Starting from the left of the door, Master Dakho Choo’s quarters is as follows: a shelving unit containing vials, jars, and souvenirs from across the Leaning Gale (labeled); desk (folds down to change into a bed); locked drawers (she has the key); stereo system bolted on top; closet; bathroom; door. Cha’kwaina opens the closet doors. The smell of the previous owner wafts up into her face. She sneezes. She closes the doors. Then, she opens it again, allowing the smell to whoosh out across her skin. The ship hums beneath her feet. She spreads her toes wide. She didn’t sleep. Hasn’t slept. Her body relied on drugs to put her to sleep for the last six years. Celsorelica decreased her drug dosage so she could speak without slurring, but everything stuttered under the effects of powerful cocktails to keep the Quinunaki metabolic system from adjusting.
That and she feels too much to sleep. The press of clothing on her skin, pulse of blood in her neck, wet hair on her ear after a shower—the shower. She didn’t even wash herself, just stood there, dumbstruck at sting of pain from sucking in water through her nose. She touches the vibrating speakers. She doesn’t know the music. The pleasure boats employed various instrumental accompaniments to increase their customer’s enjoyment. But nothing that rocked. Cha’kwaina hums along. She’s been listening to the same album since she learned how to turn on the stereo four days ago
“Pale shadow of a woman,” she repeats, mimicking the accent in the song. She tries it again, saying it faster, tongue sliding over her empty gums. It’s the language the crew of the Brightburn, Galactic Common, but they slip into Terran Common often enough that she’s been practicing in Master Dahko Choo’s room.
When Captain Elliot summons comes over the on-board communication, she’s elbows deep in Master Dahko Choos’s clothing touching the different fabrics. Some she recognizes—silk, satin, velvet—other’s are rougher and scratches her skin like the sheets and blankets. She pulls back, bringing a sweater with her. When she met Master Dahko Choo, his disease wasted a majority of his body. Seeing, touching, caressing his clothing she realizes he was her height, but wider across the shoulders as most male creatures tend to be. She rubs her cheek along the prickle of the sweater, sighs and folds it down onto the desk. “Next time, maybe.” She takes up her head scarf, wrapping, tucking, pinning, and leaving without looking in the bathroom mirror.
The hall is empty and Cha’kwaina whispers in Quinunkian about courage and small actions and that she will sit at the table with the rest of the crew today because she said she wanted to be a part of the crew—the medic talks as she enters in the galley. Cha’kwaina brushes the line of her scarf drawn across her nose. It has not slipped. It will not slip. She glances at the empty seats. Then, the full seats. And decides that next time she’ll sit at the table. For now, the wall is a pleasant place to lean against. Unobtrusive and out of immediate reach of her reluctant companions.
