3. Fortnight

Zemma sat by the open ship's door, staring into the night. The world didn't seem so big by darkness, even though she could see the universe laid out above her in the clear night sky. Still, she didn't feel comfortable braving the open. A bonfire burned merrily a dozen feet away, tended by Jack.

Riddick had left before Zemma came to in her room. Jack had so far been quiet, with none of the barbs Zemma expected to hear from her.

"Did he say how long he would be gone?" Zemma spoke to Jack's back.

Jack stood from a crouch in front of the fire, stretched and popped her back. She turned slowly and crossed the grass to the steps of the ship. She sat below Zemma.

"He said he was going hunting. So, I guess, when he kills something." Jack's tone was more or less conversational, for her.

"You don't know...?" Zemma started. She wasn't worried about him being out there, alone, hunting something, possibly dangerous. She was just lonely, and feeling sorry for herself. One of his smart-ass comments was exactly what she needed right now to break that grip of self-pity.

"How should I know?" Jack's voice belied her words; not as hostile as she could have sounded, but calm, almost resigned. "You've spent more time with him than I have, now."

Zemma smiled. She didn't know why Jack was being so civil, for Jack. Perhaps it was the kick in the head she needed. Or maybe she was feeling alone too.

"The air smells funny," Zemma ventured. She'd never had the chance to ask Riddick about it.

"Green," Jack answered. "And snow on the way."

Zemma wasn't sure about the idea of snow. Frozen rain, if she remembered correctly. She even knew the Furyan word for it. But she'd never seen it, not even in holos. She couldn't picture it.

Green smell? That confused her completely. "Color has a smell?" She asked, and braced for Jack's smart-ass comment number 37. Even that would be cheerful to her now.

"Green. You know: green grass, green trees, green growing things. Better than recycled ship's air anytime."

Zemma inhaled deeply through her nose. Green. It was nice. There was a sharp tang high up in the back of her nose she thought must be the bonfire.

"Those trees are a kind of cedar," Jack continued. "That's what we're burning; that's the acrid smell. It's better when it's cured instead of green."

Zemma wished she had something to say in return to keep the conversation going. "I like it," is all she could manage.

"Me too," Jack returned.

They sat in silence watching the fire.

"What does..." Jack strung blended consonants and clipped vowels together. "...mean?"

Zemma would have gaped if she weren't already practicing tight control around Jack. The girl had spoken the Furyan words with very little accent. But where had she heard that particular set of words?

"Why?" Zemma was slow to answer, causing Jack to turn and look at her.

"You said them. When you were having your fit."

Zemma looked for any duplicity in the young woman's face. She saw only honest curiosity. Nothing resembling her poker face, and no rancor whatsoever. Still she wasn't sure how to answer Jack, but with a baffled truth.

"It means, 'Mother, they're falling'." She kept her voice neutral and her face passive.

"Why would you say that?" Jack asked, emoting nothing but more curiosity. Her big eyes and the flickering shadows made her look so child-like... and her words, spoken in Furyan... Zemma felt a strange pang of an unidentifiable emotion.

"I don't remember saying it," Zemma told her.

"So you don't know what it means?"

Zemma shook her head. The words, echoing in Zemma's mind now, gave her uncomfortable butterflies and a deep sense of unresolved sadness. She missed her mother, felt terrible guilt for being her murderer.

Jack's eyes narrowed at something she saw on Zemma's face. "What are you thinking?"

"About my mother." Simple. Calm face, calm voice. Bluff.

Jack folded. She turned away, back to the fire.

Zemma felt no victory for the small win. She watched her first ever moonrise, beyond the fire, above the trees, and felt pitifully lonely.

"Do you love him?" Jack's voice was soft and far away.

"I think so," Zemma answered immediately. "Do you?"

"No." Jack was just as quick to respond. An answer she had prepared or practiced in her mind? Or one she needed to tell herself? "But I need him."

Well, that was undoubtedly the truth, at any rate.

Zemma pulled her blanket tighter around her, not wanting to go back to bed yet. The women sat in silence a while longer.

"What will we do if he isn't back by morning?" Jack asked, trying not to sound like a lost little girl missing her father.

Zemma felt a familiar sense of sympathy for the child floating so close to the surface of the woman.

"Play cards?"

Jack's head bobbed in agreement. Zemma thought she could see the girl grinning, but wasn't sure.

They did play cards. At first, just after dinner, then as the days passed with no sign of Riddick, the girls played more often. They didn't speak much, trading some barbs over hands mostly. Jack taught her other games. Neither spoke of their past, nor speculated about their future. Riddick would return as sure as the next sunrise, or the next deal.

But each sunrise was solemn, still forlorn. Each hand dealt just led to another.

Zemma would not have called their changing relationship friendship, exactly. There was a truce of sorts. They shared a common need and frustration: Riddick, and loneliness. These two women, who did not spend their lives sharing with a great many people, suddenly had only each other. But it was only a temporary armistice; neither expected it to last beyond the moment.

Riddick came back after a fortnight, dirty and bloodied. Two weeks without rations did not diminish his mass or his presence, it seemed to enhance it. He seemed bigger, not thinner. Harsher, not more relaxed. He drug the large body of an animal to the bonfire and dropped it. Jack did not move to him, speak to him, but seemed to be watching him warily from her crouch at the fire. Zemma continued her surveillance from the doorway.

"You know how to dress that?" Riddick asked Jack. His low voice was nearly a growl, he didn't look at her directly.

"No." Jack's voice was defiant, insulted, challenging.

"Just don't let anything drag it off," he grumbled back. He looked at Zemma in the doorway a moment before approaching, taking the stairs in two strides, and brushing past her without a word.

Feral.

Zemma mentally shrugged. Nature of the beast. She knew it already; the man could be more wild than civilized. More animal than man.

Tiger, Tiger burning bright...

Hmmn. Yes, no doubt.

"Why don't you shut that God damn door," he called over his shoulder as he strode away. "Fucking cold in here. Is there hot water at least?"

Oh, look, there's the man.

Zemma smirked and followed at a more sedate pace. The only water shower was in the med-lab. The few cabins they used had sonic showers instead. She heard him cursing as she reached the med.

"You'll have to wait till I fire up the engines." Zemma leaned against the doorjamb casually. "We had no idea how long you were planning to be. We didn't want to waste battery power or fuel mass."

He rounded on her. "Well," he said impatiently. "What are you waiting for?"

His tone kicked in her stubborn streak. Zemma didn't move except to raise an eyebrow. "Please, for a start." She wasn't amused.

They stared at each other. Zemma had no reason to look away, and the patience to wait him out. She wasn't the one covered in muck.

Riddick's face froze into a scowl. "You think you can manipulate me?" Cold and hollow.

"That's what you think I'm doing?" Zemma was perplexed. Curiosity won out over annoyance. Still she held, waiting for him to continue.

He didn't. He headed for the pilot's deck.

Irritation took back its place from curiosity, Zemma followed. "What is your fucking problem?"

Riddick turned. "I just want a fucking hot shower." He wasn't shouting, yet. "Do I owe you something for that concession?"

Zemma paused at his vehemence.

Read him. Figure it out, quick.

She took a breath and brought her tone down. "I don't think you need to talk to me like..."

"I'll save politeness for those I respect."

What the hell? Has he been building that up for two weeks? Over what?

Zemma brought her tone down another notch. "How do you think I manipulated you?" Curiosity was getting the upper hand again.

Riddick started to turn away again. Zemma reached out and dug her fingers into a cut on his arm.

"You could end up out there with that other body." Warning there, without looking at her.

"I can't stop you." Zemma jeered.

"Let go of me." Quieter.

"Not until you talk to me." She wasn't afraid. Anger and interest were warring in her.

He shrugged her off. She had no way of holding him.

"There's nothing to talk about, Zemma," his voice and demeanor, changed radically. "I'm just tired." He was calmer. Sadness seemed to radiate from him. "I just want a hot shower."

"I didn't lie." Zemma hissed. "Ask Jack."

"Jack?" Riddick turned his head, and his question, to the darkness down the passageway.

Zemma's head snapped to the side as her lenses snapped up.

Jack. Damn it. Go away.

"Well?" Riddick commanded quietly.

"I hit her," Jack whispered. "I pushed her off. I pounded on her hands until she fell. She said..." Jack repeated the phrase she had asked Zemma about.

Zemma's eyes narrowed. She didn't remember that.

She's lying!

No. Think. Look at her.

Jack was looking on at their dispute with the big eyes Zemma saw their first night alone. All pretense was stripped off. The child was very close to the surface. Zemma looked away from her. Riddick was looking intensely at Zemma; she couldn't look at him either.

I don't forget things.

"I didn't lie," Zemma said quietly. She turned.

I never forget things!

Zemma headed away from the pair, suddenly needing to be anywhere else.

How could I forget that?

There was no place to hide on the tiny ship; nowhere to curl up in the dark to think things through. No comfort, no friends, no anonymity. She locked herself in her cabin.