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It’s not a question. It’s a statement. It’s rude.
“This tastes like ass,” she declares as she starts eating. I note that the taste does not stop her from consuming every single morsel of it. Her appetite is healthy, and so is she. In spite of my irritation at her verbal rudeness, I find myself feeling a great deal of admiration for her. I have overseen the capture and training of many humans over the years. Many of them weaken under far less stress than she has recently experienced.
I find myself watching her, assessing her. In terms of appearance, she is quite pleasing. She has a strong but soft body, smooth skin, and pretty features. A lot of Euphorians appreciate the larger eyes, and hers are wide with curiosity, but also rebellion. Her hair is dark and curling, which is relatively rare, and would potentially mean she would fetch a fine price. It’s possible she could have a place in one of the more established houses if she were used as display only, but I suspect her temperament is too wild for such refined locations.
Taming can only go so far toward changing the essential nature of a pet. This is why we usually select our pets with more care. Or I did, when choosing pets was my domain, before Arkan decided that he should give things a go and essentially kicked off an entire planetary civil war in the process.
“You should smile more,” the human says to me.
“Excuse me?”
“Turn that frown upside down. You look so serious. It might never happen.”
“What might never happen?”
“Whatever it is you’re so worried about.”
“I am not worried, human.”
“You can lie to yourself all you like, but I know a worried man, or whatever you are, when I see one. You’re shitting yourself about something.”
I’ve never known humans to be particularly insightful when it comes to reading our species. After all, most of our communication is telepathic, and humans have no mind reading abilities at all. They are simple creatures entirely dependent on small mouth noises. But this one seems to have a strangely powerful sense of empathy.
Interesting.
She smirks to herself. “Can I get another bowl of human chow, mister?”
“Yes,” I say, refilling the bowl. Her need for nutrition is great, though she should not eat too much all at once. The first amount of food was a relatively small amount. This is another smaller amount. I’m now feeling better about not having made a hamburger. It would have been too much for her to eat anyway.
“Stingy,” she notes.
“You have not had food in your stomach in weeks. If you eat too much, there is a very real likelihood that you will eject it all as quickly as you ate it. I will feed you often, human.”
“My name is Stella.”
“I will feed you often, Stella.”
“That’s the only nice thing you’ve said or done since I met you,” she says.
“I’m not here to be nice. I’m here to keep you alive.”
A little grin crosses her impudent features. “Damn. Keep talking like that and I might fall in love.”
She starts eating again, and I am left to wonder if that last comment was sarcasm or not. This rude little human has me unsettled. Of course, I did not intend to be dealing with a conscious, wild-caught human not of my choosing today. I had other things to worry about. I still have other things to worry about.
We are flying home, though I do not know if that is advisable. A civil war seems inevitable. Our father is dead, and…
The bowl clatters across the floor.
“I’m done,” she says.
“Pick that up,” I snap.
“You pick it up.”
“The only thing I will be picking up is you, to put you back over my knee if you don’t do as I say this second.”
She hesitates for a moment, then tosses her curls, gives me a gesture involving her middle finger — which I have come to learn is a gesture indicating the height of human disrespect, and runs. She doesn’t know where she is running, of course. She doesn’t even know she’s on a spaceship. But she does not care.
