Vektal tugs the cloak down tighter on me. He pats the furs by the fire and says something else. My guess is that it’s something akin to “rest here” because he pats the furs again and waits. I lie down. I’m warm and snuggled in furs and for the first time in what feels like forever, I don’t feel like I’m in imminent danger. All this alien wants is oral sex.
The thought makes me giggle inwardly, and I’m smiling as I fall asleep.
? ? ?
I wake up later, feeling better than I have in a long, long time. I’m warm and under a thick blanket, and I’m cuddled up against a big, hard form that’s warmer than any heating pad. My fingers move over the surface. It feels like suede over bone, and I realize after I hear the soft purring begin that I’m pressed up against Vektal’s chest.
It’s . . . not the worst place in the world to be. I mean, if I have my choice between the old cargo bay, alone in the snow, or snuggled next to the pussy-loving alien, I’m going to go with option number three.
I debate pretending to remain asleep, but there’s something big and hard prodding into my stomach that tells me that Vektal’s conscious, acutely aware of my presence, and far more generously equipped than any guy I’ve ever met.
I sit up, tugging the blankets around me. My breath fogs in the air, and I glance around the cave. Weak sunlight is pouring in through the door flap, and the fire has gone out. It’s bitterly cold unless I’m pressed next to Vektal, and the urge to crawl back against him and huddle for warmth is real and strong.
But he sits up and begins to adjust his clothing. “Vy droskh,” he tells me. I don’t know if that’s “good morning” or “damn it’s cold” or what. He gets up, and as he does, my stomach rumbles again.
Vektal squints at me.
“I know,” I say. “Trust me, I know.” It’s embarrassing for me, too.
He begins to unwrap the food from last night, but I make a face and shake my head. I mime that it burns my tongue. He chuckles and then makes a gesture that looks like a rocking baby, which puzzles me. I’m not following this conversation at all.
“Hungry,” I say. I rub my stomach and mime eating something. “Food?” Every inch of me feels like a mooch for finding a guy and then demanding he feed me, but “food” is easier to mime than “If you’d give me a nice weapon I’d catch my own breakfast.” For right now, we have to proceed in baby steps.
Vektal nods and begins to put on the gear he discarded overnight. He’s bare-chested this morning, and his pectorals are just as grimly fascinating as I suspected they would be. They’re like slabs of cold iron over his smoky blue chest. I remember the warm, suede-feel of his skin. He sure was nice to rub up against. I watch him dress, intrigued by the differences in our bodies. Over certain spots on his body, he has knobby ridges. They trail along the back of each arm to his elbow. The ridges glide down the center of his chest and smooth out somewhere between his pectorals and his navel. And his thighs have the bumpy, textured ridges, too. I wonder what purpose they’re for. They decorate his brow, too, and right down his nose.
He’s in a talky mood this morning, too. He holds a one-sided conversation with me as he slings his vest back over his chest and begins to tie his knives and blades back to their proper spots. I want to ask for one, but I don’t know his culture. Maybe it’s taboo for him to give me one and I’d insult him by asking. Right now I’m wary of pissing him off, because he’s the only lifeline I’ve got. I watch my breath fog in the air again as he continues talking, and I think of the girls at the ship, huddled together.
I hope they’re okay. God, I hope they’re okay. I need to get back to them today so they don’t worry. I can tell them what I’ve found . . .
Which, really, isn’t much. I’ve found face-eating fish that have stalks that look like bamboo. I’ve found a warm stream （full of the aforementioned face-eating fish）， and I’ve found an alien that likes to eat pussy as a greeting.
All three things won’t help us get home. I haven’t found a city. I haven’t found another ship. I sure haven’t found anyone that speaks English. And to make matters worse, I’ve lost our only weapon. I’m not doing so hot at this save-the-day thing.
Vektal finishes tying his bags and pouches and then slips on boots. I sneak a peek at his toes just to satisfy my curiosity. Three large, splayed toes and a bony heel that was probably a fourth toe at some point in evolution. I probably wouldn’t be able to wear his boots either, and the thought depresses me as I shove my feet back into my uncomfortable stolen boots.