The Galaxy, and the Ground Within (Wayfarers #4)(4)
‘The Melody,’ Speaker repeated. She doubted Ouloo had not seen the reservation before this point.
The Laru’s large eyes darted up and down as she read a file on an unseen screen. ‘Yes, I see,’ Ouloo said. Her voice remained uneasy, adrift. ‘Sorry, I didn’t realise you were, um …’ She paused. ‘Could you … could you send over your ship’s travel registry permit?’
Speaker resisted the urge to snap her beak in annoyance, and kept her head soothingly extended. ‘My pilot’s licence should be there with our reservation,’ she said. ‘Is that not sufficient?’
‘Yes, um, it is. This is just for extra verification. Standard security policy.’
Speaker wondered if that policy had existed prior to this conversation. ‘One moment,’ she said. She called up the file and sent it forth.
There was a chirp on Ouloo’s end as the file was received. The Laru’s eyes went up and down, up and down, a few more times than one would assume was necessary to read such a short file. ‘Thanks very much,’ Ouloo said. ‘All seems in order.’ She was trying to sound friendly now, but there was still an edge to her voice. ‘Welcome to Gora. We’re looking forward to having you at the Five-Hop. I’ll be in the office upon your arrival to assess your needs and show you around our facilities.’ She paused again. ‘I’m sorry, but we haven’t had Akarak guests before. I make a point of offering something for every species, but I don’t have – I don’t know—’ She laughed awkwardly. ‘I mean – I suppose it’s an oversight on my part—’
‘Not to worry,’ Speaker said. ‘Our stop here will be short, and we’ll be most comfortable in our shuttle anyway. I just need a few supplies.’
‘Right,’ the Laru said. ‘Well, I hope it’s a pleasant stop all the same. Um … you saw in the docking reservation guide that we have a strict no-weapons policy, correct?’
Speaker let the mild insult slide, like so many others. ‘We don’t carry weapons,’ she said.
‘Oh,’ Ouloo said, surprised once more. She brightened, trying to salvage the conversation. ‘You’ll be less fuss than the Aeluon, then. We got a shuttle in from some border mess, and she definitely had to lock a few things up. You’ll see her around, I’m sure.’
‘I’m sure I will,’ Speaker said. ‘See you when we dock.’
The screen went black. Speaker exhaled, deeply. She glanced at the clock – an hour until they reached Gora. Time enough for a few creature comforts.
She swung from pole to pole, out of the bedroom and into the washroom, where she drank some water, relieved herself, and put a pack of meadowmelt dentbots to work. Meadowmelt was her preferred flavour, not Tracker’s, but Tracker had been the one to put in the grocery order at the last market stop. Knowing this made Speaker smile as she spat the last of the cleansing froth out of her mouth. Her sister had a knack for unspoken kindnesses.
Feeling more herself, Speaker made her way down the corridor, peeking in each room as she passed by. The Harmony would’ve been far too cramped for a typical Akarak family of ten or more, but this ship was home to Speaker and Tracker alone. The unlived-in rooms were far from empty, however. Each was stuffed to the brim with tech, medicine, shelf-stable food, bedding, air tanks – whatever leftovers they’d scrounged or gifts they’d accepted. Speaker and Tracker did not carry this cargo for themselves, but for those they encountered in their work. There was no way of knowing who would need what, and so it was best to carry everything.
Tracker was, predictably, in one of the only two rooms on the Harmony that the sisters had set aside for something other than practical use. One of the rooms belonged to Speaker, who was in the slow process of kitting it out to be an acoustic paradise for listening to music. Tracker’s room – the one Speaker entered now – was a garden, in a way. Tracker had an affinity for growing crystals, and she’d developed the room solely for this purpose. The lower part of the room was stuffed with shelves holding beakers, burners, jars of powders and salts. The walls were decked in coloured lights, affixed here and there at asymmetrical angles. Tracker’s inorganic creations filled the remainder of the space, hanging from twine-supported bowls and cups in the open air between ambulation poles. Some of the crystals were fuzzy, others chunky and smooth. Some looked like water ice, or engine char, or melted glass. Their colours were varied as could be, and every movement Speaker made, no matter how minute, resulted in the room shifting into a new arrangement of kaleidoscopic glitter born out of the play between the character of minerals and the wavelengths of light.
Tracker hung by her feet from the ceiling netting, her hands arranging the contents of a likewise hanging bowl. ‘This batch is turning out beautifully,’ she said in their native Ihreet.
Speaker climbed toward the bowl in question, but halfway up, the maze of poles and jars that Tracker had configured around her own motions no longer worked for someone with legs of different make. Tracker noted Speaker’s difficulty, and without a word from either sister, shimmied down to help. Tracker turned horizontal, vertical, back limbs flipping her body in ways Speaker’s could not. She linked wrist-hooks with Speaker. She supported, boosted, guided. Speaker leaned, followed, trusted. This was a dance they knew well.
Pressed close against Tracker’s torso, Speaker could hear the rattle of her sister’s lungs. ‘Bad day?’ Speaker asked.