Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 92507 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92507 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
I pull up my marriage records. They’re made out to Emvor Vas Kilasen, a mesakkah from Homeworld, and Shiarii Mil Askrav, a mesakkah from a station name I only vaguely recognize. It won’t hold up, that’s for sure. She’s neither mesakkah nor this Shiarii person. The contract between us is invalid. She’s not mine.
All right, then. I can find her a nice home somewhere quiet on Cassa where she won’t be threatened. People around here like animals. I’m sure some wouldn’t mind an extra pair of hands around, even if they are oddly five-fingered. Once I find her that home, she’ll no longer be my problem and I can go back to the marriage agency and request a new bride.
Like that won’t look fishy? But one thing at a time.
I run the machinery in the barn for a few hours, letting it cycle through chores. There’s milking, feeding, the changing out of hay and sawdust at the bottom of each stall. There are animal vital signs to be logged and recorded. Most farmers and ranchers cheap out and employ a variety of mechs to do such things, but I still have nightmares about the mech that shot my face up back in the war. I don’t mind doing this sort of thing myself, even if it means that I occasionally have to climb into the stall with a rather angry bull to loosen up a piece of jammed equipment. Does me good. Helps me think.
I think about the human waiting in the house. I think about her a lot, of course. Much as I might want to send her on her way, I can’t. She needs a roof over her head, and food. A bed to sleep in. Of course, that part’s a bit of a problem. My house is small—didn’t see the need to expand it unless I had children. And you only get children two ways—your wife decides she’ll bear them naturally, or you rent a plas-womb and donate your genetic material and a small fortune in fees. ’Course, since I don’t like mechs, I sure don’t like the thought of renting a plas-womb. Everyone out here on the fringes does things the natural way. Probably disgusts all those city dwellers back on Homeworld, but I’m kinda intrigued by the thought of touching my wife without plas-film separating our bodies to keep our bacteria to ourselves.
Maybe it’s deviant of me, but I like the thought of filling my wife with my seed, making her pregnant.
And that makes me think of the human again. The human with her flat face and her odd-colored skin. Her delicate bones and the way she only reaches my chest. She’d be all belly if she carried my child.
Not that she’s going to. I’m sending her on her way just as soon as I can find a home for her.
Irritated at my own thoughts, I finish up my chores in the barn, slap the bull on his flank to let him know I’m leaving his stall, and then head back toward the house. Even before I reach the door, I can smell food cooking. My mouth waters. How did she make my processor smell so keffing good? I use the thing all the time, but my food never smells like that. Mine is palatable. Hers smells…incredible.
I push the door open and the smell wafts over me. As I step inside, I can see her, small back to me as she works in the kitchen area of my home. The large processor set into the wall that normally produces all of my food is switched off, and she’s stirring something in a pot over the small stove I use to burn fuel in the winter.
Shiarii—no, that’s not her name. The human looks over at me with a small, apologetic smile. “I hope you don’t mind if I made you dinner. It’s the least I can do.”
I rub my jaw, thinking. I’m sweaty and tired and mentally worn out from her arrival, but more than anything, I can’t stop thinking about the smells coming from that pot she’s stirring. I move forward to the only seat in the house, near the fire. Doesn’t feel right to sit down, not while she has to stand. I grab a big chunk of firewood, roll it toward the fire, and sit down, using it as a makeshift stool. I study her as she stirs the food again, glancing over at me with a tense expression underneath her sweet smile. Her hands are shaking.
And now I feel like a monster. She’s clearly terrified. Kef. I rub my jaw again. “You know there’s a processor that will cook anything you want. It’s already loaded with ingredients. All you have to do is turn it on.”
The human glances over at me and her smile grows a little wider. She’s got the weirdest little indention in her round cheek, but it’s kind of charming. “I know. I learned how to use one a long time ago, but I think it makes the food taste strange. Too processed. Plus, I like cooking. It helps me when I’m stressed.”