“Oh good, we can start,” Rose says in Frathik, patting a bench where Lena and I are to sit. We take our place, and she nods to Harl, who’s operating a large comm screen at the front.Hestill has one, even if nobody else does outside the main control room.
He launches into a dry explanation of his species’ biology, complete with diagrams and data charts that prove why their attempts to reproduce in space have largely failed.
He tells stories of their valiant attempts to bank unfertilized eggs from their aging females for later Hatching. Then he describes the extensive research he’s led to discover the best way to hatch the stored eggs.
In spite of my disinterest in helping him or any other Frathik, I find myself fascinated.
“As the eggs develop, a weak point forms at the base.” He shows an image on the comm screen and indicates the spot where the eggshell contacts the nest. “Typically, a mother turns her egg prior to Hatching to ensure her young could use this weak point to more easily pip through the shell. This is done slowly over a period of days, to allow the embryo time to reattach to the shell, essentially ‘walking’ from one side of the egg to the other. She might adjust it twenty or thirty times to accomplish this.”
He pulls up a moving image that shows the egg slowly turning until its position is reversed, and the top is now resting in the nest. It plays again, this time in cross-section, the tiny embryo inside moving along the shell to maintain its orientation as the egg rotates.
“We will be doing this for hundreds of eggs at once. It’s a delicate task that can’t be rushed, so it will require care and discipline to complete. Every egg needs our full attention.”
“What happens if we miss one?” a Frathik asks nervously.
Harl draws a deep breath, and his hide twitches, revealing his tension. The pressure he must be feeling to get this right. “From our data, eggs that aren’t turned have a forty percent hatch rate. Turned improperly? The young can drown in the shell. The hatch rate drops to twenty percent. But turned on a mother’s schedule, ninety-five percent hatch.”
The room sobers at the statistics. I do, too, though more at the unreasonable amount of trust they are placing in me. It would be so easy to sabotage the Turning. It wouldn’t even take the effort of smashing eggs, merely disrupting their schedule the smallest amount.
Chatter picks up as our assignments are distributed. We all are responsible for certain rows of eggs. We’ll turn them a prescribed amount on a prescribed timetable, looping back tothe beginning of our section when we finish our rows so each egg has the same amount of time at each position.
“The breaks are staggered so we can’t eat together, but I’ll be next to you,” Lena says, leaning to show me her row assignment. “And Harl’s on the other side. We’ll have time to talk between chimes.”
“Wonderful,” I lie. I have a grudging new respect for the male, but I have no interest in making friends with him. Nor in watching him drool over my mate or woo her with his favors and expertise.
Rose claps her hands to draw everyone’s attention. “Thank you all for coming. Get your rest tonight because you won’t get much over the next few days.”
For some reason, Lena’s scent blooms. A glance at her reveals a pink flush climbing up her throat as she avoids making eye contact. A laugh tumbles out of me when I realize why. “You were thinking of tonight. Of sharing my furs.”
“Ahh...yeah,” she admits sheepishly, keeping her voice low so it’s not overheard. “I was thinking I should sleep on the floor again, or we might not get rest.”
As if I would let her. “I promise restraint. I can control myself, terrakin.”
“I’m not sure about me,” she whispers, ducking her head guiltily, cheeks flaming even brighter.
“I will control you, then.” She sucks in a breath, her scent only strengthening, and I want to snarl at her assault on my senses. “Stop that, or I promise nothing.”
“Is everything all right?” Rose asks from the end of the bench, her brow furrowed under her wavy, silver hair as she takes in Lena’s hunched posture and my aggressive sounds. “Something wrong with your assignment, Lyro?”
Lena hurriedly stands, smoothing her wrinkled, mismatched clothing as she flashes Rose a sincere smile. “No, no. We’re excited for tomorrow. We were just leaving.”
I stalk after her, thinking we might escape without further pointless interactions, but Harl intercepts us at the door. “How is Elvis?” he asks Lena, without even a glance at me.
“He’s thriving!” She beams at him, and my teeth click against each other. “I watched him feed this morning. You were right, it was amazing to watch. And that nectar feeder you made is perfect. I can’t thank you enough. If there’s anything I can do to repay you...”
Repay him?For what, abducting her from her home? Bringing her here to trap me? A growl slips out before I can stop it, and my claws snag on the back of the open sveli she wears as a jacket as I draw her into my side.
That possessive gesture gets Harl’s attention. He takes a step back, running up against the doorframe. “It was nothing,” he tells her, all eight eyes darting away.
“I owe you,” she repeats, and my fingers fist in the fabric of her garment, holding her back in case she has the impulse to embrace him. “It means more to me than you know. He’s my baby. I know he’s not like the real babies in the hatchery, but to me...he’s that important.”
Harl smiles at her, but his eyes flick to me, triumph in each one. He still thinks he can win her affection. Maybe he’s right. I might have everything but that. It’s the one thing she would withhold from me, the thing Harl earns so easily.
I hate this. I hate Harl for his generosity, I hate Lena for her soft heart, and most of all I hate that bug for making her love that frixing Frathik.
“We need to go,” I say roughly, tugging on her jacket, and she flaps her hand at Harl before following me.
When she turns toward our quarters, I pull her in the opposite direction, back toward the hangar. Something about Harl’s interaction has made me wary. I sense the Frathik is not as harmless as he pretends.
