Ashby sat in the hotel room he’d paid for an hour earlier. He was thinking about waterball. Not that he particularly cared about waterball, but it was easier to handle than the alternative. When he’d woken up that morning, he’d been ready for a day of haggling and spending credits, the high point of which might’ve been drinks and a good meal in a sleepy bar. Now, he was on the dark side of Coriol, surrounded by thick pillows and ugly wall hangings while he waited for Pei, who was not only alive and well, but close by and intent on having sex with him. Waterball was easier to process.
Okay. Titan Cup finalists, year 303. Let’s see. The Whitecaps had to have been playing, because Kizzy freaked out when Kimi St. Clair tore a ligament. The Starbursts were there, right? Yeah, you bought Aya a Starbursts jersey for her birthday that year. She said they were her favorite.
Left unchecked, his thoughts jumped like a deepod, ducking in and out before he could lay any of them to rest. He had too many feelings lobbying for attention. Relief for Pei’s safety. Joy over seeing her at any moment. Baseless worry that her feelings had ebbed. Determination to follow her lead (stars only knew how she was feeling after tens of tendays spent skirting warzones). And fear. Fear, which he felt every time they met. Fear that in the tendays ahead, after she’d returned to more dangerous space, this hello might end up being a goodbye.
No, no, the Starbursts had to have been 302, not 303. That was the same birthday Aya got her first starter scrib, which means she was starting school. Which means 302.
There was a vague anxiety, too, the concern that they’d get caught this time. He couldn’t think of anything he’d left unchecked. Their system for avoiding notice was old hat by now. He always found the hotel—nothing flashy, something off the beaten path, and preferably somewhere they hadn’t been before. He’d make it clear to the desk staff that he needed some rest and didn’t want to be disturbed for any reason. Once in his room, he’d send Pei a message with nothing but the hotel name and the room number, which she’d delete after reading. Two hours later, long enough to prevent anyone from suspecting anything, she’d arrive at the hotel, and request whatever room number was adjacent to his. This was easily done, as complex numerology was a well-known component of traditional Aeluon culture. There were so many conflicting systems for finding meanings within numerical sequences that no matter what room number Ashby got, Pei could find a way to put a positive spin on the number she requested. A non-Aeluon desk worker would assume that Pei wanted a room with a number that symbolized peace or good health, whereas an Aeluon would just see her as unusually old-fashioned for her age (and perhaps a little silly). After settling into her room, Pei would knock on the adjoining wall. Ashby would make sure the hallway was empty, then leave his room. After that, they were good to go.
A lengthy song-and-dance to go through just to see each other, but a necessary one. As open and generous as Aeluons generally were to their galactic neighbors, interspecies coupling remained a mainstream taboo. Ashby didn’t understand the logic behind that—it was a non-issue for most Humans, at least where bipedal species were concerned—but he understood the danger for Pei. An Aeluon could lose her family and friends over an alien relationship. She could lose her job, especially when on a government contract. And for someone like Pei, who took pride in being a hard worker with a honed skill set, that kind of shame would cut deep.
Ashby, focus. The Whitecaps. The Hammers. The… the Falcons? No, they haven’t made it to a semi-final match since you were crewing aboard the Calling Dawn. What about the—oh, stars, Ashby. Come on. Waterball.
Alongside all the emotional distractions he was trying to subdue, Ashby was engaged in a battle of wills, a fight between brains and biology. He knew it was pretty much a given that he’d be getting laid any moment, but he didn’t want to be presumptuous. He had no idea what she’d been through prior to this meeting, and until he had a clear sense for where she was at, he was going to let her make the first move. And even if she was on the same page as him… well, he still had good manners. Even if his body was getting ahead of itself.
Ashby. Waterball semi-finals. Year 303. The Skydivers won. Who else was—
A knock came through the wall, quiet but clear.
He left the Titan Cup behind.
“Soap!” Kizzy cried, pointing to a stall full of bathing goods. “Look at ’em! They’re like cakes!” She ran off, her hefty bag of purchases bouncing against her back.
“I guess I could use some scale scrub,” Sissix said. She and Rosemary followed after the mech tech, who was already poking through display baskets.
The shop was run by a Harmagian merchant, whose offerings catered to the needs of many species. Coarse brushes and bundles of herbs for Aandrisk steam baths, fizzing tablets and warming salves for the icy plunges preferred by Aeluons, skin scrapers and cleansing tonics for Harmagians, a modest yet cheerful selection of Human soaps and shampoos, and dozens more jars, bottles, and tins that Rosemary could not identify. The galaxy’s sapient species could find many cultural commonalities, but few topics were quite as contentious as the proper way to get clean.
The Harmagian—a male, as Rosemary could tell by the color of the spots across his back—whirred over on his treaded cart as they approached. “A pleasant day to you, dear guests,” he said, his chin tendrils curling happily. “Have you come to browse, or do you have something special in mind?” The dactyli on the ends of his three front tentacles spread open in a helpful gesture. He was elderly, and the pale yellow skin covering his amorphous body lacked the moistness of youth.
Rosemary had known Harmagians before—her Hanto professor, for one, and several of her father’s regular dinner guests—but she always had trouble reconciling their appearance with their history. The person before her was, like all his species, a mollusk-like blob who couldn’t move around quickly without the help of his cart. He didn’t have teeth or claws. He didn’t have bones. Yet somehow, there had been a time when this squishy species had controlled a significant portion of the galaxy (and they still did, if you watched where the credits flowed, but they weren’t in the habit of subjugating indigenous sapients anymore). She had once read a paper by an Aeluon historian who suggested that the Harmagians’ physical frailty was exactly what had helped them develop a technological edge over other species. “Want and intelligence,” the historian had written, “is a dangerous combination.”
When she considered the historical context, Rosemary thought their presence in the shop made for a rather odd tableau: a Harmagian (an aging son of a former empire), an Aandrisk (whose people had moderated the talks that granted independence to Harmagian colonies and ultimately founded the GC), and two Humans (a meager species that would’ve been ripe for the picking if they had been discovered during the days of Harmagian conquest). All standing together, amicably discussing the sale of soap. Time was a curious equalizer.
Kizzy poked around the Harmagian’s offerings. “Have you got any—Ooh! Can I ask you in Hanto? I’ve been taking a course on the Linkings and I want to practice.”