Page 82 of Invasive Species
Now Ezla’s face falls a little. “Paints… pigment? Does your kind eat pigment?”
I force myself upright, wobbling on the nutrient bed. “No, we don't,” I say with a grunt, tendrils of fear gripping my chest at how weak I've become. “Um… I’d like meat, potatoes, veg.”
He fusses over the readouts and dials behind me, glaring at the screens like they aren't telling him anything good. Probably doesn’t like all the red and orange lines trailing down on my graphs. “Veg. What is this?”
Rubbing my eyes, I search the dregs of my foggy hurting brain for a way to explain. “Edible plants.”
“Edible…” The alien’s scales flash a warmer blue, like pictures of the Mediterranean Sea. “I shall have some prepared immediately.”
“Great.” I flop to the side, not wanting to see the screens behind me.
It’s grossly unfair and horrible and a tragedy that Gara’s gone, it would be a travesty if it was for nothing. I feel… well, like I have the flu, bones aching, body shaking, and my mountain of grief on top of it. My heart yearns for Gara in a way I can safely say it's never ached for anyone else. I want him, here, right now, safe beside me.
Curling my hands into throbbing fists, I grit my teeth. “I want those paints please.”
He backs out of the room bowing. “At once, female.”
Ezla seems afraid of me, because of course he is; I'm a female and I apparently hold the power of life and death over him and others like him. If I'm not careful, I could get someone into so much trouble they’re killed for it.
So I have to be considered, even when my brain's spiraling. Gotta channel a little Gara, careful and precise.
When Ezla returns, it's with arms full of boxes and a big flat surface. It’s a brilliant shiny white, something I’d associate with a whiteboard rather than a canvas, but it’ll do. As he liftsit next to my bed, the walls reach out with little hooks and grab hold of it.
“Holy shit,” I breathe.
“Please do not be alarmed by the Milagrove. We have worked around and inside it for many tens of full solar cycles, and it is perfectly safe and healthy.” He sets the box right beside me on the bed, making it rock a little it’s so heavy. “I have sent for our best pigmentation equipment, and this was supplied to me.”
I open the box and get hit in the face with a scent wall of heady rich dirt, the calming smell of freshly cut wet grass, and a hot, dry hit to the back of the throat like fire.
Running my fingers over thin glass tubes that glitter in the roving lights on the ceiling, I notice each has a different color inside and a thin sponge at the very tip. These are high-tech types of markers, and while the grooves are for bigger hands than mine, I can hold them just fine.
“I’ve also ordered edible plants and freshly cooked cuts of meat,” Ezla informed me.
“Right, yeah. I’ll eat after my shower.” I don’t want to eat, or shower, or move, really, but I can’t sink slowly into the orange jello bed until I rot. There's a little pulse in my chest, and I know. He's out there somewhere. He’d want—no, he wants—me to get better. I have to trust he knew what he was doing.
And trust my instincts.
After my showerand choking down some food, I confront the board mounted beside my bed.
Ezla wants me to stay abed. Well, he keeps asking andpointing out instead of demanding, or being belligerent like Gara would have been. I suspect he’ll get in trouble if I don’t do it, and I don’t want him to be hurt, but I need to do this.
I channel the pain in my heart out to my fingertips, picking up several of the alien markers until I feel one that’s just right. A sweep of color becomes his strong cheekbones, a swerve to reveal his nose, another slash his lips tight like he’s worried.
I draw and draw and draw, carving him out of the canvas with the scent of the markers wrapping around me, each pigment slightly shiny like his scales so it gives me a spectrum of color depending on how much I use.
Every line I stroke on with love. His jawline emerges first, sharp and familiar, and I breathe through the sting behind my eyes. I layer the color again and again, watching it shift under the light like his scales used to—mossy green, jade, and mostly his happy nuclear green.
Closing my eyes, I can imagine him in all the ways, sitting close beside me, staring down at me like I both annoy and intrigue him. Underneath me, smiling softly, like we share a secret.
“Come back to me,” I murmur. I really hope this thing in my chest isn't a hallucination. I can't cope if he was just a memory, weak neurons sparking off.
I need to imprint him over everything so I don’t lose this connection.
“My goodness,” a female voice says, sultry like a premium phone number.
I look over my shoulder, my neck crackling as I move. How long have I sat here, in communion with the lines?
Behind me is an older woman in silver, all curves in the right places and somehow looking both strong and delicate. Expensive comes to mind, with how the soft silks of herlayered outfit whisper over her hips and thighs as she steps forward, staring at my drawing.
