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"Sounds like it being hard isn't a problem," his companion hoots.
Jerrok says nothing, but his disguised face breaks into a smile, as if he's in on the joke. Ugh. "So can I get a sled for my wares or not? You can't expect me to carry all this through the station."
"Not with those limbs," the officers joke. "You pick them out of the garbage?"
"If I did, would you be surprised?" Jerrok—sorry, Lankham os'Riit—jokes back. I'm appalled, but because I'm supposed to be silent, I say nothing. I just kind of hate them all.
They haggle over the price to rent a sled to carry Jerrok's scrap, and the port charge is added on for a day's docking. When the prices are settled and the sled loaded, Jerrok slips the men a few credits that they quickly pocket. The sled lifts up from the ground and settles in at a comfortable waist height in front of Jerrok, almost like a shopping cart with no wheels. He glances over at me, expression impatient. "Come on, female. We've got things to do."
I fight back the urge to kick him, because the station's port officers are watching us with amused expressions. I duck my head, hiding my hands in my sleeves as I scurry over to Jerrok's side. As I do, I hear one of the officers make a noise of disgust in his throat. "Keffing junkers. They'll stick their cocks into anything."
Well, this is a good disguise at least. If everyone finds me repulsive, I'm safe. Strangely enough, I'm growing more offended for Jerrok by the moment. First the cracks about his limbs, now his job? They're such assholes.
And he says nothing, which makes me a little crazy.
We head deeper into the station, down a crowded corridor. Jerrok shoves people out of the way with his sled, and I practically plaster myself against his back to keep up. It's wall to wall people in the narrow tunnels, and the air feels humid and gross against my skin. There's a low murmur of constant voices, but I can occasionally hear the raw creak of Jerrok's limbs over the noise, and I can't help but notice that he's limping more than usual. Eventually, we get to a larger area filled with booths and even more people. The scent of food is in the air, and it reminds me a bit of a run-down bazaar from back home. He heads unerringly through the crowd of booths and carts, heading for an oversized booth at the back of the shopping district.
Jerrok parks the cart in front of the shop. He glances around at the crates of neatly stacked parts and metal bits hanging from the top of the booth. "Rothort here? Got a delivery."
A small, hairless gray creature with big eyes makes a bird-whistle sound at us and hops down from his seat where he was piecing together bits of metal. He races back into the back of the shop, and a moment later, the curtain parts and an enormous, hulking figure that looks far too familiar ducks out of the back.
My fingers dig into Jerrok's belt, and it's the only thing that keeps me from falling over—or running away screaming.
Rothort is a praxiian.
He's not any praxiian I know, of course. The ones I knew dressed in all kinds of glittery jewelry and loved sweeping robes. They covered themselves with decorative ornaments and probably would be caught dead before going to a trading bazaar. This guy has his mane completely shorn except for a mohawk between his catlike ears. He's wearing a grungy work jumper and an even grungier apron over his chest…but he's still a praxiian, and every nerve inside my body is screaming for me to run run run run RUN RUN.
I try to step behind Jerrok to hide my panic, but he puts a big arm around my shoulders and tucks me against his side, as if I'm his little wifey. And, well…that helps, oddly enough. I feel a little more protected, and that feeling continues when the praxiian barely spares me a glance. He's far more interested in what Jerrok's brought.
"This better be a decent load," the praxiian grumbles. "Unlike that keffing ship-slag you brought me last time."
"If you don't like what I brought, I'll just take it somewhere else," Jerrok retorts. "You're not the only game in town, Rothort."
The praxiian snorts. "Yes, I am." But he picks up a piece of something that looks like just more garbage to me and studies it. "I might be interested in buying this lot." He shoots a look over at Jerrok. "Haven't seen you in a good year or so. What brings you crawling out this way, Lankham?"
"Got mated," Jerrok says, and pats my shoulder. "She eats more than I expected."
"Charming." The praxiian puts the part back on the sled. "Name your price."
