“Can I trust you?” he countered. Probably not. She would flee at the first opportunity—and she might even try to kill him. But he still wanted to keep her with him for as long as he could.
“I don’t have a choice, do I?”
She did, but she didn’t know it. “No,” he lied.
“Two weeks,” she said. “I’ll accompany you for two weeks. I’m not going to be stuck with you for the rest of my life. I’d rather die.”
An understandable sentiment, but it stung. “One month,” he countered.
For a long moment, she said nothing. She gazed out the window, her face unreadable. Then her shoulders sagged. “Fine. One month.”
“Agreed.” He stifled a smile. He had something to look forward to.As long as she doesn’t kill me.
* * * *
The woman boiled water on an outdoor grill, dumped in some grains, and cooked it to a gooey mash. Rok sniffed at his bowl. No meat, at least. It didn’t look appetizing, but it couldn’t be any worse than the breakfast gruel at MEC or field rations.
To his relief, because the inside still reeked of meat, they ate outside at a table and chairs on the wooden deck. The morning was cool, fresh, and calm. Dew coated the grass, and the scent of the woods perfumed the air.
The woman heaped brown granular material and some shriveled black berries atop the gruel in her bowl.
“What is that?”
“Brown sugar and raisins.”
He watched how much she used and followed suit. She stirred. He stirred. She ate a spoonful.
He hesitantly took a bite. “It’s good!” Sweet, chewy. He took a bigger spoonful and chewed with enjoyment. “What is this called?”
“Oatmeal. It would be better with a little milk.”
He made a face.
“What’s wrong?”
“Milk is an animal product.”
“Yeah, so?”
“We do not eat animals, nor any products that come from them.”
“Let me get this straight.” She waved her spoon. “You came to Earth, killed anentire animal species—homo sapiens—but you don’t eat animal flesh?”
“What does one have to do with the other?”
She shook her head and resumed eating.
“If we are going to be together for a month, perhaps we should exchange names. I’m Rok.”
She swallowed and then drank from a cup filled with dark-brown liquid. It smelled good, but he’d taken a sip of his and found it vile. “Chloe,” she offered.
“Chloe,” he repeated. Exotic. He liked how it felt to say it.
“How is it you speak our languages?”
He tapped his head behind his ear. “Translator. I can speak all the major Earth languages.” Officers had them; most foot soldiers did not, but Rok—thinking he would rise in rank faster than he had—had petitioned to get the implant sooner.
“Do you know whatfuck youmeans?” she asked.
