Page 37 of Tempting Cargo
Did she realise she’d treated me like crew? Not that I wanted to be her tea-boy. Or did I?
My resolve to help Shohari had only strengthened overnight. Staying here felt right. I knew it was an imposition, knew she wouldn’t go for it. But she’d started it by demanding that chrya last night.
Fuck it.
I dressed in a tunic and leggings—which were surprisingly comfortable, even if I felt ridiculous. It couldn’t hurt to look like I belonged.
On ship, the kri’ith tended to go barefoot most of the time, as their soles were so leathery, and I followed suit. I liked the coolness of the metal beneath my feet, same as I was getting used to the particular smell of theDorimisa’s filtered air. Itwasn’t as hot and heavy as on a station, and the Galactic Reserve ship was no comparison—I swear we’d just breathed plasma, sweat, and fear for three weeks.
TheDorimisawas almost pleasant, as much as recirculated air could be; there was always a subtle tang of metal, nothing new for me.
I glanced at my wrist-comm. Shohari would almost certainly be on the bridge by now.
The training room was empty, and I shrugged off the memory of yesterday, despite pulling on Shohari’s shorts—I drew the line at running in leggings.
The screen on the treadmill-type machine didn’t respond to me, which wasn’t surprising. “Comnica. How do I activate the running machine?”
“Authorisation from a senior member of crew is required to operate the stepmill. Shall I comm the captain?” the AI said.
“No!” Damn, that would be awkward. “Can you ask Muzati?”
“Acknowledged.”
Lights flashed. “Access granted.”
It was good to run. I could leave problems and worries aside, and move forward, forward, forward.
I had a shower in the small sonic booth and got dressed. Standing in the training room with Shohari’s shorts balled up in my hand, I paused. I should have left them there, but the desire to cling to something tangible was too tempting.
“Attention training room.” Shohari’s voice came over the in-room comm. “Leave the shorts.”
In case she was watching, I spun slowly in a circle, grinning, before kissing the waistband, dropping them into the laundry bucket by the door, and walking out.
The others were already in the mess hall, busy with packets of pancake-type things, running one at a time through a heating machine before adding a prepackaged slice of something on top.Zerena handed one to me, and I brought the plate to my nose. Fruity.
“Roll them up,” she said. “They’re amazing.”
She wasn’t wrong, and we went through three packets between us. Just as we were doing the last ones, though, the machine crackled, dying with a puff of smoke.
“Oh god,” Imani said. “Do you think we’re in trouble?”
“I don’t see how,” I said, swallowing a mouthful of pancake. “I bet it’s just a loose connection or something. It looks pretty old.”
I spotted a pot on the counter with a few tools in it, including a screwdriver-looking one with a pattern matching the fastenings in the machine’s housing.
The inner workings weren’t what I was used to, and it took me back to my teens, when I would take apart and attempt to repair old kitchen appliances—though I’d better be more successful here than some of my earliest attempts.
My friends put some entertainment on the screen, the noise of the soap opera-type show a comforting drone as I worked.
It was a simple enough machine, and the components were a mix of familiar and alien. I couldn’t be certain, but my best guess was the heating element had burned out, so I occupied myself putting it back together.
Muzati and Paiata came in around lunchtime, and Paiata took two mugs of noodles back to the bridge.
Was Shohari avoiding me, or was she busy? Probably a bit of both.
“Hey, Muzati,” I said before she headed out with her own mug. “The pancake machine broke this morning. I found some tools and tried to fix it, but I think the heating panel has gone.”
“Kheh. Not again. And call me Muzi.”
