So I talk to Milly. She takes me into Port and introduces me to a mated pair of human females who tailor clothing to special sizes. They normally deal with humans, but I'm not built like humans. They like the challenge, though, and end up making me plain, well-fitting clothing. Tunics with cloth belts and plain, baggy trou. Jumpsuits for working in the field. Clothing that looks soft and comfortable and loose and hides my muscle-covered form.
One of the females discreetly suggests I cut my mane. It will change my appearance, she tells me. It will pull me further away from looking like Crulden the Ruiner. At first I balk, because some of my best memories of Mina are her fingers running through my mane…but I want to be my own person, too.
So I let them shear my head and neck and jaw, until the only hair left upon my head is above my ears, and even that is short and stubbled. They show me how to lotion my shaved skin to keep it soft—something that makes me snort with amusement—and give me a shaver so I can do it on my own. I hate it at first, because my neck is bare, my throat is bare, and all I can think about is Mina's soft hands buried in my mane as she sighs under me.
But after a few days, I start to like it. No one stops to stare at me in the streets with fear. My shaggy head is much cooler, too, and my neck no longer feels sweaty constantly.
After this, I want to make more changes. I go to Milly and ask her how I get my hated tusks removed. She has a dental surgeon flown in from a neighboring station, and a week later, my tusks are gone, and for the first time, I can close my lips entirely. I no longer have to constantly wet my tongue to keep it from feeling like sandpaper. I can smile like a normal being.
And when people see me on the streets, they no longer see Crulden. They see a strange alien—a splice—but they do not see a monster. I take on a different name, too. I want a name to go with Mina's and I ask Milly about it. She knows of the story—Dracula—and suggests the name Jonathan, since that is the character Mina's husband. I use it, but it doesn't fit me. Maybe in time, it will.
Days pass. I think of Mina and all the things I want to tell her about as I settle into my new life in Port. Lord va'Rin and Milly have offered to set me up on a farm, but I don't want to make decisions without Mina. I want to wait for her. So I help out where I can, and I meet people.
I even find a job I enjoy. On Lord va'Rin's land, he has an elderly human female named Doris that practices what she calls “animal husbandry.” Most of the initial meat-stock are cloned from tubes, but once a farm is established, the idea is to breed more meat-stock and to become self-sustaining and profitable. Homeworld mesakkah are primarily not meat-eaters, I'm told, but they cater to the rest of the galaxy, who loves to eat meat. The human farmers are inexperienced with caring for their animals, however, and so Doris goes on a great many “house calls” to visit and help with ailing animals. One day, Doris needed a strong pair of hands and took me with her, and that afternoon, I pulled a breech calf out of its mother's body. I held the gooey, disgusting thing against my chest as it bleated, and my world changed.
I helped something come to life.
After that, I sought out Doris constantly. If she went on a house call, I wanted to go. I accompanied her everywhere, as bodyguard and assistant, since Doris was older and she'd been robbed twice by refugees posing as farmers. The militia in Port was well-meaning but overtaxed, and the human settlers generally mistrustful of outside help. My hulking form scared off anyone thinking to harass Doris, and in turn, she took me on as an assistant, teaching me what to look for in sick animals, how to help one through birth, and how to tend to them.
Working with animals felt good and right. It helped pass the time and made the days go by quickly.
At night, though, I made marks on the wall in my room, counting the days I'd been without Mina.
I'm being patient, I tell her each night before bed. Please wait for me.
34
CRULDEN
I wipe my hands clean of birthing gunk as Doris's old data-pad chirps with an incoming message. Behind me, the meat-stock—Doris calls them cows—lick the new baby clean, the small herd surrounding it in the field to protect it from predators. I smile at the sight, because it feels like a job well done. I never get tired of helping the babies into the world.