Page 16 of Border Control

Ellen grabs my arm before I can run in there. “I’m not sure exactly what’s happening, but I trust Ilia.”

“What did Dom even do?”

Ellen shakes his head. “I don’t know, but they have a completely different culture to us. I'll sort it out but right now, stay with me.”

I recall Dom hanging from the machine shed beam, head dropped to his chest, smokey black lashes across his back. “Yes, very different, but they’re on Earth. They can choose something else.”

My best friend’s eyes turn sad. “They’ve lived under a strict regime all their lives. It’ll take time to heal that.”

Healing. I know nothing about healing, I’m about as useful as a wet bandage. Still, I can’t support the violence going on here, even if it isn’t directed at us.

Dom struggles to his knees under Ilia’s arm, grunting, “Wait. Law-rah forbade any pain.”

All eyes turn to me. At first, I want to curl into myself, but the thought of the aliens hurting each other makes me throw my shoulders back instead. “That’s right. Stop it, now.”

The guys exchange a look, and Ilia reaches down to take Dom’s shoulder. But instead of simmering anger, all I see is genuine concern.

Ellen asks, “Ilia, what was that for?”

“Parthiastocks need a strong hand,” he explains, lifting Dom up by his shoulders and setting him on his feet.

I frown. Some super religious fanatics swear by pain, don't they? Is violence and self-flagellation actually the alien version of self-care?

He turns Dom’s head this way and that with his thumb, looking into his lilac eyes. “If Dom is not put in his place, he’ll feel awful. Dom, are you managing? Have you found another outlet?”

Dom shakes his head once. “No. Not yet.”

“I’ll help you?—”

“Your priorities have to shift.” Dom gestures toward Ellen.

Whatever’s going on, I can’t help but feel I’ve done something wrong. What Dom’s feeling might be genetically programmed into him, needing pain for relief. If so, I’ve cut off his only avenue to relax, subjecting him to endless anxiety.

I curl my hands into fists. I know what that’s like.

Ellen looks between us. “Is this parked for now? We should go get Arabella.”

With an incline of his head and putting a confident arm around Ellen’s shoulders, Ilia leads the way to padded chairs lining the shuttle’s seating area. “Please, make yourself comfortable,” he tells me.

I lower myself into the nearest seat, my fingers already groping along the cushion seams, hunting for a safety belt. My nails catch on something metallic, and I tug free a strange device that looks like a cross between a Rubik’s cube and a high-end watch. Ellen’s already clicked hers into place with a practiced snap.

“Is there an in-flight magazine?” I joke, but my eyes flick to the glowing column, the chandelier thing dangling from the ceiling just waiting to be turned into shards of flying shanks. I always read the safety card on planes. Every time. Memorize exits, note the floatation device, then get an orange soda once we’re in the air. I don’t even like orange soda, but I’ve never crashed, so clearly the ritual works. Here, there’s no instructions on what to do if it all goes tits up. No flight attendant smile. Just alien controls, alien chairs, and a pit in my stomach the size of the Atlantic. Worst of all, no orange soda.

I look up, straight into Dom’s face. He straightens from strapping Arik and Nevare in, meeting my eyes. There's concern in his face. Not pity: awareness. He sees me.

My stomach twists. I dig my nails into the seat’s upholstery hard enough to snap one clean off.

Ellen giggles. Giggles. My practical friend hasn’t giggled for years. “Ilia didn’t crash this shuttle, Law. We’ll be fine.”

“Thisshuttle, sure. A fifty percent success rate of landing on Earth isn’t a ringing endorsement.”

“Arture wasn’t piloting before,” Ilia says. “Now that he is, we will?—”

The ship lifts off with a lurch that sends my stomach into a pit. I bite the inside of my cheeks hard enough to taste copper,clawing my hands into the seat cushions underneath me, as if that’ll be any help.

The walls of the cabin tilt in my vision, closing in, and the sound of the engines roars louder, like it’s inside my skull. My breaths come too fast, too shallow, I can’t slow them, I’m breathing through a straw, I can’t get enough air.

I force a breath in, shuddering. My throat still feels clamped shut. My heart won’t slow down.I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe.