Page 100 of Border Control
“Fix him,” I order. No, the tone of my voice wobbles too much for that.
I'm begging her.
She points to my head again, then at the headphones. The moment I slip them on, voices flood into my ears, alien language transforming into words I can understand.
“What’s happening here?” A woman in long honey-colored gauze approaches the scene from the gold car. Her voice is sharp, used to being obeyed.
I know a senior executive voice when I hear one.
She looks between Dom and me, her lips curling. “More humans, or is this the same one?”
The woman in silver says, “She's clearly different to the other two.”
“I can't tell. Where are they all coming from?” She sneers at Dom's slack form. “And this one's crying over a Parthiastock.”
One, this bitch is going to get my fist in her face. Two, I'm not crying. I'm too amped for that, but I'm not doing anything useful either.
My hands start roving over Dom's back as if I can prise open his scales and check he's okay. He has to be.
The woman in silver—she must be the All-Mother—examines his wound with a practiced touch. She clears away blood with the end of her see-through skirt, revealing a glint of iron.
“He’s still breathing. The blast was stopped by a metal plate,” she murmurs.
Dom's head plate. It saved him.
“He’s alive?” I check.
“Yes, he's alive,” the All-Mother says, silver eyes warm, like molten metal, as she looks at him.
My breath leaves in a shaky exhale. That was close.
But my relief is short-lived. The woman in gold, whom I can only assume is the Prif, Samara, scowls down at Dom’s prone form with icy contempt.
“Kill him,” she commands.
A gun moves to my left.
“No!” I scream, shoving the barrel away.
It fires wildly, the blast catching one of the other Parthiastocks in the shoulder. He staggers back, clutching his wound, his face twisting in shock and pain.
“Do not fire!” another Parthiastock snaps. “You might hurt a female!”
The injured Parthiastock slowly pushes himself to his feet, hand pressed to the injury on his shoulder. His flesh begins knitting itself back together, scales shimmering until the burn seals without a trace.
Nanites. Their regenerative abilities are astonishing. Dom’s wound is starting to close too, new skin forming over the wound, leaving a scaleless patch on his temple.
He stirs, shoulders bunching as he pushes up from the ramp, and his unfocused lavender eyes find mine.
‘Law-rah.’His mental voice is so small. Then he draws it back with a whispered,‘Sorry.’
At first I think he's sorry for getting shot or worrying me, but then I remember he's been trying not to talk to me in my head.
I clasp his fingers, holding them tightly. My skin tightens as my resolution surges through me like fire.
I won’t let anyone hurt him ever again.
“Stay with me, Dom,” I whisper. I say it again in my head, hoping I'm not shouting.‘Stay with me in here, too.’
