Page 6 of Double Bind (Cosmic Mates #6)

“You must be Amity! I’m Darmaine . Greetings! I’d heard we had a new arrival,” said the alien in a singsong voice. The woman—Amity pegged her as female from the vocal pitch until it struck her it was humancentric to assume female voices were high and male ones were low—had a head shaped like an hourglass. Her broad forehead narrowed to nostrils in the middle of her or his face then widened to a boxy jaw. Arms and legs were segmented by multiple joints like a marionette.

But her wide smile—Amity opted for female—eased her nervousness at starting a brand-new job in an unfamiliar occupation on a strange planet. She didn’t know how to weave! She had no idea why Lucento had assigned her to the weaving studio. Why not put her with Faith at the pottery shop? She’d never thrown pottery either, but at least she was familiar with the process.

“Yes, I am,” she replied. “We arrived yesterday.”

“And Lucento wasted no time putting you to work!” Darmaine shook her head. “That husband of mine! I keep telling him to give new arrivals more time to adjust, but does he listen to me? No.” The antennae atop her head quivered and hummed like tuning forks.

“Lucento is your husband!”

“Yep, he belongs to me. I do my best to keep him out of trouble, but I don’t always succeed.” She laughed. “He told me you’re a newlywed.”

“One whole day married.” It still didn’t seem real. She didn’t feel married at all.

“Happy anniversary!” Darmaine’s antennae quivered.

“Thank you.” She couldn’t call their one-day anniversary happy, but at least hostilities had ceased. Having let go of the anger and resentment, the future seemed less bleak. Life was too short to carry a grudge. He’d lied to her and pretended to like her—but then he saved her life. So, that kind of zeroed out the scale. After learning about his experience in Dark Ops and being a clone, she understood him better, even sympathized. A little.

He wants to be friends.

Déjà vu. The story of my life. She’d been relegated to the friend zone—or outright dumped—more times than she cared to remember. When your very own husband says he wants to be just friends, girl, you’ve got a problem.

She recognized her feelings were irrational and unrealistic. Virtual strangers, they’d married for expediency—so she’d have sanctuary—not love. Their marriage was as fake as their date, albeit more honest. But she secretly hoped they could continue where they’d left off. That maybe there had been a little bit of magic in that evening. That the attraction hadn’t been one-sided.

“Are you all right?” Darmaine was staring at her.

“Oh, yeah, fine!” She forced a smile and surveyed the studio, noting two huge looms, some smaller ones, three spinning wheels, and multiple bins of gray wool, which probably accounted for why the shop smelled like wet dog. She’d never seen such a setup outside of a museum before! “I have to confess, I’ve never done any weaving.”

“No worries! I hadn’t either until I came here. I’ll teach you. I’ll have you spinning and weaving within a week—and you might even make some fabric.” She laughed at her own joke.

Amity chuckled politely.

“Where does the wool come from?” She eyed the huge bins. Did they have sheeplike animals here? Llamas?

“It’s horniger fur. Feel.” Darmaine handed her a tuft.

“It’s very soft and silky.” She smoothed the clump of fur between her fingers.

“Yes, very nice—a contrast to their nasty dispositions. I’m glad I’m not the one shearing them.”

Amity tossed the fur into the bin.

“Spun into yarn and woven, the fur makes excellent soft blankets, coats, and sweaters—as long as you like gray. I’ve tried a few dyes, but the fur won’t hold the color. Dyes bleed out really fast.”

Quite the talker, Darmaine would probably explain how to synchronize a chronometer when you asked for the time. But since Amity knew nothing about her new world, she was eager to learn everything she could.

“Where are the hornigers kept? I didn’t notice any pens. The only ones I saw were wild.” Did someone wrestle a horniger to the ground on the tundra and give it a buzz job?

“We don’t have any here. Haven Ranch and Shelter Retreat have domestication programs and send us the fur. We spin it into yarn and then weave it into fabric. Half of the product goes back to them as payment, and Artisan’s Loft keeps the other half for our use and to sell.” She plucked at her wide-sleeved, nubby gray tunic.

“You wove your sweater?”

“Crocheted it, actually.”

“People still do that?”

“And knit. Needlework was a lost art until I resurrected it from old Earth vids. I teach a weekly class, mostly for Artisan’s Loft folks, but I sometimes get students from neighboring villages.”

“You can earn a living doing that?” she asked skeptically, donning her business hat.

“Good galaxy, no!” Darmaine laughed. “You couldn’t crochet fast enough to make it worth your time. Our profit comes from the fabric and the blankets. I teach needlework as a hobby. It’s relaxing, and it gives people something to do during the long winters—you know, the entire year.” She laughed. “Something to do besides hump like turpacs , that is.

“If not for the fact that many couples are of mixed species and genetically incompatible, we’d be experiencing a huge baby boom,” she said.

Amity didn’t think she’d encountered anyone as frank as Darmaine. The sex lives of Artisan’s Loft residents were not something she wished to discuss with the boss she’d just met. “Don’t hornigers get cold after shearing?” She hated to think of an animal, even a nasty-dispositioned one, shivering in the frigid temperatures.

“There’s a two-month period in the middle of the cold season, when it’s almost tepid. All the shearing is done in the first two weeks of the warm-up, which gives the fur time to regrow a little. And they don’t shear all the way to the hide.”

“How many weavers work here?”

“Counting you?”

“Yes.”

“Two.”

Amity blinked. “You’ve been doing all of this yourself? How do you handle the workload?”

“Poorly. I’ve been falling behind, which is why there are so many bins of fur. The customers I owe fabric to have been getting impatient. I had a helper until two months ago when he transferred to another village.

“The horniger domestication programs are small—they can only shear so many animals, given the time and weather constraints, but the weaving is more than what one person can handle. I told Lucento if he didn’t get me help soon, I would cut him off.”

TMI. Amity almost choked.

“No more sweaters until he got me an assistant!” Darmaine said.

“Oh, a sweater!”

“What did you think I meant?” Humor glinted in her eyes.

Amity undid the toggles on her coat and removed it, feeling warm, partly from embarrassment and partly from the heat being thrown from the massive herb cake stove.

Darmaine pointed to a rack that Amity suspected were horniger antlers. “You can put that there.”

“You use horniger for everything, don’t you?” she said after hanging up her coat.

“The animal is critical to the viability of the settlements and the founder’s mission to provide a safe haven to people who need one. It provides food, clothing, heat, one day maybe transportation. If every item we needed for survival had to be brought from another planet, the cost of colonization would be prohibitive. The founder is filthy rich, but even he doesn’t have enough cred to provide for all our needs. He transports people here, maintains the security dome over the planet, and arranges for basic necessities like the domiciles, but after that, it’s up to us whether we thrive or fail.

“Hence, we must be self-reliant by working hard and living off the land and using its resources. Action builds character and confidence, which many refugees need after having lost everything. We are not victims; we are survivors; we are thrivers.

“Currently, we can produce enough fabric and yarn to meet the needs of Artisan’s Loft residents and the ranches that provide the fur, with some left over to sell to nearby villages. I’d like to expand sales to all of Refuge—and then export and sell to the galaxy!” Her eyes lit up with capitalist fervor.

“You’re a businesswoman after my own heart,” Amity said. “I’d love to help with that.”

“Wonderful. I’d love to have help,” Darmaine replied. “Right now, it’s just a goal. Despite the current overabundance of fur, I’m limited by how much I can acquire. If you try to shear a wild horniger, you’re liable to get the horn. So, few folks are willing to attempt it. Hence, domestication of the animal is critical to fabric production—one example of how everything is interlinked. Anyway, I’ve rambled on enough.

“Are you ready to learn how to use a spindle and loom?”

“I am!”

The day sped by. Darmaine first taught her how to use the spinning wheel and twist fur into yarn. Amity found out fur shipments went to the robo laundry for cleaning before they received them. That came as a relief. Something was mechanized! Given the primitiveness of the planet, she half expected to have to beat the fur against a rock in a creek somewhere.

The hours flew by, and soon she was dashing to the mess hall for lunch. Not seeing any of her friends, she wolfed down a solitary meal then headed to the mercantile.

Like an old-time general store, the commissary sold clothes, groceries, tools, grain, even live birds. She browsed through racks of utilitarian clothing, making note of several items to buy when she got her first creds. Down another aisle, she spotted cups and plates that might have come from the pottery shop.

Faith’s stuff is nicer. Already an experienced potter, her friend wouldn’t have any trouble assimilating into her work assignment, but Amity wondered how the men were faring at the woodshop. She doubted either of them had carpentry experience. They were in the same boat as she.

She looked forward to finding out how Marshall’s day had gone. Just like a regular married couple .

No, like friends , she amended. She ignored the little pang and continued exploring the store. She found gray yarn skeins, woven gray blankets, and bolts of gray fabric. Gray, gray, gray. She could understand why Darmaine would wish to try dyeing. Could they maybe bleach the fur first? Would it hold the dye better? Of course, on this planet, dye probably had to be derived from berries or horniger poop.

A small section of the store was reserved for trading, where people could swap an item they didn’t need, for one they did. There was a pair of newish boots that fit. Score! She had the green-haired alien proprietor hold them while she dashed to the cabin to retrieve the pair that didn’t and returned to exchange them.

With a skip in her step and much warmer toes, she departed the shop wearing her new-to-her mid-calf, fur-lined boots.

Back at work, Darmaine put her on the loom, threaded with yarn and ready to go. “We’ll save setup for another day. Don’t want to overload you,” her boss said and then gave her a brief tutorial on the weaving process. Brief for Darmaine anyway.

Sitting side by side, each on their loom, they spent the afternoon weaving and talking.

“How did you and your husband meet?” Darmaine asked.

“He came into the pottery shop my friend and I owned on Terra Nova.” She chose her words carefully, unsure how much she should reveal. They were safe on Refuge, free from retaliation by Dark Ops. However, she worried about Marshall’s expectations. They were getting along, and she wished to avoid jeopardizing their fragile friendship . That pang again.

“Pottery shop, huh? Lucento probably would have put you there, except I’d demanded that the next new resident be assigned to help weave.” Darmaine sighed. “If you’d prefer pottery, I’ll talk to my husband.”

“No, no. I want to be here!” Amity assured her, realizing she really did. “I’m going to enjoy this.” And she liked her boss.

“Great! I’m so glad.” Darmaine beamed a bright smile. They worked in silence for a while, Amity focusing on the weaving, gaining satisfaction as cloth materialized.

“You’re doing well! Like an old pro!” Darmaine encouraged her.

“I’m not very fast,” she said. The alien woman produced twice the cloth in half the time.

“For your first day? Your first time weaving? You’re doing phenomenally. You’ve picked it up much faster than I did.”

“Thank you.” Her confidence rose at the praise.

“What brought you to Refuge, if I may ask?”

The billion-cred question. “I learned information I wasn’t supposed to know, which put a target on me. How about you?”

“I spoke out against my government. They charged me with treason and sentenced me to death.”

“How did you break away?”

“Lucento was a prison guard who was sweet on me; he’d slip me extra rations, allow me longer shower time. When my execution date was scheduled, he helped me escape. That, of course, put him in jeopardy. We were fugitives. It was touch and go until our asylum request came through.”

“You and Lucento aren’t the same species.”

“No. He was an off-world hire. My planet outsourced much of its labor. After he rescued me, I had a major case of hero worship—and then I fell in love with him. He said he’d already fallen in love with me—which inspired him to risk his life to save me.”

“I wish my situation were as romantic.” Amity envied the love match. “My marriage is one of convenience. I couldn’t get sanctuary on my own, so Marshall married me.”

“Not romantic?” Darmaine stopped working. “It’s the very essence of chivalry and gallantry. What’s more romantic than that? He sacrificed his freedom for you!”

That almost made it worse. Freedom was paramount to Marshall. “It’s temporary,” she emphasized, as much to assuage her own guilt as set Darmaine straight. “Cosmic Mates married us. Our union is provisional. At the end of a year, we’ll both be free.”

Belatedly, she wondered if she should have admitted they’d married just so she could get sanctuary. Entering a marriage with the best of intentions but failing was one thing. Deliberately gaming the system was another. Too late now.

“A lot can happen in a year,” her boss said.

“Yeah,” she replied noncommittally.

“Do you like him?”

Attracted to him from the start, she’d mistakenly believed the chemistry had been mutual. He’d hurt her feelings and her pride, but she’d forgiven him, seeing how he’d been between a rock and a hard place. She still found him handsome and enjoyed his company and their conversations. “Yes, I like him.” She paused. “He wants to be friends.”

“That’s a positive sign! How can you love someone and not be his or her friend?”

Yes, but she ached for what she thought they’d had—for him to gaze at her adoringly, lustfully—like he’d pretended to at the bistro. Except she wanted it to be genuine.

When will I stop mooning over men who aren’t interested in me?

“You’ve been married for a day. How long did you know him?”

“A little over a week,” she admitted, hunching her shoulders.

To her credit, Darmaine didn’t laugh. “Give it time. Refuge is a place for second chances. Take it one day at a time and see what develops. He must have had some feelings for you to marry you. Most men don’t give up their freedom without a fight or great love.”

Neither of which applied to their situation. “Maybe he’s just a man of conscience.”

“Which speaks well of him.”

She suspected her boss was one of those perpetually sunny people who put a positive spin on every misfortune. If she stepped in horniger poo, Darmaine would probably thank the universe she’d picked up some fertilizer for the garden. In any case, Amity had begun to regret blabbing such personal details to her boss on the first day on the job. I don’t know what got into me.

“So, what do you think?” Darmaine peered at the cloth she’d woven. “What color should I weave in next—gray or gray?”

“Hm…gray, I think,” she said, grateful for the change of subject. She suspected the perceptive Darmaine had sensed her discomfort.

“Excellent choice!”

They worked in silence for a few minutes, and then Darmaine said, “Sometimes it is not the choices we make that have the biggest impact on our lives but how we act on the decisions.”