Page 8 of Invasive Species
She puts her hands on her hips. "Cool. I guess I'm point of contact while Ellen’s on her little jolly."
Jolly? I want to know but cannot ask.
She amends, "Trip. Vacation."
I swallow hard, letting my gaze dart down to her. “Am I your assistant now? Your… servant?” The closest word in Earth language to a Tuber is slave. I don’t want to even say the word to her in case it gives her ideas, but in reality, there’s little difference. Tubers were built to serve specific purposes, and the word of a female is a direct order, no matter what.
She blinks at me. “What? No, nothing like that. Except…” she amends, as I anticipated, “we'll have to finish the barn while she's away."
So, am I under her command or not?I grit my teeth. Vague orders might seem like leniency, but the blame will still fall to us if we fail her expectations.
“Apart from the barn, what are your priorities?” I press.
The tiny human stares blankly at me, gaze darting to the door. She shakes her hair out into her hands, the red glinting like banked embers of a fire. “Uh… Jeez. I can’t plan beyond the next painting. You… You can do what you like, as long as you stay hidden. I can barely organize my own life, let alone yours.”
“Stay hidden. Understood.” As for letting us have our autonomy, I know that’s bait. She’ll pretend she never said that and punish us if we dare to think for ourselves.
I let my gaze rake over the small human. Physically inferior to clones, and yet I still can’t bring myself to plot mutiny, even though it would be simple. I could pick her up with one arm, lock her safely in El-len’s house, and we could leave.
Except we’d have nowhere to go, and as soon as they found out what I’d done, the Parthiastocks would snap my neck.
"What are you thinking, I wonder?" she murmurs, shocking me out of my treasonous thoughts.
Are humans psychic? “I need to get back to my crewmates… direct reports. I've informed you of the change. We’ll continue the work restoring the barn at first light, and we will not fail you."
"Awesome." Arra-bellah moves to the door, motioning the way out.
I leave, walking stiffly from all the adrenaline surging through my system. Talking to Arra-bellah is somehow worse than a hundred field surgeries, piecing together a hundred different angles under pressure. She’s acting friendly for now, but that will change. It always does. Females act all-knowing, but truly their dominance is only matched by their ruthlessness.
I need to fly carefully around the tiny human.I have to navigate us through this, and she already suspects me, even though she has no real cause to.
I swallow hard. The only secret I have is one I’ll take to my grave, but if she spots a mystery, she might pry and pull me out into the open. Then I’d be exposed to the others. Cast out and hated. Perhaps even killed.
After all, it’s my fault they’re exiled on this wet planet in the first place.
THREE
ARABELLA
I chewthe end of my hair watching Gara trudge back to the lean-to, where they all sleep in a pile like puppies. Talking to him is like pulling teeth, yet always fascinating. He tends to be stone-cold serious, but I reckon he's got a dark sense of humor with some of the statements he makes.
After the epic blow up this afternoon, though, it’s crystal clear he hates me. No doubt, no second-guessing. As my mum would say—no bones about it.
I yank the luckless lock of hair out of my mouth and pace Ellen’s kitchen, brain crackling like fireworks. “What did I do to make him hate me? People tend to have a reaction to me, sure—too flighty, too scattered, too much—but not epic hatred from the word go.”
One thing’s obvious—he’s more used to women than the others. Ilia, the triplets, and the pilot practically fall on their faces like we’re Japanese shogun surveying the rice paddies, but Gara? Gara glares, like he’s accusing us of pretending at something.
I spin in place, nearly overbalancing into Ellen’s tower of letters on the table. Shit, that was close. I flick the kettle on,pulling out my box of chamomile tea. Oh, bugger, out of tea. I put the empty box back and open up my phone to get to my shopping app to add that to the list, but then tap Photogram out of habit. No hearts on my latest post—a gorgeous shot of the lake from my morning swim.
“Well, bum to you too,” I mutter at my nonexistent audience. What was I doing? Something important.
“Oh fuck. The farm,” I blurt. Shit. I can’t even keep myself in order, let alone a farm. “Without Ellen, who’s going to run it?”
But I can’t let her down.
I grab a pen and paper, my brain already sprinting ahead. Sheep. Chickens. They need… stuff. I need to make sure the place doesn’t burn down before Ellen gets back—which she will, even if that planet is a paradise like Gara said.
Paradise, I write, then cross it out. Maybe this would be better on my phone. Ooh, a set of reminders, right. One for each type of animal. Except I have no idea how often they need to get fed.
