“I’ll show you.”
I shake my head and press up harder against the rock. “That’s not reassuring.”
He might be good looking, kindhearted and great with his tongue, but I’m not sure if he’s okay. He’s been by himself for too long.
“You still don’t trust me.” His hand falls to his side.
“I barely know you. And you don’t know me.”
“You’re Rin Daley, a human. Your ship crashed in the storm, and I saved you from being the snow kot’s dinner. You like baths and being warm. And you hope you will be rescued.”
Okay, so that wasn’t a bad summary. “You don’t trust me. You took my knife.”
“I had to. No weapons are allowed.”
Another rule made by the unknown owners of the city. “Your big stick is a weapon.”
He tilts his head in acknowledgement. “But not a bladed weapon. Even on my home world bladed weapons were only used by the weak.”
I latch onto the topic of home, eager to discover who Indiz is. “And where was home?”
He studies me for several breaths. “It doesn’t matter now.”
“It matters to me. I don’t even know what species you are.” I probably should’ve asked before I put his dick in my mouth. I never paid much attention when aliens were discussed, beyond the general advice of avoid them where possible so as not to cause a diplomatic incident.
Was me being in this city an incident?
“I was born on Seloua. Have you heard of it?”
I frown. I know of it, but that can’t be right. That would mean he’s one of the species that fought the war in this area. But none of the pictures I’ve seen of the Selouans look like him. Their skin is not pinky-purple. I bite back on the definitely rude question. Maybe living here has done it to him. I glance at my hand and wonder if the dinner and breakfast I ate have had an effect. How long until I change color?
He steps toward me. “What do you know? What is the news from home? It’s been so long.”
I want to be wrong. He can’t be Selouan; he’s too young. I dig a little deeper, he’ll either give away the lie or the truth will be revealed. “Did you fight in the war, is that how you ended up here?”
“Yes. My ship was hit, and I crashed. Does the war still rage? My people, how do they fare?” He clasps my hands, hope brimming in his eyes.
“The war ended a hundred years ago.” So he’s either lying, or he hasn’t aged. Neither of which are good. I try to imagine being stuck here forever, literally, turning more purple with each passing year and never growing old.
People would flock here. I’m sure there would be some rich asshole who thinks he deserves to live forever, willing to set up his business here even though it’s in the middle of nowhere.
“What?” He drops my hand and rocks back on his heels and for a moment I think He’ll topple backward and off the walkway but he recovers just before he tips too far.
I’ve already taken a step forward, my hand out like I could stop his tumble.
“The war is over. There’s debris throughout this system.” Maybe I should’ve found a better way to tell him.
“I’ve been here a hundred years?”
“Well, the war ended one hundred and three years ago to be exact.”
He turns away and sits on the bridge, hunched like someone has taken all the bones out of him. “And my people, the Selouans?”
I’m torn between lying and telling him they are doing great, or telling him the truth. If he jumps, I’ll be alone.
He lifts his head; his eyes have gone dull and black. “I can see the bad news on your face. Tell me, are my people enslaved?”
The truth is so much worse. I swallow and stare at my boots. “They are all gone. The Dhervi took over Seloua.”
He howls to the sunlight, then pitches forward.
“No!” I fling myself forward onto the bridge, but I’m too late.
