Total pages in book: 149
Estimated words: 135784 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 679(@200wpm)___ 543(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135784 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 679(@200wpm)___ 543(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
I grab one from my dwindling stash and head for the terrarium, absently thinking about how I'm going to get extra food for that damned carinoux. One of my regulars brings me supplies at a pretty stiff mark-up, but he's not due to come by for at least another month, and that thing's going to eat everything in about a week. I do have some parts I need to drop off at a nearby station, but I was hoping that I'd be able to find someone to pay enough (and was reasonably trustworthy enough) that I could avoid leaving my home entirely. It's starting to look more and more like that won't be the case.
To my surprise, my distracted steps have brought me to the human's quarters instead of the terrarium. Her door is open and I can't resist moving into the entryway and looking in. The human's quarters are neat and tidy, her things put away as if she has always lived here. On the bed, the female is curled up against the massive body of the carinoux, her eyes closed. The creature opens one and watches me but doesn't move.
"Go away," she murmurs in a sleepy voice.
I almost do as she says, and then I remember that this is my home. She's the guest. So I remain in the doorway, clutching my carcinogel and pondering her form under the blankets. Her head rests on the carinoux's flanks and she looks peaceful and content.
I envy her that.
"I said, go away," she repeats, her voice light even as she strokes the carinoux's scales. "I know you're still there. I can smell you."
I lift one of the layered rags I wear and sniff it. Maybe it's a little ripe, but surely it's not that bad. Then again, does it matter? "I'm just making the rounds," I tell her defensively. "Don't flatter yourself."
"I don't give out freebies," she says in that same sleepy voice.
Freebies? Does she mean—
I jerk backward, stung that she would come to that conclusion. Does she think I'm going to rut on her the moment the va Sithai brothers turn their backs? Even I am not that crass a fiend. "I wasn't asking," I say defensively.
"Good."
"Fine then," I retort.
"You still smell," she jabs back, tugging the blankets higher around her neck. Her tone is prickly now, and the carinoux tenses. She immediately makes a soft clucking noise in her throat and pets him until he calms down. "Now you've made Sleipnir mad. Go away already. I'm trying to sleep."
"I'm going," I say one last time, irritated. I walk away, heading toward the terrarium this time. As I do, I sniff my clothes again. I don't care what I look like. I came out here because I knew I wasn't the same male that left Kes Minor Station. I got tired of people seeing the war we lost when they looked at me. Living alone, I just pull on random clothing articles I find—an extra sleeve to protect my good arm, or an old length of flimsy plas-cloth wrapped around my neck to work as a scarf. What I look like doesn't matter. No one that's coming out here is coming because I'm such good company.
But for some reason, it bothers me that she thinks I smell.
I sniff my tunic again as I quickly puff my carcinogel stick. The moment I stub it out, I head for the lavatory. I pull off my work goggles and look at my face in the mirror. There's a line of grime across my nose and cheeks from the parts of my face that are exposed as I work, and the top half of my face looks as if it belongs to someone else. I hate the way my mismatched eyes look, and the scarring around the socket.
The human probably finds me hideous.
I look down at the sink and notice I'm leaving dirty smears all over the metal. I guess I could use a wash. Irritated, I peel off layers and kick them aside, not looking in the mirror again. I don't want to see where the metal of my cybernetic arm joins with my flesh. I don't want a reminder of how abnormal it looks, how cheap the replacement is. I already know it's poorly made every time it makes the rest of my body ache. It's just another reminder that I'll always be station trash, and I don't need to see it. I peel my glove off last, because I don't like seeing the raw components, the metal gears and fake tendons where my real hand once was.
The shower feels good, though. I keep the water at lukewarm, mostly because I know if I spike it too hot, it sends feedback through my fake limbs and I don't want to feel that not-quite-right response. I scrub at my filthy hair and equally filthy face, and as I do, I think about the human.