Chapter 7 - Ghost

  Bdain Araan Desert – drift 6

  She didn't go the next drift. Or the one after that. The suns had risen and set twice without her shadows stretching toward the canyon. Her room had rainbowed with her inside for the first time in as long as she could remember. Idle was not in her nature.

  Her net hung on the wall by her drawing desk, as useless as she felt. Her gloves, folded underneath, were still. Her journal hadn’t moved. She’d only managed half a page, sketching a silver dart in faint lines, its tail curled as if it might leap off the paper. Behind it, the Felidae was just a shadow. The page lifted in the breeze, echoing her mood.

  Hayam gave her space, but every moment in bed brought the same shame she felt when she failed. If she couldn’t do this, what was the point of her speed, strength, or anger? If she couldn’t reach the goal she’d had since childhood, what purpose was left?

  She hadn't expected to catch a silver dart on her first try. She knew better. But the freezing — that she hadn't expected. Next time she needed to be better prepared. There could be no room for doubt.

  When Hayam finally asked what had happened, she only shrugged. She was sure he wouldn’t let her try again if she told him how useless she’d felt, how she’d frozen like a lizard caught by fear in the face of certain death.

  Had it been certain death?

  She didn’t think so anymore. She was alive, but Nosey wasn’t, and it didn’t make sense. Felidae were mysterious, rare, and dangerous, but they almost never hunted mounts like Nosey unless desperate. This one had looked at her as if she’d offered Nosey as food. That was something tame animals did, not wild ones.

  She got out of bed and hurried to Hayam’s sat-terminal. Her fingers flew as she searched: Felidae. Domestic. Prey. Behavior.

  And what had she felt?

  Camaraderie? No.

  Protection? Definitely not.

  An invitation? Maybe.

  The terminal hummed under her hands, warm air rising from its vents. When the page finally loaded, it displayed a short, clinical entry:

  The Felidae, also known as the Desert Phantom, is a large predator native to canyon and desert habitats. Once limited to a few deep ridges, it has since been relocated to several outer-rim planets by early settlers and traders.

  Lean and muscular, with a narrow head and tufted white tip to its scaly tail, the species is sexually dimorphic: males are larger and darker than females. Though often solitary hunters, Felidae form pairs or small groups when taking down larger prey.

  Despite stable environments, their populations on Devon Five have dropped by over 90% since the first Monk settlements. With no habitat loss or human conflict recorded, the cause of their decline remains unexplained.

  So the species was slowly dying out. There was nothing about domestication. She set the terminal aside and leaned back.

  They usually formed pairs, but this one had been alone. Was it possible the wild creature thought Serendipity was kin? Could it have known?

  Impossible.

  But there was that look in its eyes when it lowered its head, almost inviting. In that moment, Serendipity felt something besides fear. Something she could hardly name. For a heartbeat, she felt understood.

  Impossible.

  The empty house creaked as the suns rose.

  Nosey was gone. The pain lingered. It wasn’t just a dull ache; it burned deep because she should have known better. She took a wild animal from the desert and led it to its death—not by her own hand, but because of her pride.

  Arrogance.

  That’s what it was. She knew it. Hayam knew it too. But he cared enough not to say it.

  And worse, she knew she’d do it again. Shame or no shame. Pride or no pride.

  That was the life she chose—following in Hayam’s footsteps, searching the desert for rare plants and animals found nowhere else. Devon Five was a small hope for medicine in the quiet of space, and she’d been left here for a reason. Maybe to help. Maybe to answer when someone came knocking.

  At least, that’s what she hoped. She refused to believe she’d been left here with no purpose.

  So she waited. She let the pain stay until it changed. It became more than grief—something stronger, something she could use. It turned into resolve mixed with anger. When the anger got too strong, she went running.

  In the evening, as she ran, radiation burned the parts of her skin she’d left uncovered. She hadn’t used any suncream. But she moved fast, and by the time she reached the market, she was only a little singed. The pain felt oddly satisfying—a small ache to balance her steps.

  The market was busy, just as she expected. Merchants prepared for the night, but she still found what she needed—lure for the dart. She bought seeds at Holland’s booth and picked up another weapon she hoped not to use. At Hayam’s stall, she waited until he looked up from the setting suns and smiled at her.

  He motioned for her to come closer and brought out a bottle of green, simmering liquid from behind the stall.

  She didn’t even say hello. Just raised an eyebrow.

  He laughed. “I thought you could use some cheering up,” he said.

  True.

  “And you think alcohol is your best idea?” she asked, taking the bottle. She opened the wooden top and sniffed—mint, lime, a hint of spirits, and probably more sugar than allowed. Her favorite. It was more syrup than alcohol. She took a small sip and handed it back. “Maybe tomorrow night.”

  He nodded and stood, putting away the day’s wares and setting out the night’s.

  A few large flower petals caught her eye. They were pink, curved inward, with purple-tinted edges. She picked one up, but Hayam knocked it from her hand.

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  “Do not touch that,” he said. “Not even through gloves. It can knock you out as fast as a venomous snake.”

  Her eyes widened, matching her grin. “What is it?” she asked.

  “What did I just say? A tranquilizer! Atrum Nymphaea.” He picked it up with pincers, set it back in the jar, closed it tight, and hid it from buyers.

  “What are we making with it?”

  “We are not. I am making a mild sedative for the children. A cough has been going around, and they need something gentle to help them sleep.”

  She eyed the jar. “Deadly flower petals for little humans?”

  “You have a lot to learn, my daughter.” He laughed and pointed to another crate. “Help me with the aphrodisiac box, will you? I swear those vials feel heavier every time I fill them.”

  She picked up the box, which weighed the same as always, and began arranging the colorful bottles in the first row. Night was the best time for these products, and Hayam was always practical.

  “Where did you find them?” she asked. “The flowers?”

  “A gift. From a…concerned father. Said he can’t distill them. So he asked me to do it, and then a few more parents pitched in. Now we have almost everything we need. I was going to do it tonight, actually, when I got home.”

  A shiver ran down Serendipity’s spine. He wasn’t telling the truth.

  She hated catching him in a lie. Not because he lied—everyone did—but because she couldn’t control her reaction. It meant he couldn’t always feel comfortable around her.

  She turned back to the bottles, praying he hadn’t noticed.

  “After making sure you have everything ready for the next trip,” he laughed, patting her head. He had noticed.

  “I do like to do things my way. I know you learned that from me,” he explained.

  She turned again and let out a small sigh of relief. She was always worrying, always overthinking. But he never scolded her for who she was or for what she couldn’t help.

  “I can stay, if you want,” she said. “You can go do what you need to. I’m rested enough for the next two drifts.”

  “Was hoping you’d say that.” He picked up his already-packed bag and stuffed the petal-filled jar into a side pocket.

  True.

  He kissed her forehead, wished her ni sha sing, and almost skipped down the alley, nodding to a few friendly faces.

  As night deepened, shifting from magenta to violet like the flower edges and then to a sky full of stars, her thoughts kept returning to the desert and the animal. Could she face it again if they met? Would it let her go a second time, or had she just been lucky? If she stayed idle, would she ever find out?

  She grinned. A few children, out later than they should have been, ran off shrieking. Her teeth were a little pointed. People already thought Hayam’s girl was strange and unfriendly, maybe even the type to eat little kids. That made her just intimidating enough for the children. A sentiment she'd learned to accept, if not quite embrace.

  On the third morning, before Hikari cleared the ridge, she opened her eyes before the alarm rang, sat up slowly, her limbs stiff with sleep, and decided it was time. She had stewed enough.

  Her boots were still where she’d left them. She pulled them on and strapped them tight. The net came next, lifted from its hook and tied to her hip in a practiced motion. The gloves, folded neatly, slid into her pocket.

  She didn’t speak to Hayam. And he didn’t ask.

  But her pack was already waiting by the door, heavier than before. Just as he’d promised, though it was more than she needed.

  Inside, the second canister was full. So was the nutrient pouch. Her knife—his knife—had been cleaned, sharpened, and holstered with a new strap. She recalled the first time he’d handed her the weapon. He’d been more scared of her cutting herself with it than anything else. Still, he had trusted her with it.

  She gritted her teeth, closed the pack, and slung it over one shoulder.

  Hayam stood in the doorway but didn’t block her path.

  Behind him, on the far wall, a broken statuette of a woman holding two suns above her head watched from the shadows.

  A little guidance, if you can spare it, she thought. I have plenty of wits, just not enough sense. The relic was old, carved from white stone, and cracked down one arm. But Hayam kept it. He said it reminded him of his father’s father.

  She met his eyes. “I’ll be back before nightfall.”

  He didn’t answer. He just nodded, arms crossed over his chest, his beard still unbrushed. He should have already been on his way to the market. She knew that.

  She swallowed the dryness in her throat and stepped outside, out into the blue-tinged sand like she’d never failed.

  The desert runner waited, sleek and silent, solar plates gleaming in the morning light. Charged. Still charging.

  This was a different kind of mount. It wasn’t warm or soft. It wasn’t Nosey. The runner’s hum was a steady, mechanical, sound lacking the comforting rhythm of Nosey’s breath. The absence of life in the runner's movements deepened her sense of loss. At least this one would not bleed.

  “Come on, then,” she muttered.

  By the time she got back home, stars were beginning to blink into view. Warm lampfire flickered through the window slit.

  She slid off the runner and stood beside it for a moment, one hand on the solar spine. She didn’t tie it up. She just let it idle, its low hum behind her as she walked to the door.

  It opened before she reached it.

  Hayam stood there quietly, arms crossed over his chest. He didn’t say anything. There was no pity, no I-told-you-so, not even any expectation. Just his soothing presence.

  She stopped in front of him, shoulders drawn tight, her mouth a hard line. “I’m going again tomorrow,” she said.

  He nodded once. “Good.”

  Behind him, the lamplight cast her shadow on the wall, long, thin, and trembling.

  Finally, she stepped inside. Hayam followed, setting down a cup of something warm on the table.

  “Storm got you?”

  She didn’t answer.

  He squinted into his cup, then tapped the seat beside him. “Sit. Before your legs lock up.”

  She dropped into the chair without a word.

  He cleared his throat. “You know, I once tried to cross the upper ridge near Telem’s Teeth. Thought I could make it in a single drift. Me and that old runner with the sticky back paw.”

  She side-eyed him. “The one that used to glitch and spin?”

  “Exactly. Dumb thing thought the wind was a predator. Anyway, we get halfway up, and bam—sandstorm hits. Real screamer. Couldn’t see my own hands. Runner panics, boots offline, battery drains, trying to recalibrate. We’re stuck.”

  Serendipity raised an eyebrow. “You?”

  He nodded. “Me. Curled up behind its tail, yelling at the sky, swearing I’d never eat powdered stew again if Nero let me live.”

  She snorted.

  “And then,” he added, “as the wind died down and the stars started to show, it started raining. Heavy. The hot air turned into a blistering heat storm. I’ve never been so sure the gods were laughing at me.”

  She waited for the prickle of a lie, for the uncomfortable sensation. But it didn’t come.

  Wide-eyed, she laughed softly and shook her head. He’d told her the truth.

  “I didn’t catch it,” she said, her own truth. “Didn’t even show.”

  “I know.”

  “I thought I could—”

  “I know.”

  She looked down at her hands. “Next time…”

  “Mhm,” he agreed.

  She nodded.

  He bumped her shoulder. “Eat. Sleep. Maybe try again tomorrow, or not. Your choice.”

  And for the first time in three days, she let herself lean. Just a little. Just enough to feel something human again, and definitely try again tomorrow.

  Hayam slid the steaming cup closer, “Oh, I forgot to mention. We might have a female Librarian next.”

  “About time,” she took a sip that burned her tongue and made Hayam laugh.