Why do I have such a large bed?
I can’t help but notice that my room isn’t really a bedroom, either. It’s not private. There’s a large, motion-sensor sliding door that leads to the hallway that works—but only just. It groans like a dying thing whenever I try to activate it, and tiny plumes of smoke waft up from the tracks. I get the impression it’s not meant to be used, and so I leave it alone. There’s another door that leads down a dark hallway filled with clutter. Storage, I imagine. There’s no comfortable sitting in this room, either—no tables or chairs, no cushions on the hard metal floor, no nothing to make it a place to relax.
A home.
There’s nothing on the patchwork paneled walls but rust, and any sort of entertainment unit is long dead.
In short, there’s absolutely nothing to do but sit on the bed and stare at the walls. And not pee. Or eat.
“Not much of a guest, am I, Sleipnir?” I scratch underneath the carinoux’s chin.
Still, I’ve had worse. I think about the last owner I had, and my bed before I came to live on the Little Sister. My owner was a praxiian, a warlike cat species that believes in guests and family all piling into the same bed. I had to sleep with my elderly owner and his wife, and since I was a slave, that meant he fucked me in front of his wife and guests on the regular.
So I guess I can’t complain about a quiet bed parked in the middle of an un-private room. I just worry that the size of the bed and the lack of privacy means that I’ll be on my back and servicing again. I don’t want to—god, I don’t want to—but if it’s only me and that filthy, rag-covered alien here on this asteroid, what can I do?
I like to think that I’ll fight, but honestly, the fight was beaten out of me long ago.
More likely, I’ll just endure it, suck up my feelings, maybe have a good cry, and then keep on surviving as best I can.
With those unpleasant thoughts drifting through my head, I lie down and begin to read my tattered copy of Outlander once again. I read a few chapters as Sleipnir snuggles against me, all warm heat and supple cat body, and then I doze. When I wake up, my book’s on the floor, Sleipnir is missing, and I have to pee something fierce.
I glance around, feeling lonely and isolated, and go to find a bathroom. Even aliens have to use the toilet, so there has to be one of some kind. I wander down unfamiliar-looking halls, crowded with broken junk and old containers, afraid to touch anything. Even the doors don’t exactly look like any sort of bathroom door I know of, and I worry I could open the wrong sort of thing and tumble into a broken airlock. I cross my arms tightly and decide to go looking for Sleipnir or my host—whichever I find first.
There’s a low sound of clanging, of metal on metal, and I follow it down the junk-strewn hall, pushing aside low-hanging tubes that dangle from the ceiling. Up ahead, there’s a large room filled with more junk, but there’s also a good-sized table and a light. In front of the light, the goggle-wearing alien hammers at a metal sheet, making an ungodly amount of noise.
I take a few steps inside the room and wave awkwardly.
He looks up at me. His lip curls, and then he goes back to work, hammering.
CLANG. CLANG.
Er, okay. I move a few steps closer, shouting to be heard over the metallic racket. “Can I talk to you about the bathroom situation?”
He drops his tools as if in disgust, putting his hands on his hips. “Oh. So now you want to talk about it?”
“Um…yes?” I’m a little startled at his viciousness. Why is he being such a prick? Some people hate humans for no reason, but surely the brothers wouldn’t leave me here if that’s the case?
The male alien just shakes his head, picking up his hammer and putting aside the sheet of metal. “You’ve got some keffing nerve. That’s all I’ll say. Don’t they teach you humans manners back where you’re from?”
I bristle. Okay, it seems I was wrong, and this guy is just an unrepentant asshole. “I could say the same about you. Why are you being so nasty to me?”
“Me nasty?” He snorts. “That’s rich.”
Jesus Christ, who peed in this guy’s cereal? “Listen, jerk—”
“Jerrok,” he snaps.
“What?”
“My name is Jerrok not ‘jerk.’”
Clearly there’s a miscommunication here. “Jerk” fits him a hell of a lot more, though. “I didn’t come out here to pick a fight,” I say stiffly. “I just need to know where the facilities are, since I’m going to be living here for the next few weeks.” When he doesn’t move, I intensify my glare. “Would you rather I just pee in a damn corner?”
He looks up, jaw hardening. Maybe he’s realizing this isn’t a conversation he’s going to win. He knows he has to show me the bathroom, right? He takes a menacing step toward me, and I cringe backward, anticipating a slap or a shove of some kind—
But he only moves right past me and down a second hall, which has a door with vaguely familiar markings on it. He slams the damn thing open and gestures at it. “I expect you to use the keffing thing.”
“Why…else would I ask where the bathroom was?”
“And stay out of my way,” he adds, gesturing at the larger room with his equipment in it. “Touch nothing in here. In fact, don’t touch anything outside of your room.”
“Not even the bathroom?” I ask, unable to resist lobbing back a sarcastic bolt.
“You know what I mean, human.” He stomps over to his workbench and turns his back to me.
Not for the first time today, I wonder if it’s too late for Adiron, Mathiras and Kaspar to turn around and come get me.
9
JERROK
I come from a long line of junkers. The un’Rok family has always been station trash. I know some people are bothered by narrow, metallic halls and the scent of recycled air, but it’s comforting to me. I prefer it.
I definitely prefer it to people.
I like the bland, industrial smell of my station. I like the smells of grease and char, of old exhaust and even the fake smell of old plas and even older carcinogels. My station smells familiar. Or at least it did until today. Because when I go into the lavatory, it smells like soap. The counters have been scrubbed free of old dust and water stains, and the mirror’s freshly washed. In fact, as I look around, the entire room practically keffing sparkles. It smells fresh and clean and I hate it because I know who did this.
It’s like she’s keffing with my head — shitting on the floor and then cleaning the bathroom so thoroughly you can eat off the floor.
I’m sure it’s all a game to force me to confront her, but I’m not going to play along.
Her scent is all over the station, though. It’s light and feminine, almost floral in its sweetness, and there are traces of it up and down the halls, and it seems everywhere I turn, she’s in my nose. It bothers me.
This is why I hate visitors. Because even when they’re not in the room with me, they’re still present in some way. It’s maddening, and it affects my ability to concentrate. I do my best to ignore all of it, turning back to scrapping one of the latest sling-drives I’ve acquired. If I focus enough, I can get most of it done before I collapse into bed. Hopefully the dreams won’t come if I exhaust myself. Most nights they don’t, but sometimes, when my brain won’t quiet, they creep up on me. Tonight feels like one of those nights, so I grab a second sling-drive and thump it down on the table next to the first.