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)
Even the best of books wears thin on you after repeated readings, and I'm there with Outlander.
I move to the next plant, and the small tendrils and stalks remind me of cucumber plants back on Earth. I wonder if there's an equivalent here in space?
"Your pet shits everywhere," Jerrok says in a quiet voice. "I…thought it was you. I found it here in the terrarium and thought you'd made a mess on the floors."
My lips twitch, and I turn to look at him. "Me?"
His face is a little flushed, his shoulders hunched as if he's uneasy. Or shy. "Didn't know it was here," he mumbles. "And I've never been around humans before."
"Is that an apology, Jerrok the Jerk?" I ask lightly.
His jaw flexes. "No."
"I think it is. Apology accepted." And I laugh when he shoots me a hot look. Oh man, Sleipnir being around gives me control, and I have to admit I love it. "If it makes you feel any better, I'll clean up after him. I imagine he can help with the fertilizer here in the terrarium and the floors could use a good washing anyhow." There's pretty tilework under my feet, but it's covered over with grime and dead leaves.
"Do whatever you like." Jerrok shrugs. "Just…don't cry."
"That's like asking you not to be unpleasant." I deliberately work on my tone being airy and carefree as I move toward him. Now that he's clean, I can't stop staring at him. Jerrok looks very different now. He's not wearing the goggles that cover half his face, and it's easier to make out his expressions. His nose is narrow and a little long, but still larger than any human nose I've ever seen. His eyes are jarring to look at—one normal and one so very obviously cybernetic—but I'm getting used to that. Gone are the heavy layers of filthy rags, and today he's wearing an old station jumper of some kind, the type Kaspar puts on when he's doing mechanical work. It doesn't fit him quite right—the arms are a little tight and the cuffs too short—but it emphasizes how powerful his form is. In a way, he reminds me of Adiron in physicality. Big and imposing, but also not too terrifying. He's wearing a glove on one hand, though, and keeps touching his false arm. I can't help but notice that the material over his thigh fits tighter on one leg than the other, and I wonder how much of him has been replaced.
I want to ask what happened, but it seems impolite, and we're being decent to each other. I'm not going to mess that up just yet. I study his face and notice that he's got dark circles under his eyes. I wonder if he has nightmares every night. "So what's with the counting?"
Jerrok stiffens. "Counting?"
Something tells me he knows exactly what I mean. "When I woke you up from your nightmare—you're welcome, by the way." He snorts, but it's not in a cruel sort of way, so I continue. "You were counting in your sleep. It seemed important."
He's silent for a long moment and then pulls his cigar thing out again, scraping a nail across the tip. It flares to life, and he puts the stick between his lips and gazes out at nothing in particular, avoiding eye contact. I'm just about to give up on getting an answer when he says, "They didn't have time to put us through a bunch of rigorous training for the war. No time for mental strengthening classes. So they told us that if we got captured by the enemy and tortured for information, to count. Just count. They said it'd help us keep from breaking." His jaw flexes. "Bunch of keffing liars."
My mouth goes dry. "Torture?"
The look he gives me is hard. "I don't want to talk about it."
I get that. If someone sidled up to me and started asking about my time on Praxii Minor, I wouldn't want to talk about it either. "Sometimes it's best to let the past die. Not everyone gets that."
He grunts, glancing over at me. "You ever go to war?"
I shake my head. No war, but I know something about going through hell. Sleipnir pads away, losing interest in our conversation, and I guess that's my cue to go, too. I don't want to talk about war, or my past, or anything uncomfortable. Not with a stranger. Not with anyone. "I guess I'll go read my book again. Thanks for the conversation. It was a nice change of pace." I give him a faint smile and walk away.
He clears his throat before I get too far. "Noodles tonight."
I turn. "Is that an order or an invitation?"
Jerrok's mouth twists in that self-effacing, almost angry way. Like he can't decide if he's being wry or if he's pissed at himself. "Neither. I'm just letting you know I'm making noodles tonight. Come eat some if you want. Or don't. I don't care."