by Amanda Milo
One of the two has a lighter mane. She proves to be the braver of the pair, drawing herself up all of half a finger-span taller. “We needed a break.”
I feel my dorsal spines rise with my climbing temper. “Ah, yes. One of your infamous human breaks. You should have asked. I would dearly love to give you a break.”
The more terrified-smelling one shakes her head weakly. “Not that kind of break.”
I smile—all teeth. And fang.
The frightened one turns paler. Even the braver one loses her courage. “S-sorry.”
Smoke billows out of both my nostrils, arrowing past their bodies as I keep them firmly in my sights. And well within charring range. “You demanded to be here. You demanded we make way for you to work. I’ve been ordered not to kill any undeserving women—”
This is a bald-faced lie; I was ordered not to kill any humans at all. Tyrant’s rules, for certain.
“—yet you sit idly by and natter to each other? Creator knows your hands are ineffective enough, you may as well be pretending to work the damn stones if you’re going to do nothing but sit on your rumps and incessantly yap!” I finish my tirade in a low roar, stopping only because both of them are sucking in shuddering breaths.
Damn it all to hells.
DAMN IT ALL TO HELLS.
I’ve worked with these undersized brainwilts enough to know what the shuddering signifies. My voice is deadly calm. “Are you sniveling?”
“N-no,” one lies, while the other squeezes her eyes shut and sobs once. Answer enough.
“TEVEK!” I thunder.
Something pings off of my shoulder. Quickly, it’s followed by a second, after which I’m struck with a very deliberate third.
Snarling, I whip around, and find…
INFERNOFIRE.
This day is out to see me beheaded for popping all these little humans like clusterfruits for fine wine. ‘Archrival,’ is the greeting I give her in the silence of my mind. “Gracie...” is the greeting I growl aloud.
“Bash!” she cries with what almost sounds like genuine cheer.
I narrow my eyes on her, and she drops the handful of pebbles she’d been ready to keep slinging at me. “Here to retrieve your near-useless little subjects?” I ask, the blades on my tail making snick, snick noises as I flick the razor-edged plates open and shut. A hob rushes up to rescue the sniffling females, but before I let him play their hero, I reach out and catch him by a wing, shaking him until my breathing evens.
As I release him, I think, Tevek. Now I’ve got his wing’s powder on my hands.
I catch him again by the scruff of his neck and wipe my hands off on his shirt before I let him fall to the ground.
Gracie glowers at me. “I’ll have a talk with the girls. But no more roughing up the hobs.”
I snort—and nearly blow fire out my nose. That this puny alien female has the audacity to think she can give me an order—!
A second hob is looking for a place to land by the weeping pair of women. I snatch him out of the air.
I have plans to shake him too, but Gracie’s eyes have gone warning-slitted, and her hands slide from the roundness of her pup-growing stomach until she’s reached around herself to the small of her back. She raises the back hem of her tunic to draw out a weapon. She aims it at me, and I’ve never seen it, but I have a fair idea of what it’s capable of and who gave it to her.
My eyes cut to her approaching mate, a hob named Dohrein. His cool gaze assesses me. It’s his dam who specializes in weapon’s design, and it just so happens that she’s worked extensively on weapons that will drop an enraged Rakhii.
Gracie’s thumb flips a mechanism that makes the whole piece glow green. “That,” she tosses a look to the hob I have ahold of, “is Jonohkada.”
I squeeze the hob until he stops kicking and falls limp. “I don’t care.”
Gracie’s eyes almost glow with fury. Incidentally, they’re the same savage shade as her activated weapon. “You do not want to piss me off. Let me give you a pro tip: hurting that hob,” she indicates her Jonohkada, “is a one-way ticket to royally pissing me off.”
I turn over my wrist, giving some attention to the hob who is not her second mate—really, he’s more like her pet—I have seen him trailing after her, obedient to her every whim like so many of the hobs are. Why does she get so protective of this one?
To his credit, he’s doing nothing to enrage me further. His eyes are mutinous, but his fangs barely sink into my arm. A hefty shake and those venom-injecting teeth of his are clacking together.
“Bash, STOP!” Gracie’s mouth has a fierce set to it, and her stance is determined. Some part of me has to admire her backbone, even if I want to peel it out of her body and snap it into minuscule flecks. I’d use the remains of it like confetti to celebrate her demise. “Jonohkada is under my protection,” she informs me—as if she hasn’t tried claiming all of these colorful flying males. She’s human, but just like a Gryfala, she collects hobs. She breeds with only one, but she’ll stand for each and every one of the rest of them, even if they’re tasked under my hands and have been under my control in this quarry for solars.
Have I ever seen her claim a Rakhii? No, I have not. Gracie leaves this task to the mates of the Rakhii. Like a Gryfala, the hobs are the only males she defends.
Although no Rakhii needs the protection of an alien female (certainly they could do better alone against any threat than their so-breakable human mates), I can almost admire the fierceness of the matebond between humans and Rakhii. When I’ve moved to chastise a Rakhii worker, it seems as if every one of them now has a human, and the moment I move on her mate she’s immediately facing off with me, giving me a hell’s load of tongue lashes.
At the rate my employees are being claimed and protected, I’ll have no one left to punish when the aliens drive me to the brink. I’ll snap and go mad, and every human here will die.
Creator, I’m sick of humans. I glare at Gracie and drop her hob to the dirt, watching with distant satisfaction as his wings drunkenly stab at the air with the thumb-like talons they have midway up their long wing bones. “The next time a human irritates me, a hob gets whipped until he can’t fly,” I warn.
Gracie’s eyes show pure wrath, and while it’s important to note that none of the nearby hobs look too concerned at my proclamation—after all, it’s not the first threat they’ve heard, not even today—all of the humans circling us gasp, easily a hundred pairs of horrified female eyes locking on me.
Finally. “Thank all that’s holy,” I declare, dropping my fists to my hips. “You don’t know how thrilled I am to have found a proper incentive for you bunch of soft-brained muppets.”
With that, I leave them, stalking away before I’m tempted to do anything rash.
To my back, Gracie calls, “You know, if you had a woman, you’d have an outlet for some of that rawr-rawr you got goin’ on. You could go total caveman on her all night long instead of going psycho on us all day!” Then she mercifully rounds her ever-running mouth on her human subjects. “And you two. What’s the rule we talked about? Bash doesn’t like slackers.”
I use my tail to snag and take up the length of metal piping that I’d abandoned on the ground when all this began. I need this for the job that I deserted in order to get the humans in line. I cross the canyon and hunker down next to the wagon wheel I’d been repairing. My work will be nothing more than a patch, just getting us through this shift—and then it will be turned over to one more skilled than I at wagon repairs.
Gracie is still gnawing on her herdmates. And my Rakhii ears are keen enough to hear every word. “You said you wanted to be here. If this were Earth, your arse would be fired for sitting down on the job. Is the big boss asking for too much when he expects you to do what you came here to do? If you don’t want to work, then get out of here.”
“I’m fine working,” the more-frightened one speaks up. “Bash told me to switch jobs and I was just about to do that. My wrist hurts, so I just
wanted to sit down for a minute. I thought that would be okay.”
“Yeah. Why are you being such a bitch?” the other one has the gall to back-talk.
“Oh, I’d hit her,” I mutter under my smoking breath. The male who dared to pull that with me would lose his teeth. I’d wear his fangs as a necklace—no, I’d make him wear his own fangs on a necklace. It would be a reminder that he should keep his mouth shut and do what he’s told when I tell him to do it.
I could be reading the moment wrong, but Gracie’s beat of silence is weighted, and I get the impression she’s considering how fine she’d look if she wore her people’s teeth as reminder-jewelry. Her words are measured and carry a heavy enough thread of danger that even I’m impressed. “I’m ‘being a bitch’ so that hobs don’t get punished for you two being lazy blummin’ shits. Now you don’t have a choice anymore—get the fuck out of here. Don’t come back unless you’re actually going to work.”
“I’m going to get blisters! I can feel them starting—I can’t work!” the bolder one cries. Actually cries… Literally. Impending tears are evident in her voice—I would know. I’m quite familiar with the sound.
At the signal of this human’s tears, I make a silent, inarticulate sound of disbelief and roll my eyes to the sky. Not only is she arguing, not only is she complaining—she is going to flood my quarry with her eyewater. And she didn't get near the level of excoriating she deserves. Creator, I will not stop slapping them if I ever start.
“Oh, and hey?”
It’s Gracie’s voice, but the tone has changed so drastically that I can tell she’s addressing not her weeping brethren but someone else. She sounds pleased, so I warily turn a glance over my shoulder—and find she’s addressing me.
What a strange form of address. ‘Oh? And hey?’ What does that even mean?
Gracie tilts her head and gives me a wide smile. “Backing up a minute, you were asking if I was here to retrieve my near-useless little subjects.” She laughs, the sound not feigned. “‘Near-useless!’ That’s a step up from you calling us worthless—Bash, are we growing on you?”
I set down the piping and lean my forehead into the side of the wagon, the outward curve of my horn pressing along its rough boards as I pray for strength. “Creator, I hope not.” Sometimes I have the daydream where I stampede through masses of humans, and whichever little pest that doesn’t scramble out of my path is the one I catch with my horns. Like grisly little prizes, I’ll pin them then fling them around. The humans held a party some sunrises back, where they beat a glued paper sculpture until it spit out candy. They were delighted.
My imagination had run wild. What if beating humans gave you candy?
I would gorge myself. I wouldn’t even care what it tasted like.
At the distinct sound of a feminine sniffle, my eyes snap open and I whirl to the chided females and snarl, “STOP THAT.”
“Easy,” another human calls from my left—they’re everywhere—and I flick slitted eyes her way to see it’s Beth, human mate to a handful of Na’rith pirates. “What do you think this is,” she queries, eyes wide. “Baseball?”
Carefully, I get to my feet. And taking a deep, as-patient-as-I-can-manage breath, sucking in much of my nostrils’ smoke with it, I rasp, “What is baseball?”
As much as I dislike humans constantly present and forever in my way and eternally slowing us down, I don’t snap at this human, because she always emits a genuine fear-smell around me with no prompting. I may have blackguard hearts in my chest, but they’re there. I’m not heartsless. This female fears all males, and her flinches prove that at some point she was given a reason. But she’s never slacked in her work and given me a reason to want to stomp her to dust or turn her to ashes, so for her, I dig for the wherewithal to rustle up some patience.
Not much. But some.
Beth gestures to the still-sniffling females. “You know. A League of Their Own.”
No. I don’t know. This Beth is addicted to a pastime called movies. I have movied once, and found it to be a grand waste of time. But I raise my browplates to indicate that she can inform me of her point. Quickly.
Swallowing, eyeing me with wariness, she does. “There’s no crying in baseball.”
“Then yes, this is baseball. We are in baseball,” I confirm. Fervently.
“Okay,” Beth says, relaxing and pointing to the two chastized females with an air of authority I’ve never seen her use before. “You two to the dugout.” Her eyes widen meaningfully. “Get out of here.”
They make all haste and leave, which means the twenty or so hobs who were surreptitiously nearing them to offer comfort are left staring after them in forlorn disappointment.
My chest rumbles as I growl, displeased to have my suspicions proven: no one is teveking working. A mere two females have managed to throw a quarter of the quarry into production-less chaos.
At my growl, the Na’rith at the Beth-human’s side takes out one of his weapons—one of his many weapons—wordlessly reminding me that this Beth is under Na’rith protection.
I know that, you fool. They’re all under protection. Every teveking being adores these little nuisances! Gryfala, hobs—even other blasted Rakhii, for Creator’s sake! I snort, fire spitting from my nose. It makes the humans collecting at the fringes all jump back.
The Na’rith though, he grins.
He’s a daft one.
However, his dealings here, along with the rest of his crew, have proved quite lucrative. For the type of credits his ship has spent here, I can find some tolerance.
I exercise it in the form of lightly glaring at his mate. Tolerantly. My closest version of a patient stare.
“Annnyway...” Beth says, and her arms cross protectively over her chest, tucking her hands under her arms so that perhaps no one will see how I’m making them shake.
I grind my teeth. Calm yourself. Don’t frighten the thing further; there’s no sport in it.
“Bash, buddy,” says Gracie.
My eyes snap open, focusing on her. You can frighten this one.
Gracie smiles as if to say, You can try.
At her side, the striking blue color of her mate’s inner-wing patterns is intensifying. He’s unconsciously signaling that he’s agitated. Normally, I can almost appreciate this hob. For the most part, Dohrein does what I like; he works silently, stays out of my way, and tries to keep his human doing the same.
I respect him whenever he manages to succeed.
Currently, with his mate on the loose, he gets no respect. I send a glower just as dark at him as I do for his wicked-tongued human.
“You gotta ease up on making the girls cry,” Gracie insists. “That’s my job.”
I bare my teeth at her but try to keep my voice modulated. Because shouting in this female’s face ends a whole workday—with me held in temporary chains until my temper cools, as I learned early on. I can handle the punishment; sometimes it’s worth it just to yell until I’ve vented my frustration, but to lose an entire day of work this early in the dawn? I will kill all the humans for certain.
“You need to put your game face on,” Gracie tells me, making no sense. “Because you’re about to meet our latest round of helpers.”
“Helpers,” I mouth, scoffing. She means more bleating hirelings I won’t be allowed to maim. My claws flex, and her hob’s wings flare in reaction.
Gracie somehow takes my scoff as agreement. “Okay, ladies!” she shouts as she spins around. “Get your arses out here. Time to meet the big bad quarry master. This is the guy you don’t want to ‘piss off,’ as the Americans like to say.”
I give Gracie’s back a withering look, one she seems able to ignore with ease. I’m not surprised. Although the sheer fervor of my irritation should be something she’s able to sense, she’s impervious to the intensity of all irate feelings aimed in her direction. Through countless (understand: painful) interactions, I’ve learned that attempting to intimidate this human is wholly ineffective. Although there are t
imes I have scented fear on Gracie (for instance, when I tower over her—an activity I now avoid, because it’s strangely deflating to have her lose her pluck), most of our altercations result in her scenting of unnatural thrill—because she loves to fight. When she should be afraid and sent running, she instead responds by channeling her energy into pouncing on her hob. And I’ll give them no further encouragement (and as few opportunities as possible) to molest-frolic each other during a workday.
The new humans Gracie speaks of round a Narwari cart in a large huddle, some of them quailing nicely under my disapproving view. Like all the other groups of humans who’ve crept in here before them, this bunch is made up of wide-eyed, hesitant females who look as if they stepped off of their airship at the wrong stop. “This is where we’re collecting the main materials that will build our town, ladies.” Gracie waves to indicate nearby hobs and Rakhii, all of them meant to be busy at various tasks—yet most of the males have gone still, entranced by the sight of fresh, most likely unmated, human females. “These guys are doing all the heavy work, and it’s only fair we get in here and do what we can to help, right?”
“More like hinder,” I mutter.
Gracie just smiles and beckons her herd of new humans into my domain. “Come on in, girls. The water barks but better not bite.”
Dressed in clothing that Gracie herself designed (this female is like a hob with the way she wields her drawing pencils and sewing needles), every human is fitted with sturdy pants or skirts or dresses, with blouses sometimes covered by smocks that tie behind their backs. The females used to come gloved too, but now the number of humans have exceeded Gracie’s sewing speed abilities, with more hands than she can possibly cover, although she works herself and her hobs hard to catch up because three cycles from now, I’ll see their hands protected. Til then, it will be all scrapes and blisters for this lot. Some will be driven away because of it, never to return. The rest will persevere. I have to wonder if Gracie allows her people to suffer on purpose, to test their mettle before investing more time and materials in clothing them properly if they’ll be fired before the day’s end anyway.