I couldn't keep us safe. I gambled on a plan, and I lost. Now Ruth, Helen and Alice are going to suffer for it, and I want to just curl up into a ball and cry.
I can't, though. I have to pretend like I'm strong and in control. The other women are shooting me worried looks, and I know they're scared. I have to be strong for their sakes.
"What do you think is going on?" I answer coolly.
The big guy grins at me. He paces around the room, but there's no urgency in his steps. He's not doing it because he's agitated. It's like he's doing it just because he's not the type to calmly have a seat. His tail swishes back and forth in a calm manner, and I've learned enough about the mesakkah race over the last few years that I recognize that he's not angry, or seething with rage. His smile must be legit, because his body language just enforces his easy nature.
Body language is something I've had to lean into over the last few years. Even with a translator chip unceremoniously implanted behind my ear so I can understand alien languages, things don't always line up. Aliens have different sayings, different customs. This particular race might get offended at a bared teeth smile. This one might not look you in the eye. With all that going on, I've learned to look for subtle cues instead. To see how someone holds themselves, the set of their shoulders, if their knuckles are tight, or if they stand too close. If a tail flicks in agitation. All these things can tell me a lot without saying a word, and I trust them far more than any platitudes spewing out of alien mouths.
As aliens go, though, I'm glad that whoever this guy is, he's the blue-horned race. Mesakkah. Out of the alien races I've seen so far, the mesakkah are the most appealing to human sensibilities. They're blue skinned with armored plating on the brows, arms, chest, and a few other spots. They've got enormous, curling horns that arch back from that plated brow and crown impossibly thick black hair. Their facial features are somewhat angular and oversized, but it all comes together to be strikingly attractive. They're around seven feet tall and have three fingers and a thumb, fangs, and a tail. It's a mixture of elements that are just enough to be familiar and appealing…and different enough to be alien.
The one standing in front of me, grinning like a loon, is attractive enough. Okay, fine, he's cute. He's got a roguish grin that promises naughtiness and bright eyes. He's built like a pro-wrestler, and his somewhat messy hair tickles at his brow and the curve of his ear instead of staying in place. If I was back on Earth, I'd say this man looks like someone that knows how to have fun.
But since we're in space, he's the enemy.
I wait for him to answer me, irked by the playful smile that remains on his face as he paces. He pretends to study all of us, but his gaze keeps straying back to me. "I think you were going to rob us and dump us. Steal our ship and enjoy a tidy little profit. And I'm also guessing it's not the first time you've pulled this sort of maneuver."
He looks impressed instead of angry, and I don't know how to handle that. "We weren't going to kill you," I point out. "Just send you back into space on your ship."
"If it makes you feel any better, it wouldn't have worked. We deliberately came to this sector looking for the Buoyant Star. We would have turned right back around and headed in your direction again, memory-altering gas or not."
I'm not completely stupid. "We'd turn off the distress signal so you wouldn't be able to find us."
His lips tilt into a smile. "And you'd move the ship?"
I remain silent. I can't point out that we don't know how to do more than tap a few buttons on the ship. That most of what we've learned how to do has been through punching one button and waiting for the results, good or bad. That the only way we know how to turn on the gas in the one room was because Ruth was scrubbing air filters and hit the wrong button and knocked herself out for a day. It's been a lot of guess work, and since we have nothing else but