Page 17 of Exiles on Earth
The big guy watches our approach and straightens, barking orders at the others. Whatever they are, they look military: five standing to attention, the green one still lying flat on the ground. None of them hold weapons and their hands are deliberately raised, palms open and visible, as if to prove they aren’t threatening. They’ve got the chains off, manacles and links piled in front of Ilia’s boots. The tension in the air sits heavy and thick, buzzing like the aftermath of a lightning strike. Their wide, unblinking eyes fix on us with an awe that borders on disbelief, their expressions raw and disarmed—like we’re the aliens, not them.
Well, I guess to them we are. This might be the first time for everyone.
The green one struggling to rise makes a weak attempt to sit, but the leader snaps something at him, his tone sharp and his eyes flashing with anger—no, not just anger. Worry and fear. I recognize that emotion all too well.
The big guy glances between me and the girls, then back to me, uncertainty flickering across his face. What’s his story? What brought them here? There’s only one way to find out.
He speaks first. “We mean no harm here.”
“You seriously didn’t start with ‘We come in peace?’” Arabella snorts.
He frowns in confusion, and the tension loosens around my shoulders. That lost expression on his face is a relief; he’s as unsure as we are. He looks to me as if for reassurance.
I try a small smile, and his eyebrows lift slightly from their permanent frown.
“What are you doing here?” Laura asks, her tone even.
He wrenches his gaze away from mine. “Our ship… malfunctioned. It was destined to crash, we think.”
“Where were you going?” I keep a tight hold on Floss. She has her ears pricked forward toward the aliens, rigid in my grasp.
His face twists with shame. “We… we were banished. Outcast.” His shoulders drop a little. The others glance up at him, and the one lying down struggles to stand again.
“Stay down if you’re injured,” Nicole says, starting toward them with her bag in hand.
Laura stops her with a palm on her chest. “Wait. We still don’t know anything about them or their intentions,” she whispers in a low voice. “Plus, they’re outcasts. Why? What did they do?”
The leader spreads his hands like he’s offering us something. “I am 345961LIA, with the designation shortener Ilia. I am a Gerverstock.” He points to the others, starting with the smallest with the silver arm and leg. “This is A4TU43, Arture, a Pranastock, my pilot.”
Arture inclines his head. Wires along his blue-black scales dive into the mechanism that makes up his arm at the shoulder.
“This is G43RA, Gara, a Selthiastock.”
The green one still prone on the ground grimaces, gaze dropping as we all look at him. They all have numbers for names. The thought sends a chill through me—what kind of world do they come from, where names are reduced to digits?
Finally, Ilia points at the identical purple guys. “These are the… hm.” He pauses, frustration tightening his expression. “What little I know of your language, it does not have the right word. Speak more, so I can learn.”
“Triplets?” I offer.
“Not what I mean. They’re… law keepers. Enforcers. Parthiastocks. And they read brain waves, although you have privacy from them.”
Brain waves? My chest tightens. I can’t even begin to process what that means, not with everything else coming at me.
Ilia shifts his weight stiffly, eyes lifting to survey the rapidly gathering darkness and his deep purple scales catching the last glimmers of fading sunlight like a spent neon light. “Where are your followers? Your men?”
“You mean our army?” Laura folds her arms tight, jaw working.
“I… maybe?” He shakes his head. “So many words I don’t have. But know this—we would never harm females. Do not fear us. We will not hurt you.”
Before I can respond, Floss wriggles free and trots toward the aliens. Her belly brushes the ground as she creeps closer, tail stiff, herding them instinctively like a group of unruly livestock.
“Floss!” I shout, panic tightening my throat as she edges toward Ilia. He watches her approach, his gaze steady and unreadable. “Don’t try to touch her,” I warn him sharply. “She’s a working dog, not a pet. If you move, she might nip you. Floss, heel.”
But Floss ignores me, her legs stiff as she inches closer. Ilia doesn’t flinch.
I dig my nails into my palms, striding forward to retrieve her before she does something reckless. “Floss, heel! This isn’t how we treat visitors.”
As I approach, Floss wags her tail and jumps up at Ilia as if he were an old friend. I gasp. Will he see her as a threat? What if he retaliates?
