EMVOR

Human. Keffing hell, I don’t even know what to make of that. She’s not what I asked for, that’s all I know. I do a quick search of humans on my datapad out in the barn. Not that I’m hiding from her, but it’s not a huge house. It doesn’t tell me anything I don’t already know. Two arms, two legs. Planet in a distant galaxy on the fringes of known space, Class D. The pictures and vids included are all from bestiaries or a large zoo. A quick search on news articles shows me that she’s not wrong—most humans are “found” in brothel raids and “confiscated.” Of course, the moment I start searching my datapad for humans, an ad pops up with a bunch of rather explicit photos of humans in varying positions, who can all be mine for a reasonable price. I shut down my datapad with disgust.

I hate that she’s not wrong.

I may be a surly sort and not fond of people. In fact, I hate most people almost as much as I hate mechs. But I’m not that big of a bastard. I won’t ship her off knowing that she’ll be trapped into a life like that. Of course, it doesn’t mean I have to marry her, either.

I pull up my marriage records. They’re made out to Emvor Vas Kilasen, a mesakkah from Homeworld, and Shiarii Mil Askrav, a mesakkah from a station name I only vaguely recognize. It won’t hold up, that’s for sure. She’s neither mesakkah nor this Shiarii person. The contract between us is invalid. She’s not mine.

All right, then. I can find her a nice home somewhere quiet on Cassa where she won’t be threatened. People around here like animals. I’m sure some wouldn’t mind an extra pair of hands around, even if they are oddly five-fingered. Once I find her that home, she’ll no longer be my problem and I can go back to the marriage agency and request a new bride.

Like that won’t look fishy? But one thing at a time.

I run the machinery in the barn for a few hours, letting it cycle through chores. There’s milking, feeding, the changing out of hay and sawdust at the bottom of each stall. There are animal vital signs to be logged and recorded. Most farmers and ranchers cheap out and employ a variety of mechs to do such things, but I still have nightmares about the mech that shot my face up back in the war. I don’t mind doing this sort of thing myself, even if it means that I occasionally have to climb into the stall with a rather angry bull to loosen up a piece of jammed equipment. Does me good. Helps me think.

I think about the human waiting in the house. I think about her a lot, of course. Much as I might want to send her on her way, I can’t. She needs a roof over her head, and food. A bed to sleep in. Of course, that part’s a bit of a problem. My house is small—didn’t see the need to expand it unless I had children. And you only get children two ways—your wife decides she’ll bear them naturally, or you rent a plas-womb and donate your genetic material and a small fortune in fees. ’Course, since I don’t like mechs, I sure don’t like the thought of renting a plas-womb. Everyone out here on the fringes does things the natural way. Probably disgusts all those city dwellers back on Homeworld, but I’m kinda intrigued by the thought of touching my wife without plas-film separating our bodies to keep our bacteria to ourselves. 

Maybe it’s deviant of me, but I like the thought of filling my wife with my seed, making her pregnant.

And that makes me think of the human again. The human with her flat face and her odd-colored skin. Her delicate bones and the way she only reaches my chest. She’d be all belly if she carried my child.

Not that she’s going to. I’m sending her on her way just as soon as I can find a home for her.

Irritated at my own thoughts, I finish up my chores in the barn, slap the bull on his flank to let him know I’m leaving his stall, and then head back toward the house. Even before I reach the door, I can smell food cooking. My mouth waters. How did she make my processor smell so keffing good? I use the thing all the time, but my food never smells like that. Mine is palatable. Hers smells…incredible.

I push the door open and the smell wafts over me. As I step inside, I can see her, small back to me as she works in the kitchen area of my home. The large processor set into the wall that normally produces all of my food is switched off, and she’s stirring something in a pot over the small stove I use to burn fuel in the winter. 

Shiarii—no, that’s not her name. The human looks over at me with a small, apologetic smile. “I hope you don’t mind if I made you dinner. It’s the least I can do.”

I rub my jaw, thinking. I’m sweaty and tired and mentally worn out from her arrival, but more than anything, I can’t stop thinking about the smells coming from that pot she’s stirring. I move forward to the only seat in the house, near the fire. Doesn’t feel right to sit down, not while she has to stand. I grab a big chunk of firewood, roll it toward the fire, and sit down, using it as a makeshift stool. I study her as she stirs the food again, glancing over at me with a tense expression underneath her sweet smile. Her hands are shaking.

And now I feel like a monster. She’s clearly terrified. Kef. I rub my jaw again. “You know there’s a processor that will cook anything you want. It’s already loaded with ingredients. All you have to do is turn it on.”

The human glances over at me and her smile grows a little wider. She’s got the weirdest little indention in her round cheek, but it’s kind of charming. “I know. I learned how to use one a long time ago, but I think it makes the food taste strange. Too processed. Plus, I like cooking. It helps me when I’m stressed.”

I want to ask if she’s stressed, but I stop myself. Of course she is. I just told her a short time ago that she betrayed me and she’s not staying. And I refuse to feel guilty about it, either.

She saves me from coming up with a response by ladling a bowl full of the food and offering it to me with a spoon. “I hope you like it. It’s the least I can do to apologize.”

I grunt a response and shove the spoon into my mouth. Flavor bursts across my tongue and I have to bite back a groan. This is…better than anything I’ve ever tasted. I eat another mouthful, and it’s just as tasty as the first. Spicy, hot, and delicious. “This is good,” I admit. “What is it?”

The female beams with pleasure. “Back at home we have something we call ‘chili.’ Your food and spices are similar, so I thought I would make some. It was one of Leandra’s favorites.” She gets a sad expression on her face.

“I’m sorry,” I say automatically, and then curse inwardly. I shouldn’t be apologizing to her. She lied to me.

She smiles again, though it doesn’t quite meet her eyes. “It’s all right. I just miss her. For so long, she was my only friend and I haven’t had anyone to talk to.”

I eat another spoonful of the delicious soup and then admit, “I’m not much for talking.” Before she can say anything in response to that, I add, “Which is why you’re not staying.”

Her face grows pale and she gets very still, her gaze focusing on the bowl in my hands. “I see.”

“No. You don’t. This isn’t about company. I wanted another farm hand.” And a wet cunt to fuck, but I don’t bring that up. “You aren’t going to be able to help me much with that sort of thing. And I understand your situation, so I don’t want you panicking. I’m a fair man. I won’t send you back.”

The tension in her small shoulders relaxes. “You won’t?”

“No.” I gesture with my spoon. “I’m not the right one for you, but there’s plenty of men on this planet that need a mate and won’t care that you’re small. There’s a gathering in a few days. We’ll go there and find you a man.”

She goes still again. “But what if I’d rather stay with you?”

I scowl. “Why would you want to do that? I just told you I’m not much for company.”

“I don’t mind that. You treat me like a person. Even when you’re mad at me.” She clasps her hands in front of her chest. “Do you know how rare that is? When Leandra was mad at me, she’d act like I was a misbehaving pet, not a human being with an intelligent mind. I loved her, but she couldn’t see past who I was. I’m happy to stay with you. I’ll be quiet if you need quiet.”

“I’m ugly,” I tell her with a shake of my head. “And stubborn. And cheap.”

“You have real food in your kitchen, not just bags of processed ingredients. That’s not that cheap. And I don’t spend much money, I promise. I have my own allowance that Leandra gave me.” Her growing smile shows that little dent in her cheek again. Does she ever stop smiling, I wonder? “And I don’t mind stubborn. And I don’t think you’re ugly at all.”

Now I can feel my skin growing hot and uncomfortable. I want to hide my face away, but I resist. “Scarred up from the war,” is all I say.

“Which is a perfectly noble sort of thing, and I think you look just fine,” she tells me again. “Besides, I know humans aren’t exactly attractive to your people.” She shrugs those dainty shoulders. “Lord knows why they keep kidnapping us for sex.”

Looking at her move, I know why. It’s the small, plush bow of her mouth. It’s the delicacy of her wrists under the sleeves of her tunic. It’s the fragility of her form and the pronounced thrust of her breasts that are twice the size of any mesakkah female’s. There’s something about her that speaks to a male’s baser nature. Of course a man would want to fuck a female like this. Even I’m starting to get uncomfortably hard at the thought. What would she look like underneath me, with her golden-brown hair tumbling over those slim shoulders? 

I grunt as the image hits me with force. No, Emvor. You’re not keeping her.

When I look up, she’s watching me, a curious look on her face. “Everything okay?”

I nod curtly and point at the chair I left vacant for her. “Sit. Eat.”

She does, and when she sits down next to me, I see she’s wearing trou, just like I am. Except they cling to her slender hips and thighs and outline a bottom that has no tail and seems far bouncier and rounder than any mesakkah female’s bottom would be. 

Maybe it’s the spices in the food, but I feel sweaty. Need to bathe after this. 

Quiet falls. She eats. I eat. The room is still. I’m silent, but I can’t stop thinking about her. “What did you say your name was again?”

The human pauses in her eating. “It’s Nicola. Leandra didn’t like the way it sounded on her tongue, so she made me change it to something that sounded more mesakkah. We picked Shiarii.” She shrugs. “Seemed as good a name as any, and reminded me a bit of Scheherazade.”

“Who?”

She shakes her head. “Just an old human legend about a woman who had to tell stories and entertain to save her life.”

The food grows tasteless in my mouth. A woman who had to tell stories and entertain to save her life. The parallel to her own fate doesn’t escape me. I don’t want to hear more. I’m learning too much about her already, and it’s making the knot of frustrated anger and guilt in my stomach grow. I shouldn’t feel guilty over not keeping her, I remind myself. 

I’m the injured party here.