Skeen's Leap by Clayton Jo;

Author:Clayton, Jo; [Clayton, Jo;]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Open Road Media Sci-Fi & Fantasy
Published: 2016-05-09T22:00:00+00:00

THESE MIN, THESE MIN!

or

NEXT TIME I LEAN AGAINST A TREE I’M GOING TO PINCH IT TO SEE IF IT SQUEAKS.

Tenga Bourhh. The Mother of Storms the Balayar called the stretch of water straddling the equator. It lived up to its name. They ran into one of the Tenga’s offspring a little after sundown. The crew fought the wind to tie the stormnets over the passengerwell and the Captain chased all his cabin passengers off the deck, ordered them to lock down the storm plugs and stay put, keeping out of his hair until they passed out of the storm.

The ship began leaping and cavorting like a drunken mountain goat, the movement sending Skeen’s stomach into uneasy knots. By the time she staggered into her cabin and forced the door shut, the young Skirrik had tucked himself into the upper bunk and was very quiet, even managing to look a bit limp despite his rigid exoskeleton. Poor little nit, looks like he feels worse than me—and me, I feel like the ash-end of a three-day drunk. She jerked the plug from its spring clamps and slammed it into the windowhole, but not before she got a face full of icy spray. Working by touch, she brought the hasps around and clanked home the pins that locked them in place. Slammed from wall to wall, floor dropping on her then threatening to slam into her chin, she staggered to the bunk and sat clutching the end post and contemplating the fuzzy blackness about her. Wonder how long this lasts. She swallowed experimentally, then swallowed again. Djabo, dry land for me. Can’t believe I was complaining so much about a silly little thing like humidity. At least the ground was steady under me.

She heard a groan. Poor kid, he sounds bad. Wonder if Skirrik vomit? Djabo, his head’s this end, maybe I better take a look. No looking in this mess, where’s that fuckin’ lamp. Ah. She used her cutter to light the lamp, being in no mood to fuss about with wet matches even if she could find them, turned the wick way down, uncertain about the wisdom of a fire in these conditions, then staggered back to the bunk.

The Skirrik was gathered into a miserable knot, his six limbs tucked up tight against his segmented body; he was being slammed from sideboard to wall, rolling helplessly, groaning, the breath whistling painfully through his spiracles. Every time he hit, it sounded to Skeen like the times she’d used a small wooden mallet to break lobster claws; she winced, then eased herself down and pulled off all the blankets from her bunk. With a great deal of difficulty, she managed to get a little padding between him and the wall, then between him and the sideboard that kept him from rolling completely out of the bunk. He still rocked and groaned, but the ominous crashing sounds were gone. She put her hand on his thorax, tried to steady him. “Chulji, Chulji Sipor, what do you need, how can I help you?”

He heard her.

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