Page 57 of Galaxy Games Four-Book Box Set (Galaxy Games)

57

Treed

S adie

I’ve been thirsty for an hour or so, but don’t have the courage, or perhaps the stupidity, to stop for a drink. I just keep walking. We’re going single file along the tree line.

The sounds of screaming assaulted my ears for long minutes, but I assume the silence means the carnage of that initial attack is over.

I didn’t have to argue very long or hard with my urge to rescue the victims. It’s laughable I even had the thought. Me? All five foot nothing? Was I supposed to charge into the circle of slathering prehistoric beasts and fight them all off with my Swiss army knife? No. I’ve already jettisoned every altruistic impulse and replaced them with the driving need to emerge from this alive.

1213 stops in his tracks and stands still as a statue. The only thing moving are his ears. They’re swiveling as if he’s trying to find the direction of something he heard.

“Get on my back!” he growls.

After I jump onto him, he hikes me higher, and then runs into the thick woods to our right as he glances into the canopy. He leaps onto a thick, tall tree, and using his claws, scampers toward the top. After choosing a wide branch, he settles me onto it, and we both stare down.

A herd of small reptiles has circled the bottom of our tree. Everything is relative on this planet. Small in this case means five feet tall. They may not be as big as the T-Rex things, but there are maybe twenty of them.

I read somewhere that no one knows the true color of Earth dinosaurs. Scientists just made guesses, since camouflage is common in the animal kingdom. The ones on this planet tend toward oranges and reds. Which makes sense, since the soil and many of the trees are in that color family.

They’re making a honking-squeaking sound at the bottom of our tree. I don’t know if it’s to communicate with each other or scare their prey, but they’re doing a good job of the latter. Although they’re jumping as high as they can and scratching at the barkless tree, they’re at least twenty feet below us.

We’ve settled onto a wide branch with me nearest the tree and him next to me. I’m looking one way and he’s looking the other with our hips touching. His arm circles my waist, perhaps for stability. After I do the same for him, his tail curls around the branch. This position allows us to look at each other when we talk as well as observe in all directions.

It takes a few fear-filled minutes to ensure our attackers can’t climb the tree. Finally, I’m able to take a deep breath and try to calm myself.

I allow myself to lean into 1213’s hard, warm body. My arm is circling above his waist and rests on his ribcage. My fingers burrow into his velvet fur, seeking warmth. Because his arm is around me, it’s natural as breathing to lean my head on his muscled pec.

The Sadie of 33 days ago would be disgusted and scandalized at the way I’m leaning on him emotionally after only knowing him less than a day. My grandmother marched with equal-rights-for-women signs in the 70s. My mother marched in the 90s. I come from a long line of feminists. I never aspired to be anyone’s “little woman.” But none of the women who went before me were on some weird planet at the ass-end of the galaxy listening to non-extinct T-Rexes trumpet in the background.

I’ll allow myself to lean into the hard, warm body sitting next to me. This might be my last day alive.

“We have to wait until they move on before we even think of climbing down,” he says.

“Yeah.” I consult the wrist-comm they issued me. “We have less than four hours to get through that front door,” my voice sounds doleful. I think we have about as much chance of that as a frog against a steamroller.

“They’ll move on to other prey at some point, then we’ll climb down and stick to the plan, unless you have a better one.”

You’d think Mr. Muscles would go all caveman on me and be giving orders, but I think he truly wants to know my thoughts.

“I guess we should stick to the plan unless we can come up with a better one. Which I can’t.”

I’ve decided to call the things scratching at the bottom of the tree velociraptors. They’re squeaking to each other and starting occasional open-mouthed squabbles. I think we’re up here for the duration. They don’t seem to be moving on to greener pastures.

“Tell me about Earth,” he rumbles. He’s so close his words sound intimate in my ear.

“What do you want to know?”

“How does someone become so…”

As he pauses, I know he’s trying to figure out a nice way to say something. Instead of being condescending, it feels sweet.

“So vulnerable, so… optimistic?”

Optimistic? I’m certain I’m going to die in the next few hours. This is what he calls optimistic?

“I grew up in a middle state of a powerful country on the planet. There were a lot of resources. We never wanted for food or clothing. We had enough money to meet our needs. I was an only child. My—”

“What is that?”

“People paired off on my world. One male and one female pair-bonded and mated and created families.” I glance at him to ensure he understands. He nods. “My parents had me and then tried to have more children, but they couldn’t. So they spoiled me.”

He cocks his head, which reminds me of my pet Bichon, perhaps because 1213 is so doglike to begin with. It’s so endearing I’m not surprised when I find myself petting his flank.

“Spoiled means to dote or give me many things I wanted but didn’t need.”

“Like what?”

“Pets.” Not knowing what his frame of reference is, I explain. “Domesticated animals that live in your house.”

His eyes widen as if this is a new concept.

“More clothes and shoes than I needed.” Another wide-eyed moment, then a nod.

“And lessons. I wanted gymnastics lessons. That means besides regular school, I went to another, special school after that and learned how to climb a rope, do somersaults, and tumble…” This earns another adorable head-cock. He looked so scary, so formidable last night at the gala. It’s amazing that less than a day later, all I want to do is scruff his fur and lean into his sturdy frame.

“Somersault means moving with agility and rolling headfirst on a mat on the floor, then ending up on your feet,” I say, assuming the translator won’t adequately translate the words round-offs or cartwheels.

“I learned those things. Without mats,” he says. “What punishments were meted out if you didn’t perform? And why would you want to learn something you didn’t have to? Didn’t it mean more pain?”

I’d assumed he hadn’t had the nicest life. There’s a roadmap of scars underneath his soft fur, but his question, out of the blue like that, guts me somehow. Maybe it’s because it spotlights the stark differences in our lives. I hope I live long enough to ask about his life because right now I’m having trouble fathoming it.

“Everyone on Earth is different, but my life had very few punishments.” This perks him up. His ears stand taller, indicating his interest is high. His tail releases the branch and flicks side to side, almost as if it’s happily out of his control. “Yeah, my punishments consisted of something being taken away, like a treat I wouldn’t get.”

“You… your physical beatings were soft?” he asks, obviously unable to comprehend the fact that I didn’t describe physical punishment.

“I never received a physical punishment.” I let that lie there, knowing it will take him a while to absorb it. He nods his head as he takes it in, obviously struggling with the concept.

“No whips?”

I shake my head. All the while my heart is breaking for this male I hardly know. The fact that he can’t wrap his head around the concept of no physical punishments is so poignant.

“You were never chained to a wall and left without food or water until you thought you would die?”

Chained to a wall? Starved? Dear God. “No.”

“Thrown into a pool and allowed to sink or learn to swim?”

“No, 1213. I took lessons every summer to learn to swim. My parents loved me beyond measure. I used to sit on my dad’s lap and he would hug me as we watched vids when I was little. Mom used to scratch my back and sing to me until I fell asleep.”

He swallows, hard. I watch his face, although I’m probably intruding, as he parses through what I told him. Perhaps he’s trying to picture his life in an alternate universe where he had loving parents. He must not succeed, because he shakes his head.

Breaking the moment, we both glance down because the velociraptors shriek and scatter. Before I have a second to get excited about it, though, a larger reptile takes their place, easily notices us sitting on this branch, and heaves his shoulder against the tree, almost shaking us to the ground.