Torian’s face warmed, and she averted her gaze. Even Zen seemed embarrassed. His rust-red scales flushed a deeper crimson,and his talons brushed the black ribbon tied to one of his curved horns.
Avoiding Torian’s gaze, the draic angled toward the new voice. “We have company, Dutch. A human.”
“Oh!” That changed the tone entirely, and an alien leaned over one of the rooftop patios nearby. They had ashy skin, but looked more humanoid than most aliens. Their eyes glowed a bright, curious cobalt, and their long hair—pulled into a ponytail—seemed to sparkle with ever-shifting hues of blue light.
It was like nothing Torian had ever seen. Her jaw dropped. She knew there were alien species outside of the common visitors to this solar system—draics and the rare tou’siil—but seeing one in person was a different story entirely. She was both fascinated and terrified.
“You were right; your ship is here. Must be parked in one of the docks nearby.” Zen crossed his arms.
“It’smyship,” Torian reiterated.
The draic held up a hand, as if to say,One moment, please. Torian huffed in irritation, but Zen wasn’t bolting for theDestitute, and this newcomer, Dutch, seemed disorganized at best. If she could stay on the aliens’ good side by playing nice, she would.
It was a hell of a lot easier than fighting a draic, anyway.
“A human took the ship? I’ll be down. One moment!” The new alien, Dutch, was holding a dozen things in their hands—everything from mugs and plates to what looked almost like incense holders. Robbing the nylarians? (Was it robbing if they were all gone, and had been for a while? Torian had no idea.)
Either way, Dutch was carrying too much; they fumbled, nearly dropped something, and cursed in a language Torian’s translator couldn’t identify.
As the strange alien ducked out of view, Torian asked Zen, “What language was that?”
Zen sighed. “Take your pick. He cycles through dozens of them.”
Torian raised an eyebrow. Polyglots were a true rarity in human space, and generally, they worked on software patches for the translators everyone wore. Torian had tried—and mostly failed—to learn other languages, but it was a long-lost art at this point.
(It made her distantly sad, mostly because she’d always wanted to chat with Amelia in her native tongue. But Amelia’s language wasn’t easily identifiable—it had a rougher dialect with nuances Torian could never seem to place.)
(Anyone who could speakdozensof languages must be a fucking genius, as far as Torian was concerned.)
But the alien who skidded out of the apartment didn’t look like a genius. For one, his hands were still full of kitchenware, except now he’d set a glass bowl over his glimmering blue hair, which seemed to exasperate Zen, based on the draic’s raised eyebrow ridge.
Dutch was taller than an average human, thin in stature, with facial features that resembled Torian’s, but were ever so slightlyoff. His nose was flatter, his lips thin and wide, and he seemed delighted to see her, if his tone was any indication. “A human indeed! Female, young. You must be a child!” Dutch pivoted to Zen. “They’re very short-lived, you know. This one can’t be more than thirty years.”
“I’m aware,” the draic rumbled. “Why is there a bowl on your head?”
“Nowhere else to hold it. You have room on your ship, don’t you?”
Torian wanted to protest stealing from this time-touched memorial—but considering she was holding the crumpled remnants of a gun she very nearly used to destroy the space station, she didn’t have much to stand on.
Zen sighed with his whole body. “I used to. Now my cabinets are getting full.”
“This is anylarian heritage site,” Dutch replied, with a sly tone that said he’d won.
He hadn’t. Zen bared his teeth, although it seemed more frustrated than threatening. “Don’t pull that on me. That ship is also a heritage site, and youlost itfor anEmpress-burned century.”
Dutch seemed confused. Zen removed the bowl from his head, and underneath, his hair was flashing faster with very subtle strands of blue. “A century? No, that can’t be right.”
Torian, meanwhile, pieced together what this meant.
Unless he’d had some ancient claim on her ship,Dutchwas the missing owner. Moss said they were all gone, so she’d just assumed the elusive owner had followed his kind. But no—this was a real, living nylarian.
Panic made her splutter, “It doesn’t matter how long it’s been. I bought it. Legally, it’s mine.”
Dutch looked at her now, and it was almost dizzying. For a breath, the space station seemed to still—the leaves stopped rustling, the critters ceased chirping, and everything narrowed to this odd alien.
“You may have bought it,” Dutch said, his lips tilting upward. “But my dear, Ibuiltit.”
Then it was true.
