Total pages in book: 159
Estimated words: 144433 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 722(@200wpm)___ 578(@250wpm)___ 481(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 144433 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 722(@200wpm)___ 578(@250wpm)___ 481(@300wpm)
Today is the first day I've slept for as long as I've wanted since I was a young kit. It was...almost nice.
I wish my fur didn't feel like hay, though.
I scratch at myself and my dry mane and wonder at the quiet. I'm not used to this. Even back home when I'd ask to be alone, there were guards posted in my rooms, servants cleaning or bringing food. Here, it truly is quiet with Meev gone.
Meev.
She's going to expect me to produce credits to pay her for her services. As she should.
I just...don't know how to get credits, exactly. I have always had an account through my family's house, and if I wanted something, a servant would handle it. I think of Ubagrrresh, my vizier, and the one who helped me escape Praxii Minor. He would know how to get credits. I should comm him.
I'd sworn I wouldn't, but this is an emergency.
Like a savage, I put my head under the running stream of water and drink from it until I've had my fill, and then turn it off, wiping my mouth. I search the walls of the small house, looking for the comm panel, and I'm not disappointed in my efforts. There's one all right, but it looks like a model that's twenty or thirty years old. Kef me, what an antique. I poke at the antiquated interface, amused at the sight of it, and request to be connected to Praxii Minor, then Ubagrrresh of my family's Heirdom. I'm tempted to contact my father and complain that my brother is trying to oust me, but he won't do anything. Praxiians believe in the right of the strongest, and right now my brother is stronger than I am.
Uba will be on my side, though.
I wait for the comm to connect. And wait. And wait. I know the code I've used is the correct one—it's literally the only comm ID I have memorized, because Uba handles everything I need, and as long as I can get ahold of him, I'm fine. But it never connects. The comm keeps attempting, as if the ID I've entered doesn't exist and it continues to search the database.
Frowning, I attempt it again.
And a third time, when the second time doesn't connect.
This doesn't make sense. Why would Uba change his personal comm code? He did say I would be on my own for the next several years, but I didn't think it meant...this.
Now I'm starting to grow concerned. What am I to do if I can't access my credits? My clothes? My...anything?
I'm at the mercy of Meev and her kindness...which means I'm keffed.
CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
MAEVE
I'm tempted to drown my sorrows in alien beer at the cantina, because finding out that I'm stuck with Lord Hairball for the next several weeks makes me want to cry-slash-vomit, but moping will make me no better than him. So I do what I do best.
I talk.
I duck into the general store and strike up a conversation with Janelle, who's been gigging to make extra credits. Sometimes she makes the port workers casseroles for dinner, or runs supplies from the general store over to Port. Today, she says, she's been doing laundry, and she's happy to talk about what a miserable job it is.
"I've never seen so many skid marks in my life," she exclaims, buying up soap in bulk. "I mean, I know they're men, but good lord."
"Ew. Thanks for sharing that." But I don't mind talking to Janelle. She just wants to complain to someone, and I'm happy to listen. And I can use our budding friendship. "Do you ever get any orders that no one picks up, by the way? After you've cleaned them?"
She rolls her eyes. "All the time. I have a pile at my house that I don't know what to do with. I keep waiting for the owners to come back but I guess they don't care because they're work uniforms."
This might be perfect for me. "Can I buy them from you?"
Janelle gives me a curious look. "I guess...but why?"
"I'm making rag rugs for myself and a neighbor," I lie. "And the colors match some of the dockworker uniforms perfectly."
"Oh. Well, that could work." She brightens. "Rag rugs are a great idea, by the way. I don't know why I didn't think of that."
"Right?" I say cheerfully. "And the fabric looks sturdy. Here, let me help you with that soap."
I help Janelle load the bottles of soap into her sled and she's happy to chitchat until we drive it over to her place. She has a small farm a bit farther out than mine, and when we get inside, it's covered in laundry of all kinds, with several clotheslines flapping in the rain outside. The sight of all of the work depresses her and her chatty mood vanishes. "Oh hell. I'm going to have to redo all those clothes."