The Galaxy, and the Ground Within (Wayfarers #4)(5)
‘Not the best,’ Tracker said. Irirek syndrome had passed her by, but she had challenges of her own. It had been Speaker who had noticed the first signs of brittle lung in Tracker, three full years after the improperly filtered air they’d breathed as egglings had kicked off a slow-burn mutative revolt. Speaker hadn’t known what was wrong, only that at night, when she rested her ear near her sister’s nostrils or against her heart, sometimes she could hear those sleeping breaths catch and stumble. If she hadn’t dragged Tracker to a doctor, Speaker would’ve become a sibling alone – the worst thing an Akarak could bear.
‘Did you take your medicine?’ Speaker asked.
‘I will,’ Tracker said. She gave Speaker one last gentle tug, up to the seating hammock by the bowl she’d been working on.
‘Take your damn medicine,’ Speaker said calmly as she sat. She leaned forward and peered into the bowl. The mineral spires within were a bottomless blue, mysterious and pacifying, branching outward in beguiling geometry. She picked one up and admired it, turning it this way and that in the coloured light. ‘Is this why you didn’t pick up the call?’
‘No,’ Tracker said, reclining on a hammock below. ‘I just didn’t want to deal with it.’
Speaker flicked her eyes toward her sister. ‘Thanks,’ she said.
Tracker spread her arms out to the side in congenial argument. ‘Tell me it wasn’t some bullshit.’
‘Oh, it absolutely was some bullshit,’ Speaker said.
‘Mmm-hmm,’ Tracker said. ‘And nothing makes bullshit worse than someone with an accent like mine.’
‘Your accent is fine,’ Speaker said. ‘It’s not like you’re the only person in the galaxy with a thick accent.’
‘Okay, well, I don’t know half as many words as you. Not even half. Like … an eighth. A sixteenth.’
‘It’s still good enough for a docking call.’
Tracker linked her wrist-hooks together behind her head, lounging in a manner that said she was not going to concede this point. ‘You’re Speaker, not me.’
Speaker put the crystal back in the bowl. ‘Do you want to come with me this time?’
‘No,’ Tracker said. This was of no surprise. She rarely left the ship unless there was good reason to. This was a common trait for their kind, but Tracker had fostered it with aplomb. She was a master of not going anywhere. Still, something occurred to her after her initial answer. ‘How much bullshit was that call?’
Speaker understood the underlying question: is it safe for you to go alone? ‘Not the dangerous kind,’ she said. ‘She seemed fussy, not violent. Besides, she doesn’t allow weapons.’
‘Okay. You’re sure?’ Tracker said.
‘I’m sure.’ Speaker began to make her way down, carefully. Tracker moved to help, but Speaker waved her off. ‘I’m fine.’ She swung herself to Tracker’s hammock, and her sister made room. They arranged themselves around each other in familiar choreography, taking on a configuration that came as naturally to them as the shapes the crystals formed. Tracker started to cough, and Speaker held her sister’s hands as the short fit peaked and passed. ‘Hey, while I’m gone?’ she said.
Tracker took a few slow, deliberate breaths, making sure everything within her chest was working as intended. ‘Yeah?’ she said at last.
Speaker looked Tracker dead in the eye. ‘Take your medicine.’
ROVEG
The ocean beach was as beautiful as it was every time. The sky above was the pale amethyst of noon. The water below lapped at the shimmering black sand with a tender, rhythmic caress. People of all species milled about, some napping, some swimming, some collecting shells. The beach was lively, but not raucous; peaceful without being dull. A place where a person had ample space to stretch one’s own thoughts while still benefiting from the reassuring company of others at a distance.
Roveg sat in the middle of the tableau, his abdominal legs folded properly beneath him while his thoracic legs engaged with the serious business of finishing a lengthy breakfast. A variety of foods were spread across the table in front of him, all carefully selected from the stasie that morning. He’d arranged a somewhat Aandrisk-influenced spread: grain crackers with snapfruit preserves, spicy fermented fungus paste rolled in fresh saab tesh, and a few choice slices of hot smoked river eel (this was an Aeluon addition, but it complimented the other offerings well). A bowl of tea tied the arrangement together – a delicate Laru blend, as it happened – along with a small glass of seagrass juice. The latter beverage was the only part of the meal that originated with Roveg’s own species, and though he’d had many sorts of breakfasts on many different worlds, he still swore by that hard-shelled Quelin tradition of starting the morning with a cleansing shot of the stuff. Some habits, he could never break.
Roveg spread preserves onto the last of the crackers with a lower set of legs while holding a fungus roll in the set nearest to his mouth. He nibbled as he watched a school of fur fish jump playfully in the water beyond the waves. A breeze rustled in the sandy scrub a short distance behind him, and the sound of chorus beetles rose in accompaniment, their haunting song low and sweet.
‘Friend,’ Roveg said clearly. He angled his head toward the place where he knew the wall vox lay camouflaged. ‘Turn off the beetles.’