“Stop.” He holds up a hand. “When I want more, I will ask for it. We do this on my order.”
Chastened, I nod, and grip the fluid tube in my hands. The magna cuffs circle my wrists gently, almost like jewelry. I snort, thinking of it—me in baubles!— then tears well up. This is something royal indeed, compared to the treatment back at the hands of the Ocretions.
“How many slaves live on Romon-3?”
“In my ag-farm, there are exactly thirty-three. Master owns multiple farms on Romon, and I don’t know the grand total.”
He nods, then fires more questions. Our general treatment. How old are we? Our health? How do we eat? He records our discussion on his comm device.
Along the way, another Zandian joins us and hands over my pack. There is a discussion in an undertone in their Zandian tongue, then he returns, his face harder.
“And this?” He holds up my pack. “What is in these syringes?” He smiles, but it’s not friendly. “Now that you’ve answered the easy questions, we’re getting to the ones I really care about.”
I swallow hard.
His eyes narrow. He and the other Zandian exchange a look.
Scared, I speak quickly before they have a chance to act. “It’s poison from asps on Romon-3. Leylah makes, made… it. In secret.”
“Why do you have this?”
“She said to use it if I was stopped. It was my emergency weapon. Like I told you before, I used it to kill one Ocretion during my escape. He fell, almost immediately.” I shake my head in wonder, remembering the moment. “He was about to kill me, and then… he just died. So fast.”
“Immediately?” They both stare, stony-faced.
“Yes. I hid behind a boulder and watched as another guard found him. When the medic came, he said it was a heart attack. Ocretions are prone to them. And then, as I told you, I boarded your ship and hid.”
“Conveniently still holding the syringe you used to attack me.” The captain frowns.
I nod. “I apologize a thousand times, my lord, more if I can. That was unintentional. I only meant to ask you for asylum, not to hurt you. I lashed out in confusion and delirium. I am sorry.”
“That sounds incredible.” He crosses his arms and scowls.
Taken aback, I blink at him. “I don’t understand what you mean.”
“Don’t you?” He quirks a brow, but it’s not playful.
I shrink back on my stool. “No, my lord, I do not.”
He and his second in command exchange another look. He steps closer. “Tell me again where you got the poison in the first place.”
His frown deepens and I quickly answer, “Leylah made it. She uses the venom to make antidotes because humans are sensitive to the toxins. Ocretions are not.”
“But this isn’t an antidote.”
“No, she made a new poison.” I’m starting to feel dizzy again. My voice falters. “She said...ah, rumor had it that this concoction is fatal to an Ocretion within the count of three. And she was right.”
The Zandian captain says, “So she made a brand new toxin out of the blue, based on a rumor, something that can fell a full-grown Ocretion. She does this in some barracks shack with rudimentary equipment and no training, all in secret. Is that right? And she gave it to you on a fool’s mission with little chance of success, and if you were found with this substance, possibly all of you humans could be killed?”
I shake my head. “She was very confident I would not fail.” I try to think back. “At the time, I suppose, I had doubts the venom was a good idea, but she said to do it. So I did.”
“It sounds fantastical. I don’t know if it is the truth. Humans lack honor. They lie.”
“Then what do you suppose is the real truth?” I challenge, even though I know better than to challenge a master. “First of all, Leylah is not some random human. She’s, well, she’s Leylah. She has gifts that are beyond the ordinary. And second—”
He cuts me off. “You will speak when you are spoken to.”
“But I—”