fact, something’s so familiar about this.
I peer around the room again and notice a lot more of the details, especially a picture on the wall next to his desk. “Is this your family?” A short woman has her arm around Kalve, a younger boy standing in front of him. He has one hand on the boy’s shoulder. Instead of looking at the camera, the boy is gazing up at Kalve with such an adoring expression I can feel the connection, like they were actually tied to each other.
His expression softens. “Yes. My wife and son.”
“I can tell. He has your…” I motion around his small beak area, not sure what they call it, so I settle for “Nose.”
“We were lucky about that, yes. But the men in our species don’t contribute to the genetic gene pool. Not since the plague.”
“Oh.” A million questions pop into my head, but it would be rude to ask any of them. “Are they on board with you?”
“They died over ten years ago.”
“Oh.” Jesus, I’m really killing this. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up bad memories.”
He holds up a hand. “I have no bad memories when it comes to my family. Even now they are my joy in this life. Sometimes I think it’s better that they died. The life we lead is a hard one. We’re never able to stay in the same place, constantly on the move and no place to call home.” He drains his juua and places the cup on the table. “Bragga plays the diplomat a little too well. He would have you believe that our life on the Kudo is all any of us want, that this ship is enough. It’s not. Most of us are tired of being hunted into extinction.”
“Hunted? Who’s hunting you?”
“The Varbaja. Ever since we settled on their farming world, they’ve had a need to destroy every last one of us. Their army is massive, numbering in the hundreds of thousands, and we’re a couple of thousand. That’s not enough to defend ourselves, let alone win, so we run.” He waves a hand at me. “I’m sorry. I know you have your own problems and probably don’t want to hear ours.”
“My father used to say, ‘the best way to distract yourself from your own problems is to hear someone else’s.’ I don’t mind, honest. Our species grew up isolated in our galaxy. Until a few weeks ago we didn’t even know for sure if other species existed. I mean, we hoped, assumed? I’m not sure, but all this is science fiction come to life. It’s exciting.”
“Life on a ship is never dull.” He nods toward my cup, but I shake my head. It’s too sweet for me. “I’ve captained the Kudo for over ten years now and even without skirmishes we have our hands full keeping her together.”
I laugh again. “We’ve been interstellar travelers for a few weeks now and have almost destroyed two ships.” I’ve almost destroyed two ships. That thought hits hard. I can keep telling myself that I made the right choice, but what happens if I’m wrong?
“The Posterus, the one we are taking you to, this is the other ship that’s adrift?”
I nod. “We’re not exactly sure how we got here. But we had to eject the engine or it could’ve exploded and taken all three ships with it.” It’s strange how comfortable I feel talking to this person. But something about him makes me want to trust him. Maybe it’s the way he doesn’t seem to offer judgment, only acceptance. It’s almost as if I’ve known him longer than three weeks. It’s happened very few times in my life. Jordan and, to an extent, Hartley are the only people who come to mind, but sometimes I just connect with people.
“What is it you need? I know you didn’t come to try juua.”
“As tasty as it was, no. I came to see if you’d found any sign of Captain Kellow’s escape pod.”
He places one of his fingers into a small groove in the table. Nothing happens. But after a few moments I realize he’s no longer looking at me. His attention is focused on some unknown spot a few feet in front of him. His eyes skim back and forth until he removes his finger and returns his attention to me. “No. We haven’t found anything yet. We entered the base elements that construct your escape pods in case there may have been an explosion. We haven’t found any significant amounts in any of our search patterns. But we won’t give up.”
Where is she? I can’t let myself think the worst. “Could another vessel have picked them up?” Are there that many space-traveling species in this galaxy? And if there are, what are the chances they’re friendly?
The intercom interrupts Kalve.
“Captain, we’ve reached the other ship.”
“The Posterus?” I ask.
Kalve nods and stands. “Excellent. I’ll be out in a few minutes.”
“You should know, sir, they’re not alone. The Avokaado is here as well.”
Chapter Fourteen
Jordan
I’m sprinting down an unknown corridor blind. Smoke envelops me. It’s hot and sickly sweet. Something’s on fire, and whatever it is terrifies me. The sound of boots pounding on the metal floor behind me drowns out the faint shouts farther ahead. Sarka catches up to me and has the gall to grin as he does.
“Told you it’d work. You gotta learn to trust me.”
I don’t have to do any such thing. I almost trip on a body lying on the floor in front of me. I vault and stumble until a thick hand wraps around my arm and yanks me up. It’s Sarka. He’s still got that grin on his face, along with a large gash over his left eye.
“We need to get to the flight deck. They’re waiting for us.” As he tugs me along, I wonder how the hell I got myself mixed up in all this.
After my conversation with Veera I knew Sarka was on to something. There’s more unrest on this ship than even Sarka knows. In the last two days I’ve only scratched the surface of the real issues. That’s no surprise. After all, what were they expecting, filling up a warship with restless thugs? They’ve got nothing to do but harbor resentments toward each other. I’ve been here only a few weeks, and I already resent half the people on this ship.
This is what happens in overpopulated situations. It happened on Earth in the late twenty-first century when the population soared over ten billion. Kindness and understanding are not able to flourish in close quarters. They need wide-open fields and vistas as far as the eye can see.
I don’t know about the species on this ship, but
I don’t think any of us were meant to live permanently in space. If I ever make it back to the Posterus and the Persephone, I’ll probably spend the rest of my life doing just that, but it’s for a greater cause. It’s so my decendants don’t have to.
Sarka yanks me down a side corridor, and we reach a small chute like we have on the Persephone. I’d almost forgotten how spoiled I’d become in the last few weeks using lifts to get everywhere.
“Where are we going?” I cough. Smoke is filling the corridors. It’s not as bad here, but I can see it creeping around the corner.
“Flight deck. That’s forty decks away.”
I balk. “And we’re going to climb there? What’s wrong with the lifts?”
“The ship’s burning. The lifts automatically shut down when there’s a fire.”
How does he know this? Because he already tried to use the lifts or because he’s been reading up on the specs? I’m not sure, and I don’t care right now.
“Up or down?”
He slaps me on the back. “You didn’t think I’d make this easy, did you? Stop being a baby. Let’s go.” He beckons for me to go first.
Fuck. I grab the ladder and hoist myself up. Even with weeks of training and being in good shape to begin with, I find the climb excruciating. I stop trying to count the decks. It’s not distracting enough. All it does is focus my attention on the heaviness in my arms.
None of this would’ve happened if I’d listened to my gut. After spending most of the night coming up with a plan, I realized the simplest was the best, and Sarka had already laid it out for me. I just had to find a pilot I could bribe and have them fly me off the ship. The problem with confined spaces is that information has a way of taking on a life of its own.
The first few days I’d kept my head down and listened to the chatter. I sat in a different place in the mess, not only because I still wasn’t talking to Sarka, but I wanted to get a feel for the people. We’d kept ourselves isolated, and because of that, I had no idea what the people on board were like. For all I knew, interspecies mingling could be considered dangerous or ill advised. I didn’t want to push my way in where I wasn’t invited. But the more I listened, the more I understood what Sarka had been talking about. They were restless and angry. A dangerous combination.
After the second day I got up the nerve to talk to one of the pilots I’d heard complaining about the guy who bunks above him. Turns out he tosses and turns in his sleep. And apparently he’s a heavy guy. That day at midmorning meal I took a seat opposite him. He was a species I wasn’t familiar with. His skin was pockmarked and rough, leathery brown. His nose was nonexistent, two small holes above his mouth that flapped when he laughed. He was also hairless, including his head.
I only ever learned his nickname, Tink. He got that name because his nails make a strange tinkling sound when he throws the stones in one of the chance games they play in the lounge after hours. I never learned what species he belonged to, but I’ll steer clear of them from now on.
As I sat, Tink gave me the once-over but didn’t comment. I was trying to find a subject to start a conversation when another of his species sat down next to him.
He cocked his head toward me. “Who’s this?”
Tink shrugged. “Never seen her before.”
Tink’s companion smiled, showing two neat rows of razor-sharp teeth. “What’s your story, honey?” I’m sure the word wasn’t honey, but I got the gist.
“Why do I have to have a story?” I spooned something that looked an awful lot like porridge but tasted like soap into my mouth, beginning to see my mistake.
“This is Tink.” He pointed to Tink. “And I’m—”
“Why you gotta be such a big mouth all the time?” Tink hit him with his utensil. His porridge flew onto the cheek of another man across the table who stood up.
Tink’s friend didn’t notice. Instead he plowed on. “What?” he asked. “Why don’t you want people knowing your name?”
“It’s not my name. I hate when people call me that. You know that. I tell you that every time.”
The man who got hit with porridge made his way around the table and lifted Tink’s friend up by the collar of his uniform. That’s when I stood and slid my tray off the table. My back was turned and I was three chairs down when I heard the telltale sound of a fist hitting cheekbone.
This is probably why I didn’t have many friends when I was a kid. I preferred being on my own anyway. A good book and the tall safety of the cornstalks were much better companions than people. Especially ones my own age.
Halfway up the ladder I’m forced to stop because someone’s closed off the rest of the chute. It could be due to the fire, but either way, without the access codes we won’t be able to get through.
Sarka smacks my leg. “No time for breaks. We need to keep moving.”
“We’ll have to find another way to the flight deck. Look.” I point above me.
Sarka strains his neck to see. “Son of a bitch.”
“Let’s climb down to the last deck and see if there’s another chute somewhere that leads up.”
“Won’t work. If this one’s shut, they’re all shut. We need to find another way,” he says.
“We won’t know until we try.”
“And while we’re trying every chute on that deck, they’ll be gaining on us. No. We need to find the service hatches. Those won’t be blocked. The emergency crews will need access to the decks. We need to find them.” The last bit is muffled as he’s already started climbing down. Below, something bright flashes. A few seconds later I hear the boom, and a wave of heat slams into us.
“Hang on.” I wrap my arms around the rungs of the ladder.
Sarka doesn’t grab on in time. The blast catches him, and he pinwheels backward before latching his leg into one of the gaps. I hear the snap even above the echo of the explosion. But Sarka doesn’t make a sound. He hooks his other leg in to take the weight off and hoists himself up with his abs. He does have the decency to grunt as he disentangles the broken leg from the ladder. I swear you’d have to cut off a limb to get an actual scream from the man. He descends using only his arms. I follow, keeping a close eye on him.
I examine the injury. It’s good and truly broken. He’s lucky it’s not a compound fracture, but I’ll attribute that to the fact that a Burr’s bones are harder to break than a regular human’s.
“Well, you’re useless to me now, old man.”
His eyebrows crawl up. “Old man?”
“You’re almost three times my age. You going to debate me on that fact?”
The corridor we’re in is empty. For now. I have no idea where we actually are. I was counting on Sarka to guide us. Now I’ll have to leave him here and get help. I relay this to him and get up to leave.
He catches my arm, holding it in a tight vise, and pulls me back down. “You’re not fucking leaving me behind.”
It’s my turn to raise my eyebrows. “And you’re going to stop me? I got this far no thanks to you.” Of course that was his plan the whole time. Make me do all the work.
After that disastrous first try with Tink, I decided the mess wasn’t the place to approach people. If their reaction to our training was similar to mine, they were starving and grouchy by the time they got some chow. Not many people want to be disturbed while they’re shoveling food into their mouths. No, the best place to reach people would be the lounge after hours when they’re fed and relaxed. Plus, I quickly realized I had an easy in to talk to people.
After the evening meal I waited until the lounge filled up but wasn’t crowded. It was my first time inside since we’d come aboard. Along the far wall stretched a long bar staffed by grumbling barmaids who looked exhausted even though their shifts had only started. They offered only one thing to drink—a gelatinous red goo that dribbled out of the bottle, easing itself into the glass after a day of hard labor. I decided my life was more important to me than trying it. But I didn’t want to look out of place, so I ordered a drink and
vowed to never actually take a sip.
A group of breens in the back was playing a game of chance that involved three stones. The stones were roughly the same size but were all different colors. After watching for a few minutes, I thought it seemed simple enough but figured the best way to get to know people was to ask how to play.
I watched a few more rounds before stepping forward and asking to participate. I’d never cruised bars in my life, not even the few on campus at the academy. I don’t recall going once. It occurred to me only after I stepped forward that my actions could be misinterpreted. I was greeted with four huge grins, which told me everything I needed to know. If any of these breen thought I was going back to one of their bunks, they had another think coming. To be fair, if anything identifying as female had approached them, they would’ve shown interest.
I surprisingly managed to dodge any awkward moments by being up front with them. In fact, telling them I mated only with females—their words—endeared me to them more. They pulled me into the fold as one of the guys and, with that, all their grumbles. They bitched about everything: the food, the bunks, their training, the scarcity of battles. They lamented the lack of opportunities to mate, although the word they used was something even the universal translator couldn’t convey, so I assume it was obscure slang. They left with the impression that we all bonded over the fact that females are crazy. I’ve never understood how telling a group of guys you’re a lesbian means they forget you’re still female.
The night was a success. I learned how to play hea mang and made some important contacts. It also gave me the first crack in the wall. It would take only a few more days to find out if any of them were interested in escaping and how best to do that. That had been the plan anyway.
I try to pull away, but Sarka’s grip is so tight it hurts. “Let me grab help,” I say.
He shakes his head and pulls me closer, close enough that I can feel his breath on my face. “We don’t leave people behind.” He’s almost desperate as he says the next part. “You’re not leaving me here.” I look down at his leg, any damage hidden by his uniform pants. He’s going to be some serious dead weight. I’m strong, but I’m not sure I’m up to this task. When I look back into his eyes, I spot a hard edge to go with the pathetic pleading. I don’t doubt he’d crawl after me if I tried to leave him behind.