Page 46 of Exiles on Earth

Finally, Gara sits back. “You can’t pull on your strength for a full Olorian day,” Gara warns. “You’ll overstretch these muscles, and?—”

Ilia gets up anyway. Typical. “Noted. Arture, are you hale?”

“Yes,” the pilot says with a dreamy smile. He hands my phone back to me with two hands.

“Keep it if you need to,” I insist.

The pilot’s severe face breaks into a smile, pressing it into my palms. “I’m calibrated now, I can cope with taking the resulting parameters for continued calculations. My deepest thanks.”

I pocket my phone. “You’re welcome, I’m happy you’re happy. And, again, any of you can come ask me for stuff.”

Two out of the three purple triplets stare, then nod like I’ve given an order, but I have a sneaking suspicion they’d still rather die than make any kind of request.

Gesturing for Ilia to follow me, I crunch over the gravel courtyard out of earshot of the lean-to. “So, how can I help? Do they all want star-charts, or what? Why was not having the information hurting him?”

“It’s to do with how Tubers—clones—are made. We have purposes tied into our makeup, giving us strengths but also impulses. For example, Gara’s is to heal, and his senses are finely tuned to accomplish that with his advanced smell and taste, but it’s also a driving need inside him. If he sees someone to fix, he’ll go for days and nights without rest to help them. If he can’t, he’ll… unravel.” He nods toward Arture. “Arture’s strengths are calculating angles, trajectories, velocities, all in an instant. It makes him an excellent pilot, but comes with a cost. He experiences a need to always calibrate himself in relation to Oloria, and being unable to do so wrenched at his mental and physical state.”

“Right. Sounds awful.” Another checkmark in thedystopian hellhole column. But when Ilia talks about his men, the hesitation vanishes. In life-or-death situations, he doesn’t waver—he steps up, decisive.

Just like me. I might hesitate, but when the moment comes, I act.

“What about you?” I ask, my voice softer now. “What do you need? What would make you unravel?”

Ilia’s gaze locks onto mine, his eyes burning with something unspoken. “My drive is to explore, but that’s not what I need. I need… my crew to be safe. Content, if possible. And I want…” His words falter, his focus unwavering as he stares at me.

Say it, big guy. My heart hammers in my chest.

Because I know—at least, I hope—I know what he’s about to say.

“Ellen!” Arabella’s voice cuts through the moment, sharp and impatient from the doorway of the house. “Can you get in here? I’m done!”

FOURTEEN

ILIA

Arra-bellah shiversin El-len’s kitchen, nose reddening to match her flaming red hair.

“There’s no heating whatsoever. We’re going to…. Ah choo!” She violently folds, as if suffering an internal explosion.

I turn around to call for Gara when El-len grabs my arm. “She’s fine, that’s a sneeze.”

“Fine?” Arra-bellah glares at her peer with bleary eyes. “I’m freezing to death!”

El-len disrobes in the mudroom, looking over her shoulder at me outside. She rolls her eyes with a smile. I’m transfixed watching her hair brushing the bunched fabric at her neck, then staring as her hand slowly traces down the center of her perfect form to unzip her covering. My nostrils flare as she sheds her outer layer in front of me.

Hanging up her coat, El-len beckons me in. “I guess we have a problem.”

Stepping inside, I declare, “I’ll solve it. No matter the odds, I’ll overcome it.”

Her lips twitch with mirth as she puts on the kettle, her habit when entering the abode. “We have no hot water.”

I look at the hot water kettle. It’s wrong to argue with a woman, but El-len’s intelligent.

“I mean, the boiler for the house broke. It’s been on the fritz for a few days?—”

“And I love cold showers, but this is ridiculous,” Arra-bellah complains, folding her arms firmly.

El-len tucks her hair behind her ear. There’s no sign of the accident we endured earlier in her composure, and she remained calm when she helped me deal with Arture. She’s unbelievably resilient as she handles every situation thrown at her with grace.