“Never mind that,” Martna interjected. “We’re just happy you’re alive.” Her eyes flickered across the screen, evidently taking in her daughter’s features, looking for signs that she spoke truthfully. Cydrin was not concerned. As they claimed, days in a biobed would have healed any physical signs of injury, and he could proudly say that she had suffered no injuries that would have required such intervention at all.
She had not been harmed with him. Not in the least. And he would see to it that did not change in the near future.
“Any chance I could speak to the captain?” her father petitioned, clearing his throat slightly as he did so. “I’d like to thank him myself. For being there for you when no one else was.”
Clairy bit her lip. “He’s a busy man,” she hedged. “But I’ll pass along your thanks. And mine. Again. Though he might be getting tired of hearing that.”
Martna whimpered when Clairy suggested she needed to end the call, and Cydrin wondered what else there might be that still required saying. “Will you contact us again? See how you’re faring? Are you sure it’s safe where you are? What if...”
“Mama,” Clairy stopped her with a soft sigh. “You were worried about that with my last post, and it wasn’t like that at all.”
A flash of anger came to Martna’s features. “I was right to worry. They’re all dead, Clairy, and you were almost with it!”
Clairy looked stricken, and Cydrin nearly ended the transmission there, but he could see her gently shaking her head, and he took that to be more for him than for her mother. He could wait, but he also would not tolerate her growing upset—would not allow more useless guilt to be heaped upon her.
Too often that made her morose and unhappy, and she took it out on him, giving glum answers and half-hearted attempts at eating the food he provided rather than the smiles he enjoyed much more.
“Not about that,” Clairy assured her. “And I’ve been treated very kindly here, and I don’t want you sitting there worrying.” She forced a smile, and even Cydrin knew it was false. “I’m going on an adventure. I’ll be seeing new places and meeting new people, and it’s a little exciting, actually.”
“Clairy,” her father began. “I just wanted you to know...” his eyes darted about, his voice dropping lower. “There are going to be death benefits. From the Project. That was part of what the case officer told us when he came.” Clairy blinked, a small frown appearing at her lips. There was an odd expression on her father’s face, as if mentioning the funds at all was a painful thing. “Don’t know what I should do about that now.”
“That’s...” Clairy swallowed, and she looked suddenly lost. They had not discussed anything of that matter. She could not press the issue, fraudulent though accepting the funds would truly be. But it was a complication. If her family felt it unethical to take the money, they might tell the officer that they had spoken with her, that she’d been picked up by a neighbouring vessel—one that would not show up on record.
But perhaps their need for credits was greater than any twinge of conscience, so the matter would be handled neatly.
Though a tug low in his belly insisted that it was not so simple.
“We’ll discuss it later, Papa,” Clairy answered in lieu of addressing the matter and his evident concerns. “I’ll call again, soon and be home when I can.” Something in her posture suggested she wanted to glance over at Cydrin, but kept herself from doing so. “But... I don’t get to choose the date, so you’ll have to be patient.” Another smile, this one wet with tears equally shared by her mother.
“Thank everyone for us,” Martna beseeched. “Until they do grow tired of it.”
“I will, Mama. I love you,” she managed to get out, though her throat seemed to make it difficult to do so. “Both of you. So very much.”
Her parents returned the sentiment, and Cydrin disconnected the transmission before he was subjected to another bout of tears, both virtual and otherwise.
They sat in silence for a time, him considering what her mother’s concerns had been, her lost in some worry that brought a furrow to her brow.
But eventually she turned, her skin beginning to soften in colour after it had grown blotchy from her suppressed tears. “Thank you,” she said, surprising him. “Not just from mama. But... from me too. I never told you that before.”
Cydrin shifted slightly in his seat beside her. “I take it you are referring to my decision to bring you with me.”
He had waited for her to do so, to add it to her list of gratitudes, but suddenly it felt almost wrong. As if the words sent a sour twinge through him that he was unable to push away.
“If you hadn’t, I really would be gone. And there would be no call telling my family otherwise, no comfort that could soothe them.” She grimaced. “Just a few credits transferred to their account.”
She seemed insulted at the notion. “I am certain that is their attempt to be generous.” He could not quite keep his lip from curling at the thought of it. That they had so many funds to spare, procured at the work of their creations—their slaves—to be passed around to hush up the families of those who had died at his hand.
It was an insult.
Most especially to him.
“I almost told them to refuse the money,” she admitted, glancing at him apologetically. “But I suddenly remembered that would be bad.”
Cydrin gave a nod of confirmation. He wondered if he should have told her to keep her survivorship hidden entirely, for her parents to keep it a secret solely between themselves, but even now he could not conjure a legitimate reason for them to do so, not given the story they had been provided.
“You did well,” he complimented, still preoccupied with the disgruntlement he felt previously. Clairy eased back in her seat, apparently satisfied with his assurance. He wished he experienced the same peace, but the thought still niggled obstinately, regardless of how he tried to ignore it.
“I do not want your thanks,” he told her stiffly. He might not be ready to acknowledge why, but that did not keep it from being truthful. She had offered it, yes, but he did not require it, and did not relish it now that it had been given. “Not for that.”
Clairy looked at him a long while. Perhaps she was confused at the shift, but she gave a careful nod in any case. “All right,” she agreed. She glanced down at her lap, and took a breath. “But you have it anyway.”
Cydrin merely gave a grunt in response.
12
Clairy had no idea one could travel so long through space without stopping. Each day she looked to the Nav screen, uncertain if it was with hope or dread, but as the days turned to weeks, she could almost admit there was a mounting desire to simply get there.
Guilt inevitably followed. It might end the tedium that came with too little too do, but that was hardly reason enough to long for their arrival. Not when she was well aware of what would follow. Feelings on the subject often warred within her, the conflict only growing as she pried more details from her companion on how the products of their work had been used.
Not all were for war. Others were grown and killed upon maturity, their organs sold throughout the galaxy to fund other projects and research. “Those unfit for other use,” Cydrin had dryly explained, watching her closely as was his wont. She was growing more used to it—not fond of it by any means, but she no longer fidgeted under such scrutiny. Not much, anyway. And the more he shared with her, the more she came to agree that the Project should be shut down and those responsible held accountable for their crimes. But death? For everyone?
It was easier to push that aside, to pretend they were headed to another planet, their mission something simple and good like fresh linens and food that had been grown in soil and sunshine, not synthesised by the manipulation of matter.
But maybe it was too easy, her pretending. Because it made it all the easier to turn to Cydrin for conversation, lest she grow mad when alone with her own thoughts. Easy to forget that he was not merely a friend, a companion cros
sing the vastness of space. Easy to pull him aside, to meekly ask him to check the computer systems for a few things of her own, to teach him some of the games she would play with her siblings on their old and technically obsolete datapad.
Triumph turned to frustration when Cydrin caught on all too quickly, her victories coming by chance rather than superior skill. “We play for your enjoyment, yet you seem only aggravated,” he’d observed when what she thought was a clever play with swiftly circumvented. She was already cross, so her words were more bitter than they should have been.
“We play to have something to do,” she corrected, glumly looking at the screen to work out her next play. Options were few, as he had her players neatly surrounded, and any move would end in a swift execution for the lot of them.
Fitting, coming from him.
The thought was a harsh one. Too harsh. Factually correct, perhaps, but lacking any of the compassion she had fostered for him in their weeks together.
She pulled her hands away from the datapad and swallowed. “Maybe... maybe now isn’t the time to play,” she mumbled, displeased with how poorly she was taking the loss.
Cydrin looked at her a moment, before he glanced down at their abandoned game. “Am I to presume you wish to cease because I am about to claim another victory?”
No, it was because she was afraid of herself when she lost too many times. And what hurtful thing that might slip out when she was not careful.
She’d been teased a great many times by her brothers about being sore and cross when they bested her too often, and she felt a slight ache to be with them again. But she couldn’t. Regardless of what Cydrin had done, she couldn’t. Not forever, but she would not pretend that if not for him, she would be back home.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked, still clearly disconcerted by her sudden withdrawal.
She flicked away a piece of nonexistent lint from her sleeve, knowing he would find the gesture odd, but did it anyway. She loved the furnishings of her new room, but she almost loved the new clothing more. Most fit quite well, and having gone without, she relished the plenty.
They were clearly a race that valued their fabrications, for everything was soft and crafted by an expert hand, not sacrificing structure simply for comfort of wear.
And now they were hers.
Not her mother’s cast offs, or Ishta’s. Just hers.
And there was a thrill in that, mixed with a hint of sorrow, but she felt like keeping both to herself.
“My family,” she answered him, not for the first time.
Cydrin shifted. “Do you require another transmission with them?”
It was an offer he was beginning to make with greater frequency, and she likely should take every opportunity, but she felt strange today, a cramp in her lowers suggesting what the trouble might be.
That was a mortifying conversation she was not prepared to have.
But she did not have the luxury of living in the ‘fresher until it passed, nor would she risk soiling all her linens with fresh blood.
“Clairy?” Cydrin prompted again, this time with concern.
She took a breath, choosing to view him as she might any of the menfolk in her family when they pried too greatly into why she was prone to crossness, why she had become so ungracious. “You don’t have anything in that medkit of yours for...” she stumbled, uncertain of what vernacular to use with him. He would not know the more subtle terms to use, the hints and genteel language that informed without being blunt, and she was not overly informed of the more medical terms herself.
Her mama had shown a vid on the subject, but all Clairy truly remembered was the absolute mortification she felt when the subject of intimacies was described, little else sinking in.
It had taken her a few years after before broaching the subject more completely with her mother, asking why she possibly had wanted to do that nine times.
Her mother had laughed heartily at that, and Clairy had scampered off before receiving any real kind of answer.
“You require a diagnostic?” Cydrin asked, and, if possible, sitting up even straighter.
Clairy blew out a frustrated breath, the mortification coming swiftly. “Not a diagnostic, now. I know what the trouble is.” She grimaced. “If there are any pain meds in there though, I wouldn’t mind one.”
Cydrin stood. “You are in pain,” he repeated.
Then promptly turned and hurried up the ladder, leaving her to stare after him.
She was uncertain why it surprised her so much that he should be so alarmed at her discomfort, but it did. One glance into her quarters was proof enough that he cared about her condition. She was even less certain how far that might go, if his promise not to do her harm included keeping her from all harm. It startled her to think that he might have become her protector when she had not been cognisant enough to notice.
He returned just as quickly as he’d gone, a diagnostic tool already in hand. She sighed, but allowed him to skim the device over her, the handheld providing a readout of her condition. Perhaps that was better than explaining, assuming it actually could tell.
His hand hesitated when it reached her abdomen, and she knew her cheeks would reflect her opinion on his hovering.
The handheld gave a brief beep, likely explaining to him the affected area and source of her discomfort, and she managed to glance at his face. It was carefully neutral, and he did not allow the smallest hint of embarrassment to cross his features. Perhaps she could get him to teach her how to do that, for she seemed entirely unable.
“Am I going to live?” she asked grimly, and he put his tools away.
“You are far from terminal,” he answered, pulling out what must have been prescribed for her relief.
A dial in a slim canister, a fresh head providing the micro-needle that promised relief, and she belatedly realised how differently she felt than when she’d first arrived. She did not question what he was giving her, trusting both his diagnostic and his ability to carry out its instructions.
No thought of poison, no consideration that he might be using this to his advantage.
She had complained of pain, and he intervened.
“Are there enough supplies for this?” she asked instead, uncertain if this warranted using something if their stores were too small.
She recognised the slip, faltering somewhat in her query.
Their stores.
Not his.
Which was ridiculous, for he still did not permit her to use any of the controls. Nothing on this ship belonged to her, save what he’d given her from the market.
And yet, somehow, she had come to feel some kind of joint ownership of its contents.
She chewed at her lip, not certain if that was a good thing or not, a little more sure that anyone outside the situation would chastise her for growing too comfortable. In this vessel.
With Cydrin.
Trouble was, she was starting not to care.
“The stores are more than adequate to spare a dose,” Cydrin assured her. “And I would not have you suffer regardless.”
She smiled at him, but tensed as his fingers met the fasteners of her clothing, glancing upward in alarm. “What are you doing?”
His eyes widened slightly at the sharpness of her tone, and he withdrew. “I require access to your arm. It is not advised for the needle to pierce fabric, as it will cause more discomfort to the patient with a duller implement.
“Oh,” she murmured, a fresh wave of embarrassment pouring over her. Of course he hadn’t... he didn’t mean to...
She almost opened her mouth to tell him that a doctor would have explained his intentions, would have asked her to do it herself so as not to cause any concern, but she quickly closed it again.
Doctors had respected her.
They certainly had not done so with him.
They would not have asked for permission. If they needed something done, they did it. And she could not fault him for not knowing what he could not know.
/>
“Um...” she hesitated, certain how she did not want to chastise him. “I’ll do it,” she mumbled, releasing the top three fasteners and allowing it to droop over one shoulder. She hoped that would be enough, because to do more would be to expose a great deal more and she was not at all prepared for that, even as she clutched any gaping fabric tightly to her chest in any case.
Cydrin made no comment on her attempts at modesty, only approached with a swab of disinfectant. He made no warning when he made the injection, and she would not have felt it at all had there not been the quick press of the cylinder against her skin.
There was no pain from the injection, but she hadn’t expected one. But there was also no instant relief for the cramping still reminding her of the imminent blood, and she gave him a rueful look. “I don’t suppose you have any...” her eyes drifted into the medkit, most things tucked away in pouches, presumably to keep them from interacting with the outside air.
To her surprise, he took hold one of such pouch and handed it to her.
She blinked down at it before belatedly righting her shirt, doing up the fastenings swiftly. “Get a lot of women here, do you?” she asked.
“You know I have not,” Cydrin answered, his voice low and so serious. “But such supplies are presumably standard issue in these kits.”
She nodded absently, embarrassment insisting she hide herself away in the lav until everything was sorted, and then insist they forget the entire humiliating exchange.
But Cydrin was not acting as if he shared in her discomfort. There were the tinges of concern about the edges of his eyes, the set of his mouth, but they had been there since she admitted she was in pain.
It was... very different from the men in her family.
She had expected a crinkle of the nose, a reminder that they had no desire to hear about her woman’s woes.
Designation 261 (The Wholeness Project) Page 16
