Page 16 of Invasive Species (Outcasts of Oloria #2)

TEN

GARA

Arra-bellah asked her friend Nic-coal to inspect the chicken the next day. She declared her fit and “Potentially turning back into a velociraptor.”

Arra-bellah sees me frown as my nanites struggle to interpret the word. “Birds descended from dinosaurs, fearsome lizards that were alive billions of years ago on this planet.”

“They went extinct sixty-five million years ago,” Nic-coal corrects gently.

The tall brunette moves slowly, putting her primitive health tools back in her van with little expression on her face.

In contrast, Arra-bellah is a swirl of motion and emotions.

Seeing them together, I’m grateful Arra-bellah’s inner workings are clearly displayed in how she moves and talks, each mood plain to see.

I watch them as they talk, Arra-bellah’s wild gestures familiar to me as she explains something she’s passionate about, no doubt her designs for the barn. Her friend leaves with a small smile on her face, and my scales settle at the obvious show of trust she places in us.

Now to navigate this new dynamic with Arra-bellah while investigating my evolving feelings. I have to stay aloof in order to analyze them appropriately.

“That was a great visit,” Arra-bellah says, bounding up to me inside the barn.

“Yes?”

“Yeah. She gave me a whole load of notes for looking after the sheep, including the pregnant ones.” Her green eyes sparkle at me, hope shining in them.

“Would you like me to help you prioritize the tasks?”

“Absolutely. You're a fabulous project manager.” With a grateful smile, she holds out her phone. Using the program from earlier, I translate the list into something I can read, transfer it to my pad and sort them from critical to what seem like more maintenance tasks.

“The animals will need hay… do we have that in stock?” I ask.

“Yeah, it’s in one of the storage sheds, but it’s kind of heavy.”

“Then we will help.” I add relocating this hay, whatever it is, to our priorities.

“Yeah, you guys are crazy strong. You have super toned pecs and shoulders.”

I look down at my chest. “Good observation.”

She giggles, and my scales shimmer. Her laughter is pure sunlight, warming and bright.

“You should be on the cover of a magazine or something…” She trails off, eyes widening a little in a way I recognize all too well.

“Actually, can I take some pictures? I won’t get in your way; I'll take candid shots from a distance.”

“You want to take images?” Dom would insist that is her right, but she's asking me for my permission. Her consideration makes my chest loosen with some un-nameable feeling. What is this thing she makes me feel ?

She purses her lips. “I’ll be careful with them.”

“You and careful don’t particularly co-exist as a concept,” I say before I can stop myself.

That makes her laugh again; if anything, louder and brighter than before. “Yes. Sweet burn, good one. I’m writing that down.”

Once her list is finalized, I project it between us and run the program backwards to translate it into her writing. “Here are the tasks. Do they seem manageable?”

She blows out her cheeks. “No, but also yes. I just need to do them one at a time… oh. We’ll need food, super priority. In fact, let me order that now.”

“Very well.” I watch over Arra-bellah’s shoulder as she flicks through the glowing images on her small device, tapping at things with her index finger.

The screen fills with vibrant pictures—crisp green leaves curled in delicate spirals, fat red spheres labeled tomatoes , golden wedges of something she calls cheese .

The protein options are even more mouthwatering, rich, marbled cuts of deep red meat, pink commas curled in delicate spirals, kidney-shaped beans.

Everything looks alive. Colorful. Varied. Not like the bland, beige nutrient paste I’ve known in the clone barracks, reformed into different shapes but never different flavors. This food looks real. It looks exciting.

She taps another item— chocolate biscuits —and the image shifts to neat rows of dark brown disks, their edges ridged and oozing something glossy. My mouth fills with saliva.

“You have to try this. And this,” Arra-bellah murmurs.

She holds up the phone to me. “Pizza bases. We have to have those.” She doesn’t wait for my reaction as she scrolls, adding more, lost in her own world.

But I stare, fascinated. What would it be like to eat something that didn’t taste like efficiency?

Something completely new, something exotic ?

My gaze slides from the screen of wonders to her. Certainly new, and certainly exotic, challenging our thinking and offering me freedoms I'd never dreamed of.

Pink flushes across my scales. Not again.

I make myself think of open wounds, suture procedures, how to encourage nanites to the site to reseal the edges of lacerations.

Anything but how my thoughts about Arra-bellah made my scales act as though they were eager to match with a mate. It's a story only.

Fortunately, she doesn't notice my scales change nor how they revert back, not that she'd know what it meant. Once she taps through several screens she spins her device with a flourish. “Done. Let’s tick that task off. Wait, let’s add it, and then I can tick it off.”

Nodding, I do so, and her cheeks flush with triumph. Her sweet scent wraps around me again, making my mouth water even more than the food.

It's just an automatic response, I tell myself. Repeatedly. It doesn't mean anything. But it’s as if the flush in her cheeks is directly connected to something inside me.

“Once I finish my animal tasks, I'm going to fix up your living space,” she promises.

I slide my device back on my belt. “Don't trouble yourself, we’re coping.”

“I’m sure you can cope fine, but having a nicer place to lay low is non-negotiable. No excuses, no distractions.” She's determined, her attention solely on me.

As if I form her whole world. I usually slink from under a female’s notice, but I find I don’t mind her looking at me. In fact… I want to see her smile. At me. With me.

She cocks her head. “What's your favorite color?”

I can't help but let my gaze stray to her curls. “I like… red.”

Her smile widens. “I love all the colors, but right now, I'm feeling…” She taps my forearm. “Green. ”

A swell of dizziness knocks all the thoughts out of my head. Green. She likes green.

The next day passes in a blur of building the barn but also stepping around Arra-bellah as the tiny human recreates our space.

At first, Arra-bellah’s changes to the lean-to seem as chaotic as everything she does—strings of fabric hanging at odd angles, scattered items placed without apparent thought.

It's up to me to feed us, but the work is easy enough for even a Selthiastock to feel like a cooking Magirustock. The eggs from the coop are warm in my hands, their smooth shells a delicate contrast to my calloused fingers. It’s a simple thing—lifting them from the straw-lined nests, carrying them inside—but something about it settles me.

Food, fresh from the source, nothing processed or reconstituted.

From coop to table. I understand why El-len and Arra-bellah put such care into it.

The eggs sizzle when they hit the pan, sending up a rich scent. I know it's only volatile organic hydrocarbons, but it's as if a new level of appreciation has unlocked in me. No longer are they calories; when eaten next to Arra-bellah, they restore in more ways than mere nutrition.

The others gather as I plate the eggs, drawn by the promise of real food, but there’s one missing. Of course.

I wipe my hands and head outside. The lean-to is a mess of color and clutter, exactly as she left it. Arra-bellah sits curled in a pile of blankets, half-buried in a sketchpad, lines of charcoal smudged across her fingers. How does she have this much energy with so little fuel?

"Eat," I say .

She barely glances up, nose scrunching in mild protest. "Five more minutes?—"

"You need to eat." I plant my hands on my hips, lowering my voice to the tone that usually gets compliance.

Not with her. She just grins, tapping her pencil against the paper. "You're bossy, you know that?"

"You’re fragile," I counter. "You need food."

She heaves a sigh, but when I don’t move, she finally untangles herself from the mess in our sleeping quarters.

At the kitchen table, she makes up for lost time, inhaling eggs, tea, and whatever else is in reach. I watch, bemused, as she melts with each bite. She enjoys whatever she's doing wholeheartedly. Nothing is “just” around her; it's intense, in-depth, and somehow brighter.

"Okay, fine," she says around a mouthful. "Good call."

I shake my head, but there’s something warm in my chest as I turn back to the stove.

I try to catalogue it, to compare it to other emotions I’m familiar with.

It’s satisfaction, yes, along with the pride I feel when I aid a crewmate.

But there’s an edge of something new, something delicate. Precious.

As I keep an eye on her throughout the day, a pattern in her behavior emerges, and the lean-to comes together into something she could see which I never would have imagined.

The lean-to is transformed. Arture’s section remains open to the sky, unobstructed, so he can see the stars. Dom’s area has a sturdy shelf, already lined with his neatly arranged law-keeping equipment.

When my gaze finally lands on my own space, I stop short.

A small, organized station has appeared—just the right size for my scanners and medical supplies, the surfaces dyed in deep red and green.

It isn’t just decoration. It’s a silent offering, an understanding of who we are. And, somehow, it feels… like we belong.

I catch her scent before I hear her—warm spices drifting toward me, stirring something deep in my chest. Then come her light, dancing steps, the energy in them as unmistakable as her voice.

“That'll do until we sort you something more permanent,” she says. Peering up at me, she checks, “Is it okay? Do you like it? Hate it? Indifferent?”

I don’t answer, even though I know she's waiting on my thoughts. I can’t. My throat tightens around words I don’t know how to say.

She stares up at me, eyes searching my face. When I still don’t respond, she waves a hand in front of me. “Hi? You okay in there?”

I manage to swallow past the lump in my throat. “I… thank you.”

Her shoulders drop with an exaggerated exhale, her hand pressed to her chest. “Phew. Thought I’d broken you for a minute there.” Then, with a grin, “You’re totally welcome, by the way.”

It does feel like it.

“Here.” She hands me a rod as long as my palm, crowned with a spine of bristles. “Paint with me.”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Of course.” She tilts her head, smirking. “But I’ll be very sad if you say no.”

“Then… alright, but I'll need detailed instructions.”

She gestures to the palette. “First, mix your colors. It’s about balance. Feeling. Just go with what looks right.”

I hesitate, scanning the blobs of vibrant pigment. “There are no recipes?”

“Nope.” She grins. “You need a little creativity. There’s no wrong answer.”

I let out a breath. That wasn't true on Oloria. My whole life has been dictated by right and wrong. There’s always a wrong action, a wrong choice, a wrong step that can mean failure, discipline, even death.

Yet here, she hands me a brush like I have the freedom to do anything.

I mix blue and yellow together to make a vibrant green. “How do I dim this color?”

“You want it darker, add some more blue. Maybe a touch of red, introduce a rich brown tint.”

I do as she directs, the paint squelching on the flat disc she gave me. “Is this satisfactory?”

“Do you like it?” she counters.

“I…” Do I? “It's serviceable.”

“I reckon that’s Gara speak for ‘It’s banging’. Slap it on.”

She demonstrates, and I follow. The bristles drag against the wall as I spread bold stripes of color, blazing a trail across the pale whitewashed wall. I hesitate, studying them. Not uniform. Not perfect.

“I'm not suited to this task?—”

Arra-bellah leans in, eyes gleaming. “They’re perfect.”

I meet her gaze, searching for mockery, but she only looks pleased.

Then she beckons me closer, and before I can react, her thumb sweeps across my cheek. Her warm skin brushes mine, a lingering touch.

“Bit of paint here,” she murmurs.

When I finally dare to meet her eyes, they lock onto mine. The world narrows to this moment: cinnamon and the scent of paint, the press of her fingers on my cheek, the stuttering rhythm of our breathing.

I should step back, but… I don’t want to. This is it, the core of what she makes me feel, firing into fullness inside me. Just a few more moments, and I'll be able to isolate what it is. Roaring rushes in my ears, along with a crunch like the gravel in the yard .

Arra-bellah breaks the strange magnetism between us first, whipping her head round to stare up the track. She grabs my shoulders, yanking me down. I slam to my knees in front of her, surprised she would make me bow to her.

Then she hisses, “Someone's coming.”