Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 61982 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 310(@200wpm)___ 248(@250wpm)___ 207(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61982 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 310(@200wpm)___ 248(@250wpm)___ 207(@300wpm)
I don’t actually know who my employer is, not really. Westley wasn’t specific on that front, and I wasn’t curious enough to take up the question.
I assume when I get to my destination, the aliens who have employed me will pick me up and we will be on our way. Maybe there will be an orientation. I am assuming I will get a lanyard. Probably a book full of procedures. The number to HR. That sort of thing.
Being inside this kennel is making me wonder how many of those assumptions will turn out the way I think they will.
I go through my bag, looking for something to do. I am much calmer than I thought I would be when the cage was first revealed to me. At first, it seemed like a horror, but it’s actually quite cozy. The plastic mat is, like everything else, very thick and large compared to my size. The space in the kennel is also quite generous. Probably designed for an animal several times bigger than me, if I had to guess.
I am starting to feel a little like a gnome in a world full of giants. Everyone is tall. Everyone is sort of mean. Everyone is smarter than me, possibly. Which makes me wonder why I have been hired at all. That guy with the compound eyes was on me in an absolute instant. He knew exactly what I was up to with that screwdriver.
I close my eyes for a moment and the humming, swooshing sounds of the ship are not entirely unlike what they say it’s like to be inside the womb. I feel contained, and held, and…
I wake up to the door of the kennel opening, and a bowl of food being presented to me.
“Can I stretch my legs, please? And maybe get a spoon?”
The security guard sighs. Dozens of his compound eyes blink in exasperation, which is not how compound eyes work in theory and yet in practice that is absolutely what happens. Little creepy to observe, if I’m to be completely honest.
“You will need to use the toilet as well, I suppose,” he says.
“Only if you don’t want me to pee on the door and have it drip down,” I say cheerfully.
Feral suits me better than these creatures might imagine. I am a well-educated young woman. I did distinguish myself by being recruited to Alpha Core Research right out of college. I can wear a cocktail dress and heels and put my hair up and talk about the Roman Empire with men who still have not gotten over that. But that’s not all of me.
I take the bowl of food from his hand when he offers it to me, and I request a spoon, again.
“If I get you a spoon, you need to promise to be reasonable with it,” he says. “I do not want you trying to jam it into the door or make some such escape. Tool users are the most difficult pets of all.”
“Not a pet,” I say, sniffing at the bowl, which actually smells incredibly good. It’s like a stew or something. Thick chunks of well-seasoned meat in a broth rich with vegetables and a very good provisioning of potato. “Did a human chef make this?”
“We took on food from Earth for your journey,” he says. “Enjoy it. It will be the last familiar food you get for quite some time, I imagine.”
“I still have my snackies,” I point out.
He looks at me dourly. “I said food, not refined corn syrup masquerading as nutrition.”
“I’d still really love a spoon,” I say.
“Stay here,” he says.
He doesn’t lock me back in the kennel, which is nice of him. So I sit down on the grid floor, let my legs dangle over the edge to what feels like oblivion inside the ship, and watch my meal go cold.
He’s back a couple of minutes later with a spoon.
“Smallest one we had,” he says as he hands me a utensil that would be more appropriately described as a salad spoon except for being metal.
“Thank you,” I say.
He stands guard solemnly while I eat. I don’t eat fast. Not that keen to get back in the box. Eventually, though, I have to hand back the oversized bowl and spoon and get back inside.
I do so, because I know the alternative is being put back in there manually, and showing that I’m a compliant captive is probably going to work out better for me over the next few days. Maybe, if I am very good, I can talk my way back into a normal berth.
* * *
And so it goes. A bowl of food is brought every three hours, with an eight-hour gap to allow for sleep. The food they picked up from Earth is actually pretty good. There’s croissants and stuff. And ice cream. And mashed potatoes once. Hard to believe I won’t have access to mashed potatoes soon, but these are the things we sacrifice when we depart for the stars.