Page 60 of Exiles on Earth
‘Gerverstock. Found you.’ A whisper in my head.
I writhe, sliding away from El-len so I won’t wake her in the throes of my agony. ‘Who are you? What are you doing here?’
Several images flash in my mind. A ship, waiting above; a small schooner carrier detaching and angling down to a blue planet’s atmosphere; and a female’s voice giving them an order: “Bring 345961LIA Gerverstock back.”
No. No! I reach for El-len, hand shaking, but the Parthiastock relentlessly pushes down my resistance. He takes over my whole right arm, possessing it to wrap it around my neck. ‘You would dare to disobey a female?’
As my own fist squeezes my throat closed, I cast my eyes over El-len, thinking quickly. They’re coming, and his memories indicate the Parthiastock was brought by a whole squad of Gerverstocks like me. Even if I’m dead they’ll take me back, to prove they tried. I could try to fight, but if I do, I know El-len would wade in. They wouldn’t hurt her on purpose, but I can’t take the chance she won’t be caught by a stray laser blast.
Then they’d discover my crew. Would they retrieve them to face death on Oloria? I can’t let that happen.
A moan escapes me as I say in my head, ‘Enough. I’ll come with you.’
The Apex releases control, mind already wandering. I keep his attention on me rather than El-len and my crew, flexing my fists and lighting the shed red as my scales heat with rage.
El-len stirs, so small, so helpless. She usually seems bigger than she is only because she always moves with determination, but naked she’s delicate and perfect. I can’t bring myself to put her at risk in any way.
Drok na. They want me? They’ll get me, and El-len and her life will be safe.
The Apex leaves as abruptly as he came, but I know a shuttleis descending to retrieve me. El-len will be cold without me. Taking her clothes, I press them to my body, heating my chest and stomach with the burning unfairness of it all. Her coverings dry quickly, water vapor hissing up to temporarily blind me. Collecting on my face, dripping down my cheeks, the stinging pain of it echoing in my hearts. El-len lies asleep but stirring, looking for my heat, and my scales shift toward her, like flowers turning to the system star.
I hold the coverings out to cool, then lay them on top of her. She gives a delicious sigh that I’ll treasure forever, and I have to compel myself to go immediately or risk being unable to move from her side as they come for me.
It’s for her safety, and that is the only concern that could ever force me to leave her.
Shutting the door on the warmth of the cabin, I step out into the frosty deluge outside, keeping El-len’s memory safe deep inside me. I have to hope she will be warm enough without me, but perhaps I can signal the others to help her.
I think hard about Nevare, hoping the psychic will pick up the beacon.
‘Ilia?’
A welter of feelings and emotions flare within me and across my scales as I try to convey what’s happening. Irate injustice in burning orange. Bitter regret in poisonous green. Deep, howling sadness, black and purple as a hard bruise. ‘There’s a scout on the way to retrieve me, and El-len is in a temporary accommodation. She called it the lambing shed. She needs assistance, but wait until I’m gone. I’ll convince them you’re all dead if they ask. Gara’s now in charge. It… it has been my honor to lead you.’
Nevare’s mental portrait is one of utter shock, feelings pouring over me. ‘Fight! Resist!’
Those are the last words I’d ever thought would come from a Parthiastock. ‘He has orders from Oloria.’
With a stutter, as his passion mixes with the inherent truththat females must be respected and obeyed, Nevare resorts to letting his frustrated grief flow across the connection, and I break contact before the other psychic can sense him. Nevare will hide the mental signatures of my crew, but from the earlier communication, I suspect the scouts are looking for just me, not the others.
The schooner’s lights pulse overhead, cold and unfeeling as it descends, its pitons stabbing into El-len’s land. The vessel looms, barn-sized and suffocating, its dark green hull blending into the shadows like a predator. A hiss cuts through the still air, the gangplank extending with a smooth finality I’ve seen a hundred times before. But today, it feels wrong—alien, invasive. I know the routine: atmosphere readings, radiation scans, a silent cloak shielding it from the crude signals of this planet. Standard procedure, perfectly executed. And I hate it.
This ship isn’t just here to extract me; it’s here to rip me away from the one place that has felt like home. From her. My exile wasn’t punishment, it was salvation. And now they’ve come to ruin it.
Three Parthiastocks stand at the gangway, veralashes in hand and their faces unreadable. The one in the center is likely the Apex who raked through my mind, the other two flanking him, ready to support him if he needs to wield a psychic attack against me. Behind them fan the six Gerverstocks who brought them to my planet of exile, and the one with the darkest scales is probably their leader. He surveys El-len’s hill, staring in wonder at the smattering of snow and likely eager to study this planet.
A primal surge of protectiveness for El-len’s land swells up inside me. I storm up the ramp, my fists clenched. “Well? Let’s go.”
The Parthiastocks stare at me, bewildered. It’s only then I realize I’ve spoken in Earth’s language, and that it feels more natural on my tongue. Their nanites will eventually learn andtranslate, but the hesitation in their eyes makes my anger burn hotter.
The Gerverstock captain comes forward once it’s clear I’m not going to resist arrest. “Where are the others? Your crew?”
“They’re dead,” I bite out, still in El-len’s language. Let them be confused. Let them feel the fracture in me, the war between two lives.
The Apex could scan my mind and find the truth, but one of the Bases growls, “We only have orders to extract him.”
The captain’s scales harden, asking again, “What happened to your crew?”
“Dead,” I repeat, in Olorian this time.
