7. Harper

7

HARPER

W hile Yva made it clear that he’d rather be hunting—and I can think of plenty of people who want all the aliens hunting and supplying us with fresh food—he learns what needs to be done fast and works without complaint. Some people grizzle about handling the dirty clothes and then again when they need to fold them and put them in the bags to be returned—the same people are always the first to complain if they don’t like the repair, or a stain couldn’t be removed.

In the afternoon, some people stop by to collect their bag, the rest we load into a cart and deliver. I explain how I group by number, which means I give him an impromptu lesson on numbers. He seems to get it, but I’m not ready to let him deliver on his own. We leave the other two staff to put in the next round of laundry. They started after lunch and will work until lights out.

Neither of them greeted Yva warmly.

I don’t know what I expected, from them or him, but it wasn’t what I got.

“So, how have you found it?”

He pulls the cart along the corridor, and I hang the bags on the door handle. It is quick with both of us doing it. An extra person in the laundry will mean we can spend more time mending and reworking some of the worn clothes into something wearable. How long until we can’t make what we have stretch?

“It is a necessary job,” Yva says.

“That isn’t an answer. It’s not exciting, and it is repetitive.”

“Then why not make everyone do their own laundry? A small amount of time from them then allows you to do something else.”

“It was decided this way is more efficient. It’s been this way on large military ships for a very long time.”

“But we are not on a ship, and it is not as though you must scrub your clothes and lay them out to dry. The machine does that.”

“True.” But plenty of people would be upset about doing their own laundry or their own cooking. We have all accepted this is the way it is, because it was how it was done on Earth.

“I understand why I was assigned this job. Why were you sent there?” Yva asks after a couple more deliveries.

I debate how much to tell him, but I can’t be bothered coming up with an excuse. “Those of us with low grades are sent to the laundry, the kitchen or cleaning.”

“Grades?”

“At school—a place where children are taught—if we did badly, then it reduced which jobs we were eligible to do.”

He stops. “They did not spend more time teaching you or ask what you were interested in?”

“No. There were set classes that we needed to do well in, like math and science.” And they were not things I excelled at. The practical classes I did much better in, but instead of being taught to repair things, I was put in the laundry. “Did you have classes?”

He smiles and there’s a glint in his red eyes. “I had many classes. I learned to fight with a wooden sword before I learned with metal. I learned how to track and hunt animals, which plants were safe to eat, and how to prepare the food I’d found. How to wash and mend clothes. All skills needed once banished.”

“But your friends…they must have other skills?”

He is silent for several seconds. “Different tribes raise their banished differently. While my older brothers, brothers by blood, were raised to be good mates and make good alliances for the tribe, I was given practical lessons. Aldit learned his father’s craft, while Hrad was raised away from the tribe in a place dedicated to fourth sons.”

“Why fourth? Why not third?”

“Four is unlucky.” He watches me as I pick up a bag and hang it on the door handle. “I could’ve done this on my own.”

“Yes, but it’s quicker with two.”

“Only if you let me help, instead of only allowing me to pull the cart.”

It’s still quicker with someone pulling the cart and someone unloading. “Fine, sling some bags. Double check the numb?—”

His glare cuts me off. In that moment, his large red eyes make him seem terrifying. Predatory. Add in his size…

I take a step back.

“I am not stupid, just because I cannot read your marking yet. If you were given a task with my letters and numbers, you would also fail.” He points to the room number on the bag. “Your numbering system has ten symbols. Mine has five until you reach bigger numbers.” He picks up the bag and hangs it on the correct door handle.

He’s correct that I would fail at reading his writing, but I want to know what his markings look like. “I am the one who will be in trouble if laundry is returned to the wrong room.”

He snorts. “Why would there be trouble? Why wouldn’t the person with the wrong bag take it to the correct room?”

I don’t have an answer for that, but it wouldn’t happen the way he described. It’s much easier to believe it was deliberate and complain than correct the error and assume it was a mistake. Some people like to make drama, as if struggling to survive on a new world isn’t enough.

“You put the people who did badly at school in jobs that matter the most. Food, clothing…” He considers me as if considering his next question. “In fact, I will bet that your guards, the people who will be responsible for hunting, also received poor grades.”

“You are correct…though they got better grades than me.”

He shakes his head and grabs another bag, leaving me to pull the cart.

“So those who did well at school, what jobs do they do?” He grabs the next two bags and hangs them on the door handles. “You’re checking the numbers,” he says without even looking at me. “Making sure I am matching them.”

“I am. Because it’s my job.” And I’m not going to let an alien who thinks he’s learned everything he needs to know about it, and humans, cause me problems.

We finish unloading the cart in silence and make our way back to the laundry. But I don’t want to leave things like this, not when they were going so well before.

He seems interesting and I want to learn more about the aliens. “Maybe you can show me your numbers tomorrow?”

He glances at me, and I can tell he’s assessing me. He jerks his head. “I will need something to write on.”

“I can arrange that.” That’s not a problem. I can show him my tablet.

“Then I will show you.” He tilts his head as he studies me. “If you arrived in my tribe, how fast do you think you could adapt?”

“It would take a while, I guess.” I shrug, even though I understand what he is getting at.

He smiles, lips pressed together, hiding his orange teeth. He isn’t an odd looking human, or a primitive being. He has his own people and culture, and it isn’t the same as ours. His people seem to value different things.

“Your mother was a chief…so you must have learned something about running a tribe. How would you run the colony?” Or did he not learn those kinds of things?

He laughs, but there is a sad tone to it. “That is a question best answered around a fire with plenty of gol.”

My device doesn’t translate the word. “What is gol?”

“It is a drink we make with brewed leaves.”

“Like the tea served with breakfast?”

His eyes narrow as if he is struggling with the translation. “I do not think so, but I will try your tea tomorrow.”

Yva walks away without telling me what gol is, or how he’d change the colony. We’ve just had a change in leadership, so I don’t think we need another, but there needs to be some changes. My stomach gurgles even though it’s not dinner time.

I think we’d all like a change in food, and more of it.

My gaze tracks him, and all I can think of is his jerky.