isn’t so hard, you know. It’s being compassionate that is. It’s remembering that those are people dying out there—human or not—and helping someone takes more courage than hiding or simply surviving. Frankly, this planet’s the ass end of the galaxy, and you can keep it.”
She stopped talking, not because she didn’t have more to say but because she knew she’d said too much. She was breathing hard, and the heat in her neck let her know that her color must be close to mahogany.
Dalal didn’t say anything. She sat, her hands folded, her wrinkled visage as still as cut stone.
It was Halak who broke the silence. “Well, Dalal?”
There was another beat-pause, and then Dalal snorted, a horsey sound. “Got a mouth on her. Bring you nothing but trouble, Samir, mark my word.”
She rose, pulling herself to her full height of one and a third meters, meaning the crown of her head just brushed Batra’s chin. Tilting her head back, she pinned Batra with another of those glares.
“Get washed up,” she said. “I’ll bring you clothes. Then I expect the two of you are hungry. I know I am. Anyway, it’ll be safer for you to leave well after dark. Won’t attract as much attention that way.” And with that, Dalal shuffled out.
Batra expelled her breath in a laugh. “Was that a test? I feel like I just passed a test.”
“Probably,” Halak said.
When she stepped out of the shower, Batra saw that Dalal had left her a pile of clothes: a V-necked copper-colored tunic, a pair of off-white pajama pants with button ankle cuffs, and black, thick-soled slippers. The shower made her feel almost human again, and the clothes gave her a lift. She dressed, knotted her long hair, still wet, into a thick, black braid, and followed her nose.
The meal was simple: fresh-baked khbouz markouk done in Dalal’s tandoor; whipped minted yogurt with chunks of crisp, fresh-cut Morellian cucumber; piping hot Kalo root stew; and cinnamon-spiced Yridian tea. She and Dalal sat cross-legged on a brightly colored linen cloth spread upon the floor before the divan, their backs propped by firm orange and rust-colored bolsters while Halak reclined on the divan, his back and left side supported by large, fluffy pillows. He ate from a smaller plate she’d prepared and placed upon the small round table, within easy reach.
A transport rumbled overhead. The building shook. They ate in silence for several minutes, using their fingers.
“Well,” said Halak. He tore off a bit of thin, brown-speckled khbouz markouk and used it to spoon up a mouthful of stew. “I don’t know when I’ve had a better meal, Dalal.”
Dalal grunted. She folded a piece of bread into her mouth and chewed. “Replicator food. It’s a wonder you have any meat left on you, boy. Anyway, I suspect that anything tastes good after being cooped up in a can, warping from planet to planet.”
“You’re a fine cook, and you know it.” Halak grinned over the old woman over the rim of a gray ceramic mug. He made a great show of inhaling his tea’s aroma before tipping the mug to his lips. He took in a mouthful, rolled the tea around his tongue, and then swallowed. “Now, speaking of being cooped up, Dalal, we were on our way for a week’s R and R: rest and relaxation. Actually, we should be on our way now,” he softened this with a smile, “but you called me, and I’ve come. Granted, I’ve gotten here more flamboyantly than I expected. Now, tell me what’s going on.”
Dalal’s face got a pinched, displeased look Batra was getting to know well. For an instant, Dalal’s eyes slid to Batra’s face then back to Halak’s, but Batra could almost see the wheels turning, the old woman debating just how much she should, or could, say.
“It’s about Arava,” said Dalal then. “She’s gotten herself in very deep, Samir.”
Batra saw Halak go rigid. He replaced his mug upon the small round table next to his plate then leaned upon his right elbow and laced his
She stopped talking, not because she didn’t have more to say but because she knew she’d said too much. She was breathing hard, and the heat in her neck let her know that her color must be close to mahogany.
Dalal didn’t say anything. She sat, her hands folded, her wrinkled visage as still as cut stone.
It was Halak who broke the silence. “Well, Dalal?”
There was another beat-pause, and then Dalal snorted, a horsey sound. “Got a mouth on her. Bring you nothing but trouble, Samir, mark my word.”
She rose, pulling herself to her full height of one and a third meters, meaning the crown of her head just brushed Batra’s chin. Tilting her head back, she pinned Batra with another of those glares.
“Get washed up,” she said. “I’ll bring you clothes. Then I expect the two of you are hungry. I know I am. Anyway, it’ll be safer for you to leave well after dark. Won’t attract as much attention that way.” And with that, Dalal shuffled out.
Batra expelled her breath in a laugh. “Was that a test? I feel like I just passed a test.”
“Probably,” Halak said.
When she stepped out of the shower, Batra saw that Dalal had left her a pile of clothes: a V-necked copper-colored tunic, a pair of off-white pajama pants with button ankle cuffs, and black, thick-soled slippers. The shower made her feel almost human again, and the clothes gave her a lift. She dressed, knotted her long hair, still wet, into a thick, black braid, and followed her nose.
The meal was simple: fresh-baked khbouz markouk done in Dalal’s tandoor; whipped minted yogurt with chunks of crisp, fresh-cut Morellian cucumber; piping hot Kalo root stew; and cinnamon-spiced Yridian tea. She and Dalal sat cross-legged on a brightly colored linen cloth spread upon the floor before the divan, their backs propped by firm orange and rust-colored bolsters while Halak reclined on the divan, his back and left side supported by large, fluffy pillows. He ate from a smaller plate she’d prepared and placed upon the small round table, within easy reach.
A transport rumbled overhead. The building shook. They ate in silence for several minutes, using their fingers.
“Well,” said Halak. He tore off a bit of thin, brown-speckled khbouz markouk and used it to spoon up a mouthful of stew. “I don’t know when I’ve had a better meal, Dalal.”
Dalal grunted. She folded a piece of bread into her mouth and chewed. “Replicator food. It’s a wonder you have any meat left on you, boy. Anyway, I suspect that anything tastes good after being cooped up in a can, warping from planet to planet.”
“You’re a fine cook, and you know it.” Halak grinned over the old woman over the rim of a gray ceramic mug. He made a great show of inhaling his tea’s aroma before tipping the mug to his lips. He took in a mouthful, rolled the tea around his tongue, and then swallowed. “Now, speaking of being cooped up, Dalal, we were on our way for a week’s R and R: rest and relaxation. Actually, we should be on our way now,” he softened this with a smile, “but you called me, and I’ve come. Granted, I’ve gotten here more flamboyantly than I expected. Now, tell me what’s going on.”
Dalal’s face got a pinched, displeased look Batra was getting to know well. For an instant, Dalal’s eyes slid to Batra’s face then back to Halak’s, but Batra could almost see the wheels turning, the old woman debating just how much she should, or could, say.
“It’s about Arava,” said Dalal then. “She’s gotten herself in very deep, Samir.”
Batra saw Halak go rigid. He replaced his mug upon the small round table next to his plate then leaned upon his right elbow and laced his
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