Chapter 2 #2
Once she’s clear of my head, I adjust to guide her down.
She dangles in my hands, suspended between us, back sliding down my chest. Slowly, gently, I lower her to the floor.
Then her boots touch the deck with a soft thud.
She wobbles, and I steady her by the waist, palms flattening as she regains her balance.
She pulls away a fraction too quickly, chin tipped up in defiance, but her cheeks are flushed. Interesting.
I step back, clearing my throat, the ghost of her warmth still imprinted on my chest.
Holding my breath, I bring forward a Selthiastock.
As I pull on the bright green scales, I'm instantly assaulted with vast lists of actions I need to take to triage the patient.
Fuck, Gara's head is nearly as bad as a Pranastock's.
Selthiastocks are the most useless physically, but they have the sharpest minds, and can practically smell a decaying star through a billion light years of distance.
“Where’s the laceration?” I fire at her. “Are we talking full-thickness or superficial? Any vascular or nerve involvement?”
She blinks at me, eyelashes as dark as the hair she has set in a thick rope down her back. Her eyes glow brown and rich as guata bark, flecked with islands of turquoise and green.
“Well?” I reach for her hand. Perhaps she's in shock and can't tell me.
She withholds her hand for a moment more before she gives it to me.
Like the rest of her body, her hand is honed by work, fingers strong and calloused as a clone’s.
I survey the superficial gash on her palm, and my Selthiastock brain starts reeling out information for trauma, stress, shock, and more.
Trying to act on the information is like standing in the blast trail of a rocket.
Fortunately, this brain can handle it, but I'll have a killer headache later.
As I palpate the wound, she winces, sending more alarm bells to my Selthiastock self. This is bad. Not fatal bad, perhaps, but she may have damaged the delicate tendons of the human hand.
“I'll need some supplies,” she admits, voice quiet. “Can you please bring me the first aid box? Or let me go there, and I'll get what I need.”
First aid box. She means a medical pack. Only a—fuck—Pranastock knows where that is in a ship.
“Fine.” I groan and start the shift. My scales pale to a powdery red and my body pulls in considerably, muscles hampered as if bound by betrillium manacles.
As soon as I'm a Pranastock, the calculations come racing back, my hearts beating even harder to know all answers at all times.
Nearest star, Sol, is two point nine seven light years away, so our flight path angle at a velocity vector of about seventy-six from that local horizon, measured positive in the r-direction of course, is—
“Fuck,” I mutter, pressing the heels of my palms to my temples so hard they ache. “Where's the fucking med packs?”
Med packs, vital supplies, position alpha in the manifest list, linked to the medical supplies in the medical bay.
I'm an idiot.
I quickly let go of the Pranastock, fighting the urge to double up and vomit my guts out.
Samara's grace, that fucking clone type is the worst. My heartbeats stop while I shift, then thump madly until I settle back into my own scales once more.
It's like coming down from a hard ten klick run, panting madly until my body accepts it's not dying.
Still better than living as a Pranastock.
Once I’m sure I'm not going to hurl, I look over at Nicole. I expected confusion; instead, her eyebrows knit with concern.
“That looked like it hurt,” she says.
“It doesn't. Not really.” I fill my lungs with pure air. My lungs, perfect for me and my size, not the balloon-like chest of a Pranastock.
“You could have fooled me. You're sweating.”
“No, I'm not.” I swipe a hand across my forehead. Fuck, she's right. “It's just that Pranastocks are… difficult.”
“How so?”
I see no threat in telling her. “They're the slimmest clone, so I have to squeeze all these muscles into a tight space.
They have limbs which easily hyperextend, so moving feels like I could buckle at any point, and they're shaky on their feet anyway because they're used to low grav.
But worst of all, they're hyper aware of their position constantly. And I mean constantly, continuously running calcs to determine exactly where they are in relation to Oloria.”
“Sounds maddening.”
I grunt in agreement, tearing my gaze away from the depth of her eyes. “I’m surprised they don't all go fucking insane.”
She nods, then frowns.
“So. Medical bay, was it?” I say evenly, turning down the corridor before either of us can rethink the bargain. “And we’ll get you food.”
She doesn't say thank you, but I'm not expecting niceties. I did kidnap her, after all. And attack my previous companions. That's bound to sour relations.
But it was for a good reason. It has to be.
And the human will be fine. On Oloria, females are treasured. Protected. Indulged. Samara has ensured that.
“You’ll thank me for this one day,” I murmur.
She levels a glare at me. “I doubt that very much.”
Heh. This will be entertaining.