Jane found a length of rusty pipe in the pile, almost as tall as she was. It would do. She pulled herself up with it, trying to stay as quiet as she could. She bit her lip hard. Her leg trembled. She’d been hurt before, but not like this. Nothing had ever hurt like this.
She kept her leg up off the ground as best as she could, putting her weight against the pipe. She took a shuffling step forward, using the pipe like a walking stick. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the mother move. Jane cried out, nearly falling back down in fear. But the dog had just rolled over. Jane tried to get a hold of herself, tried to breathe normal. She was useless right now. She couldn’t run. She could barely drag herself forward. She’d gotten lucky with the dogs snoring away by her wagon – there was no way she was getting that back – but it would take her hours to get home at this speed, and if there were other packs between here and there . . .
But she had to get home. She had to. She couldn’t stay here. She had to get home.
SIDRA
There was a lot going on at the Vortex that night – three dance pits! a Harmagian juggler! grasswine on tap! – but Sidra hadn’t missed the fact that something was bothering Tak. He was doing all the things organic sapients did in social places late at night. He’d been drinking and talking – and flirting, which had been fun to watch. But though there was nothing outwardly wrong, something was needling him, all the same.
‘What is it?’ Sidra asked, pushing her voice through the music and chatter.
Tak blinked. ‘What’s . . . what?’ His words were clear, but slower than usual. Alcohol didn’t make Aeluons slur, of course, but thinking through what words to run through the talkbox took as much effort as trying to speak through a tipsy mouth.
Sidra took a sip of her drink. Moonlight streaming behind a graceful white spider, weaving strand after strand of clear, strong silk. She savoured the image, but never took her gaze off her friend. ‘Something’s bothering you.’
Tak shrugged, but the yellow in his cheeks told a different story. ‘I’m . . . good.’
The kit raised an eyebrow.
The Aeluon sighed aloud. ‘Are you . . . having fun?’
‘Of course I am. Aren’t you?’
‘I am, but . . . I’m having . . . fun . . . without you. We came here . . . together.’
Sidra attempted to process, but came up short. ‘We are here together.’ She gestured at the table. ‘We are literally here together.’
Tak rubbed his silver scalp. ‘You do this . . . every time . . . we go out. You find a corner table and sit . . . with your back to the wall. You . . . order a lot of drinks . . . no . . . two of them . . . the same. You watch . . . everybody else . . . having fun. Sometimes, if you’re feeling fancy . . . you switch it up and find . . . a different corner table.’ He went brown with thought. ‘Do . . . other people . . . make you nervous? Is that it?’
‘I don’t understand the question.’ What was he getting at? ‘I’m having a really good time.’
‘But you’re just . . . observing. You never . . . participate.’
‘Tak,’ Sidra said, keeping her voice as low as she could. ‘You understand why that is. I don’t require participation in order to be enjoying myself. Company and interesting input. That’s all I need.’
He stared back at her with a gravity rarely achieved by the sober. ‘I . . . get that. But you are more . . . than what they programmed you . . . to be.’ Tak threw back the remainder of his drink in one go. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘We’re . . . getting you . . . some different . . . input.’ He took the kit’s hand and led her away from the table.
Other people did not make Sidra nervous, but this turn of events did. The comfort of the corner was gone, and the direction Tak was leading her in gave her pause. ‘I don’t know how to make the kit dance,’ she yelled. A dangerous bit of phrasing, she knew, but there was a degree of safety to be had in being surrounded by loud music and drunk people.
Tak looked over his shoulder and gave her a withering look. ‘With all . . . the hours of observation time you’ve . . . clocked, you should . . . have some idea . . . by now.’ He gestured at the dance pit. ‘Besides, does . . . anybody here look like . . . they know . . . what they’re doing?’
The kit swallowed as she watched the bodies shake and sway. ‘Yes.’
Tak scratched his jaw. ‘Well . . . okay, they do. But so . . . do I.’ He smiled at her. ‘If . . . you hate it, I’ll take you . . . right back . . . to your corner . . . and buy you any drink . . . you want.’
Sidra considered the kit’s limbs, its neck, the curve of its spine. She had the ability to manage life support systems, hold dozens of simultaneous conversations, even dock a ship if emergency demanded it. She could handle a dance pit. Yes, she could do this. She pulled up every memory file she had of people dancing at parties past. ‘You’re buying me a drink whether I hate this or not,’ she said.