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“Here are your clothes,” said the creature in the hideous mortal tongue, setting a folded stack not even the height of her palm on the seat by the door. “Would you like help dressing?”
The question slammed into Surela with the force of a blow, scattering memories like drops of blood. The smiling face of her handmaiden. The gentle hands that would never rise again to guide her into her elaborate costume. The tender fingertips that would linger on the inside of her wrist. The sweetness of the head resting on her shoulder when the toilette was done, and their excuse for being together evanesced.
And she… she would never see Thaniet again. No one would, because Thaniet was dead, and it was her fault.
The creature had paused, waiting, those animal ears twitched toward her. The thought that her pathos might be obvious to anyone, much less aliens, was so abhorrent it goaded her into speech. “No.”
The creature nodded. “I’ll get your shoes while you change.” A smile. “I bet you’ll be glad to be on your feet.”
As if she had anywhere to go. And what did it matter anymore? But she had made a promise, so she answered, mechanically, “Yes.” This must have satisfied because she was left alone to replace the sack-like gown she’d been wearing since her admission to the alien clinic with her meager new garments. She didn’t know how many days had passed… nor could she find it in herself to care. To dwell too deeply on her immediate past and all the deserts she had earned with her arrogance and ignorant pride….
A heart-shaped face intruded into her thoughts, and she pushed it away. So did a different face, the alien one that had said that evidence of her pregnancy had proved inconclusive, and that she had been reprieved, who had asked for none.
The aliens had given her a shirt, pants, and a shapeless pullover: a menial’s attire, but she would never again wear the gowns which she had once deserved. Now she deserved this, and only barely, because a human had dared to intercede for her. At least she would never come face to face with one of her kind, who would see her in servants’ garb and know her humiliation. Granted that, the garments were at least practical. It galled her to admit they were also more comfortable and easier to don than anything her world had ever produced.
Was it strange that it was her hair that fanned her misery to rage? Her floor-length mane had been dressed daily into coiffures as complex as a piece of filigree. The utilitarian braid worked by some alien hand while she’d been unconscious struck her as incongruous. Who would care for it now that she was a friendless exile? Even the task of washing it would be an immense burden, and a constant reminder of all that had been
stripped from her.
The weapon left her by her human benefactor was lying on the table beside the bed. Her motions were jerky with emotion and clumsy with unfamiliarity, but she did the deed quickly for all that… far more quickly than her life had fallen apart, just when she’d thought she’d grabbed the brass ring, the way she was grabbing her braid only to find it connected to nothing. The weightlessness of her head shocked her—but briefly, only briefly. Then, like a girl still in leading strings, she plaited what was left and tied it off. It swung behind her shoulders as she stood to await the creature’s return, and her shoes.
It was the least of what she would leave behind, forever.
The woman who’d once been known as Surela Silin Asaniefa stepped out of the alien’s clinic, expecting to be delivered into the hands of Eldritch guards, men who would not bother to hide their contempt as they shepherded her, formally and definitively, into exile in the nearest non-Eldritch facility in space. Instead, her exit inspired a stranger to stand up and smile at her, flicking his ears forward like an eager dog… which is what he looked like. Someone’s cull, because who would have kept a creature of such unhandsome colors and unfortunate conformation? With pelt an awkward mix of gray and red and ginger, and a build too lanky for strength and too thick for speed, the best that could be said for him was that he was well-groomed, his fur trimmed and hair combed neatly. That, and she was forced to admit he had friendly eyes, if in a common shade, the same brown of every loyal hound depicted in the illustrations of countless books.
“Hello, alet,” said this newest creature. “I’ve been waiting for you. My name’s Saul Ferry, and I’m here to escort you to the Earthrise.” When she didn’t immediately reply, he indicated the corridor. “This way, please.”
Normally she would have led any entourage; certainly, she would not have permitted a servant to walk alongside her. But she no longer led anything, nor did she have servants—indeed, unless she was mistaken she had become one—and she had no idea where she was going. She felt curiously disconnected from the world. Her head was too light, and her shoulders and hips not sufficiently weighed down by her clothes, and nothing made sense. Her body wanted to panic; her mind, to disassociate. Every motion seemed to drag.
“They’ve been very kind, the Fleet personnel,” her escort said, drawing her attention. “You couldn’t have had better care anywhere. They assure me you should be fine, once you get your bearings, so I thought you might want to go directly to your new quarters on the Earthrise. You’ve been told about the ship, I’m sure, when Reese made you the offer, but I’m betting she was short on details. The crew’s still mustering, so we won’t be getting underway immediately, but that’s good… it'll
give you time to meet everyone sequentially instead of all at once.” He smiled again. “Less overwhelming that way.”
It was tempting to think of him as an empty-headed chatterer, but that smile disabused her of the notion. It didn’t reach his eyes—those common brown eyes that were more sympathetic than enthusiastic. She didn’t like their sincerity. It made her feel responsible for not hurting him, and she could no longer guarantee she was capable of living without hurting people. She’d done such a complete job of it already.
Thaniet….
He cleared his throat, pulling her from the memory. “What should I call you, alet? Reese mentioned you might want to use a different name. Eldritch names being so hard to pronounce, I’m guessing.” This smile was more natural. “I suppose you might want to take pity on us foreigners.”
“I hadn’t thought of one,” she said aloud, while marveling that the human benefactor she hadn’t wanted had seen fit to warn her, obliquely, not to reveal her real name to strangers. And if she wanted to be known as Surela, the Ten Day Traitor? But what would be the point of it? She could never return to that life.
“Reese mentioned you’re new to her banner,” the creature said. “I’m guessing that makes you part of House Laisrathera.”
“Something like,” Surela replied, because in all likelihood she was now a peasant without a House name. What else? She had earned all of this.
“Well, you have time to decide.”
She glanced at him, but he was staring ahead as he guided them through the unfathomable warren of passages that led to wherever they were going. Before she thought better of it, she said, “You are uncommonly relaxed.”
“Am I?” That struck him as humorous, perhaps; his face was close enough to a humanoid template for her to read. The fur and ears made her think ‘creature’, but his eyes and expressions deprived her of the comfort of dismissing him. “I don’t think of myself as easygoing. But I’ve always liked having a clear directive and a purpose, and I have both
now.”
“Those being?”
That smile—that was fully sincere, and amused. “An awfully personal question, alet. But I can answer: my clear directive is to work on the Earthrise until I’m no longer needed, and my purpose is to be a friend to the friendless.”
Such a simple task suited him, with his affable demeanor and kind eyes. They weren’t sufficient to steer her intellect away from the obvious. “She sent you. To me.”
“Reese? She asked me to help you settle in, yes. I’ve worked on ships before, I know a little about it.”
And if that was all the human had arranged, Surela would wrap herself in a christening gown and declare herself a newborn. Theresa Eddings had saddled her with a literal watchdog. What else, for a criminal whose commuted death sentence had consigned her to hundreds of years offworld? And yet… glancing again at the stolid face of her ‘guard’, Surela couldn’t believe it. Unless she missed her guess—possible, given the magnitude of her mistakes lately—the creature’s report was literal: ‘a friend to the friendless.’
“I cannot believe her,” Surela breathed.
He pretended not to hear, indicating a door. “This way. We’ll be taking the Pads.”
She followed, her anger opening her mouth before her better nature quenched the words she would have spoken. She could claim that his services were unnecessary, but they weren’t. She knew nothing about the life into which she was poised to plunge—had not even remembered the name of the ship that would be her prison. The simplest questions no longer had obvious answers: how would she eat? Where would she sleep? Would she ever have more than this suit of clothing? So much she had taken for granted in her prior life, because in return for those necessities she had performed a function. Had done it well; even the human had been forced to concede that she was a superlative manager. Now… she didn’t know what she was. And her benefactor had supplied her with a guide. It would be stupid not to take advantage of the opportunity.
The creature paused just inside the new room, looking back at her. “Coming?”
Coming where?
This room was a dead end. “Yes.”
He smiled again, that genuine smile. Nothing hid in it. “Good. If you’ll walk across that mat there?”
“This one?” She strode toward it—she would give the peasant attire that, it was far easier to move—and stumbled as her next steps brought her into an entirely separate chamber, larger and darker than the one she’d exited. Whirling, she stared down at the matching mat. She had never used one of the stolen transportation devices supplied to them by the offworld pirates, but she’d seen Athanesin lead his men over them. She had felt an instinctive revulsion toward the incursion of alien technology on their soil. To sully her skin with the experience of using such a device had never occurred to her.
And now she had, and with no experience of having done so. She had taken an entirely normal step, and that step had delivered her to this echoing, ugly space.
Goddess and Lord, was this to be her prison, then?
Her guard appeared, ears perked like the enthusiastic dog he resembled. “Here we are… the Earthrise, or at least, one of her cargo bays.” A pause. “Is it more comfortable? The gravity on the ship’s lighter than Alliance Standard.” Perhaps her puzzlement showed, because he continued. “Can you breathe easier? Move with less effort?”
She lifted a hand, let it drop. Inhaled, was surprised to discover less pressure on her breastbone. She’d assumed that weight to be grief. “So it seems.”
“Good. You’ll still tire quickly, so keep an eye on that, but it should be easier on you than the previous ship. Come on, your cabin’s this way. I’ll show you.”
‘Her’ cabin implied a private room, which until this moment she hadn’t known might have been a privilege denied to her. She walked behind the creature, because to walk beside him would have required them to brush elbows in the narrow corridor, and tried not to cringe from the meanness
of the… architecture. Did ships have architecture? It was ugly, whatever it was. Gray walls, darker gray floors of metal grid, gray ceiling with recessed lighting that served solely to call attention to the lack of color. She missed Asaniefa’s viridian carpets and creamy marble walls, the bronze busts and the fresh flower arrangements. Her eyes longed for the flicker of a lamp or the purity of the sun, not this… unnatural, steady illumination, pitilessly exposing every flaw.
She hated it. She couldn’t believe she’d agreed to live in exile. The human had challenged her by calling suicide the coward’s route, but better a dead coward than a living slave, surely?
“Here we are.” The creature stood aside as a door slid open, vanishing into a pocket. Alien doors lacked drama or majesty. How did mortals live with such utilitarian surroundings? Surela stepped inside and surveyed the cell they’d assigned her… and cell it was. She would have given a dog a bigger kennel.
“It’s a great space,” the creature said. “May I come in?”
It was the first thing he’d said that startled her, and it must have shown. The patient regard never wavered, and she hated that it shamed her: that she hadn’t anticipated courtesy from aliens, and he’d expected it. “Yes, of course.”
“There’s no ‘of course’ about it. This is your cabin, alet. You shouldn’t be forced to receive visitors in it.”
His compassion drove the blood to her cheeks. “Yes, I understand. Let us not make much of it. Enter, and show me the… features… of this cell.” And because she now lived on the sufferance of strangers—and because he’d earned it—she finished, “Please.”
“We call it a cabin, or your quarters,” the creature replied, stepping inside. “This,” patting the door frame, “is a hatch. Just so you know, if people use the terms around you.” He walked the perimeter of the room. “This is your desk—the light’s here, you can turn it on by tapping, or just ask it to turn on. Drawers here, for storage. And these cabinets above your bunk… it’s a fold-out bunk. You can store your linens in this pocket in the wall, or buy extra storage cubage… it can be hooked into the wall with these mounts, so it doesn’t move around. Food is served in the mess, and the bathroom is down the hall. You can modify your cabin within reason….”
As he talked, Surela’s world shrank. Activities she used separate rooms for at home, like writing her correspondence, or managing accounts, even sleeping
and dressing… now she would do them all in this single, featureless room, barely large enough to turn in.
“This is for clothes,” the creature was saying. “Reese has arranged for your things, though if they’re not to your taste you’ll be able to purchase replacements once we’re in the Alliance.”
Surela started from her brooding. “I will be able to make purchases?”
He cocked his head. “Yes? You will be a working member of the crew, which means you’ll be paid.”
“But what will I do?”
“I don’t know. Did Reese say anything to you?”
The memory of that conversation was not as sour as she expected, but the strength of her anger and misery made recollecting its particulars uncomfortable. “Something about… management. Social issues.”
“Hmm. Well, Ra’aila will want to interview you, I’m sure. We’ll figure something out.” He smiled. “I’ll leave you to familiarize yourself with your quarters. I’m sure you have messages you need to check.”
“Messages,” she repeated.
He nodded. “On your computer.” Pointing now at the desk, which was featureless, innocent of blotter or inkstand. “Just ask. You can also request my location from the computer if you need me later. It’s mark one right now, so there will be snacks in the mess. Dinner’s at mark five. Ra’aila should be aboard by then, if not sooner.”
Before she could object, or ask for clarification, or protest that this was not the life she’d wanted, the creature had gone. Without so much as a bow, either, but she had not observed the aliens to have formal courtesies. They were peasants, the lot of them, and she was now one of them—and with no one to blame for her fall but herself.
This was everything she wanted to prevent her people from being forced to interact with. Become. Was it irony that she should be pushed into that embrace? Or a special and exquisite cruelty?
Investigating the drawers of the crudely-shaped box her minder had misapprehended as a desk, she found no letters waiting for her. No pens, either, nor ink
nor leads. Though she had never handled one, she was aware that aliens used slates to communicate, and no such slate greeted her when she opened the final drawer. What ‘computer’ was she missing?
He’d said she should ‘just ask’. What did that mean? Aloud, as if summoning a servant? Ridiculous! And yet, the thought of searching for the creature solely to ask him to guide her through the use of mortal technology… no, she couldn’t. Resigned to sounding a fool, Surela said, “Where are my messages?”
“You have two messages. Play message one at current location?”
Startled, Surela said, “Yes.”
An image of the human who’d landed her in this contretemps appeared on her wall in more detail than she liked. It was not in keeping with her dignity to be amazed at mortal technology, at the fact she could count the beads at the ends of the human’s hair, or see the reflection of the human’s face in their glossy surfaces. She certainly didn’t want the recording to render the human’s contralto in such high fidelity… as if they were in the same room together.
“I’m sure you’re not in the most receptive mood right now, Surela, so I’ll go ahead and say I know you’re at a loss, so there’s no point denying it. Saul’s your resource for questions; use him, it’s why I hired him. No, I’m not sorry about that… and yes, I know you’ve probably figured out that he’s supposed to help you.” The human paused, her full lips twisting. “I’m not good at the high-handed parts of being a liegelady, but I’m working on it. Tell me how I’m doing. Or… don’t. Your choice.”
It would not be seemly to find this discursion humorous. There was no liking the female who’d put her in this situation. There couldn’t be.
“Anyway, since I know you’ll go crazy without something to do, it’s for the best that I’ve discovered I need help. Your help, particularly. I can trust Ra’aila to run cargo, but that would require her to know what kind of cargo to buy.
“And the thing is… we need livestock.”
Surela’s arms, which had been tightly folded against her chest, eased from it. Livestock?
“I am completely sure Ra’aila has no idea what kinds of chickens or pigs or cows we need. Dogs, we need dogs too. I’ve promised dogs. And not just for Laisrathera, but for as many Eldritch settlements as we can get those things to. Horses I think I’ve got covered thanks to the deal with Kerayle, but they don’t handle livestock. You used to manage Asaniefa… you’ve got a much better idea of what people need.”
Surela’s cheeks burned. Used to manage Asaniefa. Did the human have to remind her so pointedly?
“I hope you’ll be willing to help Ra’aila with that, because while we’ll make do with whatever the Earthrise brings back, I really want it to work.” The human’s body language steadied until it resembled the norms Surela recognized, and that stillness drew her eyes to the human’s. They were an uncanny color, blue as gentians. “If you need anything, tell me. Call me anytime. I’ll take care of you.”
The nerve of the creature, claiming her as if she had a right. As if a human could aspire to the heights of Eldritch nobility. As if Surela could need anything from someone of such mean estate—
She sat, abruptly, on the bed and touched her brow, trembling. No, Surela was the one of mean estate now, and the human elevated to levels of consequence
to which Surela was forever barred… by her own acts. Theresa Eddings had not opened her world to slavers and pirates. Had not let them into the palace to rape and kill the people she’d purported to rule, to protect. Theresa Eddings had not loosed a madman on the lands of the Jisiensire, to raze their tenant villages and destroy their ancestral homes.
A voice said, “Play second message?”
Surela’s head jerked up. “Yes.”
The silence extended, broken only by a strange click. She frowned—how irritating mortal correspondence was! Letters were so much better. And speaking aloud to nothingness, as if to a receptive servant….
Well. That much she could enter into. “Play the second message.”
Again the silence, and the click.
As if she’d been sent an envelope with a blank sheet within? She would have considered such a missive a threat. What could she deduce about the mortal version, knowing nothing about how these machines operated? It could be an error. Or a prank?
The chime cut through her puzzlement. Did everything in the mortal world make noise? And what did this sound indicate? It sounded almost like—
Again, the chime. This time, with a voice, a woman’s low soprano, brisk. “Ra’aila to see the supercargo.”
The door, then. She supposed she could not deny this particular petitioner. “Enter.”
What had she expected of the vessel’s captain? A human, perhaps, given Theresa Eddings’s ownership of the venture. But the individual that stepped through was another of the furred creatures, this one even more animal in seeming than Surela’s guard. Rather than a flat, humanoid face, she had a muzzle as long as a fox’s, though the tufted ears surmounting the mane were more reminiscent of a hare’s. And… she smelled like some exotic desert spice, so intensely that Surela gasped in like the most unschooled of children.
“I’m Ra’aila. It’s good to meet you.” The creature approached, halting at the edge of the bed. “Reese’s contracted me to drive this ship around until one of
us gets bored, her or me.” A flash of a grin, exposing pointed teeth. “She told me I’d get an Eldritch volunteer, but I admit I wasn’t holding my breath. I’m glad I was wrong, though, because my first order is for five hundred chickens and the only thing I know about chickens is what they taste like. Have you got any insight for me about chickens?”
“Do we have room for five hundred chickens?” Surela asked, taken aback.
“Oh, so they need room?”
Goddess and Lord, what had Theresa Eddings involved her in? “Perhaps you should show me the facilities in which you intend to transport the fowl.”
“Perhaps I should,” Ra’aila said. “Come on, and give me all your advice.”
The captain of the vessel was not given to idle conversation, thankfully, because Surela wouldn’t have had the first notion what to discuss. And she walked quickly, which stole her breath but suited Surela because she did not want to labor long in the company of mortals. That swift gait brought them to a cavernous chamber, as tall surely as Ontine’s throne room, but interrupted at intervals with metal beams. “This is the largest of the cargo bays. I don’t think they pack chickens in bins that we can put on those spindles and hang, so I’m guessing we’re going to have to use the deck. Hopefully the cages—they ship in cages, don’t they?—can be dogged down the way stalls for horses are. What do you think? Five hundred chickens?”
“How long is the journey?”
The creature scratched her nose. “Depends on where we buy them. We’re going to run crew-light up to Starbase Psi, where I’ll be picking up the rest of my people. Maybe we’ll find something there?”
Surela looked at the creature, appalled at her ignorance. “You don’t know?”
“Livestock is a specialty trade in the Alliance,” Ra’aila answered. “You’re more likely to find it in sectors adjacent to new space, where the fresh colonies are. But there’s not much colonization in this corner of the Alliance… most of the push is spinward. It’s why we established Kerayle in Sector Psi… not only is this side of the Alliance closer to Earth, but it’s also farther from where all the interest is. We were hoping we’d get a better deal on a planet.”
This was empire building on a level Surela had never contemplated, though no doubt Liolesa, her former queen, had. Despite the associations, Surela couldn’t help her curiosity. “Did you?”
“Oh, definitely. Even granting there’s almost no exploration done in this part of space…” The creature trailed off, frowning. “You know, that’s really strange. I wonder why there’s so little exploration over here? The Alliance is always looking for new worlds. Huh. I wonder if asking about that will get me anything?” She shook her head, ears flapping.
“Anyway. The point of this tangent was that we should be able to find a provider at Starbase Psi, or at least, news of one. If we don’t, it’s because there isn’t much colonization in this area, so there aren’t the industries to support them. If that’s the case, we’ll have to go farther afield.”
“Is there some… inventory…? Of merchants?”
“On the starbase? Oh, sure. I was going to check once we got underway, now that Reese’s sent me her shopping list.” Ra’aila eyed her. “Should I copy it to your account? And the vendor data?”
The idea of working was less intolerable than the idea of sitting idle in her kennel. “Yes.”
“Great! We should be casting off tomorrow, so if you need anything brought up from the planet, put in the request now. They can courier it up before we go.” Ra’aila grinned at her. “I’m glad to have you aboard. I’m jumping straight into uncharted waters, here, and I’m grateful for someone with somewhat more experience in Eldritch society to help. Which reminds me—I didn’t get your name?”
What to say? She couldn’t divulge her real name, and even if she could, she was no longer Surela Silin Asaniefa. House Asaniefa was dead, the Silin family scattered, and she… she was now the lowest charity case on Laisrathera’s rolls. Her milk name, Sela, she had given to nearly no one since leaving the nursery, and the one person she’d hoped would use it had died… died because of mistakes Surela had made. “You may call me Rel.”
“Oh, thank the multiple winds. I was afraid it would be one of the long unpronounceable ones, and then I might accidentally offend you by butchering it.” Ra’aila grinned. “Things are going to work out great. I can already tell.”
Surela was glad someone could.
The thought of eating should have revolted her; she had as good as killed her beloved companion and nearly destroyed her world, and had been consigned to mortal hell in the company of uplifted animals and aliens. Properly, she should abstain from food until starvation liberated her from breath. Now that execution had been denied her, however, the prospect of expiring like a maid out of a banal romance was revolting. She was no stripling girl to be daunted by… by a complete change in every aspect of her life, including her name. And she was hungry.
Disgraced she might be. But a puling victim—no. That was certainly a bridge too far.
The ship’s architecture was not solely unsightly; the sharp, metallic sound the deck made under her shoes made her want to grind her teeth. She ignored it to explore the painfully small world that was all that was allotted to her now, and in this way found the ‘mess.’ Thankfully, it did not live down to its name, and in it she found Saul-Ferry-her-guard, the assistant arranged for her by her liegelady in an attempt at highhandedness that was laughable in its modesty of scope. True highhandedness would have been far more oppressive. She would have to so advise her mortal keeper.
The canine ears pricked at the sight of her. “Hungry? There’s a spread on the counter. Did you meet Ra’aila yet?”
“I did, yes.” Surela walked to the counter and stopped, all her limbs locking. The selection there could have graced an Eldritch table, down to the dishes—good porcelain, and with Laisrathera’s house sigil. Meats sliced to pink translucency; nuts and cheeses scattered with honey; thin crackers and dense ones; and a bowl of raspberries. A plate of shortbread cookies dusted with sugar; two carafes, one of water and the other—not tea. Coffee, a beverage that had been briefly in vogue when Surela was young, but that had faded in popularity. Tisanes remained the drink of choice for refined palates. This, at least, she could safely scorn. The rest of it….
“Take whatever you want, we’re good on stores. ...
