Extent, p.10
Extent, page 10
part #7 of Jekh Saga Series
“Ah.” Sounded like infatuation to her. Zilkat wasn’t prone to the condition. In his line of work, he couldn’t be, otherwise, he’d fall a little bit in love with everyone he met. That wouldn’t be profitable. “Did you maybe suggest having another conversation?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I didn’t even ask if he liked men. He seemed uncomfortable simply being there, and I don’t understand Terrans the way I know Jekhans.”
Eileen snorted and looked once more at the path. Salehi was no longer on it. He’d probably be back at the base in twenty minutes, which was for the best. There was a small possibility they were in for a brief downpour in the afternoon. The soil needed it. Eileen hadn’t gotten her irrigation system set up yet.
She sighed.
She still hated seeing that man walk away, even though she’d expressly told him to a number of times.
“Not a secret, so I don’t feel guilty for telling you his business,” she said. “Stefan’s an ardent homosexual.”
Zilkat let his eyes narrow.
“That means he’s not interested in women. At all. Same as you. But you’re probably right in suspecting that he wouldn’t signal his interest the same way. I know Jekhans tend to have different assumptions.”
“How would he signal interest?”
“How long is a piece of string?”
Zilkat’s eyes narrowed even more.
She gave his nose a scolding bop. “Don’t make that face at me. I’m nearly old enough to be your mother. No, scratch that. Started my period at twelve. I am old enough to be your mother. Respect my wisdom.”
He huffed disagreeably, but neutralized his expression and sat up a little straighter. “Perhaps he has an attachment.”
“Nah. He’s single. Hasn’t been on the planet long enough to figure that stuff out.”
“Does he want to?”
“Ask him, not me,” Eileen said.
“Well, it’s too late for that. I wouldn’t even know how to find him.”
“So, you’re just going to wait until he pops into Little Gitano again, and what? Run out in the street with your robe open and call him into the brothel?”
“You know, I think you’ve gotten meaner since giving birth, and I don’t like that.”
“So leave.”
“No one else puts up with me.”
“Mm-hmm. Yeah, you’re a needy-ass, grown-ass man. I could see where that would be an issue for some folks.”
Grumbling, Zilkat got to his feet. “I can always count on you to humble me.”
“I do it ’cause I love you, Z.”
“I know.” He gave Henry a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn on the blanket so he wouldn’t creep too close to the clover patch Eileen had planted experimentally. “How long until you’re done labeling, do you think?”
“Half an hour, maybe.”
“Would you mind if I sprawled on your sofa for a bit? The sleep finally gives chase.”
“Go take your nap. And put Hannah in her crib since you’re heading that way. She’s nodding off again.”
Zilkat always complied so nicely, and for whatever reason, the kids seemed to like him. By Earth standards, he may not have been a “decent” person, but he was good, and on Jekh, that counted for a lot.
And she’d hate to admit it to anyone, but she’d started to rely on his clinging. Naturally, she could muddle through on her own. She could be Hannah and Henry’s sun and moon and die happy that she was able to do that for them. But sometimes cutting herself a little bit of slack made getting up all through the night a little easier. She didn’t have to be perfect. She didn’t have to do it all alone. Maybe one day, someone would insist that she didn’t and roll up their sleeves and tell her the right way to stand back for a bit.
She knew better than to wish for it, though. That was a wish people fifteen, twenty years younger made.
She couldn’t afford to hope. That was why she worked instead.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The nap at Eileen’s hadn’t been long enough.
Zilkat could barely keep his eyes open as he studied the brothel room assignments and tried to sort out which employee had requested a two-hour slot in a space with a double-width bed.
He was tempted to close his eyes for ten minutes and try again later, but that plan was dashed by the knock on his door.
“I shouldn’t have come into work tonight.” He closed the roster book with more force than necessary and called out, “Yes?”
The part-time receptionist opened the door a few inches and poked her head in. The older woman had come highly recommended to him, so he’d hired her on the spot. Back on Earth, she’d been some sort of schoolteacher. She was good at scolding, which was apparently something many professional sex workers responded well to.
“I didn’t think you were supposed to be here,” Tilda said.
“I wasn’t, but until I sort out when I’m supposed to be sleeping, I may as well be here and show my pretty face.”
Tilda crossed her eyes and harrumphed. “Well, since you’re in the building, are you taking drop-ins?”
“Depends. If they’re looking for a quick slap and tickle, I might be able to give them what they want. Expeditiously. I think that’s the word, yes?” He talked a lot of shit in general, but he wasn’t in the mood to be a bedroom bully. That required energy and charm, and he was low on both.
“Let me check.” Tilda closed the door.
Zilkat got up and poured himself tea. Caffeinated, for a change. Herbal tasted better but wasn’t going to keep his eyes open.
Tilda opened the door without knocking and plopped her fists onto her hips. “He’s being pretty vague. I don’t know what he wants, but he doesn’t seem like your usual kind of client. Definitely looks like he can pay, though.”
Sighing, Zilkat tightened his robe tie and then gulped down a mouthful of the tepid brew. “Tell him you have to bill for a minimum of two hours. See what that does.”
“You know, lately, I can’t actually tell if you’re in the business of making money.”
“Burnout. That’s what my dramuda called it.”
“Dramuda?” Tilda adjusted the ear mold for her translation device and shook her head. “Got nothing for that one.”
“Eh.” Zilkat shrugged. There was really no equivalent English word, at least that he knew of. He considered himself to be a better English speaker than most Jekhans, but he’d learned the language to make money, not relationships. Even the words he’d been learning in recent months were more for ornamentation than casual use. “A dramuda is a person who counsels you on things and sort of takes you under their wing because you are…”
Eileen would have said “a hot mess,” but he didn’t know if Tilda would understand what that phrase meant. He still wasn’t quite sure what it meant.
Zilkat said, “Struggling somehow.”
He was getting better at words, he thought.
“I know what burnout is, Zilkat. That’s why I quit a principal job after twenty years and hauled my rear end across the galaxy. I miss teaching, but not the obstacles that went with it. You gotta get rid of the obstacles or you’ll just start to hate your work.”
Zilkat filed that away to chew on later. He needed to figure out what his obstacles were and overcome them if he wanted to keep building something for himself.
“Let me see what they say about the hours, though.” Again, Tilda departed.
Zilkat took another slug of tea and tidied his desktop. He’d been so busy playing house at the cottage that he hadn’t spent more than a few hours at the business in three days.
“He said okay,” Tilda said.
Zilkat rolled his eyes and gestured for her to send back the client.
He didn’t need to be creative, just available. He simply needed to keep reminding himself of that.
While he waited, he kept attacking piles of clutter. Somewhere in that office, he’d hidden from himself a pile of cloth-bound books. The junk dealer who’d sold them to him explained that they were worthless trash he’d picked through from one of the sites the Terran invasion forces initially settled in. The books had no great literary merit, but Zilkat liked the way the covers looked. The faded rose, blue, turquoise, and black fabrics played nicely together. He had the perfect place in mind for them at his cottage. In another of the Earth magazines he’d thumbed through, there was a picture of a couple’s bedroom. They kept a pile of such books stacked on the little storage cubes next to the bed, and he was going to do the same.
Lifting the lid of his toy cabinet, he spotted them. “Ah. Crunda. Leave the organizing to me, old woman. How does this even make sense? Ropes with books?” He clucked his tongue and gathered up the book pile.
At the knock on the door, he rolled his eyes again and bumped the lid closed. “Enter if you must.”
The door opened slowly, creakingly.
The high-pitched sound made Zilkat shudder. “Someone ought to oil that.”
He went about his business, searching for a bag or tote to transport the books in. “I thought there was a felted crate somewhere that… Ah.” He found what he sought in the closet. The handle still had the import label affixed. He’d bought a set of them at the bazaar for a bargain price, but all the others had been stolen by his sticky-fingered staff.
There was something satisfying about arranging the books into the container. He hummed as he did it.
“If you care at all about those,” said his client, “you’ll want to store them with the spines pointed downward.”
Zilkat froze, and not because of the unsolicited commentary.
He knew that voice, that accent. Norwegian, supposedly. Zilkat knew of only a few people with those on Jekh, and of that group, he’d only heard one speak in person.
Turning nearly as slowly as the door had opened, Zilkat found Stefan waiting on the threshold.
He was carrying a heavy book of his own and was dressed in Terran garb: slim-fitting gray trousers with a brown belt, a crisp pale blue shirt with collars and buttons, and socks with some sort of pattern Zilkat couldn’t make out from where he stood.
He waved stiffly at Zilkat and cleared his throat. “I hope I haven’t crowded your schedule. I had some time, so…” His shrug was businesslike and efficient.
Perplexed, Zilkat lifted the books from the crate and piled them on the rug. “You are my client?”
“I am.”
“You paid to come here?”
“People should be paid for their time. I assumed you’d agree with that rationale.”
Zilkat stood staring again. He didn’t agree. At least, not pertaining to that particular individual. He wouldn’t have charged Stefan even a jekhun to visit him, and apparently, Stefan had transferred to Tilda the equivalent of the average Jekhan laborer’s monthly pay.
Stars, what a mess.
Zilkat had to figure out a way to reverse that transaction. He’d never given a refund before.
Stefan crooked his thumb over his shoulder and tilted his head toward the hallway. “Shall I close the door?”
“I…” Grimacing, Zilkat fixed his posture and then got the constipated look off his face. He could see it in the full-width mirror that served as the wall in front of the bed. “Yes, of course. My manners have left me. You’ll have to forgive me for my sluggishness today.”
“Busy day?”
“If you’re asking if I’ve put in much time on my knees, the answer is no.”
Bright flags of red bloomed across Stefan’s cheeks, and his lips parted in the manner of stupor.
It was then that Zilkat realized what he said. “You didn’t mean to ask that. You were being polite, not specific.”
“I understand the confusion.” Stefan shifted his weight for a few beats, then transferred the large volume to his other arm. He shut the door softly and approached Zilkat like a child afraid of getting scolded by a teacher.
He’d misread Zilkat’s mood, and that was entirely Zilkat’s fault.
Zilkat simply hadn’t expected to see him there. It was as though his conversation with Eileen had conjured the man into Little Gitano, and if that were the case, he’d go talk to his dramuda every time he needed a wish granted. He’d always believed those twins made her lucky. She’d be quite annoyed to finally have evidence.
“I thought you would like to have this. I happened upon it by chance last week when I was in Buinet. The new cultural envoys were meeting to discuss how artifacts and crafts will be maintained and displayed. There was a massive haul of hardcopy reference materials, and they let me take this since they have no current access to any of the works discussed within.”
Stefan was extending the book to him, but Zilkat was fixated on the man’s socks.
“What are those?” Pointing was rude, according to Eileen, but there Zilkat was, pointing at a grown man’s feet. “The pattern.”
“I’m not entirely certain. Zinnias, I believe.”
“Is that how they are? Pink that way?” Bright, neon pink flowers.
Zilkat knew all about neon. There was a sign in the bar window that had some of the strange gas inside. He’d been so fascinated by the luminescent tones that he’d done all sorts of pointless research about the colors that sometimes had the neon description. Colors like those weren’t typical on Jekh.
“Some are, I imagine,” Stefan said. “Flowers tend to come in a range of colors, unless they’re specifically segregated for uniformity.”
“Those are flowers I could get?”
“I don’t see why not.”
Zilkat held out his hand. “Let me have it.”
Stefan gave him the book.
As he wasn’t expecting the weight, Zilkat had to quickly dart his other hand beneath to prevent the heavy volume from hitting the floor. “I meant the sock,” he said with a laugh, clutching the art book against his chest.
Stefan’s brow furrowed. “My sock?”
“Yes. I want to show it to someone. I would like to have those flowers.”
Looking down at his feet, Stefan curled his toes upward. “I don’t believe I’ve ever been asked to relinquish a single sock.”
“I won’t remember what they’re called or how to describe them.”
“You could take a picture.”
Zilkat huffed. He supposed Stefan’s suggestion was reasonable. Zilkat was being chaotic and impulsive as always. He needed to start thinking things through better. “You’ll have to take the picture. I don’t have a device to take one with in here.”
“You may be the only person in Little Gitano who lacks easy access to common technological devices.”
“And I will not be bullied into using them.” Zilkat nudged Stefan closer to the lamp where the light would reveal the colors better. He grunted, nodded, and gestured to Stefan’s feet. “At your leisure.”
After a few seconds, the barest hint of a smile settled at the corner of Stefan’s mouth. “I suppose I’ve been asked to do stranger things in the course of business.” He extracted a folding tablet from his pants pocket and focused the camera.
Business. Zilkat didn’t like that word in the context it was used. It meant Zilkat was business for him—just a task to cross off his to-do list.
Stefan took the picture and turned the device around for Zilkat’s inspection. “Good enough? I’m not much of a photographer.”
His feet were long and elegantly tapered. Zilkat bet he was the kind of lover who liked to twine legs at night and slide his feet up and down his partner’s calves.
Probably felt nice. Not that Zilkat would know. When he’d been paid to overnight a client, they hadn’t been especially placid in their rest. They kept waking up and remembering where they were and what they’d paid for. They wanted their money’s worth.
“Is it fine?” Stefan asked in a concerned tone.
Zilkat didn’t know what color his eyes were, and that was annoying. Blue, possibly, but not really. Silver, somewhat, but that was needlessly poetic. Something in between the two. Perhaps there was a word for it in Norwegian. “What color is that?” he asked, bristling with the frustration of ignorance.
“The flower? Pink. Do you like the picture?”
“No,” Zilkat growled. “Your eyes.”
Yet again, Stefan’s forehead creased. “My eyes?”
“Yes. Is there a word for it?”
“Gray, I suppose.”
“Gray.” Zilkat knew that word, gray. Maybe it fit. He didn’t know. When he thought of gray, he thought of cages and shackles and guns, not eyes. But perhaps his brain simply needed retraining.
Or perhaps he was already losing his mind as most unattached Jekhan men did at a certain age and needed to start therapeutic Marscadrel treatments.
He cleared his throat and tracked nervously to his desk chair. “The picture is fine. If you don’t mind sending it to Tilda on the way out…”
“Wherever you’d like.”
Zilkat peeled the book away from his chest and finally looked at the cover. It was a book of famous paintings artists made after traveling abroad. Someone had nestled a scrap of paper between two middle pages. He opened the book to the marker and was shocked to see his brothel’s art painstakingly explicated in many paragraphs printed in crisp black ink.
“I figured you could keep that with the paintings,” Stefan said.
“This is…wonderful! It almost makes me famous, doesn’t it? For having the art? Of course I’ll keep it. How much do I owe you for it?”
“No charge. I got it for free.”
“But certainly, your effort in transporting it here is worth something.” Perhaps as much as an average worker’s monthly wages.
“I was coming anyway.”
“Why? What tasks of employment have drawn you back to our sleepy little town?”
“I didn’t come for work, actually. I explore on weekends. I don’t mind the journeys between my heres and theres, even if they’re long.”
“You must be paid quite well to be making such journeys so often.” Zilkat already knew the statement was crass. He didn’t need to look at Stefan and view the chastisement that was likely on his face.
“Yes, I’m paid quite well.”
