Space Bride
by R. C. Capasso
part 1
Lataya touched her hair. It could be longer, loosely curling, and perhaps blue. So many of the prettiest brides had that look. She slipped into a quiet corridor and concentrated. Her short yellow hair lengthened till it rested on her shoulders. She pulled on a lock till she could see it, then added a bit of curl and just a deeper hint. Blood blue, not jalacka flower.
Back in the spaceship’s dining hall, she saw the male from Torna study her, then avert his eyes. No mail order spouses could form a relationship during transport; they were all paid for and promised to someone on one of the colonies. But the male’s admiration was enough. She was on the right track.
If only her purchaser had been more specific as to his preferences. All he’d submitted on the form was “good worker, good cook, enthusiastic.” Nothing about size, shape or even species. That should have simplified matters, but she needed a model, a template. Something to shift into. A mental image so clear that she could hold it, despite anything. Through the meeting, the wedding, the mating and beyond.
She’d done her best work that week on the Heldeth colony when she harvested amonee seeds along with the small pale migrant workers. The poor little species, all dressed in loose sacks and covered with dust, with thin bodies and blunted features, had been virtually identical to one another. Everywhere she looked, she found a model to help her maintain the illusion. The mindless, repetitive work did not disturb her focus, and she just had to avoid looking at the strong, loud overseer so that her lip would not also curl, her eyes reflect his gloating cruelty. Huddled from him as they all did, her pity for the hopeless laborers made replication all the easier; she felt the fatigue bending their backs, the dryness that split their lips. Their image sank into her.
Of course, she never truly assimilated. Her shifter lungs would not absorb the poison from the plants; she could take the high-risk pay and, when picking season was over, live off it for six months with no long-term consequences. Yet she’d identified so thoroughly with the harvesters that it took several hours after she’d left the farmland to shift back into herself.
Even now, on the sleek spaceship with no sun, no soil and no vegetation, the very recollection of that week made her lips crack and her fingers sting from the remembered thorns. She looked down; drops of blood spattered her blunt, dirty nails. She lifted her head and pushed her shoulders back. She mustn’t think of the poor little impoverished troop.
Self-control and mental focus were crucial to her survival as a shape-shifter. She had to be entirely engaged in her projection, forcing her inner world to match the exterior she presented to observers. Those eyes, the eyes of strangers, were her greatest fear. Anyone could evaluate her, judge her, catch her in a momentary slip of concentration, and expose her true being. Pushing her away. Reviling her, when rejection was the one thing she couldn’t bear. She had no money, no home, no herd or family. Finding a stable, livable identity was her last chance.
She gathered her thoughts, and her lips smoothed under the faint purple gloss she’d chosen to complement her hair. Her nails resumed their perfect manicure.
Memories must stay locked away with all the other shapes she’d tried in her endless attempts to find belonging. To become someone acceptable, sustainable. Lovable. Or tolerable, at least.
She forced herself to pull two slow steady breaths through her gills. As she found the center of this body, her limbs relaxed. Her adoption of a Promothan female shape was solid, comfortable. Given that Promothans represented 48% of the colony’s highly mixed population, that shape seemed her best bet to appeal to a future husband. Fortunately, the shape actually pleased her own sense of being, which should make it easier to maintain. She only needed a few more cosmetic embellishments. She should study more of her fellow space spouses. They were all trying to present their best selves, so surely she could find a way to improve.
They would be landing soon.
Excitement rippled through the dining hall. Every available space was a mirror, reflecting back prospective spouses as they primped and groomed themselves and each other. This ship, one of the largest in the colonization fleet, carried over a dozen species from three planets. The smell of projected pheromones and the twitter, grunting, and lisping of voices overwhelmed her. Her vocal cords would give her a voice. But what would she say when she met her contracted mate? A poem, like that male gesturing over by the fountain? Or a recipe? Promothans found food erotic.
Her throat closed. With a pang, she felt a horn sprouting from her forehead like that on the female at the nearest table. Sensory overload. Expectations overload. Too many shapes, too many images. Too many possible ways to be something other than herself.
The Torna male was staring at her again, but this time with surprise and a growing suspicion.
Brushing past two lizard-like creatures, she whirled toward the lower deck. She had to reach her bunk in the darkened, unoccupied dormitory. She had to curl, head to toe, under the thin sheet. For just a few minutes, perhaps an hour, she needed to revert to her true form and find strength. For the great deception.
* * *
Halan pulled at his tunic. He had wetted it down and hung it in the wind to smooth the wrinkles. That had partially worked, but now dots of ash clung to the ragged fabric. If he brushed at them they would just smear. He looked at Rumi, his eldest. “It’s bad, isn’t it?”
Her smile radiated courage. “You look fine, Papa. They will see you are a good worker, a good father.”
The two little ones stood beside her, their eyes doubtful. They were too young to know how to lie, even if it was meant as encouragement.
“Well, we don’t want someone who judges just by appearances anyhow, do we?” Halan gave his best, cheerful smile. “And if there’s no one on the ship who wants me, we’re fine as we are.”
He truly had no right to expect another mate. Mala, Rumi’s mother, had been the most wonderful wife, generous, kind and warm. His world almost ended when she had died in childbirth. But who could give up on life when an infant like Rumi looked out of those dark, liquid eyes? And then, two years later, his sister had followed a lover off to her war-torn planet and left him Char and Marka to raise. He had all the family he could hope to support.
Yet once again he was going to meet the ship with the space brides, hoping that there would be someone unclaimed. Someone available, who perhaps came without a contract, trying their luck. Everyone knew the colonies were desperate for spouses, so an unattached being could sometimes connect pretty easily. He’d almost found a female once, but a wealthier colonist snagged her before they could head toward his cart. It was probably just as well. She’d stared pretty hard at the kids, chewing her lip and frowning apparently in disapproval.
But “faint heart never won fair lady” nor an acceptable spouse. He would just have to try his luck again. And he would play fair, wearing his official ID that bore his class standing and with the children in tow. He’d even hold up an image of the small house, so no one would call him a pretender, a deceiver. He would be an open book.
* * *
Copyright © 2023 by R. C. Capasso
