Chapter 11
The mess hall hatch slid open at Mila’s approach.
Inside, the air was warmer, thick with the lingering smells of synthesized protein, stale coffee, and the faint, sharp tang of recycled air.
The large, scarred metal table dominated the space.
Two figures remained: the Sensoori and the Collectivist. They sat at opposite ends of the table, the space between them charged with unspoken tension.
The silence wasn’t companionable; it was the brittle quiet after a storm.
The Sensoori looked up as she entered. His large, brown eyes widened, the mottling on his skin seeming to flush slightly. The large, red fin on his head quivered. He straightened in his chair, a quick, nervous movement.
“Oh! Hey! Mila, right?” His voice was higher than she remembered from the meeting, edged with a forced brightness. “Captain send you for chow?”
Mila inclined her head slightly, a gesture of polite acknowledgment.
“Yes. She suggested I utilize the facilities here.”
Her gaze shifted to the Collectivist. He hadn’t moved. His light-blue hands remained folded on the table, his black eyes fixed on her with unnerving, analytical stillness. He offered no greeting, only that unwavering, detached observation.
The Sensoori scrambled to his feet, his webbed hands fluttering slightly.
“Right! Food! Yeah, of course,” he said. “The dispenser’s over here.”
He gestured towards a recessed unit in the bulkhead near the table. It looked like a complex arrangement of nozzles, heating elements, and small storage hoppers.
“It’s, well, it’s not gourmet, but it keeps the engines running, you know?”
He offered a lopsided grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. There was an energy to him now, a nervous buzz. And beneath it, Mila recognized the subtle shift in his bio-signature, the slight dilation of pupils, the quickened pulse visible at his throat.
Desire.
It was a familiar frequency, one her senses were attuned to detect. It wasn’t predatory, not like most of the Kovoids she knew. This was hopeful. Apprehensive. Young. She followed him to the dispenser, maintaining a respectful half-step behind.
“I appreciate your assistance,” she said, offering him a demure smile.
“No problem! Happy to help.”
He tapped a sequence on the grimy control panel. A small screen flickered to life, displaying a limited menu:
Nutri-Paste (Standard)
Synth-Stew (Vegetable)
Synth-Stew (Protein)
Coffee Substitute
“We’re kinda low on variety right now,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck.
“The protein stew’s not bad. Tastes vaguely like, well, protein.
The paste is efficient, but it’s like eating flavored chalk.
” He wrinkled his nose, a surprisingly expressive gesture on his alien features.
“Guess you gotta fuel up, though, right? Big day. Unexpected detours and all.
“I’m Sark, by the way. Sark T’Raan. I’m the pilot. This is Norvik. He’s our chief negotiator.”
Chief negotiator. A piece of the puzzle fell into place. He was evaluating her for her potential value. That made sense, though she still found his quiet stare a bit unnerving.
“It’s very nice to meet you, Sark,” Mila said, filling her tone with warmth. “And you, as well, Norvik.”
“Greetings to you,” the Collectivist replied.
“So, uh, what do XenX usually eat?” Sark asked. “Back home?”
His gaze lingered on her face, then flickered down her body, before coming to a rest on her vagina. She suppressed a laugh, and his head snapped back up. His flush deepened.
“Sorry,” he said. “It’s just that … well, I’m more used to women who, you know, wear clothes.”
Mila kept her expression politely neutral, though the directness of his stare and the awkwardness of his questions were notable. His desire embarrassed him. It was cute.
“As you can see, XenX are covered in fur,” she said. “We’re plenty warm without clothing, especially since the climate on our world is temperate.
“As for food, our diet is primarily omnivorous. Fruits, cultivated fungi, lean proteins similar to what your dispenser offers. Efficiency is often prioritized over culinary artistry.” She pointed a clawed finger at the “Synth-Stew (Protein)” option. “That should be adequate, thank you.”
“Right! Protein stew. Coming right up.”
He tapped the selection with more force than necessary.
The machine whirred, gurgled, and spat a thick, brownish sludge into a waiting bowl.
Steam rose from it, carrying a smell reminiscent of boiled meat and preservatives.
Sark handed her the bowl, his fingers brushing against hers for a brief moment.
He pulled his hand back quickly, as if scalded.
“Careful,” he said. It’s hot.”
“Thank you.”
Mila took the bowl, the heat radiating through the thin composite material. She moved to the table, choosing a seat midway between Sark and Norvik. The Collectivist’s gaze tracked her, silent and assessing.
Sark hovered near her seat.
“Need a spoon? We got spoons.”
He didn’t wait for an answer, fetching a utensil from a drawer and placing it beside her bowl. She inclined her head in another gesture of thanks.
“So … Mila. That’s a nice name. Simple. Strong.” He leaned a hip against the table, trying for casual, but the tension in his posture betrayed him. “You said you were … Harimi? That’s like … a job? A calling?”
Norvik spoke for the first time, his voice calm, precise, cutting through Sark’s nervous chatter.
“She stated it is a voluntary contractual arrangement, Sark. Providing intimate services in exchange for financial security for her family.” His black eyes fixed on Mila. “Is that an accurate summation?”
Mila dipped the spoon into the stew, finding the texture thick, gelatinous. She took a small bite. It tasted bland, vaguely salty, utterly utilitarian.
“It is accurate, Norvik,” she confirmed, swallowing. “The term ‘Harimi’ denotes one who has chosen the path of service. It is an honored role within XenX society.”
“Service,” Sark echoed, his brow furrowing. The red fin twitched. “But service to someone, right? Like, whoever buys you?” He gestured vaguely. “What’s that like? I mean, do you get to choose who?”
Mila paused, spoon hovering halfway to her mouth. The question, asked with such na?ve curiosity, highlighted the cultural chasm. To Sark, the idea of belonging to another seemed inherently tied to lack of choice. To her, the choice had been the most profound act of agency she’d ever exercised.
“The choice lies in embracing the role itself, Sark,” she explained patiently.
“Once the contract is accepted, the Harimi’s purpose is to fulfill the patron’s desires.
To anticipate their needs. To provide pleasure, companionship, and satisfaction without reservation. It is a discipline. An art form.”
“Pleasure?” Sark’s voice cracked slightly. He cleared his throat. “So … you’re trained? In that?”
Mila met his gaze directly. His pupils were wide, his skin flushed a deeper orange. The desire was a palpable heat radiating from him, mixed with fascination and a hint of embarrassment.
“Extensively,” she stated simply. “XenX regard the exploration and mastery of physical intimacy as the highest pursuit. It is woven into our culture, our philosophy. To bring another being profound pleasure, to surrender completely to their desires and in doing so, guide them to heights they could not reach alone, that is the core of what it means to be Harimi. It is considered the ultimate expression of connection and purpose.”
A stunned silence fell. Sark stared at her, mouth slightly open. Norvik remained impassive, though Mila noted a slight tightening around his eyes – processing, analyzing the implications. The only sound was the faint hum of the dispenser’s idle cycle and the distant throb of the engines.
“Highest pursuit?” Sark finally breathed. “So … it’s not just … not just a job? It’s … sacred?”
“In a manner of speaking,” Mila agreed, taking another small bite of stew.
The taste was irrelevant; sustenance was the goal.
“Those who walk the path of Harimi are regarded with deep respect. We dedicate our lives to understanding the complexities of desire, the nuances of touch, the psychology of surrender and control. It requires empathy, intuition, and rigorous training. It is far more than a mere physical transaction.”
Norvik leaned forward slightly.
“Fascinating. A cultural elevation of biological imperative into a societal pillar. And this ‘surrender’ you describe – it is absolute? You retain no personal autonomy within the contractual parameters?”
Mila tilted her head, considering the Collectivist’s clinical description. Despite his aloof nature, she found herself liking him. He had a fascinating way of reframing perspective.
“Autonomy is redefined within the role, Norvik. The Harimi chooses to relinquish certain personal decisions – the choice of partner, the nature of the acts performed – in service to the patron’s wishes.
This surrender is the autonomy. It is the conscious choice to dedicate oneself entirely to another’s fulfillment.
In that dedication, there is a profound freedom from the burdens of individual desire.
” She saw the confusion, the faint disapproval in Sark’s expression, the analytical detachment in Norvik’s. “You find this concept difficult?”
“It’s … different,” Sark stammered. “Where we come from, people don’t sell themselves. Not like that. Not forever.”
“Choice constrained by necessity is still choice,” Norvik stated, his tone neutral.
“Your decision secured your family’s well-being.
A logical exchange, prioritizing group survival over individual liberty.
The Collective recognizes similar imperatives, though our mechanisms differ.
” He paused. “The financial compensation for your contract was substantial, I assume?”