Tyree

by Alana Khan

  My hands are barely idle for a moment before they begin a new tune. These notes are melancholy, slow, lugubrious. The emotion they evoke is longing, yearning.

  I feel like I have two personalities. Part of me is producing this exquisitely somber piece that depicts desire—unfulfilled desire. And another part of me is watching my internal reel of Tyree favorites, all the greatest hits of the handsome male from planet Larian.

  Tyree smiling and joking in the dining hall. Tyree chumming around with Shadow as they tease relentlessly in their amusing brother-from-another-mother style. But mostly, my visuals are stuck on an endless loop of him in the shower, leaning his hip against the metal wall, his masculine hand clutched around his hard cock. It’s so specific, down to the water dripping off the tip of his ear, that you’d think I watched it in person, rather than in my mind’s eye.

  My core clenches, moistening. Yeah, yearning. My fingers are simply acting out the desire I’m feeling in other parts of my body.

  Tyree

  I barely cross the threshold of the dining hall before I realize Grace isn’t there. She’s probably still practicing her music in the solarium. She must be so engrossed in playing that the passage of time escaped her. I go to collect her.

  The door to the solarium opens so quietly she doesn’t know I’ve breached her private space. I take this moment to fully observe this female. Her chair is canted at an angle toward the back windows, so I only see her profile. Dear Gods, she is exquisite. I hate to tear my eyes from her nimble fingers as they dance across the keys and buttons of the instrument in her lap. But I want to look at her mercurial expressions.

  She frowns, her brows knitted together, when her fingers evoke sadness. Her shoulders straighten and her chin tilts upward when the music becomes joyful and lively. My chest clenches beneath my ribs when I watch her. I want to connect with those emotions.

  She’ll expose those feelings to her instruments, alone here in this room, but she has never exposed herself like that to me. She’s allowed me to see her panic—that was too hard for her to hide. But these tender emotions, the fervor, the longing, those are always kept tightly shuttered behind her calm facade.

  I yearn to see those emotions parade across her face. I want to share things with her. I want to talk long into the night. I want to make her laugh. I want to hear her moan in ecstasy.

  Oh, Drackhead likes this thought. He pulses in approval. Yes, Drackhead, that too. But I want so much more. I want to touch more than her body. I want to touch her soul.

  She’s my truemate. To be honest, I’ve known it for weeks, maybe longer. Maybe since the first signs of my Transformation. But I’ve pushed away the awareness. At first, I was in disbelief that I could transform without another Larian present. But obviously that's not true.

  I transformed to be with Grace.

  Frankly, it doesn’t matter if she’s my truemate. What does that mean, anyway? That by some freak twist of biology my DNA bonded with her DNA? I don’t want a truemate because of some chemical formulation. I want a mate who I connect with. Whose soul I connect with. And that is Grace, this woman I’m watching with wonder right now.

  I can see her soul, her passion, written across her face. I want that passion directed at me. I have to figure out how to be on the receiving end of that.

  I’ve started already. She trusts me. At least she trusts me to help her, to calm her. If Shadow was here he’d point out that I’m already sharing her bed—that’s a start.

  “Grace,” I call gently. I hate to pull her out of the magical space she inhabits when she’s composing. “Grace,” I repeat louder. She startles, her fingers immediately stilling on her instrument.

  “Oh!” Her mouth remains in that started ‘O’ shape, her eyebrows lifted. For a moment she looks afraid, as if she’s in trouble.

  “Dinnertime. I didn’t want you to miss it.”

  “Dinner? I guess lunch is long over, huh?” Her face is placid now as if she’s forced her fears away, deep inside so I can’t see them. I wonder how often she does that—push all the delicate emotions she feels down under a facade of calm.

  “Yes. Let me take you to dinner. Get a lot done today?”

  She nods and gives me a bright smile. I’ve seldom seen her like this—almost happy and carefree. “My muse was on fire today. I couldn’t stop creating new tunes. It was glorious! Today everything just flowed; it was like the music downloaded into my brain from somewhere else.”

  She really looks at me for the first time today. Then I actually see her face change, as if in slow motion. She pulls her lips from an upturned smile into a flat line. The shine dulls in her eyes. It’s as if the real Grace made a brief appearance, and then she was banished, leaving the shell of Grace to carry on.

  I want the real Grace. I realize I’ll need to lay a foundation of trust, and then excavate to find the genuine Grace who hides underground and only sticks her head out from time to time.

  “Let’s go. Tonight’s the vote to rename the ship. Did you suggest an idea?” I don’t want to admit I almost submitted the name “Gift of Grace.” Instead, I change the subject, “The mystery meat smelled particularly good.” I smile at her. She returns a fake one. I’m beginning to see that the Grace I’ve known until today is only a pale replica of the one sheltering deep inside.

  Grace

  “Thanks for coming,” Anya, Zar’s mate, begins, her lips pulled into a happy grin. She looks excited and energetic as usual, with her sparkling green eyes and halo of brown curls.

  She grabs the big, well-used pot off the banquet table where it’s been sitting for the last few days and shakes it. “We’ve got lots of suggestions to change the name from the Sweet Deliverance since our cover’s been blown by the bad guys. Let’s remember, we’re brainstorming.”

  The males all flinch in unison. That word must have translated badly. I picture a storm in a brain and the resulting image is pretty distressing.

  “That means there’s no such thing as a bad suggestion. No one is allowed to say anything derogatory about anyone else’s idea. We’re too nice for that, right?”

  “Too nice unless it’s Stryker’s suggestion, then anyone is allowed to boo,” Dax yells from the back of the room. Dax is the tallest male on the ship and resembles a Neanderthal with his sloping forehead. He’s made a huge change since the insurrection, from scowling and angry to full of laughter and jests.

  Stryker’s scarred face is grinning from ear to ear at Dax’s good-natured jibe.

  “Yes, I agree,” Anya nods her head, laughing. “We’re all allowed to make fun of Stryker.” He makes a mock scowl, then nods and affectionately claps Dax on his broad back.

  “Okay,” Anya calls loudly. “What I thought I’d do is read all the suggestions once. Callista, if you’d be so kind as to write them on the translation board and project it on the front wall. Then we can vote and keep narrowing things down until we get a clear consensus.”

  Callista steps forward, translator in hand. It looks like a basic computer pad the size of a piece of legal paper. I have no idea how the translation board works, but it allows us all to read in our native languages.

  “Oh,” Anya says distractedly as she pulls little slips of paper out of the pot and smoothes them into a pile. “It looks like I neglected to mention everyone should write their names on their suggestions. Well, actually, that’s a good thing. We don’t want this to be a popularity contest.”

  “I’ll just read them without comment. Here we go. Sweet Freedom, Flying Freedom, Taste of Freedom, Free and Easy, Liberation. We’ve definitely got a theme going here. Just a few more.” She flattens the last slips.

  “Lovely Dahlia. I know I said I wouldn’t comment, but Dax I never knew you were such a romantic. Awww.”

  Everyone looks toward Dax and Dahlia. She’s flushed pink with embarrassment, but her eyes are shining sweetly as she looks directly at her male. It’s so cute.

  “We’ve got some good ones here. Now the last one, Battle-Sc
arred Warrior.”

  “Did you put that one in, Stryker?” Dax asks. “Want to name this vessel after your pretty face?”

  This draws laughs from everyone, even Stryker who likes being included in the fun.

  “Well, we’ve got lots to choose from. Let’s vote, perhaps that will help us narrow it down.”

  A show of hands easily narrows it down to two: Liberation and Battle-Scarred Warrior.

  “These two were pretty close in votes,” Anya announces. “How about if the people who submitted these names give a little pitch about their idea? It says Doctore suggested Liberation. Anything to say?”

  Doctore stands and strides to the front of the room. His skin is burnished mahogany. On Earth, I’d say his skin was scarified on a shoulder, pectoral, and most of his back. But I think this isn’t elective, but rather, part of his species. He was the teacher in the ludus before the insurrection. I understand he was a slave most of his life.

  “This ship has been our liberation, our freedom, our salvation. It is the means to escape our pasts and build new futures.” He sits down.

  “So nicely put. Thanks, Doctore. And Battle-Scarred Warrior? There’s no name on this.” She holds up the scrap of paper.

  We all look around, waiting for someone to take credit. No one volunteers. Anya asks a few of the men, especially the heavily-scarred ones like Shadow, Stryker, and Dax. Each, in turn, denies it.

  “Okay, someone’s shy I guess. Everyone’s here. I’ll take roll.” As she goes through the list alphabetically, everyone denies ownership of the name.

  “Zar? Is this yours?” He shakes his maned head.

  There’s only one member of the crew left. With each passing moment and each successive pair of eyes that land on her, Zoey’s face becomes a darker shade of pink.

  “Zoey?” Anya asks, her tone incredulous.

  Zoey is by far the shyest person on the ship. In fact, she’s the shyest person I’ve ever met. With less than twenty-five souls on this vessel, all in such close quarters, we know each other fairly well. Except for Zoey who rarely talks and prefers to hide in the shelter of Steele’s burly, protective, silver arm.

  “Busted,” Maddie, the cook, calls as she gives Zoey a friendly look.

  The shy female with limp, brown, shoulder-length hair stands and meekly walks to the front of the room.

  “Just a few words, Zoey,” Anya wheedles. “Why that name?”

  She takes a deep breath and then her words come out in a soft rush. We all lean forward to hear her.

  “Every male and female on this ship is a battle-scarred warrior. Some show it on their flesh, like Shadow and Dax. But we all carry it, don’t we? Haven’t we all been through many battles? And as sure as we’re standing here we know we have many more to come.

  “Sweet Deliverance was the best name for newly-freed slaves, but we’ve moved on. I want whoever we tangle with from now on to know every single one of us is a hardened warrior. We won’t give up without a fight. I want the message to tell the cartel and whoever comes after us Don’t. Fuck. With. Us.” Although her voice started almost too soft to hear, her last four words come out loud and proud.

  She looks completely different than I’ve ever seen her: spine straight, eyes bright, muscles tight. Now she morphs back to quiet Zoey as she slinks to her seat. I’d like to see more of the first Zoey. I vow to spend more time with her after I return from Emirus.

  “Whoa,” Anya comments in admiration. “Great speech. Shall we vote?”

  It takes less than a minute to decide we’ll be called Battle-Scarred Warrior. Even Doctore voted for that name. I don’t think it’s my imagination when I notice Zoey’s chin lift a little higher and her shoulders thrust back a little farther as we celebrate the new name with glasses of what passes for champagne on board the Battle-Scarred Warrior.

  Tyree was right, the mystery meat smelled fantastic tonight. The taste, however, was almost rancid. Maddie was a chef in her previous life on Earth. Someone told me she was a sous-chef at Spago, no small feat. If she couldn’t make this meat taste good, no one could.

  The males liked it, of course. Most of them have been slaves for so long, eating nutrition bars that tasted like sawdust and glue, they’re happy to ingest anything that’s been cooked and can be chewed. Every night, toward the end of the meal, one of them will yell out, “Hooray for the cook,” to a resounding round of applause.

  I eat the mystery veggie and mystery starch, but I'm unable to stomach the mystery meat. Maddie tells us what we’re eating every night. She concocts these great names—sometimes sophisticated, sometimes fun. Tonight she said we’re eating sacru sheswah with prendo sauce, marquet florentine, and escalloped vren. Yeah, most of it tasted like shit, but it felt very upscale.

  “Don’t like the sacru sheswah?” Tyree inquires, cocking his head and eyeing my plate.

  I stab my slab of meat with my fork and hold it up toward him. “Feel free,” I offer. He motions for me to dump it on his plate.

  “I think this is the best thing Maddie’s made yet.” He digs in, then with his mouth full yells, “Hooray for the cook!” The males chime in as usual. The women’s plates all contain the remains of their uneaten meat. I roll my eyes at his praise for the awful dish.

  “What?” he asks around a mouthful of food.

  “It just didn’t agree with me.”

  He finishes chewing and swallows. “Say it, Grace. Say you hated it. Go ahead.”

  “It wasn’t that bad.”

  “Say it. Say what you feel. You didn’t like it, did you?”

  “No.” I shiver thinking about the horrible taste and mouthfeel.

  “You hated it. Say it.”

  I shake my head. What is he doing? He looks so serious. Why does he care? I gave him my leftovers.

  “Whatever your circumstances were back on Earth, you’re not there anymore. You’re among friends. You can have your own opinions. You can say what you like and what you don’t like and you can say you hated your sacru sheswah. Say it.”

  His eyes are so sober—intense. I know he means me no harm, so why am I holding my breath in fear?

  He sees my worry and places his hand low on my thigh. He gently puts thumb and forefinger on each side of my knee and pushes calm at me—and something else. Is he sending me an apology? I look into his brilliant green eyes and see it. Yes, a sincerely contrite look.

  “Sorry, I got passionate there. I just thought, ‘Grace should be able to say she didn’t like her dinner.’ Shouldn’t you, Grace? Shouldn’t you be able to say that?”

  My mouth gets dry. Shit, why was that so hard? Why did I resist saying I didn’t like it? Why couldn’t I reveal I hated that crappy mystery meat?

  His hand is still on my knee. He’s still calming me. I can think clearly instead of my mind seizing up like a car engine that hasn’t been oiled. A memory cascades back from almost twenty years ago.

  One of my mom’s “boyfriends” was having dinner with us. I can still picture every detail of that evening. Mom was high, her eyes glassy. She was pushing her food around on her plate. They’d argued earlier in the evening. Things were already tense. The guy, what was his name, Butch? Rowdy? Barbarian, that’s right. It was during her biker phase.

  Barbarian noticed I wasn’t eating my peas and ordered me to finish what was on my plate. I was maybe in first grade, just this tiny little girl, and he was...well, he was a huge biker Barbarian. I was scared shitless and not about to argue. I stabbed the peas, one by one, trying to force them down my gullet, but evidently, that process wasn’t fast enough.

  “Eat them!” he screamed.

  I glanced at Mom, I don’t know why. By then I was certainly old enough to know that no one was coming to help me—definitely not her.

  “Eat them!”

  I gripped my spoon and shoveled a bunch of peas into my mouth, but he was so furious he grabbed the utensil from my hand and forced it past my teeth and into the back of my mouth. I remember it all: the gagging, the metall
ic taste of the spoon, the inability to both swallow and grab air. For a moment I thought I was going to die.

  My tongue slides over the biting surface of my top front teeth. I can feel the rough scrape where he made a tiny chip in my brand new permanent tooth.

  I remember having to run to the bathroom to throw up after that. I can picture the viscous green lump of peas in the toilet. I can smell it. I don’t want to, but for a moment I relive the feeling of abject isolation I felt. I had no one. No one to help me. No one to run to. Just little Grace and her jagged front tooth.

  I look around the dining hall. I haven’t been “gone” long. No one noticed I was lost in the memory—no one but Tyree. He knows. He amps up the “wattage” of his treatment. My cheeks are heated, my jaw tight.