by Alana Khan
As we walk back through the airlock, I have the oddest feeling I’ll never return.
Chapter Three
Star
It’s not quite bedtime, but I’m tired. No, tired doesn’t adequately describe the fatigue permeating every cell of my body. I guess almost dying, passing out, and having your world turned upside down will do that to a girl.
“You look ready for bed,” Ar’Tok says. “I’ll grab dinner and bring it to your room. Then let you get some rest.”
He’s been at my side all day. Running interference with all the new people I’ve met, terminating conversations that ran too long, urging me to leave the Misfit before I was so tired he needed to carry me. And he did it all in his quiet, respectful way.
Maybe I dozed off while he was gone, because he’s back before I know it. After he plumps my pillows, he waits for me to sit up against the back wall, hands me my plate, and walks to the door.
“You’re not joining me?” I ask.
“I figured you’d want some time alone.”
I should want some time alone. Dad died four years ago, and I haven’t seen a living soul in all those years. I’ve been with Ar’Tok all day and should be ready for the quiet I’m so used to. But I’m not.
“If you need some space, I understand, but I’d like to have dinner with you, Ar’Tok.”
He cocks his head as if he’s digesting my words, parsing through them to assess for honesty.
“Really,” I reassure him. Patting the bed, I say, “Maybe no talking. Let’s watch one of the funny vids you told me about.”
He eases his huge frame onto the far side of the bed, tells the screen what to play, and digs into his food. Watching him eat is more fascinating than the vid, which is a compilation of funny feline antics from planets across the galaxy.
I watch out of the corner of my eye as he very precisely cuts his food into the perfect size and eats thoughtfully, his full attention on every bite as if he’s savoring every single chew. The thought pops into my brain that this male hasn’t always had the opportunity to eat when he was hungry. It makes me ache to learn more about him.
After the last feline jumps into the last box, Ar’Tok scoots off the bed. “You look ready to fall asleep, Star. Knock on my door if you need anything. I’m the first door to your right.”
He pauses for the briefest moment, as if he wants to say something else, then grabs my plate and leaves. I miss him immediately; his quiet presence comforted me.
I’m alone on the Fool’s Errand for the first time. I know the Misfit like the back of my hand. I’m intimately familiar with every creak and groan of the metal, every whoosh of the heating and cooling system, every hum and grind of the motor.
This ship makes strange noises. I’m not talking about the occasional laughter that spills under my door as others walk through the hallway. I’m talking about the spin of the motor, or the whir of the hydraulic panels.
When I first woke up in medbay, I thought it would be all the new people who would scare me most, but it’s the ship itself that is creeping me out. There’s the distant hum of the auxiliary fans kicking in, at least that’s what I think it is, but it’s wrong, not at all like the sounds on the Misfit.
And my bed isn’t right, either. It’s soft and mushy, not like my hard mattress from home. Ar’Tok left the bathroom light on and kept that door slightly ajar, so I wouldn’t be alone in the dark. But the light flowing in is too harsh.
I’ve been completely alone for four years. For a while after my dad died, I thought I’d go crazy from the isolation. That’s how I’m feeling now.
I slip out of bed, slap my hand on the palm plate, and turn right in the brightly-lit hallway. I’m knocking on Ar’Tok’s door before I can talk myself out of it.
Within seconds he’s standing in the open doorway, eyes flared wide in panic.
“What’s wrong, Star?”
What’s wrong? How about the fact that Ar’Tok is standing in front of me bare-assed naked? And how about the fact that I cannot stop my eyes from roaming over every square inch of him? And how about the fact that his body is beautiful and repellent in equal measures?
Out of all the Simkin pictures I’ve pored over for the last two months, studying them by day, dreaming of them by night, I’ve never seen a male form as perfect as the one in front of me. And yet, the ravages of abuse that mark his body like a roadmap of pain make my heart hurt.
“Star, what’s wrong?” his concerned voice interrupts the terrible rabbit hole my thoughts were sliding down.
“The noises,” I tell him, knowing I’m making no sense. I’m still standing in the hallway. He’s still naked as a jaybird, not one foot from me.
“Noises?”
“Can I step in?” The back of my mind wonders why I’m worried that someone will walk by and see our naked little whisper-conversation.
“Yes.” He shakes his head as if he only now realizes his state of undress, then turns, grabs some clothes from his dresser, and hurries to the head. I’m still standing, just inside the closed door, when he returns a minute later, fully dressed.
“Noises?” he asks.
My mouth is dry. I guess I didn’t find his body beautiful and repellent in equal measures, after all. Handsome trumps scars, because even though he’s fully dressed now, my mind keeps flashing me pictures of the naked body I glimpsed a moment ago.
I pull my thoughts together and say, “I know every scrape and whir of the Misfit. The Fool doesn’t sound the same. I don’t think I can get to sleep. Could I stay here? I’d be happy to sleep on the floor.”
It’s only now that I notice his bed is untouched. There’s a pallet on the floor near the far wall. And no, he doesn’t have ESP and didn’t prepare that for me. That’s where he sleeps—the sad little pile of blankets. There’s not even a pillow, both of those are on his bed.
His eyes veer from mine when I look back at him, the obvious question on my face.
“You can have the bed. I’ll sleep on the floor. I’m more comfortable there.” What’s sadder than that pile of blankets on the floor? The shame on his face as he admits his preference for it.
A huge part of me wants to apologize for waking him, turn around, and run back to my cabin. I don’t listen to her. “Thanks, Ar’Tok. I hate to bother you. I just knew I’d never get to sleep tonight alone in my room.”
A moment later, I’m in his bed, he’s in his pallet, and the silence in the room is deafening. Ten minutes earlier, the ship noises were bothering me; I don’t hear them at all now. All I can hear is Ar’Tok’s quiet breathing.
I peer over the edge of the bed and see the shine on his eyes from the scant light drifting under the bathroom door.
“Are you sleepy?” I ask.
“Not now.”
“Can we talk?”
He breathes deeply, his chest rising and falling. “Yes.”
“It would be easier if you were up here. With me.” I scoot to the far side of his bed in invitation.
He must be making a lengthy internal list of pros and cons because it takes a long while before I hear his covers rustle, and even longer before he slides into bed, still fully clothed.
He’s lying on his back, avoiding my gaze. I’m on my side, shamelessly watching him. I’ve been with him all day and gotten used to his face. At first, it was a shock to see him—he was so different than I’d pictured him. But now that his face is familiar, I find him attractive.
“Before we met, I felt like I knew everything I needed to know about you,” I start, determined to say what’s on my mind. “I knew your thoughts on music and books and art. I admit, I made a lot of assumptions. You were right when you were talking to me on our last comm, I thought you were a Fed.”
I wait for a response, but he stays quiet. He turns toward me, though, so we’re both on our sides. The muscles in his face are tight, as if he’s preparing for a blow.
“Now that we’ve met, I realize we both left a few things off of our resumés.
Maybe tonight I can fill in some of the blanks—if you have questions.” My request to know more about him remains unspoken.
“Okay. Tell me what you want me to know,” he says. It’s a sweet way to let me talk without prying.
“Hmm. I think I’ll start with the story of how my parents met. I heard the description hundreds of times as a kid. Somehow it reassured me in a thousand ways. It helped me come to terms with the fact that I looked nothing like my dad and made me feel loved and cared for.
“My dad always started the story. He’d say how lonely he had been, and how he’d dreamed of finding just the right female to be his mate. He’d be sure to reassure me that he had no intention of buying a slave, he just went as a favor with a friend to the slave pens on Aeon II.
“Then he’d get this faraway sound in his voice as if he was reliving the moment when he walked by mom’s pen. He couldn’t skip over the part about how awful she looked, ‘cause that was part of the story.
“‘I could hardly tell what your mother looked like,’ he’d say. ‘Her face was covered with mud. But there was something about her. I had time on my hands, waiting for my friend, so I struck up a conversation with her. At least I tried, but she was a slave, and there had been many men who’d inspected her, wanting to buy her. She barely said a word.’
“My mom told him later that the mud on her face was to keep the males away. But my father saw through it. He talked to her like she was a person, and asked her what type of male she was looking for. ‘What am I looking for?’ she’d asked. ‘I’m a slave. Last I knew, I have no say in the matter.’”
I pause a moment, savoring the story almost as if mom and dad were telling it to me for the hundredth time.
“I can picture it,” Ar’Tok says. “What happened next?”
“Mom said all she’d ever wanted was a family and a husband who would care for her, and dad asked if she’d want to leave the slave yard and be with him. He told her he could build them a quiet life on a satellite where she’d be safe and no one would ever hurt her—especially not him.
“This is where mom would take over telling the story about how she fell for dad’s quiet ways, his sincere promises, and of course, how respectful he was. She decided then and there that since she was a slave, he’d be a good master. Then dad would interrupt and tell me she was never a slave, not in his eyes. And his voice would become serious as he told me I was never a slave—never.
“Neither of them knew she was pregnant until after he bought her.”
I don’t know why I’m crying. This story usually makes me happy.
“They loved each other so much, and they loved me. I guess a casual observer would find them an odd pair. He was a huge, shaggy blue whelpie; she was a small human. But the expression on her face when she looked at him was like he was her everything. Maybe at the beginning, it was pure gratitude. But as far back as I can remember, it was much more than that. It was a deep and abiding love.
“And when Dad gazed at her, you could tell how much he loved her from a million miles away. They didn’t see each other’s differences, they saw each other’s souls.
“He was thrilled to find she was pregnant. I don’t know how other families interact—we were so isolated. But I never doubted his love for me, never wondered if he regretted taking us in to provide us love and protection.
“He made so many sacrifices to keep us safe. He was a large, gregarious male. I used to watch him on comms with his friends. He loved people and thrived as he talked and told stories. But he gave all that up to stay isolated on the Misfit with mom and me. He never wanted us tracked down by the Feds, to be sold to someone else.”
“Mom’s the one who named me. My full name is North Star. She said on Earth it’s a signal that guides people to their destination. She told me it’s a beacon of inspiration and hope.”
I breathe deeply, feeling purged, glad I told him my story.
“So you grew up nurtured and taken care of? You watched your mom and dad love each other? I’m so happy you had a childhood like that.” Ar’Tok’s words are happy, but there’s a wistful, faraway look in his eyes.
“Yes. I didn’t mind the isolation. As you can tell, being around people isn’t easy for me. Dad was a hacker. He made a great living doing jobs for hire. He always knew I’d eventually wind up vulnerable and alone, so he taught me everything I needed to know from engine repair to growing food to hacking. Mom died six years ago, and dad died two years later. I miss them every day.”
My eyes had strayed from Ar’Tok as I finished my story. Maybe it felt too intimate. I’m staring at the ceiling and feel his hand in my hair. Closing my eyes, I breathe in, assessing if I like this. It’s such a gentle touch. One of his fingers is wrapping around a strand of my hair. The feeling is tender, reassuring.
I glance at him and see it’s not his hand touching me, but his hair—one of his dreadlocks.
“Ar’Tok? Is your hair alive?”
His gaze flies to mine, then he glances at the pillow between us where a tendril of his hair wraps around mine.
He pulls away, but the slim coil grabs tighter and won’t let him get far.
“Is this a Simkin thing?” I ask. I must admit, I was so busy looking at pictures of every handsome Simkin I could find on the Database I didn’t thoroughly investigate his race.
“I don’t know,” he says, his voice quiet as we both watch his hair winding mine in a sort of embrace. It’s possibly the most touching thing I’ve ever witnessed. It’s achingly sweet and non-demanding. Is his hair showing me his feelings in a way he’s not ready or able to express?
I close my eyes and focus on the soft stroking of his hair on mine. It’s not just one tendril anymore, it’s like a hand with a dozen fingers is combing through my hair, soothing me.
“Do you call that hair?” It doesn’t seem to be the right name.
“We call it cirr.”
We fall silent for long moments. It’s wonderful that we can be comfortable with each other like this.
“Thanks for telling me about your childhood,” he says. “I like picturing you as a happy little female running through your ship.” His cirr absently stroke me. “I guess it’s my turn to share,” he says reluctantly.
“Why don’t you tell me when you’re ready? I’ll let you off the hook tonight if you agree to keep me company in bed. Is that okay?”
All of a sudden, I remember what we were talking about when the oxygenator malfunctioned. I’d put it out of my mind until right this moment. We were talking dirty to each other under the assumption we’d never meet in person. Now we’re lying inches from each other thinking of all the things we whispered about last night.
My face heats in embarrassment. The only thing stopping me from bounding out of bed and running back to my cabin is the fact that his cirr have a firm hold on my hair.
“I’ll agree to lie here with you on the condition that we both pretend the conversation about Avaleigh and Ka'Ron never happened,” his tone is dead serious and a pure relief.
“Avaleigh and Ka'Ron? Who are they?”
~.~
I wake the next morning with the most peaceful feeling warming me from the inside out. I haven’t felt this calm since before dad died. It takes only a moment to realize the soft fingers stroking my head are Ar’Tok’s cirr. I feel amazing.
Turning toward him, it’s obvious he’s still asleep. This gives me the chance to get a good look at him. His profile is beautiful—perfect. I’ve gotten over the shock of his scars. They don’t repulse me anymore—maybe they never did. I wonder, though, if I’ll ever be able to see them and not feel compassion for how he got them. Whatever happened to him must have been sheer agony.
He must have sensed my scrutiny, because his eyes pop open.
“Did you sleep well?” he asks, his voice deep and sleep-roughened.
“Mm-hmm. There’s nothing like being petted to sleep.” I glance at his cirr, which are still stroking my head.
“Any dreams?�
�� he asks.
“No . . .”
“I played swacheck music all night to soothe you,” his voice is deadpan.
I cock my head toward him. Is he joking? There’s a little smile playing at the corners of his lips.
“Ar’Tok’s teasing me,” I announce to the empty room. “We’ve discussed physics, philosophy, and forms of native dance on the isles of Delusia,” I say as I shout to myself inside my head not to mention Avaleigh and Ka’Ron. “But I don’t recall us ever joking. I like it.”
My wrist-comm pings, interrupting the moment.
I need to discuss a job.~~E