A Closed and Common Orbit (Wayfarers #2)(57)

Jane put the fabric in the delet box. ‘Do any other species speak Sko-Ensk?’

‘I think that’d be very rare. Maybe some people at schools or museums. Spacers living out near the border might speak it. I’m not really sure.’

Jane tossed a bolt onto a pile and watched it tumble down. ‘Will they think I’m weird if I don’t speak Klip right?’

‘No, sweetheart. But you will have an easier time if you know more words when we get out of here. You’ll be able to tell people what you want and what you don’t, and you can answer questions. You’ll make more friends if you can talk to people.’

Jane dragged the wagon over to the utility hose and dumped the dog into the basin below it, holding her face as far away as she could from its stinking fur. She hosed it down, watching dirt and bits of whatever swirl down the drain. A few small bugs tried to get away. Jane smashed them with her thumb. She felt bad about it, but they weren’t big enough to eat, and they’d just make her itch.

She sighed as she turned the dog over. She really didn’t like washing them, or the part that came after. Making dogs into food wasn’t fun. They tasted all right, though, if she cooked the pieces on the stove for a long time. It was a heavy taste, like smoke and rust. They kept her fuller than ration bars, which was the best part, because there were only a couple dozen of those left, and she had to keep them for emergencies. She reminded herself of that as she moved the fur around, getting it clean as she could. Some of the fur was burned where her latest weapon had touched it. This model killed dogs faster, which was good, but it made their fur catch fire real easy. She felt kind of bad about that, too . . . but not really.

‘Do you think the dogs know I’m eating other dogs?’ The packs had been bothering her less these days, and she’d wondered.

‘Possibly, yes.’

‘Because they can smell their blood on me?’

‘That’s quite likely, actually.’

Jane nodded. That was good. She took off all her clothes, folded them, and set them far away. She wrapped a clear tarp around herself, the one she’d cut arm holes in and laced a woven cord through like a belt. She picked up the big kitchen knife from the edge of the basin, where she’d left it a few days before. She sucked air through her teeth as she closed her fingers around the grip.

‘Is your hand still bad?’ Owl asked.

‘It’s okay,’ Jane said, so Owl wouldn’t worry. She still hadn’t found a pair of work gloves that fit her right, which made digging through scrap hard. Bare hands were much easier to work with, but that meant getting cuts, like the bad one she’d got across her palm a week ago. Owl said she needed stitches, but after an explanation of how that was done, Jane knew that was not a thing she could do. So, she’d closed the skin up with some circuit glue, which Owl hadn’t liked, but she didn’t have any better ideas. The cut wasn’t bleeding any more, but stars, it still hurt.

She looked at the soaked dead dog, lying in shrinking puddles of dirt and squished bugs, tongue hanging out like an old wet sock. It was so ugly. It was about to get worse.

She chewed her thumbnail. It tasted of plex and sweat and old metal, and some nasty badness she couldn’t name. Maybe a bit of bug. ‘Do you think other sapients will smell blood on me?’

‘No, sweetie,’ Owl said, her face filling up the closest screen like a sun. ‘You’ll be nice and clean when we meet other people.’

‘And you’ll be with me, right?’

‘Of course I will.’

‘Okay,’ Jane said. ‘That’s good.’ She took a breath, raised her knife, and got to work.





Feed source: unknown Encryption: 4

Translation: 0

Transcription: 0

Node identifier: unknown

Post subject: REPOST – Seeking heavily-altered derelict shuttle, see full post for details pinch: i’m searching for a Centaur 46-C, approximately 25 standards old, extensively repaired and altered. few parts left in original factory condition. faded tan hull, photovoltaic coating. if you have any information about its current location, please message me. you don’t have to have it, just know where it is.

fluffyfluffycake: good luck, as always FunkyFronds: i swear, i could sync my clocks by when this post goes up. where did the past eight tendays go?

tishtesh: how long are you gonna keep reposting this pinch: until i find it





Part 2


PULL





SIDRA


Sorting tech supplies was boring, but boring had become preferable. Boring meant there was nothing to worry about. Boring was safe.

Sidra logged inventory as she worked. Seven bolts. She placed them in their bin. Two tethering cables. She placed them in their bin. One regulator grid – or . . . wait. ‘Pepper?’ she called, craning the kit’s head toward the workshop door.

‘One sec,’ Pepper called from the front counter, shouting over her welding torch. The security shield around the shop had been flickering when they got in that morning. Probably just some wiring that wore out, Pepper said, but it bothered Sidra enough that her host had wasted no time in starting repairs. Over the past twenty-six days, Sidra had been particular about locking doors, closing windows, avoiding customers she hadn’t seen before. She felt it best to volunteer for boring jobs that kept her in the workshop, out of sight. Sorting supplies fit the bill, and it was a task that Pepper was always happy to relinquish.