Chapter 2 #2
He reaches into the wall and opens a door I didn’t know was there because at best it looks like a locker and at worst it just looks like a grated wall. With the door open, I can see into a relatively small space that makes the room upstairs seem palatial by comparison.
The light inside reveals a plastic mattress on the floor, what I hope is not a litter box, because if it is I will lose my mind, and a bowl of water on the floor.
“This is a kennel,” I say.
“Yes,” he says. “It is designed to keep the pets of traveling dignitaries. It is escape-proof and chew-proof and there are very few opportunities for mistaking expensive panels for storage lockers.”
“I’m not a pet,” I say. “I am a human being. We are recognized sentient…”
“Your employer has asked that you be transported in more secure environs,” he says. “This is our most secure room. Would you like to go in, or would you like me to put you in there?”
I stare at him. I think about asking to see a manager. I think about how much worse that could make this conversation, actually. Fuck. I am going to have to get into the kennel.
“How am I supposed to stay alive in there for days? Humans have to eat and drink all the time,” I say. “We’re basically constantly taking in water and calories.”
“You will be fed and toileted every few hours as is appropriate for your species,” he says, gesturing to the cramped interior.
“I wouldn’t like to get in,” I say. “I’d like to stay out.”
“You’re required to get in, I am afraid,” he says. “The extent and value of the damage you’ve done makes you a liability in shipping terms.”
“Is that even a bed in there?”
“That’s a thick plastic mat that can be wiped down if you find yourself unable to restrain any destructive urges.”
I thought I was going to get away with this, but I seem to have got myself into a worse position than if I was put into the brig.
“I need exercise,” I tell him. “I can’t be cooped up for days and days on end. I’ll go mad, and then I’ll be worth absolutely nothing to my employer and I might even be considered damaged during shipment, and I imagine that would be very bad…”
“You’ll be safe enough,” he says, grabbing me with three of his arms, using the fourth to prop the kennel door open, and tossing me in.
He shuts it immediately, and I hear the unmistakable sound of an alien lock engaging.
“Fuck me,” I curse to myself, setting my bag down on the plastic bed.
There’s enough light coming in through the grates to keep the place illuminated, so that’s some small blessing.
An orangey-red hue lights my face in slitted lines as I experience my first full light speed engine from the luxury of the bilge.
I don’t actually know who my employer is, not really. Westley wasn’t specific on that front, and I wasn’t curious enough to take up the question.
I assume when I get to my destination, the aliens who have employed me will pick me up and we will be on our way. Maybe there will be an orientation. I am assuming I will get a lanyard. Probably a book full of procedures. The number to HR. That sort of thing.
Being inside this kennel is making me wonder how many of those assumptions will turn out the way I think they will.
I go through my bag, looking for something to do.
I am much calmer than I thought I would be when the cage was first revealed to me.
At first, it seemed like a horror, but it’s actually quite cozy.
The plastic mat is, like everything else, very thick and large compared to my size.
The space in the kennel is also quite generous.
Probably designed for an animal several times bigger than me, if I had to guess.
I am starting to feel a little like a gnome in a world full of giants.
Everyone is tall. Everyone is sort of mean.
Everyone is smarter than me, possibly. Which makes me wonder why I have been hired at all.
That guy with the compound eyes was on me in an absolute instant.
He knew exactly what I was up to with that screwdriver.
I close my eyes for a moment and the humming, swooshing sounds of the ship are not entirely unlike what they say it’s like to be inside the womb. I feel contained, and held, and…
I wake up to the door of the kennel opening, and a bowl of food being presented to me.
“Can I stretch my legs, please? And maybe get a spoon?”
The security guard sighs. Dozens of his compound eyes blink in exasperation, which is not how compound eyes work in theory and yet in practice that is absolutely what happens. Little creepy to observe, if I’m to be completely honest.
“You will need to use the toilet as well, I suppose,” he says.
“Only if you don’t want me to pee on the door and have it drip down,” I say cheerfully.
Feral suits me better than these creatures might imagine.
I am a well-educated young woman. I did distinguish myself by being recruited to Alpha Core Research right out of college.
I can wear a cocktail dress and heels and put my hair up and talk about the Roman Empire with men who still have not gotten over that. But that’s not all of me.
I take the bowl of food from his hand when he offers it to me, and I request a spoon, again.
“If I get you a spoon, you need to promise to be reasonable with it,” he says. “I do not want you trying to jam it into the door or make some such escape. Tool users are the most difficult pets of all.”
“Not a pet,” I say, sniffing at the bowl, which actually smells incredibly good. It’s like a stew or something. Thick chunks of well-seasoned meat in a broth rich with vegetables and a very good provisioning of potato. “Did a human chef make this?”
“We took on food from Earth for your journey,” he says. “Enjoy it. It will be the last familiar food you get for quite some time, I imagine.”
“I still have my snackies,” I point out.
He looks at me dourly. “I said food, not refined corn syrup masquerading as nutrition.”
“I’d still really love a spoon,” I say.
“Stay here,” he says.
He doesn’t lock me back in the kennel, which is nice of him. So I sit down on the grid floor, let my legs dangle over the edge to what feels like oblivion inside the ship, and watch my meal go cold.
He’s back a couple of minutes later with a spoon.
“Smallest one we had,” he says as he hands me a utensil that would be more appropriately described as a salad spoon except for being metal.
“Thank you,” I say.
He stands guard solemnly while I eat. I don’t eat fast. Not that keen to get back in the box. Eventually, though, I have to hand back the oversized bowl and spoon and get back inside.
I do so, because I know the alternative is being put back in there manually, and showing that I’m a compliant captive is probably going to work out better for me over the next few days. Maybe, if I am very good, I can talk my way back into a normal berth.
* * *
And so it goes. A bowl of food is brought every three hours, with an eight-hour gap to allow for sleep.
The food they picked up from Earth is actually pretty good.
There’s croissants and stuff. And ice cream.
And mashed potatoes once. Hard to believe I won’t have access to mashed potatoes soon, but these are the things we sacrifice when we depart for the stars.
I should have brought a lot more snackies. My bag does have some chocolate in it, but I was planning on rationing it. I do pretty well on that the first day and into the second, but eventually being cooped up like this catches up with me.
I grab it out and take a big bite. It tastes good, takes the edge off my immediate fuckup. I haven’t been on this ship for even, what, an hour, and I’m already in the pet brig.
If Rustle could see me now he’d be so fucking smug. He’d be so pleased with himself. He’d laugh his fucking ass off.
He won’t know about this, though. Not unless my employer decides to complain about me to the Alpha Core, but I doubt it.
Or at least, I hope not. And Alpha Core would understand what I was trying to do.
People have died trying to do what I did.
Aliens have executed human spies before.
I’m actually quite lucky that all that happened was I got put in a kennel.
* * *
The three days pass faster than I really expected them to. I got used to the kennel astonishingly quickly. The plastic bed wasn’t actually that bad to sleep on. Kind of comfy, actually. And getting let out every few hours meant I never really felt as claustrophobic as I thought I’d get.
“I hope this doesn’t awaken anything in me,” I murmur to myself softly as the kennel door is opened.
“You made it,” the Antari guard says. “Congratulations.”
“Thank you,” I say, doing a little curtsey.
“Turn around,” he says, one of his hands making a twirling motion while two of his lower hands hold out what looks suspiciously like a silver collar.
“Why?” I say suspiciously. “What are you trying to do?”
“You have to be leashed.”
“What do you mean?”
“Pets aren’t allowed to be left unattended at any time, and right now you’re a pet, according to the ship’s manifest.”
“I’m going to meet my employer, though.”
“Yes. And the handover is done when I give him your leash. Do you have everything packed away in your bag? We won’t be able to come back for anything because the ship will be going into maintenance.”
“Uhm, yeah. I think I have everything,” I say.
“Turn around,” he repeats.
When I don’t do it immediately, he uses his upper arms to turn me around and he wraps the silver collar around my neck. It’s snugger than I thought it would be, and warmer.
“I swear to god, you make one mistake…” I mutter to myself as he puts it on.
“Indeed. The worlds you are about to inhabit are ones of great consequence. You would do well to consider your actions before you undertake them.”
I don’t know why he has taken it on himself to spend time lecturing me right now. Maybe it’s an act of kindness in his culture.
“Do you know who is picking me up?”
“Starlord Arkon Thornhall,” he says.
“Sounds fancy.”