Page 22 of Invasive Species
Arik cuts me off. “Whatever treasonous thing you’re about to say, don’t. I can barely hold onto Dom as it is. Females cannot make clones do anything through physical force, so they need law keepers to uphold their orders. Therules areburnedinto us, Gara, and without them, we’ll fall apart. If we destabilize, we’ll lose Nevare.”
His fists clench on open air, but I know his wave brother would be closing his fingers around my throat.
I have to fix this. “I'll be more careful?—”
“I’ll go calm Dom down before he sprints back here and challenges you for leadership. You know we can’t help it, Gara, so don’t provoke us, and don’t provokeher.” He storms out without a backward glance, needing to focus on his link with his wave brothers.
Two people storming away from me. What a record for a rainy Earth morning.
I smooth out Ara's sketches, taking the time to look at them closely. The lines for the lintels are more flowing than I’d thought to put in place. They'd look pleasing with the window designs, so much as I understand these things. They remind me of El-len: strong and determined. How could these sketches bring to mind the essence of a human female in them? That must be Arra-bellah’s gift, her purpose.
And I’d screwed it up in my fist. Even if we are equals, as El-len and the other females imply, it’s a grave discourtesy on any planet.
I’ll fix this, I have to. I begin tapping the designs into my pad so I can bring some of it to life, to show I understand.
I aim the replicator on the stone so it can sample it, then load the device with raw materials. It aims a targeting laser at the top corner ready to layer on the lintel.
I start the machine just as a flurry of chickens come squawking in. Their building blocks are that of cold-blooded creatures, and it shows in their dark, murderous eyes. I won’t flinch away from the egg-layers but I won’t stay here while they inflict death on me by a thousand pecks.
“Get out,” I order them, but the oldest struts up to me, swelling her breast like a challenge from a Parthiastock.
Right into the beam.
“Watch out!” I warn, useless as the chicken can’t understand me. The replicator bathes her in lurid purple light, and blasts her up to the roof. She drops, limp, to the cobbled floor, and I push the flurry of her feathers aside to check for vital signs.
What have I done?
“Arra-bellah!” I bellow.
SEVEN
ARABELLA
I stomp around the farm,forcing myself to do the bare minimum so at least the animals will be okay. But my hands won’t work right, my thoughts won’t line up, and everything keeps slipping through my fingers. I spill a bucket, water soaking into my jeans like a cold slap. The hay’s running low, and I forgot to figure out where I put in an order. Ellen’s kitchen is nearly out of fresh food, and I’ll have to get something delivered because I’m not allowed to drive. Another thing I can’t do.
Another thing that makes me useless.
No, I can't let this get me down. I need to regulate.
I need to swim.
I storm inside and grab my wetsuit from the room where my blank canvas sits, staring at me like an accusation. It’s been weeks since I finished anything. I used to love the feeling of a brush in my hands, but now every stroke feels wrong. Why can't I paint? I thought I had something with those new designs. A spark, a fire—something real. But Gara’s right. It’s all muddled. Just another mess I made.
I suck in a breath, holding back the sob trying to claw its way out of my throat. If I can’t produce something, my dreams won’t work. I’ll never make enough money to support myself. I’ll always be scrambling, always relying on other people who eventually get tired of me screwing up and leaving things half-finished.
Gara’s right. I’m not helping. I never have.
I press my palms hard against my eyes, but it doesn’t stop the feeling of everything closing in. My brain fights so hard to keep up, to be useful, but it’s like running against the tide. No matter how hard I push, I never get anywhere.
I’m never going to get anywhere. And I’m so, so alone.
I shake my head. I've got to keep going. Giving up isn't an option. Working with my brain is.
I go to Ellen's lake, the area she dug out for Nicole's rehab horses in anticipation of getting the go-ahead on the planning permission. Something niggles me about that, but I set it aside as I shimmy into the wetsuit. I need this swim to wash everything out of my mind. Cold water helps center me in my body rather than bounce around my head all the time.
“It's just a bad hour,” I tell myself. “Next one will be better.”
Focusing on swim lengths back and forth, back and forth, helps me lose myself in the rhythm of breathing around my strokes and the cold sinking into my bones. Finally, a sense of calm settles over me like the water sluicing over my body. It doesn't make my problems go away, but I feel a bit more able to cope with them.
