Page 31 of Invasive Species
She taps another item—chocolate biscuits—and the image shifts to neat rows of dark brown disks, their edges ridged and oozing something glossy. My mouth fills with saliva.
“You have to try this. And this,” Arra-bellah murmurs. She holds up the phone to me. “Pizza bases. We have to have those.” She doesn’t wait for my reaction as she scrolls, adding more, lost in her own world. But I stare, fascinated. What would it be like to eat something that didn’t taste like efficiency?
Something completely new, something exotic?
My gaze slides from the screen of wonders to her. Certainly new, and certainly exotic, challenging our thinking and offering me freedoms I'd never dreamed of.
Pink flushes across my scales. Not again. I make myself think of open wounds, suture procedures, how to encourage nanites to the site to reseal the edges of lacerations. Anything but how my thoughts about Arra-bellah made my scales act as though they were eager to match with a mate. It's a story only.
Fortunately, she doesn't notice my scales change nor how they revert back, not that she'd know what it meant. Once she taps through several screens she spins her device with a flourish. “Done. Let’s tick that task off. Wait, let’s add it, and then I can tick it off.”
Nodding, I do so, and her cheeks flush with triumph. Her sweet scent wraps around me again, making my mouth water even more than the food.
It's just an automatic response, I tell myself. Repeatedly. It doesn't mean anything. But it’s as if the flush in her cheeks is directly connected to something inside me.
“Once I finish my animal tasks, I'm going to fix up your living space,” she promises.
I slide my device back on my belt. “Don't trouble yourself, we’re coping.”
“I’m sure you can cope fine, but having a nicer place to lay low is non-negotiable. No excuses, no distractions.” She's determined, her attention solely on me.
As if I form her whole world. I usually slink from under a female’s notice, but I find I don’t mind her looking at me. In fact… I want to see her smile. At me. With me.
She cocks her head. “What's your favorite color?”
I can't help but let my gaze stray to her curls. “I like… red.”
Her smile widens. “I love all the colors, but right now, I'm feeling…” She taps my forearm. “Green.”
A swell of dizziness knocks all the thoughts out of my head. Green. She likes green.
The next daypasses in a blur of building the barn but also stepping around Arra-bellah as the tiny human recreates our space. At first, Arra-bellah’s changes to the lean-to seem as chaotic as everything she does—strings of fabric hanging at odd angles, scattered items placed without apparent thought.
It's up to me to feed us, but the work is easy enough for even a Selthiastock to feel like a cooking Magirustock. The eggs from the coop are warm in my hands, their smooth shells a delicate contrast to my calloused fingers. It’s a simple thing—lifting them from the straw-lined nests, carrying them inside—but something about it settles me. Food, fresh from the source, nothing processed or reconstituted. From coop to table. I understand why El-len and Arra-bellah put such care into it.
The eggs sizzle when they hit the pan, sending up a rich scent. I know it's only volatile organic hydrocarbons, but it's as if a new level of appreciation has unlocked in me. No longer are they calories; when eaten next to Arra-bellah, they restore in more ways than mere nutrition.
The others gather as I plate the eggs, drawn by the promise of real food, but there’s one missing. Of course.
I wipe my hands and head outside. The lean-to is a mess of color and clutter, exactly as she left it. Arra-bellah sits curled in a pile of blankets, half-buried in a sketchpad, lines of charcoal smudged across her fingers. How does she have this much energy with so little fuel?
"Eat," I say.
She barely glances up, nose scrunching in mild protest. "Five more minutes?—"
"You need to eat." I plant my hands on my hips, lowering my voice to the tone that usually gets compliance.
Not with her. She just grins, tapping her pencil against the paper. "You're bossy, you know that?"
"You’re fragile," I counter. "You need food."
She heaves a sigh, but when I don’t move, she finally untangles herself from the mess in our sleeping quarters.
At the kitchen table, she makes up for lost time, inhaling eggs, tea, and whatever else is in reach. I watch, bemused, as she melts with each bite. She enjoys whatever she's doing wholeheartedly. Nothing is “just” around her; it's intense, in-depth, and somehow brighter.
"Okay, fine," she says around a mouthful. "Good call."
I shake my head, but there’s something warm in my chest as I turn back to the stove. I try to catalogue it, to compare it to other emotions I’m familiar with. It’s satisfaction, yes, along with the pride I feel when I aid a crewmate. But there’s an edge of something new, something delicate. Precious.
