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“I’ll show you later,” Becky promises. And then she sends a look up at me that enflames my lower abdomen’s frontal contents, constricts my chest, and overheats my brain.
Once she’s properly treated, we leave the little shop. The proprietor’s reaction when she spied us was strange, and I ponder that as I carefully match my stride to Becky’s. Much of the boardwalk is covered with overhangs from each storefront, and the shade is much-needed relief. If we weren’t in a crowd, I would relax appreciably.
But we are somewhat amid a crowd.
I’m not the only one not at ease. As if they can sense that I’m not like them, the humans using the boardwalk fairly scramble out of our way, clearing a nice path for us. It’s mostly clusters of men with only the occasional woman tucked close. All go still as we—I—draw near them, making our presence stand out even more prominently. Becky’s and my boots clack as we make our way to the door of the store, our steps sounding loud when the bustle around us has nearly come to a frozen standstill. Scanning the neural activity of the patrons milling inside—all yet unaware of my predator status and thus moving freely—I shoulder the door open, indicating to Becky that she should precede me.
Scents assail me as the air swings in my direction. Dried foodstuffs, leather, the sweat of male humans, and a pungent, oily smell that is somewhat similar to kerosene oil, which our homestead has need of on occasion if Becky chooses to conserve electricity and utilize night lamps.
“This establishment will have what we require?” I ask, eyeing the somewhat dimly lit interior of the general store. For all its windows at the front of the shop, these are the establishment’sonlywindows, and primitively they seem to be the main source of light.
A man dressed in vest and tie with a neatly fitted white apron over it all is bustling behind a long counter that’s off to the side of us. He’s reaching for items before he taps on a large metal cash register—finally something I recognize from the vids I’ve enjoyed.
Becky slowly waves her hand at the walls, which are fitted with floor-to-ceiling shelving. The shelves are full—packed with varioussacks, bottles, containers, and labeled crockery. Jutting off the shelves are long nails, from which hang the harness spiders and collars for Draft and Haflinger horses, or so the signs near each item read.
On the floor are barrels, some that smell of meats, some of metal. One such metal-scented barrel is labeledfence staples.“They sell livestock fencing, ship engines, and sub sandwiches,” Becky explains. “In other words, like all general stores in these parts, this place is full service.”
I usher her farther inside and something in me settles to watch her animate and begin looking at items with interest. Although we came here for fencing supplies, I don’t mind at all that my mate’s fingers are combing over feminine-looking items that have nothing at all to do with the purpose we came for. I’m thinking to myself that I rather enjoy the pleasure-suffused look that’s taken over her face, and I hope to coax out more of this.
That’s when I get the shock of my life.
Through the wall at my back, I sense a threat. A Yonderin male, like me.
He’s moving past the storefront, and my ears pick up the faintest sound of his boots on the boardwalk, muffled by our distance of separation.
When I turn around sharply, Becky glances from me to the wall where I’ve pinned a killing glare. “Are you mad at that steering system or something?”
“What?” I mutter, distracted.
She waves to the wall in front of us, where some kind of space ship machinery is crowding a painting of a pastoral scene depicting the bovines of this planet.
“No,” I tell her. “I’m watching out for threats.”And I’ve discovered one.
She sidles closer to me and pitches her voice to a worried whisper, as if she’s afraid I might be addled. “And you can do that by staring at the wall?”
I stare hard at the other Yonderin in the vicinity, and watch him freeze as he senses me.
And then he moves to attack.
Whirling around, he rushes to meet me in challenge, coming to a stop directly across from me, the wall still between us, staring right back at me. Beside him there’s another brain signature, but it’s human. Confusion blankets that skull as the Yonderin male begins a swift march in the direction the way they just came.
My ears detect his growl as the door to this establishment that Becky and I are standing in is slammed open, and the other male bursts inside.
Our eyes lock, and I utter a death growl right back.
His human companion presses against him, looking around in confusion as if she’s trying to spy the reason for his very pointed and threatening attention. Inside her heavily rounded stomach, neural activity proves she’s carrying young. Evidently this Yonderin’s young. No wonder he’s meeting me so aggressively.
His eyes glow an unnatural blue. Cyborg blue—the color comes from data chasing over his optics. Only the oldest model cyborgs had these eyes installed. Mine look much more human.
He’s dressed in dark striped trousers, a dress shirt, and a scarlet red vest. Atop his head is a black cowboy hat.
His mate is in what I will hear Becky discussing later is called a gingham milkmaid dress. All I register in this moment is its light green hue.
The male’s arm drops around his female, an obvious claiming gesture, and the very Yonderin part of me points out that in antiquity, it was not unheard of for males to fight to the death over a female. Thepairbonded male because he fought to protect his mate, and to a lesser immediate importance their territory.
Meanwhile the bachelor male fought to claim the loser’s spoils.
I nearly rear back at the possibility. The very thought of claiming his woman is abhorrent.
