“It’s a damirian, without a gender. It probably won’t even be in the mess hall tonight.”
“Thousands of years...” I thought about Malahki’s words. “How old is your father?”
“Was,” he corrected. “My father died during our crash here, twenty-three years ago. I was still a baby.”
Two decades on the Dark Anomaly equaled thousands of years out there in the galaxy. Yesterday, I’d had a thought about landing in pre-historic times. It turned out I hadn’t been that far off.
“What kind of fleet did your father have?”
“A fleet of fine ships led by the crew of free men,” he said somewhat mechanically, like the words had been repeated so often, their meaning had lost its luster to him. “The men who answered to no law.”
“Pirates, you mean?” I exhaled slowly. I’d heard about the cosmic pirates of the past. Brutal, unruly, and bloodthirsty, they used to terrorize this part of the Galaxy millennia ago.
“Pirates, mercenaries, free traders...” Wyck ran his fingers over one of the raised ridges on his head. “They had many names.”
“How about your mother?” I asked carefully. It couldn’t have been easy to be a woman back then.
His expression hardened.
“She wasn’t on the ship when it crashed,” he replied evasively.
From his tone, I understood he wasn’t willing to elaborate, and I decided to leave it at that for now.
“So, the other errocks raised you?”
“Yes. Crux, Nocc, and the others. We are a family,” he said with emphasis.
Nocc would be the last person in the Universe whom I’d want in my family, but the obvious pride in Wyck’s voice stopped me from saying anything out loud.
“Would you mind if I kept these?” I pointed at the gray data slates, changing the subject. “I’d like to read some more later, after...” The thought of what was supposed to happen in the mess hall tonight sent anxiety vibrating through me. “I need to get ready.”
I quickly searched through the remaining slates. Neither of them had any even remotely suitable music I could use. The green slates contained detailed information on damirian best practices for cultivating some crops. Which made me wonder why would Wyck bring them here at all.
“None of them will work,” I exhaled in disappointment.
“I’ll get you some more, then.” Wyck climbed to his feet, and I followed, getting up, too. “What color do you prefer? Green or yellow? Or should I grab different colors? There are some in blue, pink, and purple, too.”
I stared at him in some confusion.
“It’s not about the color. I need music—human or of any other race—a track I can dance to. These have some music, but not what I need.” I pointed at the documentaries on tribal life. “And these have no music at all.” I gestured at the rest.
“Okay.” He brushed the cookie crumbs off his pants. “I’ll get more yellow ones, then.”
“But what do the pink and the blue ones have on them?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugged, not meeting my eye.
“Well, make sure you read the titles first. Something with words like ‘music,’ ‘dance,’ or ‘concert’ could be it.”
He just stood there, shifting foot to foot.
“Is there a problem?” I asked, confused by his hesitating.
Suddenly, understanding dawned on me as if someone dumped a bucketful of ice-cold water over my head.
“You can’t read, Wyck, can you?”
Chapter 9
I COULDN’T BELIEVE it. Did Wyck really not know how to read? There wasn’t a civilized person—human or alien—out there in the Universe who didn’t know how to read and write. Even the most isolated tribes on remote planets, who actively refused technology, had advanced written languages, and some read and wrote in Universal. The use of translator implants by the general public had been declining because so many spoke the same language now.
I knew for a fact that most errocks on Hexol, their home world, spoke Universal just as well as their native language.
Maybe things used to be different back when the errocks of the Dark Anomaly had been on their home planet last?
“Can you read Hexolian?” I asked. “The errocks’ native language?”
With a furtive glance at me, Wyck reached for the slates in my hands. “I’ll take these back.”
“No one has ever taught you how to read?” I had to clarify, shocked and shaken by this discovery. “In any language?”
He didn’t reply, refusing to meet my gaze, which was an answer of its own.
Wyck was a grown man, raised by his own kind, and he couldn’t so much as read the few words of the title on a data slate.