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“Insurance,” Rhonda says, taking another drag from her carcinogel. “Like I said, our best route to safety is a lovely appearance. So…they bought you on station? Were they looking for a plaything?”
“Oh, no. It was my idea for the three of us to get together,” I say, carefully hanging the dresses. I tell her all about how we got together, how Bethiah and Jamef had been playing cat and mouse games and how I was attracted to both of them, and how I’d suggested the triad. As I talk, Rhonda smokes. She pulls out a second carcinogel and puffs on it when the first one goes dry, and all the while I put away one mouth-watering dress after another.
I avoid mentioning that I’m a clone, though.
“Smart,” is all Rhonda says when I finish my story. “Just don’t become too pushy. They don’t like it when we have minds and opinions of our own. They want pretty little cock remoras, eager to latch onto an alien dick at the slightest provocation.”
I don’t know what a remora is, but I chuckle at her words, because Jamef does always like it when I instigate a blow job. “Bethiah likes it when you latch on, too. To pussy, that is.”
Her eyes flash, and she smiles again. “Yes, I bet she does.” She looks around the room as I move to another of her bags, wondering what treasures this one has. “Do they ever discuss credits in front of you?”
“Me? I’m not sure. If they have, I don’t pay attention. Why?”
“They must have some funds pooled together,” Rhonda comments, looking around the room. “I imagine both of them are good at their jobs and for all that this ship looks like an absolute disaster, I would think they’re just fond of saving instead of spending. Do you have an idea of how much is in their accounts?”
I shake my head slowly, frowning.
“Oh, Dora.” Rhonda looks disappointed in me. “You need to ask. If they’re poor, how can they take care of you? How can they keep you safe? Everyone in space is looking to make a few quick credits, and what are they going to do if some trumped-up port jockey decides that he’s going to confiscate you? What if they have no credits? Are they just going to pass you around to make up the fee? These are things you need to ask.”
Pass me around?
I swallow hard, thinking of Jamef and Bethiah’s recent conversations. Of how Jamef is tapped out, monetarily, and that Bethiah never has any credits saved. We’re broke. What if…what if they decide I need to earn my way like Rhonda thinks?
Surely they wouldn’t…
Would they?
She’s right. I need to ask.
Eighty-Two
BETHIAH
I’m in an absolute shit mood when we get back to the ship. I can tell Jamef isn’t happy with me, and I don’t blame him. I’m not exactly happy with me, either. I should have turned Rhonda away. Should have just told her “best of luck” and let someone else handle the bounty. If she got attacked or abused or enslaved again, that’s her problem, not mine.
It’s just…I can’t. Once upon a time, I loved her. I can’t turn my back on a person in need, even if it’s one that broke me ten years ago.
So here we are, and I’m in a keffing royally bad mood.
I head for the maintenance room on ship, hoping something is broken and I can put my fist through it. And if it’s not broken, I’ll break it just to give myself something to do.
A few hours later, I feel more like myself after I’ve ripped out an entire stretch of cabling in a pissy fit and then replaced it. My back aches from bending over the components, but I’ve fixed everything that I damaged, and I’m feeling far more reasonable. I eye the grime under my fingernails, grimacing. I need to clean that up before dinner, because if Rhonda can pick apart something about your appearance, she will, and I don’t want to hear it.
Ugh. I’m just now realizing that I kinda hate living with Rhonda again. I should have left her on the station.
“Hey, Bethiah?” There’s a knock at the door to the control room. “Can we talk?”
It’s Dora. She probably wants to yell at me over the whole situation, and I probably deserve it…but I also don’t want to hear it. “Now’s not a good time,” I call out, rustling some of the cables to make it sound like I’m busy. “Can we talk after dinner?”
“Oh. Okay. Sure.”
She sounds so hollow and defeated that for a moment, I think that can’t be my Dora. Something’s wrong.
Is she crying? Is that because of me?
I open the door a crack despite myself and eye the woman on the other side. Sure enough, her eyes are red and she looks so sad it hurts my heart. It instantly makes me feel protective. “Did Jamef make you cry?”
