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)
The one thing you can bank on as a human when dealing with aliens is how much benefit of the doubt they will give you if you just play dumb. At least, that’s what I’ve heard. I’m actually meeting these aliens for the first time, and it’s interesting how both strange and normal it all feels. I’ve been questioned by security guards before. This guy is well over six feet and has four hands and compound eyes, but he’s also got the same vibe as the serious man in the jewelry store that one time.
“The storage lockers are under the bed,” he says. “They are much larger and have handles.”
“Oh! They have handles!” I exclaim. “That’s so much easier than what I was trying to do!”
“Yes,” he says grimly.
I smile at him like a happy fool, and hope that he goes away.
“I’m going to need to confiscate those tools,” he says. “And I’m going to search your bag.”
“But I have lady things in there,” I protest. “Feminine products.”
The feminine products line usually stops men dead in their tracks. God forbid they see a pad. It would ruin their whole entire lives.
But the Antari guard is made of sterner stuff and might not know what feminine products are.
“They’re for when I bleed,” I say. “Menstrually.”
Most men would have physically fled the room by now, but he’s just looking at me with his hundreds of eyes and now he’s extending two of his hands, one silently asking for the screwdriver, the other wanting the bag. I hand over the screwdriver, but I let him get the bag himself.
Then I sit on the bed and I watch as he empties it out onto the dark coverlet. My underwear is mostly black and comfortable, because I am so tired of things riding up or being too tight. There are three boxes of tampons, which, again, should repulse him according to all known laws of the universe, but don’t.
He sorts through my things the way a drunk shuffles cards, spreading everything out and running his hands through it over and over again until nothing is where it started.
“Is there anything you’re looking for in particular?” I ask the question in what I hope is a helpful tone. “Maybe I can help find whatever it is you might need?”
“Contraband,” he grunts.
“Oh, I don’t have any of that. Contraband isn’t allowed. It’s illegal.”
He ignores my words and stands back. “Repack your things.”
Okay. Now this conversation is starting to feel outright unpleasant. He’s the one who messed them up. Not that I want him to fold my underwear for me, but god. The lack of respect is palpable right now.
“Is this because I’m human?” I jut my chin as I ask the question.
“This is because you just tried to shove a metal tool into a socket that carries enough charge to instantly fry you straight to a pile of carbon ash,” he says.
When he puts it like that, he does seem reasonable again.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know that,” I say humbly, starting to fold my clothes up so I can fit them back into my bag. He doesn’t seem to care about the encrypted cyberdeck, so that’s something. I casually shove that right down to the bottom first so it is completely out of sight.
He steps out of the door, but he leaves it open, and I hear him chittering. It’s probably talking, but in a language I cannot hope to understand. I wonder what he’s saying. I wonder who he is saying it to?
I can’t believe I fucked up this badly so quickly. Westley told me to be careful, and I wasn’t careful at all. I’m lucky I got caught.
I finish packing and zip my bag up again, and I think about slipping out past the Antari, but he’s back almost immediately. He’s got another one with him. This one is dressed like a maintenance man. He puts his knee on the bed and puts a hand-held machine to the port, and I scuttle to the other side of the room and watch them. Technically, the guard is watching me.
The service Antari chitters at the guard. The guard chitters back. There’s a conversation that goes for a while longer than I expected. The service guy is gesturing at the port over and over again.
“Is everything okay?” I ask the question in the hopes they tell me yes, but I have a feeling it’s going to be no.
“He’s saying that you’ve damaged the cover and compromised the port. It’s a serious infrastructure issue.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“The repairs are going to have to be charged to your employer.”
That makes my stomach do a flip. I have a very vague idea as to the nature of my employer, but I know that it’s not going to be a good idea to cost them up front before I ever get to work.