Page 20 of Exiles on Earth
Her pale skin flushes again, color blooming along her cheeks, but then her frown deepens, slicing through my chest like a blade. By the All-Mother, I never want to see her brow crease like that again.
“You’ll need to eat and sleep, right?” she asks.
Sleep. Sleep sounds like salvation. “Yes. My crew and I can hunt from the lifeforms I sense nearby.”
Her expression darkens immediately, her cheeks burning a deeper shade—though this time, it’s not from pleasure. “You will not eat any of the sheep,” she snaps, each word sharp as a whip. “I already have it hard enough, keeping this farm afloat.”
She pushes the loose strands of hair back from her face and blows out her reddened cheeks. What does that gesture mean? She looks both angry and worried, and the sight twists something deep inside me.
“I don’t mean to add to your burden,” I say quickly, standing tall. My crew rise with me, and the females instinctively step back, their small forms dwarfed by ours. Yet El-len doesn’t retreat. She’s steady and fearless, her courage shining as brightly as before.
“Come on, everyone,” she says, pointing to the long, low building nearby, dim in the rapidly descending darkness. “What we all need right now is a cup of tea.”
I pick Gara up,his weight heavy against me, and we shuffle into the abode. The air inside is warm, carrying the faint, comforting scent of earth and wood smoke, but my gaze is immediately pulled to the chaos inside. The walls, made of rough-hewn stone, cradle this space filled with a mix of strange, practical clutter. Every flat surface is crowded, overflowing with objects I don’t fully understand. Coils of leather straps dangle from hooks, their edges cracked with use; stacks of mismatched bowls next to a tangle of ropes near the door, frayed and knotted; a pair of thick boots smeared with drying mud; a small blade for cutting plant stems sits beside a curved spoon, while a pile of coarse fabric lies abandoned under a jar of something pungent and green. A wooden table dominates the space, its surface scarred by countless years of work, smudges of soil and traces of flour competing for territory.
This isn’t chaos. This is survival. This is life being built, sustained, and fought for every single day. I want to understand what each item is, what they do, how they fit into the puzzle of these females, but the effort to think feels like trudging through deep sand. Pricklings of curiosity struggle to rise, but exhaustion presses harder, dragging me down.
I set Gara upright at the table, and one of the females sits next to him. “Hello, I’m Nic-coal. I’m a veterinarian, but I’ll have a look at that wound for you and do what I can.”
Gara explains gruffly, “I am a healer, and my nanites will take care of it in a few cycles. Do not trouble yourself.”
The small red-head slides onto the seat next to him, effectively blocking him in between them. “Mind if I watch?” she asks him.
Her turn of phrase is strange, but even stranger is her requestfor our permission. Gara’s shock mirrors my own, green scales flashing turquoise.
Nic-coal hands Gara sterile objects, allowing him to see to his own swelling left leg, and the red-head fidgets closer. “Wow. Are these… scales?” A curious finger quests toward him, and Gara flinches away.
I rumble a warning to Gara in my throat. If a female wants to touch, that’s their right, but she shrinks back, fingers curling into her palm. “Sorry, I got too excited and ahead of myself. I do that a lot.”
El-len spins a knob at a counter, water bursting from a pipe above to fill a plasteek jug. “Right. Everyone calm down, and let’s introduce ourselves properly.”
The red-head holds out her hand toward Gara. “I’m Arra-bellah.”
The healer rips a line of bandage free with his teeth before replying, “Arra-bellah,” he muses, as if trying out the word. “You already know my designation, and my shortener. Do you need it again?”
“You’re Gara. Gara’s green,” she says in a singsong voice. “I think I can remember that.” She stares openly at his scales.
Nic-coal turns her attention toward Arture. “Let me see your wounds, please.”
Arture sinks to his knees, bowing his head, and Nic-coal frowns, muttering, “Up, up. Don’t do that.”
“It is… custom,” I try to explain. Showing proper deference unsettles the females here. Very unusual.
“I take it you come from a matriarchal society?” the tall suspicious blonde asks Dom.
Dom’s mouth works, but nothing comes out. He’s probably never been directly addressed by a female.
“We do,” I confirm, watching Dom carefully. Of all my crew, he’s the one most likely to struggle with change and treating females differently to the way we understand. As an enforcer,he’s rigid in his thinking; it took multiple cycles before he would accept designation shorteners instead of using everyone’s full serial numbers. I’ll probably need to spar with him soon to re-establish our hierarchy and give him a renewed sense of security.
Purple scales rippling, Dom bows his head and focuses on Nevare, guiding him to the table. Arik’s hands reach out to help, but Dom deftly turns him aside with a firm yet gentle motion, pressing him down to sit next to their Apex. My shoulders ease a fraction. Dom’s a solid Base, holding the trio together with quiet strength. If I can stabilize him, the others might find their footing, too.
The blonde watches him, her gaze sharp and lingering, taking in their dynamic. There’s something about her presence that commands attention, even as she stands quietly observing.
I clear my throat. “And what may we call you?”
She blinks, her focus shifting to me. “Oh. Law-rah.”
Dom murmurs the name to himself, tasting the unfamiliar syllables. “Oh-Law-rah,” he repeats, the name rolling awkwardly from his tongue.
