Page 8 of Exiles on Earth
“Tie in!” I shout, muscles straining as I hold firm on the hydraulic lever.
Arik and Dom hustle Nevare over to the side of the cockpit, where restraints for organic pilots are located along the walls. They strap Nevare in, his brow furrowed and scales playing up his neck, rich blues and purples with flashes of greens and yellows. Dom shoves Arik against the wall and straps him in next before fitting his own restraint, tightening it around his chest. Gara scrambles to the other wall, chains clinking as he loops the ties over his chest, but Arture hesitates, remaining with me. As the pilot, he probably feels responsible for landing, but we aren’t going to set down nicely. We’re going to be a crater.
“Tie in,” I repeat, abandoning the wrecked console, picking Arture up and securing him. Strapping in is our only shot at survival now.
A green beam flashes over my shoulder, shattering more components and raining hot metal and plasteek on my back. I glare at the killer robot crawling toward us. Toward me. It wants my death, but it won’t hesitate to cut through anyone to get to me.
I turn my hand, rolling the betrillium chains around my fist, the pinch of metal against my palm heightening my senses. That thing will be deactivated, here and now. I won’t let it kill my crew.
“Come on, Ilia!” Gara calls urgently, beckoning. “Tie in!”
“Nine seconds to impact!” Arture shouts.
“Life! So much life!” Nevare struggles, twisting back and forth in the restraints as if being tortured.
The bot clicks forward, dragging its broken legs, arm raised and barrel pointed at me. I plant myself in the doorway, scales hardening as its laser glows with a killer charge.
THREE
ELLEN
I bump down the track,steering my father’s battered Land Rover around the cracks in the road by habit. A good thing too, as my eyes are unfocused and I’m struggling to keep them open.The throb in my temples increases with every lurch of the car.
Floss stretches her head out from the passenger footwell and puts her chin on the thick pile of business plan papers on the seat as if to hold them down.
“Don’t drool on those,” I murmur, fondling her floppy ears. I can’t even look at the file, a dead weight on Dad’s seats. “Not that it matters anymore.”
Floss looks up at me with her rheumy but adoring brown eyes, tail thumping hopefully. She’s been our faithful sheepdog ever since Dad discovered her in the hedgerow sixteen years ago, abandoned. Just thinking about how someone could leave a puppy like that usually rips at me, but after my latest bad news, I’m struggling to muster... well, anything.
I blink away tears as rain splatters on the windscreen. There’s too much to do to stop and cry. Gotta keep moving, everyone’scounting on me, and I can’t remember the last time I’ve stopped for even a moment.
Waist-height crumbling stone walls bound the track on both sides, built hundreds of years ago and patched over generations by my family’s own loving hands. Beyond sprawl the muted green-gray of our fields in winter, white sheep dotting the rolling hills. There aren’t any trees on our land but we do have the odd old quarries, little pockets of rock bared to the sky that the animals shelter in. A hillfarm seems stark at first glance, unless you know what to look for. But no one else cares about rich varieties of grass, I guess. No one except me.
As we round the corner, the sturdy stone farmhouse comes into view, its weathered walls a testament to generations past. With each second closer to home, my connection to the land deepens. It’s not just a farm, it’s a legacy, a way of life woven into the fabric of our family for centuries. The house, barn and sheds lay alongside one another to make a U shape on three sides, and the sight always gives me a warm feeling, like it’s hugging me in welcome.
I pause before killing the engine, window wipers flicking with an arthritic creak and coming to a grateful rest. Turning in my seat, I look up at my house, standing strong with its patchwork of repairs, and the barn, which we couldn’t afford to maintain and has semi-collapsed, a tumble of blocks laid to one side like grave markers whenever another part of the wall crumbled.
“No time to waste, girl,” I say, as if to Floss. “Keep going. It’ll turn out alright.” But even though one of Dad’s favorite phrases usually makes me spring into action, now my chest constricts like someone’s squeezing me in the stock pen.
As soon as the car door creaks open, the chickens swarm over from the barn, long legs running. Their leader, Old Mae, starts complaining with loud bock bock noises and sharp pecks at my boots.
“Let me arrive, ladies,” I protest with a shaky smile, holdingthe door for Floss. The old sheepdog squeezes past the sagging seats and drops down next to me. She either ignores or doesn’t feel Old Mae pecking at her fur, too used to the fussy chicken to bother with her. I leave the business plan on the seat, slamming the door on the useless thing.
Whistling for Floss, I head straight to the third field. The wind scours the grasses, rattling them in my path. Countless farmers in my family before me have trodden this way. Wiping away my tears, I brush my hand over the seeds, grounding myself in the rich diversity of clovers and even some wildflower stems this early in the year. This land is as much a part of me as my body. It shaped me, and now I want to shepherd it into something new.
If only the bastard bank would let me.
A wave of fatigue knocks into me. Standing at the top of the field, I shade my eyes against the cold sunshine, watching clouds chasing each other across the blue sky. The land I love rolls away in all directions, and I stand in the center, a lump crawling up my throat as I yearn, no, ache with what this place could become, if only I had a chance to make it happen. But right now, giving up seems like the only way forward.
I grab my phone and scroll for Arabella’s number. She should be told first. The tones purr while I pace impatiently, then a click sounds. “Hey, Ara…” I begin.
“You have reached the voicemail of Arabella’s… Creations, yeah, let’s go with that. I hope I’m deep in my god-damn artistic muse or swimming right now, trying to chase the fucking thing. Anyway, leave a message. I’ll get back at some point. Love, Arabella.”
I hang up. Arabella sounds frustrated again, and I’d rather break the news properly than record a rambling explanation so I can answer Arabella’s questions and reassure her it wasn’t anything to do with her and her ideas. Arabella seems confident,but her ego’s easily bruised, and she’s too quick to take the blame. We need to protect her from herself sometimes.
I scroll down for Laura’s number and hit call. As I listen to the dial tone, I survey the ridge, fields flowing down either side. Behind me sprawls the farmhouse with its kitchen garden. That needs weeding and planting out soon. All the seedlings are in my room, their roots growing out the bottom of their containers, waiting for too long in limbo, like me. The glass looks dusty even from this distance; I’ll give it a clean as soon as I get back. I update my mental list, shuffling tasks around.
Keep going.
