Page 44 of January Bell

“I’m going as fast as I can,” Zan says.

It’s hard to make out his progress, then the mouth of a sandworm juts out.

“Watch out for that!”

Zan flicks it away with his other wing, and I realize that he’s protecting himself with his tail too, under the sand—something I hadn’t noticed before.

“All those appendages are pretty handy,” I tell him. “Kinda jealous I only have arms and legs.”

“Don’t forget about your breasts,” Zan says. “I very much like those parts too.”

“Hey,” I snap. “You’re supposed to be concentrating.”

“It’s very hard when a woman who smells as heavenly as you do, begging you to let her come just the night before has her tits pressed up against the glass,” he comments casually. He continues fitting the strange, clear puzzle pieces together like he hasn’t just told me the one of the sexiest things I’ve ever heard.

Just another Tuesday for Zan.

Not that I have any idea what day of the week it is, or if this floating hell hole of a space station masquerading as a planet keeps track of weeks.

It makes my brain hurt, so I stop thinking about it.

I watch him, fascinated, grateful to have something to focus on besides the crushing pressure of the sand on my back.

I cough again, and the shift of my body against the glass means that a bout of sand spills out onto Zan’s back. He blocks the puzzle from the sand’s onslaught with his wing, a worm choosing that moment to launch out from the sand around his thighs and latch onto his wing.

Zan grunts at the impact but stays focused on the task.

“Holy shit—Zan—oh my god—okay, I’m going to have to come back down there⁠—”

“Don’t you dare. Whatever you do, stay away from these worms. I’ve had worse in my life. You forget I was a soldier, female.”

“That’s hot.”

“My translator is saying that this could be both a sexy or temperature-related observation.”

He wedges in a corner piece, and it clicks, and I cheer, although it’s getting harder and harder to see him as the sand fills up around me.

“You’re doing great,” I tell him. “I’m going to have to, like, put my head somewhere else so I won’t be able to see what you’re doing.”

He doesn’t answer. He’s fully concentrated, his tail flicking away sandworms where it can, the one latched onto his wing still gnawing at the tender membrane.

And still he works.

The last thing I see is him fitting another few pieces into place as I come up for air, trying my best to keep my body wedged in the hole, my hands blocking it as best I can, my face tilted upward so I can still breathe.

But neither one of us has much longer.

“Five minutes remaining,” Ken announces, and he must be tracking time without the stupid hourglass, or more likely, just making shit up.

Can AI tell time? Who knows. Not me!

“Ah, time flies when you’re not having fun,” I tell him glibly. “How’s he doing down there?”

Ken doesn’t answer, just continues narrating, looking more and more excited as the sand continues to fall.

There’s no way I’m going to be able to sit like this much longer.

I shift slightly, knowing I’m making it harder for Zan, and immediately stop.