Chapter 11
ELEVEN
ARTURE
Steam rises from the hot pool in thick, swirling tendrils, filling the cool midmorning air with the scent of minerals and damp earth.
It's a great find, a big unending lake stretching across the horizon, and all we need is a small drop of water by comparison.
Well, several million litres, but a body of water this size won't miss it.
First, I have to test the quality. I crouch beside the edge, the ground wet beneath my fingers, and shift into my Selthiastock form. My scales ripple and harden, taking on a deep green hue, taste buds sensitive to the slightest change in the water’s mineral composition.
I dip my hand in and bring a few drops to my mouth. “Rich with minerals. Magnesium, calcium, little bit of iron. Well within ship capabilities to purify. It'll do nicely.”
I shift back to my base form, and she looks away.
She's watched before, so she isn't disgusted or afraid.
Could it be a courtesy? I catch a glimpse of her expression when she looks at the steaming lake, and a kind of longing flickers across her face.
It can't remind her of home, the lake on El-len's land had a crust of ice on it for most of my time on Earth, but I still get the sense she'd like to sink into the warm depths.
“Come on, let's get back to the ship and get the pipeline set up.”
It’s a straightforward task, but one that requires a bit of effort.
We hike back to the ship and reach it by midafternoon.
I locate the pipe standard on all Olorian vessels, a bulky, reinforced length of tubing.
It's heavy, and I don't relish having to drag it out by myself.
It should come in rolls of coils, but as I deploy them from the side of the ship, only one roll springs free, the cylinder as tall as me on its rounded side.
I put my head into the storage chamber to confirm. The ship computers stated it had a five klick pipeline, so that's what I worked with, but there isn't any more pipe in the hold.
“Perhaps it's really thin and lightweight for a female and True Born son pleasure vessel.” That makes sense. No True Born would relish the task of hauling pipes around.
I shift again, scales rippling and changing to petrol blue, the familiar strength of the Gerverstock form flooding my muscles.
I plant my feet and roll the pipe forward, a satisfying resistance against my push as I heave it through the flat terrain.
Behind me the pipe rolls out, a line between us and the ship.
Nic-coal watches me for a moment before she clears her throat. "You know, this is definitely a beast of burden type job. A horse would be strong enough to handle it, and it’d be less of a strain on you."
I snort, barely sparing her a glance. "No need. I can handle it just fine."
Relying on that… beast? I can hardly entertain the thought, let alone trust it to help with something as important as this. The memory of Nic-coal near it still sits uncomfortably in my mind.
She comes to stand next to me. “Don't break your back. I'll help.”
“I'll do it, don't—”
Nic-coal shoves the roll, shoulder muscles becoming more defined as she pushes alongside me.
I'm speechless.
“Come on,” she grunts. “We'll be done in no time if we keep up a good rhythm.”
Standing next to her, I get my act together and push the roll alongside her. I keep an eye on her, but she doesn't flag or falter, and the ripple of her muscled arms keeps snagging my attention. It makes for a nice distraction as we work.
Females are small, delicate creatures, beautiful and fragile things to be shielded from the world’s harshness.
And in some ways, Nic-coal embodies that image.
Her frame is slight compared to mine, and her features are softer, unassuming.
She doesn’t have the towering physique or hardened scales of a clone.
But the more time I spend with her, the more she shows she’s not fragile.
There’s a quiet strength in her, a resilience that defies her appearance.
It’s in the set of her jaw when we face a challenge, in the fire that lights up her eyes when she refuses to back down.
She’s not weak, her strength lies beneath her calm exterior, like a blade concealed in a silk sheath.
The work becomes easier as we leave more pipe behind, the roll rapidly getting smaller and smaller. Together, we'll be done in no time.
“This roll isn't going to reach the pool,” Nic-coal points out.
She's right. The length dwindles to an end much sooner than I anticipated. I stare down at the piece in my hand. It isn’t nearly long enough to reach the ship for refueling.
"That's it?" Nic-coal asks, frowning back at the ship.
“That's it.” I grit my teeth, trying to contain my frustration. “I checked. The ship droking verified it had a five-klick reach. What the fuck is this?”
Nic-coal puts a hand to her mouth. “Greharm must have taken it all. This piece must’ve been left behind by accident, or he felt he had enough.”
Samara's wrath, that must be it.
A throbbing ache springs up in the back of my head.
I won't be able to complete my mission. I can't fulfill the imperative to deliver Nic-coal to Oloria. Never mind that we’re marooned here on a planet with massive beasts, there could be other dangers and I don't have the ship’s scanners to check. We’ll have no machines at all once their fuel is gone, too.
My hearts race, and they're already working hard in my Gerverstock form, so my chest burns with spikes of heat. My mind skids into a spiral of failure, the pain in my skull intensifying as if something inside claws to burst free.
"It’s useless," I mutter, clenching and unclenching my fists, the air too tight, my head spinning. "The mission… the ship… I can’t—"
Nic-coal places a gentle hand on my arm. Her touch is steady, her voice soft. "Hey. We’re not done yet, okay? We’ll figure this out."
I take a deep breath, her calm tone helping me push back the tightening vise of panic and pain.
But it doesn't change facts.
"There’s no way to get enough fuel now, and we can't move the ship,” I say, baring myself to harsh reality. ”Not even harnessing a hundred horrible horses would shift it."
She doesn’t react with the frustration I expect. Instead, she looks thoughtful, her gaze shifting back toward the distant pool. "What if we don’t have to bring the pipe to the water?" she says slowly. "What if we bring the water to the ship?"
I blink, trying to follow her thought process as the pain in my head starts to recede. "You mean… ferry buckets? That'll take… weeks. Months."
She shakes her head. "What if we make smaller pools along the way and pump water between them? We can dig out the boggy ground for sure.”
I mull over her suggestion, a faint flicker of hope in my chest. "Over the rocky areas, we could cut up the pipe, and rig a pump system between pools."
I pause, a surge of anxiety racing over my scales like needles. "But I’d need to switch into a Pranastock pilot form to know where the non-vital pumps are.”
Fuck.
Nic-coal’s eyes meet mine. “Are you sure? What about the clone type which fixed the door?”
“No. Only the Pranastock knows which pumps aren't required for piloting.”
She bites her lip, and I steel myself, marching back to the ship as if to the Euthanization Center.
Once we get inside, I force myself into the Pranastock before I can hesitate. The mental shift brings a flood of numbers, calculations, and a hundred different pathways my mind starts processing simultaneously. I’m drowning in an endless sea of data; I'll never find the way out.
"Focus on me, Arture.” Nic-coal reaches out, taking my hand and squeezing it. “Just one thing at a time. You don’t have to figure it all out in seconds. Start with the basics."
I anchor myself in her presence, blocking out some of the incessant calculations whirring in my head. “The kitchens, they have pumps for waste.”
I find and point them out and Nic-coal marks them, but as soon as that's done a welter of numbers shove into my mind. Cardinal directions are missing, I don't know where north is, and I need to know so desperately it feels like my chest will collapse in on itself in a supernova.
“Arture.” Nic-coal's voice. A lifeline. “Where's the next pump?”
“I…” A female asking a question has priority over navigational calibration. The next non-essential pump is— “There,” I say, pointing out an auxiliary pump behind a panel.
With her steady guidance, I manage to locate and mark the pumps that aren’t essential to the ship’s core systems. When I finally shift back into my Samarastock form, I take a gasp of air as if I’ve just surfaced from deep water.
Nic-coal rubs my forearm the way I saw her gentling the horse's neck. “You did it. Good work.”
A small smile tugs my lips. "I did. Yes."
I'd have done it anyway, but I would have suffered, drowning in the pilot's mind without her. She… helped me. She didn't have to, I'd have done it fighting through the pain, and we'd still be closer to getting off this planet.
Perhaps it's her plan to become a friend and convince me not to fly to Oloria. My stomach drops at the realization. That must be it.
With renewed determination, we take Gerharm's cutting equipment, some flat panels of metal to use as shovels, and some of our last dregs of fuel, and start cutting up the pipe. This is a huge gamble, but the alternative is to give up, and I can't do that.
Using the pumps, we manage to set up a makeshift system next to the hot lake, testing it one small section at a time. Each part snaps into place with a satisfying click, water moving from one segment to the next.
It’s rough, and it’s going to take work, but we’re both grinning by the time every pump is flowing properly.
"This’ll be hard work," I say, connecting the last piece.
She wipes her forehead, leaving a streak of dirt on her temple, a spark of resilience in her eyes. "Never been scared of that.”