I don’t feel unsafe, though. I’ve been around murderers and all kinds of galactic scum in the past. You notice real quickly the ones that won’t think twice about killing you. They have a certain look in their eye when they watch you, like you’re an ant that they’re thinking about holding a magnifying glass over. They’re more interested in how to hurt you than anything else. There’s a coldness to their manner.
Jutari has that. Chloe told me he used to be an assassin, and I absolutely believe it. There’s a calculating, almost cruel look in his gaze when he studies anyone…anyone except his wife and baby, that is. With them, he melts.
This man—alien—doesn’t have that cold calculation in his eyes. He’s scheming, all right, but when he looks at me, he watches my face, glances at my tits, and studies my hands. He looks at me like I’m a person, not a thing to be disposed of. Whatever he was in prison for, it’s not murder. I’ve heard that a lot of mesakkah got shipped off to prisons when some war of theirs went awry, though. Maybe that’s the case here.
“You’re from Homeworld?” I ask Vordigar, trying to get him to open up. He’s clearly mesakkah, the blue-skinned race of alien that Chloe’s husband Jutari is.
“Me?” He snorts. “Not directly. Family is, but I’m just freighter trash. Wouldn’t say I come from anywhere in particular.”
I study him. He does have a hard look to his appearance. All of the mesakkah I’ve seen at spaceports here and there dress in flowing, elegant robes. They cap their curling, tall horns with shining metal and groom their thick hair into a flowing waterfall. There’s a certain elegance to the rich elite of the mesakkah Homeworld. This guy, however, is covered in tattoos. They crawl up his neck and down his arms, masking a lot of the brilliant blue of his skin. His horns are capped, but the metal looks dull and slightly scuffed. His face is a mess of scars on one side and pitted on the cheek. It’s clear he’s had some sort of injury, and Jutari said he was a soldier so I shouldn’t be surprised. It’s probably hideous to his people, but to me, he’s just another strange-looking alien. His mouth’s a little twisted when he smiles, and his clothes are tight-fitting and look as if they’ve seen better days. Elegant, he’s not. Easy on the eyes, he’s not. He does, however, look dangerous and just a bit overwhelming, which suits my purposes.
So I get back to it. “I know you’re a convict on the run from Homeworld.” His eyes narrow and he watches me, mouth flat. I rush on, eager to get my piece out before he decides to run for it. “I don’t care about that. Not really. But a scary reputation helps me. You know about the human situation here on Risda?” Before he can respond, I continue on, as if he doesn’t know. “There were a lot of us rescued from a station that specialized in humans. Your government didn’t know what to do with us and won’t send us home, so they dumped us here on Risda and allotted each woman a farm and some basic equipment. It’s not much, but it’s mine.”
He grunts.
“Humans aren’t the only ones hiding out in this system, though, and there’s some that view us humans as easy prey. I know several women that established their farm, only to get murdered and their land claimed by another.”
His jaw clenches. “How’s that work?”
“There’s inheritance laws on the land here,” I say to him, crossing my arms over my chest and gazing out at the fields of grains that sway in the gentle breeze. “If I marry someone and I die, my land goes to my spouse. There’s a lot of women being married under duress and showing up murdered. And I’m pretty sure I’m next.”
“How do you figure that?”
“I watch what goes on,” I tell him. “There’s little in my part of the world that I don’t know about. My neighbor Melissa was one of my good friends and she needed a spouse. I did, too. We tossed around the idea of marrying each other just to safeguard our land. Next thing I know, she marries a praxiian and turns up dead.”
“Maybe she fell in love.”
“With a praxiian?” I fight back my glare, wanting to reach over and smack him on the head. I’ve met several of the cat-like race and while I’m sure there are some that are kind, I haven’t met them. To a one, they’re violent and murderous. “That same praxiian has been bothering me when I go into port. He shows up on my farm and takes measurements. I know he’s got an eye on my lands, and I’d prefer not to end up in a shallow grave.”