Homebound

by Lydia Hope

  She recognized a Sakka and smiled, recalling her prisoner and his busy bustling around his cell. Tarai aliens, with their large fuzzy ears, were evidently fuzzy in many places.

  At the next one, she stopped short. The illustration contained no caption - none of them did - but Gemma immediately knew a Rix. But familiar as she thought she was with this race’s physical characteristics, she couldn’t help but stare and absorb the details she’d never seen before.

  The figure in the drawing was well-muscled and of what she presumed to be a normal Rix weight, so obviously, Simon would differ in this regard. The coloring threw her off, for the male in the picture radiated golden glow, his body tawny all over, not the dull white she was used to seeing. How interesting. Was the illustration accurate?

  She leaned closer.

  The Rix’s nose with its three slits on each side was correctly drawn, and so were the six long multi-phalanged fingers on each hand. Gentle arches of pale brows above the large coal-black eyes matched up. The two-dimensional Rix wore his russet hair short in another dramatic deviation from Simon’s long white braid that made it even harder to translate the illustration into the being she’d tended to at the prison.

  One other thing that Gemma was able to confirm, blushing and berating herself for her inappropriate attention to detail, was that Simon, thank God, appeared to be intact in one specific area. Disappointed and shocked at her disappointment, Gemma surmised that Rix males were put together with a lot less generous hand than men. A lot less…

  “Are you enjoying my pictures?”

  Gemma whirled around and found Dr. Delano standing right behind her. A glance at the examination table confirmed that the procedure had been completed, and a nurse was wrapping Uncle Drexel’s arm in a fresh bandage.

  “Oh, they are beautiful. All of them. This Rix, and the Sakka there, and the Tarai. Stunning work.”

  Dr. Delano’s brows rose. “Oh? You know aliens well. Not many can recognize a Rix.”

  “My niece works at the City prison,” Uncle Drexel helpfully supplied in a slurred voice. His face wore an expression of vacuous happiness, and he was trying to form a grin out of his slack mouth. The numbing drugs must have spread well beyond his arm. “She cleans up shit after the aliens. She knows all of ‘em bastards.”

  “Is that right?” Dr. Delano chuckled.

  Gemma, not a little self-conscious, cleared her throat. “Yes. Well. How’re you feeling, uncle?”

  “I’m feeling fantastic.”

  Doubting the validity of his statement, Gemma switched her questions to Dr. Delano. “What do we need to do at home about his arm, doctor?”

  “My nurse will write care instructions for you and supply medications. Bed rest until the fever subsides. He shouldn’t attempt to use his arm. He will need to return for follow-up procedures - it’s already on my schedule.” He offered her a perfunctory smile and left.

  A nurse helped Gemma load her subdued and relaxed uncle into his snazzy vehicle, and she pushed him out of the clinic and into the biting cold.

  Chapter 15

  Gemma’s first instinct was to avoid Simon, which made little sense. Nothing had changed between them, yet a vague sense of betrayal settled inside her chest and refused to leave. Simon hadn’t whistled or jumped with excitement at the prospect of seeing her skewered by the Obu’s “baseball bat” on the corridor floor, so kudos to him. But neither had he looked overly concerned, and she felt funny about it.

  But that’s where she was being unreasonable. Why should he be concerned about Gemma? He was a Rix, a foreign and different species forced into confinement on a hostile planet. Moreover, as a human, Gemma belonged to the race that held him captive. He had a right to feel detached.

  Resolved to keep her swelling emotions contained, she arrived at work with a steely determination to act nonchalant.

  Ruby was waiting for her in the lobby.

  “I heard about yesterday,” she took Gemma’s hands into her cold rough ones and held on tight. “I’m so sorry.”

  “I’m fine, Ruby, truly.”

  “If only I didn’t go…”

  “It isn’t your fault. Look at where we work. Things are bound to happen.”

  “But I was the one who missed the mug in the Obu’s cell.”

  “Don’t think like that. I’m fine,” Gemma repeated and changed the subject. “How’s Cricket?”

  “She’s doing better. She didn’t have an attack yesterday, and I think we’re in the clear for the time being. But you know what she did?”

  “What?”

  “She brought home a kitten!”

  “Ruby, where did she find one? I thought all the stray cats died out from hunger.”

  “This one isn’t feral, so we gather someone must’ve gotten tired of feeding it and threw it out. Cricket is over the moon about that cat.”

  “You will need to feed it, Ruby. And it can’t eat gruel,” Gemma said with concern.

  Ruby sighed. “I know, it’s a burden. But I can’t say no to Cricket, it’ll break her heart. She’s been in low spirits for months over her health. Fired twice from different jobs. We’ll have to manage.” Then Ruby brightened. “It’s a tiny little thing. Curious, into everything. Purrs! Cricket can’t love enough on her. Or him, we don’t know. We call it Jute.”

  They went upstairs together talking about Jute the cat. Ruby asked after Uncle Drexel, and Gemma shared her hopes of his making a partial recovery.

  “That’s good. He’ll work again. Men hold their value better than us, even the crippled ones.”

  The morning progressed as usual: the roll call, then the drink, and the quick cell clean-up before the yard time.

  Throughout all the activity, Simon stayed seated on his cot staring at the wall, like he did every day.

  Arlo acted like the Obu’s assault on Gemma never happened and never said anything Arlo-style, like mention the beast’s flea-infested hide or his appendage. He seemed preoccupied all morning and never said anything at all, which was fine with Gemma.

  “You’re a brave woman, beautiful Gemma,” Number 34 purred at her from his cell. “You zapped that Obu right in his balls. Made me squirm.”

  Gemma smiled. “I wish. I’m afraid I only got his side.”

  Number 34 had been one of several who had watched excitedly how she frantically grappled with the male who outweighed her by hundreds of pounds of solid muscle. She liked to think that, given an opportunity, the Perali would have tried to help her, but she didn’t know it for a fact. They were all predators, and she was on her own.

  When the cells were unlocked for the courtyard outing, Gemma hung far back from the Obu who seemed subdued and lagging today. He didn’t even raise his head to look for her, as had become his custom. Still, Gemma avoided being in his line of sight and took a breath of relief when he cleared the corridor.

  On the stairs, Arlo called her name.

  “You can’t take the dry bones outside today.”

  “Why is that?” Gemma frowned. Missing another feeding might hinder Simon’s progress.

  “There’s a site visit from the magistrate.”

  “So? OO likes when I show Simon off in his wheelchair. Good for PR.”

  “Not today he won’t like it. Got word through the grapevine that they are under some inspection and it’s a rough ride. Take my word for it and don’t go. They won’t thank you for having to explain this freak show being carted outside the prison walls.”

  Gemma pursed her lips debating whether she should listen to Arlo or if he was being full of shit. In the end, she decided to listen, partly because dealing later with OO in case of fallout could prove disastrous.

  “Thanks for the warning.”

  “Of course.” Arlo was looking at her intently. “I’m always happy to help a friend out.”

  He wasn’t her friend.

  “I appreciate your help,” Gemma responded politely.

  “That’s what friends are for, right? To trade favors.”

/>   It was a rather narrow definition of friendship, but Arlo was allowed to have his own outlook on life.

  “Maybe so.”

  “You aren’t against helping a friend out, are you, Gemma?”

  “Do you need something, Arlo?”

  He checked around furtively to ensure no eavesdroppers lurked nearby. “I was thinking, when you take your alien husk out next time, could you bring something in for me?”

  “Like what?”

  “Nothing big. Noting dangerous.”

  “They pat me down every time we come back, you know that, right?”

  “But they don’t pat him down,” Arlo pointed out with emphasis.

  She wasn’t sure how Arlo knew it, but he was right. The guards experienced an aversion to Simon and hated touching his alien, supposedly sick body. They should be frisking him but they never did.

  Gemma remained silent.

  Taking her silence for an encouraging sign, Arlo went on, “It’s a golden opportunity. He’s in a wheelchair with lots of places to stash stuff. You go outside - truly outside, Gemma, not to the courtyard. Guards don’t patrol the street. There are no windows on that side of the prison. Other people can come freely, meet up with you, bring you stuff.”

  Still, Gemma remained silent.

  Arlo interpreted it like a price tag was in question, and rushed on, “It’s going to be a percentage for you. Or a flat fee, if you’d prefer, but if you want my advice, a cut is always better.”

  “Out of curiosity, what is the most popular contraband nowadays?” she asked snidely.

  The sarcasm was lost on Arlo who in his mind already saw many dollar signs floating his way from the success of their joint enterprise.

  “Drugs of all kinds,” he replied without hesitation. “The hard ones are rare anymore, but weed is abundant. Everybody likes weed, it’s the most requested goods. A joint sells for three to four brass dollars.”

  “Three to four?” Gemma was flabbergasted. She earned that much a week.

  “Yeah, I’m telling you. Of course, the supplier gets the most of the profits, and the hustler - that would be me - gets his share. So, a mule like you may get maybe a quarter of a dollar per joint, but the joints add up.”

  Now Gemma was positive Arlo had been the one who sold weed to Number 34.

  “What about Simon? He may have an issue with being stuffed like a Thanksgiving turkey with weed.”

  “Who, that dude? He’s half-dead! He probably hears voices of his ancestors calling for him from the grave to stop kicking the can down the road and come home already. He wouldn’t even notice.”

  “Well, he might.”

  Arlo waved a dismissive hand at Gemma. “Sweet talk to him. Have him smoke some. Can’t be too bad in his condition.”

  Gemma had had enough.

  “Arlo,” she said firmly. “You’re wasting your time. I won’t do it.”

  “Why?” He was taken aback. He was honestly, genuinely surprised that she would turn his proposition down.

  “It’s illegal.”

  “It’s money. Don’t you want to be independent?”

  “I do, very much so. I just don’t think this is the way to go about gaining independence.”

  “Afraid to get caught?”

  “Well, that, too. Aren’t you, Arlo?”

  “To take risks now means to live safely later. I have no choice.”

  “We all have a choice,” she countered. “We should also have… principles.”

  Arlo’s face turned ugly.

  “Oh, you have principles? Good for you, Miz Holier-than-Thou Gemma McKinley.” He gave her a derisive once-over and pointed a finger at her. “Don’t preach to me about principles. I’m not a girl with big tits who can spread her legs to get what she wants. Arlo has only Arlo to look after him.” He thumped his chest with a tight fist. “I have no plans to slave at this rank place till I resemble a prune from old age. I want to never have to eat gruel ever again, and I want me a nice warm place to sleep at night, and even an unassuming woman to warm my bed who I can provide for. I’ll never get a chance to go to Meeus, and it’s alright with me. But by God, I will live the rest of my life here on my terms.”

  “It’s not worth it, Arlo. That’s all I have to say to you. Don’t approach me again.”

  She turned to leave.

  “You owe me, bitch! I saved your sorry cunt from the Obu. Remember that.”

  Gemma stopped and turned slowly to face him.

  “I remember. That’s the only reason I am not reporting you, Arlo.”

  She would have liked to slam the door in her wake as she left Arlo on the stairs and returned to the lobby. She didn’t, for attracting the guards’ attention would require some sort of an explanation, and she was in no state of mind to give any. Or else she might change her mind and report Arlo in the heat of the moment.

  The weasel. The nerve!

  The lobby was unusually busy and Gemma saw several people who weren’t part of the prison system engaged with the prison officials. That’s right, the inspection that Arlo had warned her about. She smiled wryly. He had only given her the warning to sweeten her up. She highly doubted he would repeat any good deed on her behalf.

  The elevator was shut down for reasons unknown, and Gemma ended up hauling the bucket filled with water up the stairs. Short of breath, she shouldered the heavy door open and stumbled into the familiar corridor slushing the water over the rim.

  She ignored the spill. She’d wipe it later. Or not. In which case someone, preferably Arlo, might slip on it and break a leg.

  Gemma recognized dimly that this careless attitude was unlike her. She was wired from her exchange with Arlo and filled with tension and adrenaline in anticipation of close contact with Simon.

  “We can’t go out today,” she announced as she unlocked his cell and walked in. She steeled herself before turning to look at him even though she knew he would be sitting there staring at a wall.

  Her eyes collided with two black mirrors, deep, assessing, and focused entirely on her. She faltered and dropped her gaze before rallying and lifting her chin up.

  He was sitting in the same position he always sat in, legs drawn up and arms around his knees, except his posture had shed its helpless hunch. He was simply at rest, no longer lost in time and space.

  Slowly, he lowered his feet to the floor and sat up straighter in a smooth unfurling of his body. Even sitting down he was tall. Starved to near skeletal proportions, his frame probably outweighed her two to one.

  With an uneasy feeling, she thought again that at some point he’d ceased to be weak. Had he ever been? Had she missed something?

  “Tell me how the Obu got you.”

  His request snapped her back to yesterday with the force of a rubber band breaking from being pulled too tight. She felt huge furry arms imprisoning her in an unbreakable hold, smelled the rank breath reaching her nostrils, experienced again the pressure of his enormous protrusion against her lower back…

  She shuddered.

  “I went into his cell.”

  Simon looked at her like it was the dumbest decision she’d ever made. Which it almost had been.

  “You know I do it all the time,” she said looking pointedly at his open door. “I was told Obu are normally docile.”

  “This Obu is a young adult.”

  “Is he? He looks… mature.”

  “Don’t you know anything about anyone in the Universe?”

  “Only this much.” Gemma brought her thumb and forefinger within an inch of each other.

  “The Obu has hit his transition,” Simon informed her like it was supposed to explain everything.

  “Good for him.”

  “He wants to mate.”

  She had kind of figured out that part on her own. “Really? And here I thought he was asking me for the time.”

  “He’s fixated on you. Mating is all he has on his mind.”

  “Fantastic. Is he going to get over it soon?”

 
“He’ll calm down after he mates.”

  “After?” Gemma stammered. The situation was beginning to sound difficult. “I don’t think our facility can accommodate his special needs. What am I supposed to do now?”

  “Don’t go into his cell.”

  “A sage advice, Simon.”

  He cocked his head, his eyebrows arched high. His neck was thick and corded. How had she never noticed it before? The direct stare of his black eyes was making her thoroughly uncomfortable. Try as she might, she saw him less and less as an invalid.

  “It’s so cold in here,” she said and thought about how inane she sounded.

  “Rix tolerate cold as well as they tolerate hunger. We much prefer it to the heat.”

  “You don’t think it’s cold in here?”

  “No. It’s comfortable. The summers are brutal.”

  Gemma chuckled. “Go figure. Everything is backwards with you.”

  Rubbing her hands on her arms like she was cold rather than uncomfortable, she shuffled her feet. His closened was making her ill at ease, tight. And hot. Even in this dank wintery cell. All of a sudden, she could scarcely stand being alone with him.

  He moved his hands drawing her attention to them. With six fingers, they were one of the most dramatically different parts of him. They fascinated her. Forgetting herself, she reached out and touched one of his fingers.

  Something scraped against her skin.

  “Your nails are growing back!” she exclaimed, taking his hand and pushing his fingers together, examining the tips. Sure enough, his nail beds were slightly swollen, and sharp points poked from underneath the scar tissue.

  “Yes,” he said tightly.

  She brought his hand up for a better look. The emerging tips were pointy and dark.

  “Why are they blue?”

  “What other color would they be?”

  “Oh.”

  Realizing what she’d done, she dropped his hand as if burned.

  While holding his hand, Gemma had discovered that his skin was velvety soft. She’d seen the patches of peach fuzz before on his body. She now knew that the fuzz was also growing back and would eventually cover his entire body, just like in the drawing in Dr. Delano’s office.