Fuck.
The Nebs have displaced many species from their homeworlds, sometimes from their ships, to new planets. They are the masters of shredding other species to take their supplies. But the Nebs never try to grow their own food or make medicine. They steal and reengineer. Novarks do the same, but they mostly work solo or in packs of four. Denarso are the biggest dickbags, greedy and sloppy, but mostly sadistic, like they get some sort of sick thrill out of ruining our lives.
Sure, I grow food mostly, a few flowers, and a lot of medicinal crops at the request of Ihna and Zariah, two other women I run into a lot out here who are also on humanitarian missions.
The king thinks and paces his dry meeting area for terran species. I know his ship is built to contain an ocean in space, but looking up at the dome of glass holding back the water really makes me nervous. One little crack, and I’m drowning in space.
How did she die?
In an ocean in space, because a fish dude wouldn’t give her one more credit for her weeds.
Sounds like a bad mushroom trip kind of story. But I keep the smile on my face as I wait. My white armored suit will keep me safe for thirty minutes in space.Or ocean water.I mentally run through my suit inspection checklist again just to be sure I covered every part and to help me kill time while he thinks.
His feet flop around the deck, splashing water everywhere as he paces. “What if we could do an exchange for the remaining credits we owe?”
“What kind of exchange?”
“Fertilizer.”
I try not to wrinkle my nose. I’m not sure if I hold it back completely. I don’t want to be disrespectful, but I’ve never been a fan of fishy-smelling things.
“We normally eject what we filter out. But we could bring it to you in barrels. How many would you need?” he asks.
I can’t deny that the idea is appealing. If I could get the fertilizer cheaper by sacrificing fewer credits versus paying for processed commercial-grade stuff, then it’s a win-win.
Experience has taught me not to give a number. “Depends on the size. Can you show me?”
The Xaethziol’s guard walks out of the chamber into another with the sameflop-flop-flopof his finned feet, and returns, rolling a barrel that’s chest height.
“How many?” the king asks.
“How many can you give me?” I counter.
They talk for a second before he replies. “Twenty a month.”
That will replace my regular fertilizer and then some. “When can you have it ready?”
“Bahbuu glabbaglob.”
“Ten minutes,” my translator replies.
“May I test a sample to be sure this will work?”
“Erohbla.”
“Please.”
I have no doubt their fishy excrement is great fertilizer for their own plants, but I need to know what the breakdown of phosphorus, magnesium, potassium, calcium, nitrogen, and sulfur is, and if it will be useful for others without bacterial or viral contaminants.
Grabbing my test kit from my ship, I return. The assistant pops the cap, and the most wretched scent wafts out. I do my best not to gag, but I’m used to a different kind of funky stench.
Dipping my test strip in the barrel, it registers a decent match to the fertilizer I pay way too much for.
“Okay. Deal. Twenty barrels plus the same price as last time.”
“Ooba.”
“Deal.” My translator lights up on my chest.
