CHAPTER 1. PART 5 :
Iona was now tending to a potted plant, pruning the excess leaves, while Magda set about telling her about her chores for the day. Iona punctuated her friend's avalanche of words with various sounds of agreement, never taking her eyes off her task.
"Here, pass me the nutri-serum," Iona asked in a low voice, without looking away from her plant.
The machinist handed her the vial with a loud sniff.
"You know, one day, these plants are going to grow right out of your head, given the time you spend here," she joked. "We've barely seen you all week in our quarters. What's keeping you busier than usual here? Oh, and just so you know, I think it's pretty cruel of you to leave me alone with him; you know he drives me crazy."
Magda pointed an accusatory finger at the cultivator's face.
Iona flashed an understanding smile, choosing to ignore her friend's usual complaints.
"And if plants do end up growing on my head, Magda, I bet you'd be the first to try to sell them to the pirates for a hot shower."
"Oh, plants from your brain, that would be worth thousands of units, no doubt! And forget hot showers; even a slightly warm one would do."
"Wait, did I hear 'hot shower'? I thought we were all in the same boat here. Some people have little privileges now?" intervened a deep voice with sarcastic tone.
Magda groaned, burying her head in her hands, mumbling half-stifled "No! Go away!"
"Hello, Magdalene Sana. Uglier than usual? Surprising." He raised an eyebrow at the sight of the machinist's soot-streaked face.
She lifted her head and shot him a dark look.
"It's Magda! M-A-G-D-A, you crackhead—"
"Hello to you too, Mikoy," Iona cut her friend off before she could display her well-stocked arsenal of insults. "Did you bring us something?"
"Marc of wané and ashes of myranelle. Perfect for your Kardiosa," the young man announced, weighing the load he carried in his arms. "I managed to set some aside for you, as you asked."
"Thank you," the cultivator shot one of her rare smiles. "Their growth will only be better. I might even be able to speed up the harvest by a week or two," Iona thanked him sincerely.
Mikoy, the third and last slave aboard, also the designated cook, advanced towards them. His imposing stature forced him to duck to avoid the door frame. Once inside the greenhouse, he scanned the space, as if judging the progress of the harvests before lowering his gaze to their table, which annoyed Magda, aware of her small stature.
With a defiant air, she straightened up and, wanting to prove her strength, snatched the box from his arms. Despite a slight wobble under the weight, she placed it on the table with a decisive slam.
Mikoy sighed and shook his head in disapproval, evidently accustomed to the machinist's mood swings. Magda had never really liked him, and this had been the case from the first day he had arrived on the ship, shackled and bleeding, almost two years ago.
He knew that trust was not really there between them, as he refused to talk about his past, especially the circumstances that had led him to be captured and enslaved by the pirates of the Kra'keng.
Magda was wary of him and probably imagined that he was playing the mole for the pirates. But the reality was very different from what she imagined...
In contrast, Iona the Virvenian cultivator, was significantly more approachable, so much so that over the months, he had almost made a friend of her. I
ndeed, Iona was so absorbed by her plants that Mikoy doubted she could really attach importance to anything else. Her sole obsession was to keep the greenhouse afloat and to produce more and more rare plants.
The young man saw this as the trait of a broken spirit, but with what she had experienced on her home planet, who could blame her for that? And judging by her wrists and forearms as thin and fragile as twigs, her body would not be long in failing either.
"When was your last meal, Iona? The trays I send to the greenhouse almost all come back untouched," Mikoy worried.
Iona remained silent. Magda jumped on the matter. "What, you're not eating anything? At least tell me you're not working during your breaks, Iona?"
Mikoy pushed the redhead's head that blocked his view, irritated.
"Hey! Take your dirty paws off!"
"It's none of your business, Magda. Your trays come back licked clean to the last crumb."
"I hate your food," she retorted angrily. "It's barely more edible than gladirian potash."
"And it says it hates my cooking," Mikoy muttered, annoyed. "Sorry that my dishes aren't up to your princess palate. Your parents had probably accustomed you to much better."
The elbow jab he received took his breath away, well deserved.
He moved forward towards the machinist, ready to settle the score, but she pulled out a tool from her belt and threatened him to come any closer.
"Stop it, both of you. Would it kill you to get along for just one day?" Iona growled, exasperated.
Magda made a sound of disapproval and Mikoy rolled his eyes, exacerbating Iona's frustration.
She massaged her temples, trying to calm a growing migraine. "Get out of my greenhouse, before I throw you out myself," she said in no uncertain terms.
"Don't change the subject, Iona. Slow down a bit, otherwise you'll burn yourself out on this heap of scrap," Magda insisted. "The Kra'keng shouldn't become your coffin."
"It pains me to say this, but she's right. Ease up. You're already ahead on this semester's production, despite the higher quotas. Honestly, you look like a ghost."
Iona rubbed her dark-circled eyes. Her two friends weren't entirely wrong about her state of fatigue. True, she had hardly slept in weeks.
And for good reason, she was dreading the upcoming event that took place once a year on one of the moons of Carleeng.