by Cara Bristol
“Sure, why not?”
She opened the red wine, brought it to the table, and poured him a glass. “It should breathe for a while, but, oh well.” She shrugged.
“Thank you,” he said. “Your little blue planet has fascinated me. I feel rather protective of it.”
Odd. Why would he feel protective, unless Earth needed protecting? The genetic tinkering, the theft of Earth DNA, his verbal distancing from his home planet, his earlier reluctance to tell her why he’d fled...a chill swept over her as she recalled something else he’d said.
“When I asked if ’Topians ate the same thing as Xenos, you said yes because ’Topia was a Xeno world. Not is. Was. Past tense. Was there a revolution? Did ’Topia liberate itself?”
Chapter Twelve
When Chameleon had promised not to lie, he hadn’t expected Kevanne to zero in on the heart of the conflict within so few questions. He placed the odds of Earth not being invaded or destroyed at around 99 percent. The original DNA extraction had occurred so long ago, and Earth’s location in a minor arm of the Milky Way put the planet so far off the grid, it had been forgotten, except as a footnote in history. Furthermore, while the consortium wouldn’t hesitate to wipe a planet clean and start over when an experiment failed to pan out, Earth was a donor, not a project.
However, the consortium didn’t leave loose ends. He was a loose end, and so were the other castaways.
He trusted Kevanne, but if she confided in someone she trusted, and he or she confided in somebody else, who passed it on…
’Topia’s destruction would incite fear, Earth’s governments would overreact, and panic would ensue. Chatter would flood communication channels, and the extraterrestrials already present could spread the chatter beyond Earth. If the consortium intercepted a transmission and caught word of “’Topians,” then yes, Earth would be in grave danger.
“I would share that information with you if I could,” he said. “But there were…political…decisions I can’t discuss.”
She cocked her head. “Were you one of the decision-makers?”
“I am—was—a member of the ruling council.” The dissenting vote among twelve. He should have done more, sooner. How bitterly ironic his preoccupation to identify potential havens for hypothetical problems had caused him to make a fatal error. One seemingly innocuous report, a couple of missed council meetings, and...disaster.
Prophecy foretold, As the creation is, Xeno once was. As Xeno is, the creation might become. The Xeno Consortium created life, instilling it with intelligence and free will, and then let it evolve. However, they still held dominion over their creations, so when the ’Topians had come close to fulfilling the prophecy, the consortium had gotten concerned. That one line…he’d excised everything else.
He drank his wine, ate his stew, and Kevanne ate hers, and in the silence, he worried where her sharp mind might wander.
She tore off a bit of the roll and buttered it. He did the same. Amazing how delicious a starch could be. Light and fluffy, it melted in his mouth. He’d never tasted anything like it. Earth food and wine was the best in the galaxy. What else might Earth have mastered?
Kevanne chewed, and the movement of her mouth captured his attention. He recalled with vivid detail the softness of her lips as she pressed them to his. She’d felt like she belonged in his arms.
“So…” she said, and he braced himself for the next question. “What kind of DNA samples were taken from Earth? Human? Animal? Plant?”
“All of the above,” he said. “They took anything they considered interesting or useful. They spliced Earth DNA with genetic material from extraterrestrials.” That’s how they’d achieved diversity such as humanoids with horns, tails, tentacles, wings, and/or special cognitive abilities.
“Initial development occurs in laboratories. Life is generated in a growing medium, and once it takes hold, it’s transferred to a maturation vat. At adulthood, the organism is decanted, tested to verify it can reproduce, and is implanted on a terraformed planet.” Entire populations of diverse but interdependent species would be released to create an ecosystem. Once established, life then evolved without intervention, unless, as in the case of the ’Topians, it threatened consortium supremacy.
Her eyes grew wide. “That must be quite a laboratory.”
“Multiple laboratories on multiple planets. Some planets are the laboratory.”
“What happens after the adults are released on a planet?”
“They’re left to develop as individuals and/or as civilizations.”
“So on other planets there are beings who are part human? Are you part human?”
He’d wondered. “I could be. Xenos tinkered with their own DNA, too.” In fact, there was nothing to distinguish a Xeno from a ’Topian, except the former was a few eons more advanced and several eons more arrogant.
He finished his stew and wiped his mouth with the napkin.
“More? There’s plenty,” she said.
“I wouldn’t mind a little more.”
She started to get up, but he waved at her to sit. “I can get it, if I may. You don’t need to wait on me. Is there anything I can get you?”
“No.” She shook her head.
As he stepped toward the stove, the room swayed. He grabbed the chair to steady himself.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“I’m feeling light-headed.”
“Oh! It’s the wine. You’re tipsy. I should have warned you to go easy. You probably have no tolerance for alcohol.”
He put one foot in front of the other and staggered to the stove. He ladled the stew into his bowl without spilling any and carried it back to the table while pondering the curious effects of the alcohol.
“Does wine make people talkative?” he asked.
“It can,” she said. “Alcohol will loosen a person’s inhibitions.”
He wished he’d known that before he’d drunk three glasses. Or had it been four? He’d dodged the most serious questions, but still he’d said too much. He needed to shut his mouth. Besides, he wasn’t the interesting one. “You’re very observant,” he said.
“You don’t have to be that observant to notice when a dish is empty.” She smiled with her whole face, eyes crinkling, and nose wrinkling.
Her smile inspired him to grin, but the compliment had been a serious observation. A keen listener with a sharp mind, she noticed nuances. “You’re good at picking up on subtle clues.”
The smile fell from her face. “I’ve learned to be. Not that it did me much good.” She bowed her head and studied her empty bowl.
He kicked himself, realizing he’d touched on something painful.
“I assumed if I could foresee trouble, I could fix it before it became a problem,” she said.
“Sounds like a wise strategy.” He’d followed it himself, and it had worked, until he’d screwed up.
“Except, it didn’t work. I couldn’t fix the problems, and the anticipation caused a lot of anxiety, and then the problem happened anyway.”
She spoke in generalities, but a hunch told him she referred to specifics. He stilled, his senses sharpening, despite the wine he’d imbibed. “What was the problem?”
“I told you I was married.”
“Like bonded. Yes.”
Her chest rose with a deep breath, and on the exhale she said, “My husband used to beat me.”
“Herian! Fithic!” Chameleon went rigid, but he reached out and covered her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze.
“He broke my nose. My eye socket. Ribs. Ruptured my eardrum. I’ve had more black eyes than a boxer. He knocked me down the stairs once.” She lifted a shoulder. “I’d study the smallest clues, parsing his every word, listening for changes in his tone—and then adjust my behavior to avoid angering him, but it never did any good. Some small thing would push him over the edge. He’d hit me then he’d be sorry, and everything would return to normal—until the tension started to build again, and the whole cycle repeate
d.”
“A man beating his mate—that can’t be legal on your planet.” It was barbaric.
“It’s not legal. I should have had him arrested and divorced him the first time he hit me. I never should have married him in the first place. But, the violence worsened—after he’d worn down my self-esteem. We’d been married for two years before he hit me, although the insults and name-calling started much sooner.”
“How long were you married?” Chameleon asked.
“Ten years.”
He’d beaten her for eight years?
“Afterward, he would act so sorry and would cry. He would beg me to forgive him and promise it would never happen again. But it did. He wasn’t sorry—but resentful, blaming me further for any tinge of guilt he did feel. His put-downs eroded my confidence. By the time he died, I half believed the violence was my fault, and I was the selfish, worthless, poor excuse for a human being he said I was.”
“It wasn’t your fault, and you are not those things,” he said vehemently. She was intelligent, perceptive, brave, kind. Beautiful inside and out.
“I believe that, now.” She disengaged her hand to grab her glass and take a drink. “Therapy helped me realize that and deal with the guilt over his death.”
Why should she suffer guilt…unless—had she freed herself by taking decisive action? “You killed him?” He didn’t blame her for an instant. The man deserved to die.
“No!” She looked horrified. “He had a heart attack. He was only thirty-nine.” She toyed with the stem of her goblet. “Nobody knew he beat me because I hid the truth. People—his friends, his colleagues, his family—assumed we had a fairy-tale marriage. So when he died, everyone offered condolences, told me how sorry they were. And all I could think was that I was glad the bastard was dead. People praised me for my strength, for holding up so well under sorrow, for not crying in public. I didn’t cry in private, either. All the tears I shed, I shed while he lived.
“I was glad he’d died, and I felt like the terrible, bad person he always claimed I was. What kind of wife feels relief and satisfaction when her husband dies?”
“The kind whose husband brutalized her,” he said. “Your mate wasn’t worth the air he breathed. You have nothing to be ashamed about.” He empathized with her guilt because he’d suffered it, too; however, his had been earned. Her husband’s death had been an act of nature; whereas Chameleon’s carelessness had led to the destruction of a planet and its people.
“Oh, I agree—but it took time and therapy to undo the brainwashing.” She tapped her head. “But the code is still there. It’s been deactivated, but certain situations switch it on again. I still have a tendency to feel responsible for matters outside of my control.” She gave a wan smile. “I’m a work in progress.” She shook her head. “How did we get on this topic anyway?” She rose to her feet, collected the dirty dishes, and carried them to the sink.
Cam gathered the glasses and silverware and followed her. He set the items on the counter and hugged her. He cupped her head in his palm and held her close and tight as if the embrace of his arms could form a barrier to everything bad in her world. If he could, he would protect her forever. The top of her head fit under his chin; her face pressed against his beating heart, her arms wrapped around his waist.
“Other than my therapist, I never told anyone about Dayton,” she said.
That she felt safe enough with him to share her secret filled with him gratitude, but he ached for the isolation she’d suffered. How could she have had no one she trusted enough to talk to? “What about your family?”
Against his chest, she shook her head. “My mom died before Dayton and I got married. He fooled her, too. She was so happy, relieved I’d found somebody who’d watch out for me. I think her relief that I had Dayton led to her letting go, deciding she could die. She’d been ill for a long time. My older sister and I have never been close. We rarely talk. I could have gone to her; she would have taken me in because I was family, but I didn’t go to her. I had friends, but after we married, Dayton insinuated himself into the friendships, separating me from them, and we drifted apart.
“In hindsight, I realize one of the reasons I never confided in anyone was because I was ashamed I stayed. I couldn’t bear the judgment for not taking steps to extricate myself. Unless you’re in a domestic violence situation, you can’t understand the psychological impact. It messes with your head. You get brainwashed into believing you can’t leave, you can’t take care of yourself, and no one else will want you.”
“No one would blame you! You were a victim.”
“People blame the victim all the time, assuming she made poor choices. They believe they would have extricated themselves when the relationship turned bad. But I’m done!” Her eyes flashed. “I’m finished being a victim. Any man who raises his hand to me or tells me I’m worthless gets his ass kicked to the curb. I’m done asking, ‘Mother, may I?’ I’m seizing control of my destiny. If there’s something I want, I’m going for it. I may not get it, but I’m damn sure going to try.” She touched the purple flowers in the vase on the counter. “Lavender Bliss Farm is my fresh start. It’s Kevanne Girardi 2.0—Girardi is my maiden name, by the way. I took my own name back after Dayton died.”
“So the farm wasn’t something you two owned together?”
“No.” She lifted her head, and her happy smile sent zings through his heart. “I bought it with his life insurance money. I’ve always loved lavender. I’d used lavender lotions and oils for years.”
He couldn’t stand what she’d suffered. If she’d been his mate, he would have protected her, cared for her, supported her dreams and aspirations.
She squeezed his waist then stepped out of his embrace. He missed the contact, but he relished the pride in her voice, when she swept her arms out. “This is mine. All mine. It doesn’t look like much now, but it will be something special.”
“It already is because you’re special. I saw the way people responded to you and your products at the fair.”
“And tomorrow is another day!” she said overly brightly.
He sensed an awkwardness now, as if she regretted sharing too much. He hoped she would share more. For his short time on Earth, he vowed to be her rock, steady and true. He couldn’t offer her forever, but he could offer her everything he had to give now.
“Hey.” He touched her elbow. “It’s okay. I’m humbled you shared your past with me.” He pressed a hand to his chest. “It stays with me. It won’t go any further. I’m good at keeping secrets.” Other people’s. Not his own. Not with her. He’d like to be able to blame his loquaciousness on the wine, but that wasn’t it. She was so easy to talk to. He’d told her way more than he’d intended, although he’d withheld the worst of it. Some secrets could never be told.
She bowed her head and clasped her hands. “You’re easy to talk to. I need to voice my feelings. I spent too much time in silence. I talked about it in therapy, but to tell it to someone who cares, who isn’t being paid to listen, is liberating.” She lifted her chin.
“I do care.”
“I said terrible things to you—”
He pressed a finger to her lips. “No guilt.”
“All right.” She smiled. “See? I’m a work in progress.”
Together they cleaned up the kitchen. She spooned the leftover stew into lidded bowls which she stowed in the freezer. “Hey! See what I found!” She waved a cardboard container.
“What is it?”
“Ice cream! I forgot I had this. Vanilla with fudge swirl and nuts. We have dessert.”
“You did say dessert was the best part of a meal,” he recalled.
After the dishes were done, she scooped the ice cream into bowls and suggested they eat in the living room. The fire had burned down to embers. She tossed another log onto the coals and in no time flames consumed it, shooting heat into the room.
They curled up on the sofa, and Chameleon sampled the frozen dessert as Kevanne watched him with an
expectant expression. The frozen sweet and creamy concoction melted in his mouth. One spoonful led to another.
“The best part of the meal, right?” she said, digging into her bowl.
“The best part of the meal was the dinner you prepared, but this is pretty good,” he replied.
“Tell me about the others you’re traveling with. You said they’re ’Topians. What are they like? Can they change form like you?”
“Not like me, although some have abilities they can manipulate.” He paused to choose the words that would be truthful without revealing too much. “’Topia served as a social experiment as well as a scientific one,” he said. “The Xenos created a diverse population and put them together to see what would happen. For instance, Tigre is a Saberian.” He drew his fingers across his face. “His facial markings react with his moods, but his nature is very calm, levelheaded. The group decided they needed a leader and chose him to captain the Castaway. Wingman, an Avian, can fly, but his nature is to be suspicious. Inferno can harness and manipulate energy. Shadow is a Vaporian.”
Shadow’s people served as a prime example of the consortium’s malicious humor. “Vaporians are born in corporeal form, but unless they mate, their bodies become less firm until they fade away.”
“How can they just fade away?”
“Sublimation,” he explained. “At the molecular level, they change from solid to gas.”
“Dry ice does that. But a living person can, too?”
He nodded. Shadow’s future was bleak. On ’Topia, he might have found a mate and escaped his fate. Now? His only hope lay with the refugees spacelifted to other planets. Even then his chances would be iffy.
“Psy is a Verital. He resembles a human, but his abilities are mental.”
“Like a psychic? A mind reader?”
“The latter. He can probe memories or erase them.” And probably could implant false memories, he suspected—although he had no proof.
Her spoon clattered in her bowl. “He can do that? What’s to prevent him from invading people’s heads, using it for his own purposes?” Her voice rose with alarm.
