Page 9 of Invasive Species (Outcasts of Oloria #2)

SIX

GARA

She apologized.

Apologized. To me.

All night I replay her actions. How she reached out possessively, shaking her tiny fingers through my hair, then pulling back with her pale face full of honest contrition. The word ‘sorry’ tumbled from her lips, full of sincerity. And she didn’t repeat the action.

What does it mean? I toss and turn all night. What benefit did apologizing to me give her?

As the rain eases, I give up on rest. The damp gravel of the courtyard glistens under the moonlight, reflecting in puddles like molten silver betrillium.

Cold air clings to my scales, condensing into liquid which trickles down my body.

The moisture in the air must be destroying the delicate machinery of Arture's replacement arm and eye.

I walk out to join Dom, currently on patrol.

Silence wraps around us now that the rain has stopped, a rare moment of utter stillness as even the feathered lizards sleep inside their barracks.

This place is nothing like Oloria—there, the air ripples with dry heat and dust hangs in the wind like a shimmering projection.

My lungs breathe easier here, my memory of the burnt smell of sunbaked stone slowly being eroded by the rich, sodden weight of the soil and grass.

Dom doesn't greet me as I approach, instead pointing wordlessly to the single light burning in the farmhouse. Is Arra-bellah still awake?

“You need to agree to everything the tiny female says,” Dom growls, straight into business. “You ask too many questions.”

“They're clarifications,” I try. “I need to get to the exact requirements.”

Dom squares up to me. “Nevare can hear your thoughts, Gara. If I direct him toward you, what will he find?”

My scales stiffen so hard they're nearly spikes. The Parthiastock Apex will most likely hear my disgust for those who made us and didn't care for us afterward. “He'll find I'm trying my best to navigate us through this, to make decisions to keep us alive, to?—”

“Gerverstocks are the only clones who can make decisions without a female present. Selthiastocks aren't built to perform that function, therefore, they are prohibited from doing so,” Dom barks.

I ball my fists, fine fingers made for complex operations pressed tight. “Not true. Selthiastocks perform surgeries, making life or death determinations all the time. It's why Ilia chose me to lead in his absence.”

“Those are choices in your function, within your area of expertise, your purpose.

Our function is to keep all the other clones to the laws and rules laid out by the females.

And I say, you're straying dangerously close to disobedience when you question the tiny female.” His nostrils flare.

“Not just the questions, but the way you deliver them.

I'm not a powerful psychic, but I can see your aura when you're close. When you speak to the humans, it changes.”

“Changes how?”

He bares his teeth, curved incisors glinting in the moonlight. “Badly, G43RA. It's not just your life at risk here. It's all of ours.” Looming over me, the big Parthiastock growls, “Fix it.”

After that, rest is as impossible as us blasting off this rainy planet.

When the sun comes up, we work on the barn, Arik glaring at Dom as they silently argue over their psychic connection. But Dom's right. My personal feelings should not, cannot, must not, interfere with me being able to lead the exiles in Ilia's absence.

Arra-bellah shoots out of the farmhouse at midmorning, consulting her phone as she whirls around the yard.

I deliberately don't approach her, but I try to appear ready to talk to her even though my stomach turns like a centrifuge.

One misstep and she could call her authorities.

I can't ignore her. At the same time, the idea of debasing myself makes my scales crawl. Though I'll do it, for my crew.

But there's also an insidious thought lurking. Dangerous with its lure. She's different in how she treats us. Perhaps she's not like Olorian females at all, and we can forge a new path here. Perhaps Arra-bellah doesn't mind that I'm not fawning over her.

There's no denying that whenever she's near, I lose my carefully cultivated control. Gone is the strict surgeon, and I'm emoting like the emergency lights on a ship’s panel as it crashes, flashing all shades of colors. She does something to me, something I don't understand.

And that scares me.

So I continue working in the barn, half my attention on the door, bracing myself for the tiny human whirlwind to come in and ping all my emotions all over again.

When the sun hits its zenith and she still hasn’t spoken to me, I peer out. Did something else fall on her? I can’t hear any cries of distress. Or, indeed, anything apart from the chickens picking contentedly in the yard.

Where is she?

I search the machine shed, the coop, and survey the lands nearby. White and gray shapes dot the hillside, the sheep Arra-bellah cares for while El-len is away. But no tiny pale human, who would shine like a flare against the green swells of the land.

She’s either inside the house, or at the swimming lake. She mentioned wanting to swim yesterday, but from what I’ve observed, humans can’t insulate well against the cold.

She’s in danger.

I bolt up the track leading to the lake, mind sharpening as I run through my treatment plan.

If she’s in the water, she’s probably suffering extreme hypothermia.

I’ll have to remove her from the water, take off her wet covering, dry and warm her.

Using myself as a heat pad, I’ll run her back to the farmhouse.

But if she’s really ill, she’ll need advanced medicine, and I’m not an expert on humans. I need resources, data, models, analysis. Why haven’t I requested those things? My lack of preparation could mean the death of a female, who’s supposed to be under our protection.

“Please, All-Mother, don’t let her be in the water,” I huff as I reach the top of the hill and look down at the water lake. But, like all pleas to our genetic material donor, it goes unanswered.

A shape cuts through the plasglass-blue water, sleek as a dart, black with a red tip. I stare; where I’d expected flailing, she’s swimming faster than me.

She’s well. My stomach unwinds, adrenaline pounding through my veins. Taking a deep breath to slow my hearts, I continue to steal glimpses of the human. What strange creatures they are.

“Gara, my internal clock indicates it’s exercise time,” Arture says behind me.

I turn to face my fellow crewmates. “I was… Arra-bellah was missing, I went to find her. She’s fine. She’s… swimming.”

Dom looks over, then away. “We wait until she’s completed.”

“I should keep watch. For her safety, she shouldn’t swim alone.”

He levels a glare at me, and my chest tightens as if bracing for a blow. I scowl at him. Would he rather leave her at the mercy of an accident?

“Hey.” Arra-bellah’s cry floats up to us, and I break into a headlong sprint down the hill, back to cataloguing the assistance she might need.

She’s pulled up to the side, waving, a huge smile across her face for the others. Even more pale than usual, her hair contrasts sharply with her face, as dark ruby as the sun scorched rocks of the Olorian desert.

Her smile dies as I hit the bottom of the hill and accelerate toward her. Oh, no, cold might be setting in. I don't slow, leaping into the water next to her, and she flinches away, gasping. “Really want a swim, do you—urp!”

The last is an exhalation as I pull her into my arms and wrench her out of the water. Her skin covering is black as space, slippery yet soft under my fingers. Her face twists into a scowl as I deposit her on the side and push myself out, barking, “How long have you been in the water?”

“I dunno, like ten minutes? Is there a problem?”

Sitting back on my heels, I take stock. She's not shaking, she’s fully lucid but, right now, not smiling. That's unusual for her.

She wrings out her hair. “Wait. Were you… worried about me?”

“I… Humans… It's cold, and…” I trail off under her stare, all my medical knowledge fleeing before her intense scrutiny.

And then her smile returns, ten times more radiant than ever before. “You are. You're worried about me.”

“I… I…” I have no response.

“You're going pink on the edges there.” She winks, tapping her own too-washed-out cheeks. Little brown speckles dot her nose, like stars.

I glance down at my scales. My bright emergency emerald color dims, replaced by pale yellow-green and, yes, a swirl of pink. A pink which matches the shade of her lips.

My chest tightens, throat aching as if that same collar tightens around my neck. No. It can't be.

I hide how my scales have changed color to match her behind my back.

It's not evidence of mate binding; that's a myth, it isn't real.

My body can't be forging a connection, and I certainly can't be mate binding to her.

Just because she makes me feel something beyond fear and distaste when I look at her doesn't mean I'm… attracted to her.

She gets to her feet, dripping. “You don't need to worry about me; I've been cold swimming since I was a teenager. February is a tiny bit early, but it's kind of warm this year.” She takes a deep breath, throwing her shoulders back, her hair a wet ribbon tangling in the wind.

“Although… it's probably best to ease in slowly. And… I supp ose I should have told you where I was, in case of an accident.” She bites her lip. “It's just… well, I don't want to bother you.”

“Always bother me if it's for your safety,” I instruct, then hesitate. Will she think that's an order?

Instead of being angry with me, she grins as she twists the fabric around on her head. “Maybe one day we'll have a race.”

I flex my hands, hearts drumming. It feels like an invitation, not an order. “Perhaps. If you want.”

“I do, but it’s up to you.”

So confusing. Am I truly allowed to express myself around her?