“Four is unlucky.” He watches me as I pick up a bag and hang it on the door handle. “I could’ve done this on my own.”
“Yes, but it’s quicker with two.”
“Only if you let me help, instead of only allowing me to pull the cart.”
It’s still quicker with someone pulling the cart and someone unloading. “Fine, sling some bags. Double check the numb?—”
His glare cuts me off. In that moment, his large red eyes make him seem terrifying. Predatory. Add in his size…
I take a step back.
“I am not stupid, just because I cannot read your marking yet. If you were given a task with my letters and numbers, you would also fail.” He points to the room number on the bag. “Your numbering system has ten symbols. Mine has five until you reach bigger numbers.” He picks up the bag and hangs it on the correct door handle.
He’s correct that I would fail at reading his writing, but I want to know what his markings look like. “I am the one who will be in trouble if laundry is returned to the wrong room.”
He snorts. “Why would there be trouble? Why wouldn’t the person with the wrong bag take it to the correct room?”
I don’t have an answer for that, but it wouldn’t happen the way he described. It’s much easier to believe it was deliberate and complain than correct the error and assume it was a mistake. Some people like to make drama, as if struggling to survive on a new world isn’t enough.
“You put the people who did badly at school in jobs that matter the most. Food, clothing…” He considers me as if considering his next question. “In fact, I will bet that your guards, the people who will be responsible for hunting, also received poor grades.”
“You are correct…though they got better grades than me.”
He shakes his head and grabs another bag, leaving me to pull the cart.
“So those who did well at school, what jobs do they do?” He grabs the next two bags and hangs them on the door handles. “You’re checking the numbers,” he says without even looking at me. “Making sure I am matching them.”
“I am. Because it’s my job.” And I’m not going to let an alien who thinks he’s learned everything he needs to know about it, and humans, cause me problems.
We finish unloading the cart in silence and make our way back to the laundry. But I don’t want to leave things like this, not when they were going so well before.
He seems interesting and I want to learn more about the aliens. “Maybe you can show me your numbers tomorrow?”
He glances at me, and I can tell he’s assessing me. He jerks his head. “I will need something to write on.”
“I can arrange that.” That’s not a problem. I can show him my tablet.
“Then I will show you.” He tilts his head as he studies me. “If you arrived in my tribe, how fast do you think you could adapt?”
“It would take a while, I guess.” I shrug, even though I understand what he is getting at.
He smiles, lips pressed together, hiding his orange teeth. He isn’t an odd looking human, or a primitive being. He has his own people and culture, and it isn’t the same as ours. His people seem to value different things.
“Your mother was a chief…so you must have learned something about running a tribe. How would you run the colony?” Or did he not learn those kinds of things?
He laughs, but there is a sad tone to it. “That is a question best answered around a fire with plenty of gol.”
My device doesn’t translate the word. “What is gol?”
“It is a drink we make with brewed leaves.”
“Like the tea served with breakfast?”
His eyes narrow as if he is struggling with the translation. “I do not think so, but I will try your tea tomorrow.”
Yva walks away without telling me what gol is, or how he’d change the colony. We’ve just had a change in leadership, so I don’t think we need another, but there needs to be some changes. My stomach gurgles even though it’s not dinner time.
I think we’d all like a change in food, and more of it.
