CHAPTER 9

 

TAC’MOT

 

I’ve never seen this look on Brax’s face before.  He’s staring at the Gryfala in a sort of awed horror as he lowers his head, almost performing a slow sort of bob, before he breathes, “How the tevek did you get a princess?”

Did he just nod to her?  ...Wait.  Why didn’t I think to nod to her?

My parents would be ashamed of me right now.

I could tell them I hit her too.  Marvelous!

But then he looks as if he could bite his own tongue in half.  He drags his eyes away from her and his expression turns harder than lizanrium alloy.

Thus he’s essentially wearing his usual disagreeably ill-tempered look.

His gaze flicks down again before he demands, “What's wrong with her?”

I twist my good arm upward enough so that she’s at an angle where I can see her face.  So that I can clearly see her blotchy complexion, and her eyelids that have turned a distressing shade of red.

My stomachs experience another acid-burning roll.  I need to talk to Lem.

“I… I hit her,” I admit, unable to look at either of them.

No one says anything.  When I chance a glance back at Brax, his usual gruffness is gone, again—twice in one day, it should be noted this is a record of galaxy shattering proportions—and he appears deeply, deeply disturbed.  “You did WHAT?”

“She tried to leave the ship—I shouted for her to stop, but she doesn’t understand me, and then the Krortuvians rushed the chute and—”

My new ulcer is roiling at the rising levels of alarm shooting across Brax’s face.

“Put her down.”

I swallow.  “I don’t want her to get hurt.”

“I’ll take care of her later.  It’s you who I’m going to hurt right now.”

Hm.  Well.  Somehow, I’m not feeling very reassured.

“Here, I’ll take her!” Lem is at my side, helpful as you please.

“Thanks,” I say wryly.

“Don’t mention it.  Get him good, Brax.”

What is this?  The Rotation of Punish Tac’Mot?  Crite!  I resolve to let him get a few decent hits in.  It’s true I’ve got them coming—and he doesn’t even know the half of it yet.

Yes.  Better let him get us cubed now.

To avoid kicking out at Brax in an instinctive drive to protect myself, I sink down, transferring most of my weight on my legs and my tail, and secure my balance by putting a hand to the floor.  “Ready.”

Instead of hitting me though, Brax’s attention is diverted to the Gryfala who has started to struggle against Lem.  The wound on her face reopens and blood rolls down her cheek.  The acrid scent of panic floods the air as Lem captures both her arms to better keep her still.

Brax’s reaction is extraordinary.  His spines begin to leak as if there is a grave threat present.  It shouldn’t be surprising that seeing a Gryfala upset would cause him distress.

Yet it is.

Brax is so… Brax.  Nothing fazes him.  Everything irritates him—but nothing truly cracks the hard, indifferent exterior he studiously cultivates.

Fascinatingly, the sight of the Gryfala becoming stirred up causes him to deviate from—and even seemingly to forget—the purpose of our predicament.  The volume of Brax’s voice is too loud when he shouts in my direction—and for the recordlog: uncalled for.  He doesn’t even know about the laser burn in his floor yet.  “You have three clicks to tell me why a princess is unwillingly on this ship before I snap you in half.  And just where are her guards?”  To Lem, he growls, “Let.  Her.  Go.”

Lem releases her just as she tosses her weight into throwing him off.  Thrown off her balance, she’s going to crash to the floor.

But she doesn’t fall.

Brax catches her with his tail.

Slowly, he uncoils it from her person, but they remain staring at each other, silent.

I’m gaping.  And I know I am when Brax makes an impatient crest-trill at me—it makes the Gryfala jump and it makes me remember I’m being timed.

I try for a placating tone.  Three clicks.  I take a deep breath.  “You uploaded our severance credits, but Lem and I don’t want to leave, so we agreed to bank them—collecting interest—and sign up with you for another set of solars.”

At this, the lines on either side of Brax’s mouth soften, I think.  Or not.  Because his spines snap down suddenly before spearing up even higher than before.

No idea what to make of that.

How much time now?  Two clicks left?  I scramble to finish on my own before he decides to assist me by using that tail he’s swinging in short, angry flicks.  “And, ah, I was bounding around, wondering which pen it was that you bought me from: everything looks different when you’re older, you know?”  Brax’s tail lashes hard enough to make an audible snap, and the Gryfala’s body flinches but it’s like she's hypnotized: she isn’t breaking eye contact with him.  I talk faster.  “Then the crowd got so thick, I almost gave up and turned around, but I kept hearing the word ‘Gryfala.’  They were auctioning them.  They were… there were so many!  They pulled this one—” I lean my upper body over, and cant my head to indicate our princess “—out by her mane.”  Lem looks at her mane in dismay.

Probably worried about germ transference.  I sigh.

But Brax pins me with a furious stare that has my quad muscles tensing.  “A group of Gryfala?  Auctioned.  Impossible.”

I gesture to the evidence.  “Okay.”

Brax scoops up the wrench I’d abandoned on the floor after my attempt to distract Lem.  With a growl that makes the Gryfala jump, Brax hurls it through the wall.

We all gape at him.

“Hey!” a new voice yells.  “That almost hit me, teveker!”

This must be the mechanic Brax set out to canvass for and employ today.  The sound of a new, shouting voice has the Gryfala shifting and I reach for her hand.  The new hire comes storming around the corner… and stops dead.

So do I.

It’s a hob.

“What are the odds?”  Lem says under his breath.

“Today?  I don’t know whether this has all been a sign from the universe that we should buy a lottery ticket, or not.”

“Depends on whether you survive the day,” Lem returns.

I straighten enough to shove his shoulder with mine.  The hob doesn’t even seem to see us as he clearly struggles to process the unexpected presence of a princess.  He jerkily drops to one knee, but he can’t take his eyes off of her enough to fully bow his head.

Apparently a good thing, because the Gryfala becomes extremely ...uncomfortable at his paying of respect.  The hob swiftly moves to stand, and he’s so focused on her it’s like he’s in a trance.  He moves to take a step towards her, but she makes this unexpected, apprehensive noise.

And Brax is suddenly in front of us.

I involuntarily hop back.  He’s face-to-face with the Gryfala, who stays rooted, staring up at him.

Brax must have made the protective block without conscious thought, because right now he’s is appearing thoroughly horrified at himself.

He swallows hard and breaks the Gryfala’s stare—looking away first.

You could knock me over with a yanak right now.  Brax too, because he jerks hard, before he swings his flinty gaze back in her direction.  He’s wearing a killing glare.  He aims it just over her head though.

I rest on my haunches and stretch my spine.  Well!  This is the most interesting day I’ve ever had in all my years on this ship.  I wish I had a bucket of cheatigs to crunch on while I watch this.

Behind him, the hob shifts uncomfortably.

Smoke rises from Brax’s nostrils.  “New hireling.”

“My name is—”

“I do not care.  I’ll learn it if you stick around.  For now, your job is to keep this ship’s engines running, and now take this… take care of her.  Do whatever it is you’re supposed to do.”

His horns swing as he pins a glare over his shoulder at the hob, and holds it.  He grates, “Just keep her far away from me.”

He slowly faces forward again, and his wide, wedge-shaped toes tap on the floor in agitation before he crosses his arms over his chest.  “Why is she bleeding?”

The words are benign; the tone is not.  Accusatory, is what it is.

I scratch behind my ears.  “The Culc suckered her.”

Brax, who never has anything but vitriol to hiss about Gryfala, growls as he spits on the back of his hand.  The Gryfala doesn’t even seem to breathe as he crowds up to her, and—teeth bared—he moves in close enough to gently brush his saliva coated knuckles across her injured cheek.

Brax told me once if Gryfala ever succeed in synthesizing Rakhii saliva, they will have no reason to deal with his kind any longer.

However, I am strongly doubting this assertion.  He is dismissing a telling, unexpected aspect: there is an undeniable, strange appeal between the species, as made obvious right here, between this female and Brax himself.

Brax has never suffered for female attention when he steps off this ship in places that actually have females—perhaps he is underestimating his effect on them—any of them.  But there is certainly something here, something different.

A bucket of cheatigs to snack through while I watch on indeed.  I bounce a little, enjoying the show.

Regrettably, this action breaks whatever spell these two are under, and Brax’s departure is as abrupt as it is swift.

I watch the Gryfala.  I watch her staring after him and think, You are wrong, Brax.

Yes, he healed her cheek.  But she doesn’t look as if she’s weighing the benefits of adding him to her service.  This is not cold, shrewd calculation in her eyes right now.  Curiosity, yes.  And as her face-furs furrow with confusion: I see it in her eyes—this is heat.  Heated interest.