"Again," Macbeth braced herself as the Theros tipped her head at her. "Don't look at me like that. We won't make any progress if we don't practice."

Meketh settled across from her, the upper half of her long body crouched like a charmed snake, thin arms clasped together in front of her. The two females stared at one another for several moments before the Theros shuddered. She closed the gap between them. Her fingers tapped a staccato rhythm of impatience against Macbeth's forehead. The jangling thoughts were loud and clear. Macbeth sighed and pinched her earlobe.

"Yes, I know I need to relax, but you can't keep giving up after a few minutes of trying. We have to do this."

(Why?)

The more Meketh spoke to her, images and feelings began to give way to words. Or Macbeth translated them to words herself. Telepathic communication was a new realm for her. She tried to pull away from the Theros's touch.

"Because you can't grab me every time you need to speak. Sometimes there will be necessary distance between us. You need to learn to project." Meketh pressed forward.

(When will there be distance? You are taking me home.)

"Except I don't know where your home is, and neither do you. We can't wander aimlessly in this ship. We'll have to set down, try to sell it, and see where we can go from there."

Meketh's frustration and longing made her temples throb. She grabbed the Theros's slight hand, the pale skin cool at her touch. Macbeth was tired, so tired. She hadn't slept more than an hour or two a night, constantly jerked awake by the same nightmare that played over and over.

A flash of metal, her name on her lover's lips, eyes pleading as her life, her love, her light went out in her arms.

(I feel sorrow. What broke you inside?)

Macbeth flinched away. "Maybe that's enough for today."

She rose and refused to meet the Theros's probing gaze as she settled in front of the control panel. They would need to land at port sooner rather than later. The Nisseri scout ship was an amalgamate of technology from several races, but the union was slapdash, confused, and impossible to properly maintain. Even if they had ample supplies and a set destination, Macbeth doubted she could keep the ship from imploding on itself for long. She didn't understand it, the Nisseri were infamous for their ability to salvage and combine tech, but the slave transport was sloppy, a waiting death trap. She remembered the blackened skin beneath the Keeper's rags. The Blight must weaken more than their bodies, though there was so much unknown about the sickness, what it did, or where it came from.

She shook herself. Another reason to be rid of this ship was the possible pursuit by their Nisseri jailers. Had the slaves succeeded in taking the ship? Or had the rallying Nisseri stopped them? If the Nisseri did retake it, were they in any condition to retrieve a lone scout ship? Would others come to do their dirty work? Too many questions, and no way of attaining answers. They needed to get off this ship. Where was safe?

The course Meketh initially set them on took them deep into the clash zone of Barlok and Pathosian territories. What would the fringe mercenaries and disgraced Pathosian nobles who inhabited these border worlds want with a scrap heap of a ship? She doubted they needed a translator, and she was certain she'd kill the next Pathosian who touched her. Were the Barlok attracted to human women? The thought was unsettling. She swallowed, her vision blurred from exhaustion.

I have nothing to offer, and Meketh doesn't know how to barter what she has.

She ran a hand through her stubble of hair, ignored the slick grungy feeling of her scalp. The scout ship had a misting shower, but the recycling system didn't work. Her clothes remained stained, and stank of sweat. She was grateful she scraped the floor and lone bunk clean before washing or she would be in a worse state. The Theros didn't share her cleanliness problem, nothing stained her skin, and her clean salt water scent hadn't changed.

She let the back of her head thud against the pilot's chair, and stared at the plain gray ceiling. Every thing she survived and she was still a victim waiting to happen. She wanted to scream until her voice gave out.

Meketh loomed over her, so close her tentacles brushed Macbeth's face. A calm washed through her, the knot in her shoulders released as a song drifted over her, low soothing tones that seeped into her bones. The Theros pulled back, bottomless blue eyes peered down at her.

(I could feel your tension across the room, my lady.)

Macbeth blinked at her. The words were clear, perfectly formed, and though Meketh was in spitting distance, there was no contact between them.

"You spoke," she said, turning the chair to face the Theros. "What did you do?"

Meketh lifted her hand towards her face, stopped halfway. Instead she reached up, and tugged on one of her tentacles.

(I relaxed your body. Your mind is more receptive now.)

Macbeth chewed on the thought as the calm worked through her stiff muscles. There was an idea forming, gaining substance through her sedate mind. She wouldn't have been able to see it through her consuming worries. It would be difficult, it might not work, but if it did, well Macbeth Pembrook knew how to sell just about anything.

"Meketh, can you tell me about your healing abilities, your limits, the risks, everything."

The Theros went still, those bottomless eyes staring at her. (These are dangerous secrets you ask of me, my lady.)

Macbeth nodded. The Nisseri believed in the healing properties of the Theros, but only in their parts. Did they know what this race was capable of? Did anyone? Many species had never seen a live Theros before, it was an ignorance she could work with.

"I am asking you for a good reason. I have an idea. If it works, we could barter for a safer transport. It would also give us a chance to learn where your home is."

Meketh drew up to her full height, head brushing the ceiling. She held her hands out, palms up.

(Secrets bartered for secrets. Trust is a face revealed.)

Macbeth didn't understand her at first, but the realization hit her. She shook her head. "That's not fair."

(It is what I ask.)

She bared her teeth at the Theros. "You're asking to dig in my head, see all my secrets. " She sneered. "Get your jollies off my pain?"

(The strongest bond my people forge is through shared sorrow. If I bare myself to you, I need a bond between us.)

It was the longest sentence Meketh managed so far. She patiently waited with her palms open.

A bond between them? It made her skin itch. How far would this creature dig into her skull? Far enough to see her childhood insecurities? Far enough to see her moments of passion with her lost green eyed lover? Far enough to see her self-loathing and bitterness towards her siblings? What would Meketh bare to her in return? So many strings attached for one stupid plan, there had to be another way. Except, she knew the Theros would keep pressing for this bond. She understood the feeling, the need to build trust between them because Meketh had no one, alone, separated from her people among strange stars.

Are we really so different?

She had nothing to gain keeping the Theros out. If she was truthful with herself, she knew what ultimately made her place her palms over Meketh's cool skin. It wasn't about sharing secrets or gaining trust. She would let the Theros scrape away to the bottom of her skull, if that's what it took. She needed Meketh. She would do anything to survive.

Macbeth had a dark appointment to keep.