“The harbormaster’s office is near the largest processing facility,” he said finally. “I will accompany you tomorrow and make introductions.”
“You don’t have to?—”
“I want to.” His tail tightened around her waist. “Allow me this, s’kara. I cannot protect you from everything, but I can smooth your path where possible.”
She leaned against him, breathing in his scent—clean and spicy with a hint of the ocean spray that seemed to cling to everything on Tillich Two.
“Okay,” she said. “But I’m doing the actual talking. I don’t need you intimidating my potential employers.”
“I do not intimidate.”
“You absolutely intimidate. You’re a huge warrior with a stare that makes people confess to crimes they didn’t commit.”
His chest rumbled with amusement. “I will endeavor to look less intimidating.”
“Good luck with that.”
She carried Mikoz to bed a few minutes later, tucking him into his nest of blankets and stroking his forehead until she was sure he wouldn’t wake. Then she returned to the deck where Selik still sat, now studying something on his datapad.
“Fishing regulations,” he explained when he saw her looking. “There are protected species and seasonal restrictions I need to memorize.”
She settled beside him and rested her head on his shoulder. “Read them to me. I’ll help you study.”
“You need to sleep.”
“In a minute. First, tell me about fishing.”
So he did, his deep voice washing over her as he explained tidal patterns and net configurations and the migratory habits of the native species. She didn’t understand half of it, but it didn’t matter. What mattered was the quiet contentment in his tone,the way his tail kept her close, the future they were building one small decision at a time.
When she finally stumbled to bed an hour later, she fell asleep with the sound of waves in her ears and hope in her heart.
The processing facility was exactly as unpleasant as she had imagined. The smell hit her first—fish and salt and something vaguely chemical that made her eyes water. Then the noise—machinery and shouting and the constant slap of wet things hitting metal surfaces.
The supervisor was a weathered Tillichi female named Chanda who looked her up and down with the practiced eye of someone who’d hired hundreds of desperate workers.
“Experience?”
“None. But I’m a fast learner and I’m not squeamish.”
Chanda handed her a gutting knife. “Show me.”
Thirty minutes later, she had a job. The pay was exactly as modest as Selik had warned, the hours were long, and she’d be doing work that would have horrified her colleagues back at the university. But it was honest work, and it would help feed her family.
“You start tomorrow,” Chanda said. “Six in the morning, eight-hour shifts, two days off per week. Bring your own gloves and wear closed-toed shoes. Any questions?”
“None. Thank you.”
Outside, Selik waited with Mikoz. The infant had discovered a fascination with a pile of old netting and kept trying to tangle himself in it.
“You got the job,” he said. Not a question.
“I got the job.” She took Mikoz before he could completely mummify himself. “It’s going to be disgusting and exhausting and my hands will probably never stop smelling like fish.”
“You are certain this is what you want?”
“Want? No. But it’s what we need.” She bounced Mikoz on her hip. “And who knows? Maybe I’ll discover a hidden talent for fish gutting.”
“Perhaps.” His expression remained doubtful.
