Page 79 of Exiles on Earth
“The way we choose our mating partners works for us, with our reduced female numbers and surplus of males.”
“Meaning you can shop around, sure, and have more than one.”
She laughs. “I can’t tell from your face. Are you jealous or shocked?”
“A bit of both.”
She chuckles, patting my leg. “Confronting—excuse me, visiting—a new culture will always cause some confusion as one tries to figure out the norms. I have no doubt this visit will be good for us as well, seeing our practices through a different lens. It’s just a shame about the timing.”
“Oh?”
“Mm.” She waves in the air and a hologram pops up, light streaming from the wall next to her. Splashed everywhere are floating pictures of me, taken from various angles.
My cheeks heat. “I guess I’m front page news?”
“Indeed.” Her voice cools as she swipes, swipes, swipes and finally comes across a picture of Ilia.
I huddle a little closer to his image. He looks tired but determined, a set to his jaw and shoulders. The one he always wears when he’s dedicated to succeed. My heart pangs. He really wants to do well in this competition to win a mate.
She sighs. “I had hoped the spotlight would be on Ilia as the first clone to ever enter the Games.”
“Oh. Sorry.” Fuck. Just by being here, have I ruined his chances? “Can I visit him? I want to see how he is.”
She forms a fist with her hand, and the holograms blink out. “I don’t think that’s wise.”
“Why not?” I bristle.
“He may be distracted by your visit. He has to focus all his energy on the Games.”
She’s right, of course. He’s determined and focused, and I shouldn’t do anything to mess that up.
“However…” She taps the pad in my hands. “You can observe the males using this.”
A few button presses and the screen fills with camera feeds of alien guys walking around inside a cramped barracks of bunk beds. Some notice the cameras coming on and immediately put on a show, flexing their muscles.
I quickly look away, cheeks flaming. “This is their rooms! Don’t they get any privacy?”
“No,” Shara says, cocking her head. “It’s only temporary during the Mating Games, while the challengers are housed in Sanctuary.”
“Still.” I toggle the camera to look around. Where’s Ilia in this mass of males? Bunk beds line the walls, but he isn’t in any of them. A recessed lounging area houses most of the rowdy males who sit, eating and partying. It’s very voyeuristic, watching them like this. Very Big Brother, but with even less clothes.
I put the pad down and prepare to take a bath, sliding my old clothes off me. The scent of jasmine wraps around me as I slide into the warm depths. Oh, fuck, I’ve missed being clean. I wash my hair with some sweet-smelling salt crystals, pulling my fingers through it to prise open the knots that have accumulated during my two-week space travel. With each passing second, I feel more and more human, body pulsing with exhaustion as well as heartbreak.
Staring up at the sparkling ceiling, all I can think of is Ilia. Even though he left me, I can’t hate him. Is he okay? The other males hadn’t seemed welcoming of him at all, standing apart from him and glaring at him. All because he’s a clone. Surely they won’t hurt him when they’re housed together, right?
Right. And I’m the queen of England.
Picking up the pad, I flick through the cameras. Kitchen, where some yellow-scaled males with big crests stand, neon feathers flaring when they see the camera come to life. No one in the corridor outside.
Then the view flicks to a bathroom. Holy shit, they don’t even have privacy there. There aren’t any toilets I can see, thank goodness, so maybe they do have some alone-time. There’s only one jet of water on, spraying down into a cubicle. I press continue to see empty stall, empty stall, empty stall…
Ilia.
He’s standing naked in the cubicle, soap obscuring most of his torso. He glances up at the camera and grimaces, turning his back to me. He’s okay at least, if rightfully pissed about the lack of privacy. Which I’m not giving him at this moment either. I gulp, preparing to flick away, but even though my finger hovers on the ‘next’ button, I don’t press it.
Something in his expression softens, changes. He turns back, looking straight at the camera, giving the lens a lingering glance he’s always given me: slightly wide-eyed, his full attention on me, the tiny scales around his face and cheeks turning golden pink.
Does he know it’s me?
