Page 73 of Alien's Eternal Mate

The truth was, I hadn’t been all that fond of humanity, either.

I looked back at my sleeping wife, heavily pregnant with our child, and realized some hard truths about myself.

What a fool I have been.

Of course I hated my life. It had been devoid of meaning, utterly empty. I had never given things like love and friendship a fair chance. I had simply assumed them to be out of my reach.

I walked over to our bed and looked down on her lovely, sleeping form. My hand brushed across her hair, feeling its softness.

“I’ve done a lot of things I regret in this life…in both of my lives.”

I shook my head, then spoke again, keeping my voice soft enough it would not disturb her.

“I have no regrets about the time I have spent with you. In fact, it’s my favorite thing in all the galaxy. All I want is to spend each and every day with the woman I love, and raise our child.”

I turned back to the three moons, swimming in a sea of stars. When I spoke, I addressed not them, nor the celestial host. I suppose I spoke to god, or perhaps the Precursors. I didn’t think it mattered to whom I spoke, as much as the sentiment behind the words.

“I’m sorry. I never got it before. I just didn’t get it. I thought that I understood so much, but now I know the truth. I don’t understand it. I don’t understand it at all.”

I felt my heart soar as I turned back to my sleeping wife.

“All I know is, for the first time in either of my lives, I’m happy. Truly happy. And for that, and for so many other things, I want to say thank you.”

When I thought of the small-minded, cramped individual I had been before, it made me sick to my stomach. How had I lived that way? So blind, to everything all around me? Now I had tasted the bittersweet nectar of life, and I wanted more. I wanted to drain the cup.

“I guess…it doesn’t matter if I ever make it back home, after all.”

I laughed, keeping the sound soft so as not to wake Arael. I’d known the truth for a long time. Hearing myself say it out loud felt like an ultimately empty gesture. Things were what they were, whether I wanted to admit to it or not.

I carefully laid down next to my lifemate and watched her sleep until m y eyelids grew heavy. My old life, my memories of being a human, they would always be with me. They were a part of me.

But my heart, and my soul, were Masari.

NINETEEN

CARTER

My watery knees threatened to give out, my lungs wanted to burst, but still I blew on the photonic flute. The kaleidoscopic miasma swirling through the air told no cohesive story, nor did it paint a portrait or make an artistic statement.

It did, however, serve a purpose. Floran ran a crystal-tipped rod through the air over Arael’s sweating, panting form, sparing a glance for the pattern on the ceiling now and again.

“Just keep watching the ceiling, Arael. Your lifemate says it will help with the pain.”

The elderly Physicker couldn't quite hide his disdain for my unconventional pain management technique. The midwives, who did the real work of helping women through labor, however, had been open minded.

By creating specific patterns of color set to precise tempos, I could inhibit the pain receptors in Arael’s neural network. It wouldn’t eliminate the pain, but tamp it down considerably.

Combined with a native Masari root powder, Arael appeared far more comfortable than I would have thought possible.

“Men go to war. Women give birth,” Pageus had told me earlier that day. “And the greater danger is faced by the women.”

The thought of something going wrong gnawed away at me day and night all through her pregnancy. Now that the big day had finally arrived, I needed to play the photonic flute. It was the only way to keep myself sane.

“The child is crowning,” cried one of the midwives. Floran moved his instrument lower and frowned thoughtfully.

“She is correct.”

He didn't catch the glare the midwives gave him. I wondered if my social reforms had led to them viewing me in a better light, but I doubted it. The rivalries between castes were ingrained and hard to excise from Masari society.

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