“A whistle made from a ribcage?” Tina suggests helpfully from her corner.
“Oh, that’s good,” Erika nods. “Maybe a decorative shank.”
“He is making something small,” Jacqui interrupts, her voice softening as she tunes back into the alien frequency. Her expression goes dreamy. “He keeps thinking about... smoothness. And balance. He wants it to fit in a hand perfectly.”
My stomach does a weird little flip.
Fit in ahand?
I risk another glance through the partition. Sarven is still scowling at the small object in his hands. He turns it over, scrapes at it with a small stone tool, then holds it up to the light, squinting critically. He looks like a jeweler who is also a tank. The contrast between his massive claws and the delicate white object is… disarming.
Through the gap, Sarven suddenly freezes.
He doesn’t look around. He doesn’t scan. His head snaps up, and even across the distance, those red eyes lock onto the partition.
Ontome.
It’s instantaneous. As if he felt my gaze touch him. Physically.
For a heartbeat, neither of us moves. The air in the sick bay seems to vanish. I should look away. I should duck behind the woven screen. But I’m pinned by the intensity of that crimson stare. It’s… heavy.
Then, he seems to realize what he’s holding.
He quickly tucks the small white object into a pouch at his hip, his ears flattening back against his skull for a split second before he crosses his massive arms and assumes his standard ‘Stoic Guardian of the Apocalypse’ pose.
“See?” Erika whispers, far too loud. “He’s totally making you a gift. Probably a shrunken head. Or a really nice rock. Or a toe.”
“It’s not for me.” I drag my eyes away from him, though my heart is doing a stupid, hopeful rhythm against my ribs. “He’s probably just... fixing a toggle. Or a clasp.”
“Drakav don’t have toggles, Mikaela,” Erika says, sounding delighted. “They have spears, a deep distrust of shirts, and abs. That’s their entire technology tree.”
A startled laugh escapes me, blending with Jacqui’s snort and Alex’s snuffled chuckle. For a moment, the heavy air in the sick bay lifts. The tension unknots from my shoulders as the giggling subsides into a comfortable, exhausted silence.
I focus on the sleeping mat in my lap. Pull the fiber through. Tighten. Repeat. Beside me, Erika starts humming something under her breath. The sound is soft, almost lulling, and I hear Lucy’s ragged breathing even out into something more restful. Across the sick bay, one of the other women shifts in her sleep, her face relaxing.
My shoulders start to unknot. The tension I’ve been carrying since we arrived on this planet begins to ease.
Maybe laughter really is the best medicine.
Except, the universe doesn’t always agree. I’m beginning to lose myself in the work when it happens.
A wet, choking sound.
My head snaps up just in time to see Tina drop her notebook. Her waterskin tumbles from her lap, precious water spilling across the stone floor. She doubles over with a violence that makes my heart stop.
Then she vomits.
Not the gentle nausea of the planet sickness. Not the manageable discomfort we’ve all been experiencing. Whatever this is, her whole body convulses with it.
“Tina!”
I’m moving before I think, crossing the space as Alex does the same. We reach her together, and I help steady Tina as she heaves again.
“Don’t fight it,” I murmur, holding her hair back. “Let it out.”
Alex’s hands are already checking. Her fingers pressing gently against Tina’s skin.
“Mira, can you grab another waterskin?” Alex’s voice has gone focused. “And something to clean this up.”
