Chapter 9 #2
I place my hands on his arms, one burning hot, one cold metal, and keep my voice low and calm. “Horses are big animals, and these are ones we don't know. They can certainly be dangerous, but I have plenty of experience to know they were relaxed.” Until he came barrelling towards them, of course.
He gasps out a breath like he's still running, muscles trembling with tension. He's as coiled as a snake about to strike—or flee. “They could crush you. Or… trample you.”
Something happened to him, I know a trauma response when I see one.
“That’s definitely a risk, and I took every precaution.
I read their body language and took it slow.
Trust me, I know distressed animals.” I try to move away from his chest to put eyes on the herd, but he keeps me held close, his hand protecting my face. Over my right eye.
I glance up at his face, his replacement eye. “We're okay, Arture. You're okay.”
His arms tighten, but he seems to come back to himself. Though he doesn’t let go of me, his grip loosens, and I can look around his chest to check on the horses. If they're coming back, I need to help manage Arture's reaction.
The horses stopped a few hundred meters away to watch us, flicking their tails with heads raised. They're on the alert too, picking up on Arture's fear.
He's drenched in sweat, still panting hard but getting in control of his breathing. My heart squeezes for him. What happened to make him so afraid?
Finally he releases me, but he steers me towards the ship. “You… don’t mind that they're, you know, huge?” His gaze scours the herd, scales hardening on his chest and neck with a series of small clicks.
“Sometimes big doesn’t mean dangerous, but thank you for, uh, thinking you were saving me, and trying to do so.”
I mean that only half sarcastically. He’s obviously terrified to get close to the horses, but he flung himself in what he thought would be harm's way to save me.
Or save his mission. My smile dies. That must be it.
“What do we need to do to the ship to turn the heating on?” I ask, stepping away from him and rubbing my arms as we approach the ramp.
He looks down at me, eyes tracking the movements of my hand, lingering on the strap on my shoulder. “We, uh, we need to find a water source. Based on scans of the area, I chose this one because there’s a visible water source within five klicks, and the open plain will help us see things coming.”
“Very sensible.”
The alien’s chest puffs out a tiny but noticeable amount.
I pick at the layered dresses I threw on this morning. “These were the only things in the wardrobe, but they’re not exactly designed for tramping around the countryside.”
“Then you can stay…” I catch the shadow of some memory flitting across his face, a lingering fear tightening his expression. Gaze fixed on the herd, he says, “It’s best you’re with me, I agree.”
Must have been a very traumatic incident, if he’s willing to have me tag along without a fight because he’s afraid an herbivore will trample our door down.
“Do you have any of those spare?” I point to his pants. The aliens wear canvas pants that mold to their thighs and have pockets on the calves, and heavy-duty boots made of some kind of rubber-plastic hybrid.
“These? They’re clone standard issue. Perhaps on a luxury craft like this there are supplies for the True Born guests of the female.”
We clatter back inside. It’s far too cold, the air frigid compared to the heat slowly building up outside. Now that the sun’s out, the ship is warming up again, but the contrast to what I’d had to sleep in last night is jarring. Even a whole pile of clothes couldn’t unthaw my frozen feet.
Arture heads to one of the other bedrooms. This one’s wardrobe had burst open in all the commotion of being chased and boarded and then our bumpy landing, so he flings clothes over his shoulder as he picks through the pile.
“Now then.” He closes his eyes and his scales ripple, changing the edges of his body. His arms elongate, his eyes become bigger, and a crown of spines prickles up around his head.
He holds the garments up to my body without touching me. “I’ll need to bring in the waist, make a few hems, roll up the legs considerably…”
“How long will that take?”
Looking at me over his pointy nose, he says, “Give me one Earth hour, and I’ll even add some accents.”
I follow him as he bustles back to the kitchen table.
He huffs on discovering it’s still tipped over, shifts again to an Ilia clone, and lifts the heavy marble back into place with a grunt.
He shimmers again, but this time drops against the table, leaning hard on his elbows, panting as he catches his breath.
“Arture, are you okay?”
“Fine.” He pushes himself upright, laying out the garments flat on the table, and grabs a blade from the kitchen drawer. It looks like a semi-circle herb slicer with a flat handle.
“I’ll find something for breakfast,” I say, heading into the pantry. Empty shelves stare back at me, reminding me of the mess of the med bay. But our priorities are finding water, not reorganizing shelves today.
The seed cake Arture made yesterday sits wrapped in a cloth. I cut off two pieces and bring one to him, looking over his shoulder as he makes sweeping cuts into the pants.
“Please leave that on the counter, I don’t want crumbs on the table,” he murmurs without looking in my direction. “And can you get me two sets of abayas, some you would like to wear, and some you don't?”
“Abayas?” I look down at the see-through scarves I’ve layered on top of each other. “Right.”
Munching away, I pick out a few. They're subtly different, so I pick out ones which are plain or have interesting edges to wear, and ones with patterns which I probably won't wear, and bring them back in two piles.
He tears a patterned one into pieces and starts using those in the side seams of the pants.
“I'll take any scraps,” I say.
“What for? I can sew the raw edges if you like.”
My cheeks heat. “I’ll need them for period pads at some point.”
“Period…” His nose twitches. “I don't know what that is, the nanites can't translate.”
Come on, I'm a vet. Pushing my biology side forward, I explain, "It's a monthly menstruation cycle humans undergo. Part of our reproductive system.”
His eye widens briefly. “Ah. Well, the med bay will have bandages. I'll take you there after this.”
I rub my face. “Oh yeah. Guess I'm still in hostage mode.”
“Well, not anymore. You have full run of the ship.”
“Is that because I can't do anything with it without power?” I tease.
He laughs. “I'm sure you could, you're smart. Smart enough to realize we have to work together for now. If you want to get off this planet, you'll need me.”
“Sure. For now,” I say with a wink.
Watching him work is mesmerizing. Every now and then he glances at me and manipulates both the abayas I said I wanted and the pants, carefully putting together two sets of outfits. But the biceps sliding under his skin are definitely smaller than the ones he pressed against me earlier.
“How does the whole shape changing thing work?” I ask. “You sometimes get taller, wider, and you have other abilities depending on which clone type you choose. It seems like it’s against all laws of physics.”
“I don’t know exactly, I just do it, but it seems I move things around locally.
When I’m shorter my legs feel heavier, for example.
Often the mass will either stretch out or compress.
I can’t… replace anything.” Pinching two halves of fabric together, he pulls out a thread from the ripped dress with a smooth motion.
He snaps off a spine from his temple, threads it, and begins sewing with long strokes.
“As for the abilities, well, I heard on your shortwave that humans only use a small percentage of their brain. Perhaps these skillsets lie dormant in my genetic code until I activate them by changing configuration.”
That would be very cool. “I can see it’s probably very useful for you.”
“Yes. Selthiastocks for healing, Gerverstocks for tracking and heavy lifting, Parthiastocks for mind-reading, Magirustocks for cooking.” He ties off the thread with a flourish and snaps it. “Vestifexstocks for sewing.”
“Which one for spying, hiding, infiltrating?” I add, gently. I want to push, but not too much.
He shrugs.
“You seem to readily accept that’s what you were doing to the others.” I take a bite of seed cake, watching his face.
“It’s the only explanation,” he admits, voice quiet.
“And how do you feel about that?”
“Feel?” he repeats. His quick dives in and out of the fabric are almost too fast to follow, the needle-spike making a graceful leap in the air and then disappearing into the pants, only to reappear just where his fingers wait. “What's the point in analyzing that?”
“Ah, you're one of those.”
“One of what?” His gaze flicks up briefly to meet mine.
I puff out my chest. “‘Feelings are for the weak, rah rah rah.’”
He blinks at me, gaze definitely skating over my boobs and back up to meet my eyes. I grin, but don't press. Like a nervous horse, he’ll balk, and the trust I’m trying to build between us will take a step back. Slowly, slowly, I'll tame this alien.
Arture lifts the pants and cracks them in the air before handing them to me with a twitch of his nose. “Here.”
“Thank you.” Holding them up, they look just the right size for me. How'd he do that?
“And some more durable abaya configurations.” He hands me what can only be described as crop tops.
I rush off to put them on, finding they fit perfectly.
As a woman with what I call working thighs, pants that fit my thighs are too baggy in the hips, but if they’re measured to fit my hips I can't get them over my thighs.
Plus, the tops show off my shoulders and stomach, along with a generous helping of boob.
Very interesting indeed.
I try to pull the fabric up to cover my cleavage, but then it rides up higher on my stomach, showing too much skin. I should cover up the fat parts for sure. I could do with losing a few more pounds.
I shake my head as if I can shake out Logan. Man, I wish I could. Posing in front of the mirror, I make myself flex my biceps.
“Rawr,” I tell myself with a wink.
“These are amazing,” I tell Arture, returning to the kitchen. “And the tops have pockets.”
He’s eating the rest of the seed cake as if it’s a banana, peeling back the cloth.
Back to the black and gold Samarastock, he towers above me, chest and wide shoulders tapering down to a narrow waist. Every single ab sits pebbled and defined, biceps flexing as he peels back cloth to expose more cake.
He stops, cake in midair, and stares. He stares for so long I turn around, wondering if there’s something behind me.
“Yes. Well.” He inhales some seed cake, coughs, and thumps his chest. Once he can breathe, he says, “They look very… very good indeed.”
On a whim, I twirl and do a little ass shake.
He starts coughing once more, and has to turn around to face the wall.
I grin at his back. He doesn't say anything about needing to cover up. In fact, he made it like this on purpose.
Perhaps getting him to open up to me will be easier than I thought… as long as I can banish the little voice warning me I'm the one being easy.