Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Lydia
“Good lord, this is heavy,” Harlee says, straining to pull the net through the black water.
I take more of the slack, enjoying the physical exertion. On the other side of the lake, Roan slows down, keeping level with us. Two Humans versus one Ril’os—Roan would absolutely be winning if he weren’t such a gentleman.
The net is made of a super-fine wire, threaded together in an intricate weave.
It wasn’t heavy before we put it into the water, but now that it’s filling with algae, it’s starting to drag.
Before today, I would’ve sworn algae didn’t weigh much; but when you’re trying to scoop up several tons of the stuff, it’s like trying to tow a car with nothing but a length of wire rope.
It’s been a hot second since I’ve been to the gym, and my muscles burn.
Sweat glistens on Harlee’s forehead, and damp strands of hair have glued themselves to the sides of her face.
I probably don’t look any better. The air is thick with humidity.
The cave walls run with moisture, and occasionally a stalactite will release a drop of water on my head or, worse, down the back of my T-shirt.
We reach the far end of the lake, and Roan hooks his end of the net onto a large crank wheel. The net bulges with algae, although it’s hard to see with most of it being underwater.
The cave is about the size of a football pitch. The lake covers the entire cave floor, and there’s a metal walkway around the outskirts. It’s on this walkway that the crank wheel lives.
I copy Roan, straining against the drag to loop our corner of the net onto the wheel. That done, Roan starts winding the handle, and the crank begins the unenviable task of hauling the net and its catch from the water.
Strange that it’s not automatic, considering both Roan and Killan have literal robots in their kitchens that cook them dinner each night. But I guess tech costs money, and this is an easy job—easy for Roan, at least.
He doesn’t appear bothered by the strain.
He doesn’t have hair that can get damp with sweat.
He doesn’t wear clothes that can become drenched in perspiration.
Hell, he doesn’t have skin through which to perspire.
Whereas I’m trying to peel my T-shirt away from my sticky stomach and using my other hand to fan my hot face.
It’s a sauna down here. Steam rises off the lake’s surface, shimmering in the sparse overhead lighting—artificial lights, of course, because we’re at least four stories underground.
Thankfully, I’m only afraid of heights, and not claustrophobic.
“Good job, babe.” Harlee beams at Roan. “How do we get the algae from here”—she points at the bulging net—“to there?” And she points to a side tunnel down which is located the drying cave, where the wet algae is going to be processed into something more palatable than stringy sludge.
“Excellent question.” I glance down at my sweat-soaked T-shirt, imagining it covered in algae, which is how it’s going to look if we have to carry it all ourselves.
And shouldn’t we be wearing gloves? It is food-grade algae after all, meant for consumption.
I open my mouth to ask about safety precautions, thinking of all the hours I’ve spent wearing a hairnet to stop stray hair falling into my bread dough, but Killan steps forward. I hadn’t noticed him standing in the shadows, watching us.
He’s pushing what looks like a large wheelbarrow.
There are three shovels inside, and Roan takes one.
Killan takes another, and I grab the third, which must usually be for Sorin.
The handle is a little too thick for me to get a sturdy grip, but I don’t let that stop me from helping.
I’m here against Killan’s better judgment, and I’m determined to prove that I can, in fact, be helpful.
Why? Purely for the satisfaction of Killan having to admit he was wrong.
Yes, I’m vindictive. And yes, I’m competitive.
Always have been. It’s why I wanted to open my own bakery—because I know I make amazing bread, and I didn’t want to keep sharing my accolades with an employer.
When I win another Sydney’s Best Bakery award, I don’t want it to have the name of someone else’s business engraved on the trophy.
You might ask if a trophy is a good enough reason to have broken off my engagement to possibly the only man who’ll ever truly love me.
And I’d give you the same answer I gave to my mum: of course.
It’s everything the trophy stands for—all the hard work.
All the hours and weeks and years of practice.
All the love and passion and focus I’ve dedicated to my craft.
There’s the old saying: Don’t trust a skinny baker. Well, I don’t think it’s true. The motto I live by is Don’t trust a weak baker. It takes strength to knead dough every day. It takes muscles to lift industrial-sized racks of bread from hot ovens. It’s not for the fainthearted.
After all, biceps are for show, triceps are for dough.
I brush the back of my hand over my damp brow, pushing pink hair off my forehead, as Killan leans his shovel against the wall. The wheelbarrow is full to overflowing, with lengths of stringy algae spilling over the sides.
The wheelbarrow must have a small motor, because it takes hardly any forward momentum to get it moving.
It sways and rocks as it trundles down the stone tunnel to the drying room, Killan keeping it company.
It reminds me of a Roomba. Instead of vacuuming the carpet, it’s lugging algae from one cave to another.
Harlee eyes the remaining algae, heaped along one long edge of the lake, tons and tons of the stuff. “It’s going to take a while, isn’t it?”
“Oh, yes.” Roan laughs, his upper hands still holding the handle of his shovel, while one of his lower hands cups Harlee’s ass.
It’s a subtle move, and I bet he thinks I haven’t noticed that he’s groping his bride-to-be.
They’re standing close together. It’s fairly dark in the cave.
And with the water reflecting off everything, it’s like there’s a disco ball hanging from the ceiling, sending shadows dancing over the stalactites.
But the flush on Harlee’s face is a dead giveaway.
I’m left staring aimlessly around the cave, trying not to make eye contact with either one of them. There’s a sort of crack in the wall that catches my attention and provides me with an excuse to edge away, giving them space.
The crack is as tall as I am, the edges ragged, reminding me of torn paper. I can fit my whole arm into it, although it’s not wide enough to accommodate my shoulders or hips.
“I think there’s another cave down there,” I say to nobody in particular, trying to see through the darkness enough to distinguish what’s beyond.
“Sorry? What’d you say?” Harlee asks distractedly.
I glance at them over my shoulder, but they’re kissing again.
“I’m going to…” I don’t bother finishing my lame excuse before heading down the tunnel Killan had taken, leaving the lovebirds to their own company.
If the lake caves that are part of the brothers’ farm existed before they moved to this planet, then it’s extremely likely that there are other caves down here, too. Maybe a whole network of them, waiting to be explored.
The tunnel widens, and I find myself in the drying cave. It’s considerably smaller than the one I just left—and considerably less humid.
Killan is piling algae onto a conveyor-belt-like table that takes up most of the space, creating an even blanket of algae about a foot deep. Water runs off the edges, and the table itself is glowing, the temperature in the room reminding me of a Sydney summer.
The most interesting things about this cave are the robotic arms set into the ceiling, much like the one that lives in Killan’s kitchen cupboard.
There are rows of tracks that crisscross the ceiling, along which the robotic arms can move.
They’re helping Killan spread the algae evenly over the table, constantly rotating it so that the algae at the bottom doesn’t dry faster than what’s on top.
They remind me of an over-enthusiastic worker, flipping burger patties on the grill so one side doesn’t burn before the other side has cooked.
My first boss was that type of person, always opening the oven to check on progress before the bread had finished rising.
“Did you need something?” Killan asks.
“No.” His question prickles. I’m not always asking him for things. And when I am, it’s not my fault. “How long does it take to dry?” I remember the dried Nufaral he showed Harlee and me the first time we came down here. It looked like crispy seaweed but melted in my mouth like cotton candy.
“Two days,” Killan says, which isn’t nearly as long as I’d been expecting.
“And then you ship it to your home planet?”
“This is my home planet,” he growls.
“To your birth planet,” I correct.
“We grind it into powder, and then we ship it to Ril I.” He continues off-loading algae onto the drying table, and the sounds of him working are muffled by the thick rock walls.
I might have tried helping, except that there isn’t enough space between the table and the cave wall for both of us and the wheelbarrow.
There’s something strangely mesmerizing about watching him work. Killan’s unrelenting focus on his farm is something I actually understand about him. We have that in common—both of us are business minded.
Once upon a time, I might have believed that would mean we’d get along. I know better now.
I back away, and when it becomes evident that he intends to continue ignoring me, I turn and flee to the lake cave. Roan and Harlee must hear me coming, because they jerk apart, Harlee wiping her mouth on the back of her hand and giving me a bright smile.
“So…” The perpetual third wheel, I hunt around for something to say, beginning to suspect that maybe I should’ve stayed in Killan’s kitchen, sulking. “Watch anything good on TV recently?” I end up asking Roan.
“Akh…” He frowns.