Page 102 of Invasive Species
“They are, this is much improved from before,” he admits quietly.
I cool my hand to act as an anti-inflammatory and hold it over his cheek as I turn his head this way and that. If this was a blow to the face, I need to make sure his neck muscles aren't strained or damaged either.
Fortunately, he has a good range of motion, and he knows what I'm doing, submitting meekly to my assessment.
Once I'm sure he hasn't taken lasting damage, I ask, “How’s Arra-bellah?”
“Our patient is worse than ever.” Each word strikes deep into my gut like a rain of blows. “I had to come out to find you?—”
“I should never have touched her.Drok na, I should have left her to you instead of pretending I was strong enough to?—”
Ezla grabs the back of my neck with uncharacteristic force, his eyes as hard and as blue as the unforgiving betrillium chains we were locked in for our exile.
He leans in close, and if he were a Parthiastock I’d assume he was about to snap his jaws in my jugular, but he stops a hand-span away from my mouth. My breathing quickens from the threat, thoughts calm and cool as always under life-or-death pressure, and it’s like I can think clearly once more.
He takes a big inhale, opening his mouth slightly so his sensitive Selthiastock tongue receptors can deepen the scents he’s picking up. I stand there, frozen still, while he tastes my breath. There’s only one reason he’d be doing that, followingthe same instincts as mine when I'd cooled my hands for my patient’s bruise, and the realization hits me like the rocket crash.
“It'syou,”Ezla says in wonder.
And suddenly, being a Selthiastock is the best thing on this and any other planet.
I seize his arms. “I need to get to her. Now.”
THIRTY-THREE
ARABELLA
As soon as Gara leaves,I faint, fading away into the jello bed as if my consciousness is tethered to his and has to leave with him. I dream he’s falling, falling, and then hiding in the dark before a cold plunge swallows him whole. But I love cold water, I love how it makes me feel connected with myself and brings me out of my prickly skin and into a cool, calm, hyper focused place, kind of how I imagine neurotypicals to be.
“Wake up.” A feminine voice speaking English.
“Nag ydw,” I reply negatively in Welsh. Even though I know it's not my Mam, the tone is definitely mum-like, and I’m not ready to get up yet. I must have pulled another all-nighter when the muse struck, and I bet if I manage to crack open my eyes I’ll see another glorious painting of Gara, because he’s all I can think about?—
I force my eyes open, heart leaping out of my chest. “Gara!” I shout, or try to, orange slippery liquid sliding into my mouth.
Coughing, I flail to get myself upright, my weak muscles not only protesting but failing, making me slide back downagain and again. It’s not funny, it’s terrifying. What if I drown in this stuff?
A strong hand lifts my shoulders up and supports my head to flop over the side of the bed.
“There, there,” she soothes, tone as melodic as my mother’s Welsh, as if she’s going up and down the hills and valleys. She eases me to a seated position, but I can hardly move my legs into a tailor’s seat, and my head swims when I try. Shit, this isn’t good at all.
The silver scaled woman wearing toga layers is back. She hands me a glass with a straw, but I can barely put my lips to it, so she guides it in for me, gray eyes flashing with concern. “This won’t do at all. Where is your Selthiastock?”
My throat already burns from choking on day-glow orange goo, but it triples when I think how Gara was treated.
“Chased out. Police,” I grate out between sips. I’m too tired to cry. When Gara was nearby I had some vim and vigor, some pep in my… something. Step. That’s it. But now if I close my eyes, I fear I might not open them again.
She smooths my hair back from my face. It’s tangled something chronic, just like whatever is slowly killing me. I don’t want to let it win, but I might not be able to fight the invasion much longer.
“Prif Samara has a lot to answer for,” the silver woman says softly.
I don’t know who that is, and I’m struggling to remember what this lady’s name is. Sara? The only thing I know for sure is she’s this All-Mother, Gara’s biological parent but nothing like a real Mam. She sent him off as an experiment, and her thousands of children live under strict dogmatic rule. She’s a monster, even though she smiles sweetly enough in the face of my glare.
Shara—that’s her name!—pats me on the head. “It’ll be over soon,” she soothes, the basket-case.
That doesn’t settle me at all, fuck.
The door slides open and I half expect another pack of those muscle-bound purple aliens trooping in. Instead, a flash of green stumbles to a halt, staring openly at the All-Mother standing next to my bed.
