Page 112 of Mates for the Raskarrans #1-6

Grace laughs. “Sally says the temperature will start dropping quite rapidly as the big rains approach. Can’t say I’m sad about that.”

There’s a queue at the fire, everyone waiting to get their sinks refilled with fresh water.

It’s a big part of the daily routine, along with the patrols the warriors go on, one morning shift, one afternoon shift.

Then there are the hunters, who leave at first light for their rounds, usually returning shortly after lunch with fresh kills to prep and then eat.

There’s a definite rhythm to life amongst the tribe, and there’s something comforting about it.

I suppose because it reminds me a little of prison. A home away from home.

“Would you be free for a catch up today?” Grace says as we shuffle forward in the queue. “I’ve been catching up with all the girls - just having a talk about stuff. Medically and otherwise.”

I know she’s been doing this with the others, but I thought perhaps I’d got away with it on account of already having a lot of medical intervention with my arm. The thought of sitting down and talking about me doesn’t fill me with enthusiasm. The less I can do that, the better.

“My arm’s okay,” I say. “Still stiff, but it gets better every day.”

“That’s great.” Grace smiles in her warm, motherly way. “It’s not the only thing you’ll have to contend with out here, though. I’d still like the chance to meet with you.”

I can’t exactly say no.

“Sure, when suits you?”

After Shemza puts my refilled sink in my hut, I get cleaned up and change into fresh clothes.

The raskarrans have given us clothes they’d been keeping in storage since a sickness nearly wiped out their tribe years ago.

They’re good at building waterproof homes, so everything was dry, but a little musty with dust and disuse.

We’ve been here long enough now, though, that everything has been washed at the hot springs at least once, and the sweet, earthy smell of the soap root fills my nose as I pull on my top.

It comes down to my mid thigh, but that’s not too much of an issue - it covers up how I have to tie a belt tight round the waist of my trousers to keep them up, the waistband folding over itself, bulging and lumpy.

It doesn’t make for the best silhouette.

Back on Earth, probably at some high society function, my mother’s cringing right now, like someone walked over her grave.

Raskarran clothes, even raskarran children’s clothes, are not designed for my frame.

Or any of us human girls, really. Carrie’s working hard to make adjustments for everyone, putting her skills as a seamstress to good use, but there are a lot of us to get through, and I’m not rushing to be at the front of the queue.

Let the others get their comforts first.

I head back out to the central fire again for the breakfast preparations.

Hannah has been helping Sam with the food prep since we arrived in the village, but Sam left yesterday as well - off to another tribe with Maldek.

It’s the first time Hannah’s had to deal with the cooking alone, and she looks petrified.

Namson, the raskarran elder who’s been teaching the two of them how to prepare meals, pats her on the shoulder and gives her an encouraging smile.

“Anything I can do to help?” I ask.

We all usually muck in with the cooking. There are always things to slice and chop and peel - none of it requires much skill, or even fine motor control, which I’m distinctly lacking. Carrie takes a seat next to me just as Hannah hands me a bowl of tubers.

“You peel, I chop?” I say to her.

Carrie nods, smiling at me as she picks up a small, sharp bone knife and begins scraping away the thick skins of the vegetables.

These have a slightly sweet taste, and can be mashed up into something a bit like porridge, fresh fruit and nuts sprinkled over the top of them to make a delicious breakfast. It’s a simple enough meal to prepare, but the volume of tubers that need peeling and boiling up to feed everyone necessitates a little production line.

Khadija takes the next bowl, Liv the one after, each of the girls coming to help as soon as they’re dressed and ready for the day.

The architects of the tier system said that everybody finds their level.

That the people at the top rise there because they are the best, and the people at the bottom stay on that level because they haven’t got the skills or the inclination to contribute to society in a more meaningful way.

When brilliant people have children with brilliant people, the result is a brilliant child.

When lazy idiots have children with lazy idiots, the next generation will also be lazy idiots, and therefore, our stratified society was only natural. A result of evolution, if you will.

I believed it. I believed it because my parents believed it, and they believed it because their parents believed it, and so on. Generations of people who never thought to ask questions, because none of us really wanted to know.

Because if we looked too closely, we’d see it for the bullshit it always was.

Realise how fragile our own positions were.

My top tier fellows had to believe they deserved to be where they were, because if they didn’t, it meant acknowledging that it was only good luck and someone’s good graces that held them in place.

That they weren’t beneficiaries of Mercenia’s systems - just more cogs in its machine.

I hate it. I hate that I used to believe those things about bottom tier workers.

People like the girls here. Like Grace, who would have helped me carry my sink just because I couldn’t do it.

Like Liv, who could easily use her position as Gregar’s mate to get out of menial tasks like peeling vegetables, but doesn’t. Wouldn’t.

I hate it worse that I think they might forgive me. For being a top tier girl, for my ignorance. But questions would follow about how I ended up here. Questions I have no good answers for.

They can never know. They can never know the truth of why I’m here with them. There are no prisons in the village. Everyone has to pull their weight to make sure the village thrives. They can’t afford the burden of locking me up. Feeding me. If anyone ever found out, it would mean exile.

A death sentence.

So I have to lie to them about everything.

I hate that most of all.

My hands start to tremble, my knife slipping, nicking my finger. I hiss as the pain follows a moment later, dark red blood blooming out of the slice. Stark against my pale skin. The sight of it makes me tremble harder, and I know I’m about to tip into panic. I have to get up, have to move.

“Cut myself,” I say to Carrie. “Just going to clean it up. Sorry.”

She waves me off. Before I’m even out of the circle of food prep, Molly’s slotted in to take my place, picking up the knife and slicing with a much quicker, neater hand than I can manage.

I stagger back towards my hut, trying to keep my breaths even, drawing the air right into the bottom of my lungs. When I reach my door, I throw it open, then slam it shut behind me, collapsing in a pile the moment I’m hidden from view.

My lungs snatch at the air as if there isn’t enough of it.

I drop my head between my knees to stop myself from passing out and try to force my breathing to slow.

My vision goes tunnelled, and when I try to blink it away, images flash before my eyes.

The dead-eyed birds in the aviary. Robert standing at the altar. My hands covered in blood.

A buzzing starts in my ears, and I know in a moment, they’ll start to echo with the chants of the people who lined up outside my court hearing - words firing at me out of my memory like bullets.

Scumbag. Criminal.

I press my hands over my ears, as if that will stop the sound coming from inside my head. I don’t want to hear it. Don’t want my panic to consume me so fully that I can’t break out of it.

Five things , I hear Rosa say - clear as if she were in the room with me. Remember your five things.

Five things I can see.

It’s hard. My tunnel vision doesn’t give me much scope. But I suck another breath into my lungs, look for things one at a time.

The boots on my feet that the quiet warrior, Endzoh, made for me, so I didn’t have to wear the heavy Mercenia boots anymore.

The trousers I’ve had to roll up several times so they don’t drag on the floor when I wear them.

The smooth wooden planks that make the floor of my hut. I wonder how the raskarrans get floors so perfect without machinery or advanced tools. Many generations of feet walking over them, perhaps.

The tips of my blonde hair hanging down in front of me.

Dark patches on the floor where I must have dripped some water earlier.

Four things I can touch.

I run my fingers over the floor, my boots, my trousers, then twine a lock of my hair around my fingers. Let it tickle over my skin. My head swims a little, but my breathing is slower, my heart not racing so fast.

Three things I can hear.

Exuberant raskarran voices calling to each other. The crackle of the central fire burning. Birdsong.

I smile. It’s my favourite thing about this place. I can always hear birdsong.

Two things I can smell.

The woodsy scent of the hut. I lift my top to my nose, breathe in the smell of the soap root again.

One thing I can taste.

I swipe my tongue across my upper lip. Taste the salty tang of sweat.

What would you do if you had your freedom? That was the question. I hear it now in Rosa’s purring voice, repeating it back to whichever girl just asked her, buying herself some time to think of a new, lurid scenario.

I’m starting to think it was the wrong question. If I could ask the women of the Correctional Facility - the Deviants, as we sometimes jokingly referred to ourselves - any question now, I’d ask them this:

How do you become free?

Because I escaped life imprisonment, escaped my home planet, crash landed somewhere Mercenia doesn’t even exist, and I’m still not truly free.

I’m starting to think I never will be.