Total pages in book: 36
Estimated words: 34065 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 170(@200wpm)___ 136(@250wpm)___ 114(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 34065 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 170(@200wpm)___ 136(@250wpm)___ 114(@300wpm)
Hmm. I eye the street. Maybe a coffeehouse is next on the agenda. Aliens only have that night tea crap, but I wonder if there’s a more suitable alternative.
The moment I park my cart, Pluto plops down onto the ground, rolling in the warm, dry dirt at my feet. Nearby, a woman hurries out of the boarding house, a bright smile on her face. “Yes! You’re back today!”
“I’m back every day, baby,” I tease. “This is my home now.”
She beams at me and then crouches in front of my cart, eyeing my baked goods. Luckily, Pluto ignores her, so I don’t have to worry about him. He only seems to panic when I panic, so his calm demeanor is a good sign. The woman does a happy little jig in front of my cart. “I’m so glad someone set up a bakery. I never have time to bake, and I don’t know what ingredients will make things taste like home. What are these little cakes?”
“Let me tell you what I have today,” I singsong as I point out the items on my cart. As I do, a cat alien strolling past pauses, sniffing the air, and then gets in line behind the human woman. He stares at Pluto but stays in line anyhow.
Today’s gonna be a good day for business, and the excitement of it makes my heart swell with delight. I might not be a great baker, but I am an absolute champ at starting over. I did once before when I was kidnapped by aliens, and I’m doing so now that I’m here on Risda, the farm planet that’s now my home. I started over a third time when I got Pluto and realized a carinoux and livestock don’t mix. It’s all fine. Adaptation is the name of the game.
And I can be adaptable.
RUTH-ANN
Someone’s been baking.
Even though Risda III is full of all kinds of random smells, I can pick out the faint scent of burnt bread like a bloodhound, and I wrinkle my nose. “There’s something burning.”
“Doesn’t most human cooking smell like that?” asks Dopekh.
“Absolutely not. This smells like burnt toast.” My nostrils flare as I turn my head, trying to see where in Port the scent is coming from. It’s an old sort of charred smell, like it happened a few hours ago, but it’s bad enough that it’s lingering in the air. With how clean the air is on Risda III, it’s easy to pick up new scents. A lot of the time it just smells like fresh grass and the occasional whiff of cow dung, but today it smells like burnt flour and cow dung. Not my favorite combination.
My curiosity gets the better of me, though, and I veer off from the group.
“Hey,” Zaemen calls after me, an oversized box in his arms. “We’re supposed to be bringing supplies to the new cantina.”
“And I will,” I promise, even as I head down the street away from him. The box in my hands is much smaller and lightweight, so it’s easy to tote about. “I just want to see something first. It’s not like I can get lost.”
Risda’s settlement—unadventurously named “Port”—consists of one thoroughfare surrounded by a cluster of buildings that meet the needs of the settlers here. Other than that, there’s a spaceport that’s being expanded, a lot of farms, and one gigantic estate off in the hills that belongs to the guy that owns this entire planet. I doubt I could get lost if I tried.
Port doesn’t have a lot of shopping or a nightlife. It wasn’t considered, as the primary concern was giving humans a safe place to settle, since Earth is off-limits (and rumor has it, destroyed, but I suspect that’s just a rumor so we won’t ask to return). But as more humans have arrived, there’s been a need for basic supplies and community services. There’s a general store that sells basics and some locally made stuff. There’s a boarding house that has rooms to rent, and some of the women that live in town offer services on the side, like tailoring. There’s a bar that offers greasy alien food, which is why the crew decided to set up a “human” cantina here.
And apparently there is now a cookie stand at the end of the street.
I head over, the box of decor tucked under my arm. My curiosity is getting the better of me. When I was in high school, I spent summers working at a bakery and so I know my way around a baked good or two. The cart has a cloth sign draped over the front of it and an umbrella shoved onto one side. It looks very slapdash, but if the food is good, I’ll forgive it.
There’s a pretty woman about my age behind the cart. She’s got dark, thick hair with a hint of a wave to it and expressive dark eyes. Her hair is pulled into a messy bun atop her head, which only adds to how statuesque and shapely she looks despite the plain, serviceable clothing that all the colonists wear. At her feet, a juvenile carinoux licks one of his many paws. It’s a deceptively idle pose, but I’m not fooled. I know how protective carinoux are and I know it’s watching me.