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He says he’s not a big fan of people. Any male that has that many wives likes people, all right. It’s just strangers he’s not a fan of.
I’m reminded of this when the moment I step off the ramp, two gray-haired females brandishing weapons stick them in my face. A blaster hums to life, and then another. The barrel of one blaster pushes against my nose.
“State your business,” one of the women says.
I put my hands slowly in the air. “Jamef sa Raan, here to see Kaatir. I messaged him and said I was heading in. I want to talk ship mods.”
The woman grunts, and the barrel leaves my nose.
“All clear, honey,” she says, even as the second one moves to my side and runs a scanner over me, probably checking for hidden weapons.
I keep my hands in the air as Kaatir clanks toward me, his old prosthetics creaking and groaning as he chugs in my direction. The only male I’ve ever met that has more metal grafted to him than me, Kaatir va’Nik is an intimidating old mesakkah. His horns aren’t plated, as if he’s saying “kef it” to propriety. His lined face is covered in scars, and his short, military-length mane is snow-white. One arm is covered in tattoos and scars, the other nothing but metal. His cybernetics are from several generations ago, and I suspect that everything below the waist is a replacement part. He’s a tough one.
He creaks towards me, his steps slow but methodical. “What brings you around here, sa Raan?”
I lower my hands slowly. “I thought I’d pay a visit to you and your lovely, gentle wives, of course.”
He snorts. The one running her scanner over my body pushes it against my side, zapping me and making my tail flick. The women giggle.
“I’ve got forty-one of them now,” he says, voice raspy. “You want to take a few home with you?”
“Shut up, you old fart,” says the one with the blaster. She puts it away and moves to his side, leaning in to kiss his cheek. She’s avian, her feathers almost as gray as Kaatir, and gives me a dismissive look. “No one’s leaving this place.”
He grunts, patting her shoulder. “Tell the girls we’ve got company. Someone should probably make dinner.”
“Make it yourself,” the one with the wand declares—a crusty old szzt female. “You know how noodles get in a bowl. Hop to it, old man.” But then she giggles, ruining her tough talk, and wanders away.
Kaatir swats at her as she passes by. “Dinner! Tell whoever’s got kitchen duties this month that we need enough for one more.”
“Three more,” I say politely, amused by the interplay. “I’ve brought two wives myself.”
Kaatir always pretends like the females crawling all over his moon base are annoying him, and they pretend the same. In reality, I know they have a great deal of affection for one another. Kaatir takes on females as wives when he hears from slave traders that they’ve got an elderly or unsellable female. I don’t even know if it’s romantic. Just that he takes care of them and gives them a safe place to live, and they take care of him, too. They cook and clean…and argue. Every time I come here, one of the females is talking back to him in an utterly terrifying tone, but Kaatir just finds this funny. For all that he’s rough-looking outside, he’s got a soft heart inside that metal casing. He wants them to be unafraid, he tells me. He claims a feisty wife is a good wife, but I think he just wants them to have some say in their lives. It’s a terrible thing to be given no control over your life and have to live at the whim of others.
Both Kaatir and I learned that in the military.
“Two wives?” He gives me an amused look. “A starter pack, eh?”
I shrug, not wanting to say too much about Bethiah or Dora. “Wanted to make sure everyone was welcome before I brought them on board.”
“Two more for dinner,” he bellows into a communicator attached to his forearm.
An angry squawk comes through, something that my translator tells me is a very foul avian saying. Kaatar just laughs. “Mrrita will make it. She hasn’t learned to sass back yet like the others. Still too timid. She’ll get there, though. Just needs time. Bring your females. We’ll have dinner and share stories.”
The moment I comm the ship, the bay door opens and Bethiah and Dora step out.
And I stare.
They’re covered head to toe like penitents at a religious monastery. Both of them have their heads bowed and hooded, and when they reach my side, Bethiah kneels and clings to my leg. “Master,” she says in a voice dripping with sweetness. “Your wish is our desire. Tell us what you require.”
