The Pearl (Galactic Jewels Book 1) (8 page)

He grunted and tipped his head back, swallowing the whisky in its entirety. How crass. He gave the glass a sharp twist when he returned it to the table so it spun away. “Fixing ships is a trade.” Hardness edged his voice. “Trades must be
taught
.”

“Yes. In a
book
.” Everyone knew manuals and databases held our knowledge. Without writing lessons, techniques, theories, and historical catalogues, they couldn’t be translated and shared between galaxies.

Maybe he couldn’t read. “I know about trades. Ask me.”

He rolled his eyes and slammed another shot of whiskey, then held the empty glass up to the filtered golden light. “Alright then, Tell me how to make whisky—and not lousy Xlen whiskey—tell me about Scotch.”

I pretended to be stumped, buying time to figure out why he’d picked that subject. I leaned over and lifted the bottle, then settled back in my chair, running a fingertip across the embossed label. “There’s no such thing as Scotch anymore, but you knew that. Shall I tell you how to make Zyldish Whisky—” I glanced up through lowered lashes at his startled grunt. “Or perhaps you’d prefer if I regaled you with the proper method of distilling Aramo?”

He stared at me, then his eyes narrowed and he plucked the bottle from my fingers, refilling his glass. “Zyldish will do.” He walked away and I breathed a sigh of relief, grateful my presentation with the Zyld had been last month instead of at the beginning of my reign.

“Zyldish whisky is the closest thing to Scotch that exists in our known universe after the Scottsmen went the way of the Xros during that first war. Damn, they were some warriors.” I glanced behind me, unable to see any more than the top of his fluff of hair while he rummaged in the cabinet, determined to find whatever he was looking for. “Have you seen a Scottsman?” I’d spent too many nights in the database watching old holo videos of Scottish warriors in battle. They’d done their ancestors proud as they’d fallen again on the old battlegrounds.

“I met a guy who knew one. Off the Bevi galaxy, right there at the time gate into Pia.” He straightened and rolled his shoulders, again looking like the suit was more constricting than comfortable. He stared out the window for a long stretch. “Interesting fellow, full of stories.” A soft laugh emanated from him and for a Zixxby second I flashed to a thought about what he’d be like in a different setting, with his friends, telling stories while they drank whisky. I’d never had an opportunity like that, having trained for my position since childhood. Fransín had made a sim once that had included a brilliant collection of intellectuals that had spent a full day teaching us about whatever we’d asked of them. The Samarian tutor had been too impressed to reprimand her, asking her privately later how she’d managed to tap into the entirety of the databank. I’d secretly hoped that they’d change schooling to incorporate her sim, but that would have rewarded her disobedience and they’d been unable to figure out a way to change everything without the galaxy knowing why.

He returned before I remembered to answer what he’d asked, set another glass beside his, filled them, and pushed one across the table. “After you drink this.”

It was my turn to strangle the gasp before it left my mouth. I was forbidden from drinking during presentations—a holdover from an unfortunate incident some years back when the Pearl and his candidate got into a heated debate over Canan wines and proceeded to spend the evening getting blitheringly drunk and making mad, passionate love
during the broadcast
for all the universe to see. In the courtesan house, we’d critiqued the performances as a live training tool, but the Ambassador had not been pleased. Neither had the Canan Winery Association. Nor the representative’s home galaxy. It had been an unfortunate and embarrassing event for everyone involved.

I wouldn't have been surprised if he'd hoped to recreate that spectacle, what with his reputation. His offer for a shot of the four-thousand pectaga bottle of booze sparked delight because I
loved
Zyldish whisky. One reason I'd hesitated about the Hemperklu as my first choice was their allergy to grain alcohol, a poison that rendered them paralyzed for days. They tended to stay away from it and I wouldn’t find any within their galaxy. My fingers reached for the drink and I let them, lifting it and indulging a foolish girlish fairytale I’d been unable to shake, a silly wish for late-night discussions over a bottle of Zyldish Whisky. 

The cold glass felt good against my lower lip and I inhaled the tang and spice of the whisky’s bouquet. His offer prickled that fantasy and left me troublingly off-balance since we were doing exactly what I’d always dreamed.

My eyes flew open and I set the glass down, jerked upright, and pushed against the chair, its heavy weight trapping me until I wrestled free. “You have to go.” I gripped the lip of the chair and shoved, scooting it backward in a halting, bumping progression. I was a flustered mess and had to calm down before the Samarian arrived. I needed alone time, not his continued riling of my human emotions. Fanciful dreams had no place in my future.

I was the Pearl.

C
HAPTER
10

S
HE
WASN
’
T
SUPPOSED
to be pretty, or fiery, or a drinker who knew the difference between space water and expensive whisky. I’d agreed to this farce to get out of the LinnOw deal. The Samarians’ business offer had come at the perfect time, buying off the LinnOw in return for my representation as a newly appointed citizen of Samaria. An evening with the Pearl had seemed a small price to pay.

I’d been painfully wrong.

She looked away and tugged the hem of her sleeve, uncomfortable at being here. Well, that made two of us. I should have done my homework. My knowledge of the Pearl and how this worked had come from underground bars and mechanic bays. Those guys talked about jewels like they weren’t any different than the Tyrills. This girl didn’t belong in the same universe as a a Tyrillian. She might be similarly trained in the art of sex, but the difference ended there. Lility had mastered a sensuality and seductiveness that far exceeded anything a Tyrillian could have pull off.

And she intrigued me.

A lot.

I couldn’t afford to be intrigued. “You want me to go?” I laughed loud and harshly. If only it were that easy. “Good one.” I said, angry that I’d not only allowed myself to be put in this situation, but that she didn’t want me here.

I slammed another shot of a whisky that was meant to be sipped, which pissed me off more. Nothing about tonight was going as I’d intended. This had been a horrible idea, but it wasn’t like I’d had other options. I needed to do—
had
to do—the damn presentation and hope that pacified her enough for this ridiculous event and its requirements. If Lility chose a Samarian because of my presentation, then I’d deal with that mess later and figure out how to make sure
I
wasn’t the samarian fulfilling that part. My obligation to the Samarians was this presentation. There’d be no phoning it in though, not only did she have to hear me out, she had to pick me over the hundreds of other representatives who’d trained for this practically since birth.

If not, the deal was off.

I’d been confident that getting a woman to fall for me wouldn’t be a challenge. I mean, come on, it never had been. Women were easy to woo. I studied her, the perfect updo, the overdone makeup, the constricting clothes, all done to create a mesmerizing, calculated image of a woman meant to rule over one and all, not a single thing overlooked.
 

Except me.

I set the glass down gently and adjusted my tie.

She and I had to get through this presentation, then she’d pick Samaria as her champion and we’d both free of our obligations, leaving her to get on with her pearling.

First, I had serious repair work to do. I’d already pushed her too far with the wrong methods and she was ready to bolt. When she’d been down for drinking, I’d treated her like a Tyrillian, luring her in with an aggressive approach, which had been stupid. Now I was drilling myself one hell of a black hole and I had to fix this, fast. Luckily, she reminded me of Canna and the best way to get Canna to dig in her heels and stick around was to piss her off so she pushed back.

I clenched my teeth and readied myself for the onslaught of what I was about to incite, hoping I'd read her right and that she was a fiery spirit like Canna. If not, I was signing my own slave warrant. “What’s the matter, am I too plain? Too
human
for you? Not enough tentacles?”

C
HAPTER
11

“G
ET
OUT
.” I stiffened, mortified at my sudden outburst that mimicked his. He was drunk and talking nonsense. That was a downfall of the Zyldish fare—and why I never had more than two glasses. Air mixtures factored into the alcohol content of the whisky, too, but I’d never had so violent a reaction.

“If it bothers you so much, don’t think of me as human, Honey.” He winked. “Think of me as a Samarian.”

I frowned and checked the mostly full bottle of whisky. Clearly his tolerance was much lower than mine. “What is
wrong
with you?” Why was he saying such nonsense?

“Not a thing.” He poured himself another glass.

I’d have taken the bottle but getting closer to him held zero appeal, especially with this wild attitude shift. Thankfully, the presentation hadn’t started, so I didn’t have to put up with his crudeness like I would have if he’d been a proper candidate. Dirk was just a male, one of no consequence to me. If they were already taping, our interactions would be deleted before this evening’s official documentation was reviewed and shipped to the galaxies. I wasn’t about to take his attitude for one more second; I’d barely held it together this long and had made an awful showing of my training.

“Is that a line, then? Is this the famous Dirk Battleship persona we've all heard so much about? Too late, I have a
real
Samarian coming.” I wanted him gone. I put my hands on his shoulders, spun him around, and shoved him toward the door, doing my best to ignore the tingles shooting up my arms from having to touch his hard bunches of muscles. “Hope you have autopilot on that ship,” I grumbled, hurrying him toward the transporter. He could sleep this off on his ship while I had a nice date and went back to my life, never to see him again.

He twisted away from me and crossed his arms, a frown pinching his too-human eyebrows together. “I am human
and
a Samarian.”

“Hate to tell you, but human isn’t a braggable attribute, even if you were telling the truth, which you’re not.”

He wagged his eyebrows and flexed his bulging arms like that was some sort of appeal. I snorted. “Do not tell me that line actually works. Does it?
That's
the part that brings all the females to your bedchambers?”

He winked.

I’d never met a species with a smaller vocabulary than the LinnOw. His aversion to talking was only displaced by his excessive flexing. I groaned. “Please leave. Please.” I so didn't want him here when the Samarian arrived. I didn't want anything about my time with her tainted by his obnoxiousness.

He didn’t budge. Didn’t say a word.

Why? Why wasn’t he leaving? Why wouldn’t he go away? Why did he think he was... I blinked.

And backed away. My heart rate escalated and my subconscious brought tidbits I’d overlooked to the forefront of my thought.

What if he wasn’t drunk? What if he was telling the truth, implausible as it seemed?

Surely what he’d said wasn’t possible, was it?

I’d dismissed the possibility of another human because there’d been no record of one. Dirk’s datafile held his conquests and celebrity accolades. No one had cared where he’d come from or what species he was—it was a non-issue in light of the other facts about him.

I narrowed my eyes and tipped my head, studying his features again, comparing them to what I saw every morning in the mirror, looking for tell-tale ones Fransín had missed last night in her manipulation of the sim. Details so small as to be easily overlooked when I hadn’t cared what he was.

Individual eyelashes, dilating pupils, rhythmic breathing, all features common—and unique—to creatures that had originated on Earth... My palms clenched. No way was I checking his fingertips for the telltale sworls and confirming they differed from mine. I’d seen enough.

Worse, I’d known and dismissed the fact when I’d boarded, reacting correctly when he’d popped into view in the transporter room—and explaining why the air sensors hadn’t adjusted on my arrival. They'd adjusted on his.

I groaned, accepting the truth.

Dirk Battleship was human.

C
HAPTER
12

L
AST
HUMAN
ALIVE
was no longer my other title.

Why did
he
have to be the other one?

At least I’d never encountered him before now, less than one Samarian hour away from mating with a Hemperklu. Had anyone discovered the truth, they might not have allowed me to become the pearl. Though our coupling might not have been a factor, I mean, less than one percent of the universe’s population saw the extinction of humans as bad… I squeezed my eyes closed, needing to focus. My mind whirled and my lungs hurt like I’d breathed in the wrong air mixture. His humanness didn't matter. Not today. I was the pearl. A pearl with a presentation to get ready for.