Page 115 of Invasive Species
The words I thought I'd never say flow from my lips as easily as breathing. “I love you, Mother.”
EPILOGUE - GARA
I’m nervous, even though I can’t show it. My hands are still steady, my heartbeats regular, but there's no denying that my stomach churns and my temperature keeps rising without consciously manipulating it; I have to lower it whenever I notice before I start sweating.
Ilia is also nervous, getting his pent feelings out by pacing across the gravel pathway in front of the restored barn. “What if we’ve misread the plans?” he asks me for the eighteenth time, which is not an exaggeration but an accurate count.
“I haven’t misread any plans.” I made sure to check and double check those, swapping with Arra-bellah during our knotting—what she calls a top up session—where we’re locked together for two Earth hours on average. Sometimes she paints, drawing the landscape of Oloria, the dorm streets, the balcony of Selthia’s Oasis overflowing with plants, and… me.
Again and again she draws me, and even though they are different colors and shades, poses and expressions, I recognize myself. How she can tell me apart from the other clones andmake so many images of me that are still undeniably me is her talent.
Talent I want to nurture. She’s done so well with the last plans, putting together elements to make the barn sing. I suspect other humans will want some of her talent once they see it on display, and I cannot wait to see her fly.
Arik comes running up from the track, sprinting hard. Old Mae the murder bird watches him warily from atop her perch on the roof of the henhouse, settling when he allows her a respectful distance. She seems unscathed from her adventure to another planet and living on the run, but more content at the pinnacle of her roost.
“They’re here!” Arik pants, coming to a stop in front of Ilia.
Our leader pulls himself up straight as if he is going to be on parade as El-len’s vehicle bounces down the track and into the yard.
Ilia opens the door for her, giving her a hand out; I run to do the same on the other side, but Arra-bellah has already spilled out in a jumble of new canvases and handfuls of small metallic paint pots.
“Hi!” she says brightly, and again my hearts relax. I breathe her in and now I can tell my body is adjusting, calibrating, making more vitamins to bolster her in our next knotting session. The bond between us renews, as if I've stepped into the sunlight. She says she’s cooler and calmer near me, as if I'm a cold pool she can submerge herself in anytime.
“Hello,” I say, and something about the timbre of my voice makes her shoot that trouble-making look at me. Wonderful, but first, we have the surprise to get through.
El-len kisses Ilia and rubs her hands. “Is it ready? Can I finally see it?”
“You may,” Ilia rumbles. “This way.”
Grinning at him, El-len points out gently, “I know wherethe barn is. But maybe we should wait for Laura, she helped so much with the planning permission.”
“That she did. That's her strength,” my mate says. “Where is she?”
El-len sighs. “Working of course. She'll be back later.”
Arra-bellah takes her arm. “Well, I won't tell her. Blame me for pushing you into a sneaky peek.”
El-len beams at the restored exterior, something we couldn’t hide from her as we finished refitting the roof and building the walls, joining old with new. The interior was something Ilia wanted to conceal from her as El-len’s duties on the farm expanded with the warming growing season. We all helped with the mixture of rebuilding and farm work, but Ilia was tireless in his work on both.
Ilia leads El-len in, and I take Arra-bellah’s latest paints. “Do you wish to go inside too?”
“Ooh, can I at last?” She dances down the track, setting her new canvases to one side before wiping her feet on the doormat.
I know this place inside and out by now, through both her plans and the emerging reality: how wooden beams stretch overhead, bearing the weight of history, and a row of restored antique tools stand sentinel against the weathered walls as a decorative nod to its past. This main room in the center has bedrooms radiating out in a hub and spoke model, as per Arra-bellah’s designs, and it makes for a convivial atmosphere.
But I don’t need to see any of that. Instead, I watch Arra-bellah’s face, cherishing her pure amazement at her detailed creations come to life.
“I love it,” she says breathlessly, and my nerves triple. What will she think of the next part? “I hope Ellen does… oh!”
A wail comes from the upstairs bedroom. With a quick glance at each other, we rush up the wooden stairs.
El-len and Ilia are in one of the guest rooms. The rooms situnfurnished but the structure is ready, each with a sturdy window made to look old, nooks for reading in, and a generous space for a bed.
Tears run down El-len's cheeks, twisting my guts.
Ilia gets to his knees in front of her, pressing her hand to his forehead. “My life is forfeit,” he mutters. “Gara!” he bellows, not realizing we'd come upstairs.
“Here,” I say, dry mouthed. What have we done wrong?
