Total pages in book: 149
Estimated words: 135784 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 679(@200wpm)___ 543(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135784 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 679(@200wpm)___ 543(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
I really hope this trip the Little Sister is on isn't a long one.
13
SOPHIE
For the next few days, I hang out in my room.
Okay, I hide out in my room. Hide, not hang. It's just that…things are so tense between me and Jerrok that I don't want to face him. I know he doesn't want me here. He's made that painfully obvious. And thanks to the fact that I freaked out, Sleipnir mauled his arm. Even if it's cybernetic, I can't imagine that felt good. The carinoux is just following his instincts and protecting me from threats. I can't be mad at that. Heck, I wish I had Sleipnir at my side years ago when I was first tossed to the wolves. Having a big attack cat-lizard at my side makes me feel safe…even if it does piss off my host.
And really, there's nothing to do on this shitty station, no one to talk to, and nothing to see. There's no comm links, no vids, no nothing. In a way, it makes sense. You can't have a bunch of signals going out into space if you're trying to hide out. On the other hand, it makes for a very long, very boring day.
So I read Outlander. I snuggle with Sleipnir and pet him for hours as I savor every page, murmuring the words aloud as I read so I can really feel them. So I can make the story last longer. I leave my room only to use the bathroom or grab a bag of dry noodles and some water. Jerrok doesn't want to see me, either. Each morning, I've found a slab of meat laid out on some scrap metal for Sleipnir to eat, and the message is very clear—keep your animal away from me.
Sleipnir eats the food and then spends hours on end chewing on the metal while I snack on dry noodles. If I squint really, really hard, it's almost like potato chips. Almost.
I finish Outlander for the umpteenth time on day two and go to start it again. By day three, with nothing else to do, my eyes are crossing and I need a change of pace. I'm bored. So bored. I roll over onto my back and stare up at the ceiling for a while, trying to imagine ways to entertain myself. Maybe…cards? Dominos? I don't know how to play dominos, though. The aliens like a game called “sticks” which is all about the placement of hand-sized tossed sticks, but I've never been able to figure that one out. Shit, I'd kill for a crossword or even some knitting needles right now. Something. Anything. Right about now I'd read medical brochures just because they'd be different. I've read Outlander far too many times in the last few months.
As I consider my small list of options, Sleipnir gets to his feet, stretches catlike, and then pads out of the room. Hm. I watch the carinoux go, and then sit up. He leaves a few times a day, and I have to admit, I haven't followed him. Now, though, I'm curious where he's going. I'm sure it's just a bathroom run, but I also wonder where he's doing his business.
Part of me hopes it's in Jerrok's bed, because fuck that guy.
I trail a fair distance behind the carinoux as he moves through the silent halls. I don't want him to notice I'm following and stop, so I keep my steps slow and silent. He heads down a few halls I've never ventured into. This entire station is like a maze of shelled-out spaceships and junk, and I guess I'm afraid of touching something I shouldn't.
Or I'm just afraid, full stop. I always feel so unsettled out here in space. So unsafe. I just want to feel secure and like I have a home again.
Distracted by my melancholy thoughts, I almost miss the sudden turn that Sleipnir takes, and then disappears through a doorway. I quickly jog to catch up to him, and then gasp at the sight in front of me. The new hall is shorter, clear of clutter, and leads out to an open area that's verdant with leaves and plant life.
A greenhouse. Or a biodome. Whatever it is, it's an enormous room built to house plant life, that much is obvious. I wander inside, utterly entranced. The ceiling is higher here than it is in the rest of the station, and it reminds me of the old gymnasiums back when I was in high school with the super-tall ceilings. The greenery goes all the way to that tippy-top ceiling, some of the stalks of greenery so big they take my breath away. There are beds filled with rich dirt in neat rows, and it's clear that this was once a garden or had some sort of organization to it. Each bed has mesh netting to help tendrils climb and grow tall, but they got too heavy long ago and now everything just sags with the weight of the fruit and leaves hanging from the thick clusters of vines. The beds are completely overrun with plants, roots squeezed and packed in tightly and sometimes crawling over the lip of the bed as if desperate to find any place to land. The scent here is fresh and clean, like a garden back home, and my eyes prick with memories. My mother had a garden. Just the easy stuff, she'd claimed—tomatoes and squash and peppers—but she'd loved tending to it, and it had been a joy I shared with her. We'd spend time every afternoon when school was done making the rounds, exclaiming over a new bud or a tomato that suddenly turned red overnight. I'm hit with a wave of intense homesickness.