Designation 261 (The Wholeness Project)

by Catherine Miller

  Any rebuke he wished to give seemed counterintuitive to his purpose, so he said nothing. “I would like to make trade,” he instigated, trying to turn her attention to what truly mattered.

  The smile became much more genuine. “Of course! What do you have to offer?”

  Clairy helped by bringing out the pieces she had chosen for him, the woman eyeing each of his proffered fruits and baked goods with a critical eye. It was not until he brought out the sweet treats that she brightened considerably, and he was gratified with his array of choices. “These are lovely!” she complimented, her attention drifting to Clairy. “Did you make these yourself, dear?”

  Clairy hesitated, her expression giving away immediately that she had not, even as she looked to him for help. “I produced them,” Cydrin answered. Not in the way the woman thought, but he had pushed the codes in himself.

  “You are very skilled, ser,” she affirmed, greedily taking the offered treats.

  Cydrin said nothing. He was, in his way, but it was not in the arts of baking.

  “Will that be everything?” she asked, appearing almost disappointed, her eye going to Cydrin’s matter-confiner, as if willing more delights to appear from its depths.

  “No.”

  Cydrin moved back through the stall, pulling out all of Clairy’s first choices, and added them to the mounting pile that would be returning with them.

  Another set of delicacies later, and the woman was satisfied, insisting that she was getting the far better end of the bargain.

  Cydrin did not agree, but said nothing.

  Clairy was oddly quiet as he packed away their purchases, tucking the cube back into his pocket, everything stored and organised as it should be.

  He did not know what he expected of her, but her silence was strange, and he found himself glancing at her often, waiting some kind of reaction—perhaps her appreciation, given how quick she usually was with her thanks and courtesies.

  She was even quieter when he stopped at the next stall, insisting that she offer her foot to the man stationed there, so that she could select a pair of sturdy boots. He had not missed the way she had begun to wince with her steps, careful though she was to keep her expressions hidden.

  She simply was very poor at it.

  She obeyed readily enough, but her manner was meek and altogether deficient in the enthusiastic rambling she had displayed before, and she lacked the ease and friendliness she had displayed with the first vendor.

  Did it truly matter that he had switched from purchasing items for the ship to selecting items for her?

  That seemed fairly absurd, but she did like to surprise him with what the source of her troubles might be. He was going to forego looking for clothing altogether, but at the very end of the market seemed to be forgotten wares, things overlooked and forgotten, as no one even bothered to stand guard over them.

  Remnants from foreign trades were obvious, the clothing much better suited for the cold practicality that space required.

  And they were proportioned much better for someone of Clairy’s stature.

  There was not a great deal of selection, but after holding up a few articles in her direction, Cydrin decided on simply taking all of them. He did not know exactly how often people liked to alter their appearance with a different garment—so long as it was clean and in good repair, it seemed inefficient to change simply for the sake of doing so—but he had seen Clairy trip more than once on the clothes he had offered her, and it was only a matter of time before she contracted a more grave injury from her lack of stable footing.

  A young boy wandered over, munching on a piece of fruit that Cydrin had already traded with another, and he was evidently surprised at their presence by the stall. He hurried over, wiping juices on his trouser legs.

  He accepted three red apples with a greedy look, the exotic fruits evidently not reaching their shores very often.

  Five pieces in total seemed worth purchasing, but he accepted a sixth when a timid hand reached out, selecting a more oversized offering in a soft fabric. “To sleep in?” Clairy asked, her voice far too small and uncertain. Now was not the time to press her, however, most especially when the safety of these villagers depended on her cooperation.

  He saw no need to harm them unnecessarily, but he would also not allow her to use them as a means of escape.

  Another apple was produced, and the garments were hers, tucked away with the rest of their stock and returned to his pocket.

  He was pleased with their finds, but less so with the state of his companion, and though he had thought to offer her a further walk, simply because she seemed to enjoy being once more on land, he now felt it necessary to return, to talk with her and ascertain if her mood was based on some reasonable objection, or was another turn of her thoughts to something irrational that served only to upset her.

  With Clairy, it could easily be either.

  More people called out to them as they passed, now that they had been seen to be true customers and not simply travellers wanting to gawk at new and specialised goods.

  Clairy turned her head with great frequency, ready to engage even when it was unnecessary, but as he did not stop, neither did she.

  It was possible he was being rude, but he did not think he would be returning, not for a long while, so he did not much care for the impression he left with the native populace.

  He wanted to know what was wrong with Clairy.

  And why she had not thanked him yet for providing her with things of her own.

  Something the Project had never done, despite their foods and quarters that doubtlessly also possessed a door.

  His steps were growing quicker the more he pondered the reasons for her despondency, the need to interrogate growing more urgent. Clairy would most certainly have stumbled with her old shoes—part of her uniform—but he had seen to their disposal, and she now had good, steady protection for her feet and she kept up well enough.

  Though he could tell from the flush of her cheeks that it was growing more difficult.

  He slowed his pace when they were once again within the cover of the trees, the quiet of the forest lending at least a semblance of privacy that soothed him somewhat. He had not recognised how difficult it had been to be amongst people, to have to talk and barter, to know what to say and how to act when he was at such a severe disadvantage. It did not trouble him, not in any true way, and he blamed the girl lagging slightly behind him for thinking of it at all.

  She had manners.

  And he liked them from her.

  And it made him question if he was to adopt the same principles.

  If that would make him human.

  He slowed his pace considerably, allowing her to catch up. Her expression was pensive, and he wondered if it would be too soon if he asked her to share her thoughts already.

  But discussions with Clairy tended to be long, and he could not devote his full attention to her if he also had to remain aware of threats and potential dangers.

  “You did well,” he complimented, feeling that a safe place to begin, even without the safety of his craft. And, if she thought that he was mad at her again, then it should assuage any such erroneous assumptions.

  A strained smile was at first her response before she directed her attention to the grasses, pressed lightly downward with each step. “They were nice people,” she commented. Were they? He did not know what qualified for such a flattering assessment, but he supposed they could have been a great deal worse.

  A very great deal.

  “Yes,” he agreed, merely because he wanted to be on her side of things. He could also give her the praise that it was because of her good behaviour that all of them remained alive, but talks with her suggested that would not be taken as the accolade he intended it to be, so he remained silent.

  As did she.

  She did not even protest as they located the ship, the door sliding open in greeting.

  She did not ask to remain a little longer, to enjoy the
sun, the trees rustling around her.

  She merely followed.

  Until the door shut behind them and he turned, ready with all of his questions, ready to pull out of her the reason for the strange turn in her.

  Only to find her looking at him, a light misting of tears already in her eyes.

  And it made him hesitate.

  Ready to be patient if she would be willing to confess on her own without his prompting.

  “I think...” she began, swallowing as if the words cost her a very great deal. She took a breath, a tremulous thing that almost did not want to be taken. But she managed. And he saw her struggle, but saw her victory as she regarded him again.

  “I think I’m ready to listen now.”

  10

  Cydrin looked at her, obviously not comprehending her meaning.

  “Listen to what?” he asked, his voice betraying nothing of the frustration he doubtlessly felt. She could sense his agitation as they walked, felt it in the urgency as they went, but she could not bring herself to start on the subject so soon. She needed to collect her thoughts, to decide if she was truly ready.

  It was foolish, for a trip to the market to mean so much to her, but it had. A madman would have taken those weapons and blasted his way to the stalls, taking and stealing at will, not carefully selecting comparable goods and making respectable trade.

  Trades for her.

  Perhaps that was naive of her to believe like that, but she did. When he’d started picking up the pretty things with the flowers embroidered on the corners, when the rugs that leant toward the more pastel hues entered the pile, dismissed in favour of what she thought her brothers might prefer should ever they have homes of their own and the means to furnish them.

  And then there had been the clothes. And the boots. That even now felt wonderful on her feet, though she felt terribly ungrateful when she had almost wished to remove them so she could feel the grasses beneath bared skin.

  She was overwhelmed and conflicted, and it had spoiled some of the joy and enthusiasm for their outing, a more pressing concern creeping in.

  She had pushed away his insistence about the evil done in the Project. She had adamantly maintained the good they had done, the families they had helped, but seeing him interact with those people...

  He was stilted and awkward, staring at most of them as if he had never experienced such an exchange in his life. He had feigned it well enough when it was just the two of them, but out there in the open...

  It was different.

  He tried to hide it, but he seemed almost alien in his manner, as if he had been as sheltered as he originally claimed, and there could be no more denials on her part.

  But he’d braved it.

  Because she had suggested it.

  And the only thing she could do to repay him was to listen.

  And actually trust his words this time.

  She eyed him nervously, wondering if she should have waited until they were airborne once more, but there was little time for that now. “About... about you. About your history. What... what the Project was really doing.”

  His eyes narrowed in suspicion and she could not blame him. He would be looking for tactics, some sign that she was only saying it for a hidden, nefarious purpose, and she was surprised to feel a sudden swell of compassion.

  Not dissimilar to how she felt in the market.

  She had been distracted at the first stall, so sequestered had she been from normal conversation, nearly forgetting what it was like for a man to tease and flirt.

  But at the second, when she had watched and listened, she could hear it. Could see what she had tried to deny.

  Cydrin was damaged. In ways she probably could not even begin to imagine.

  And her sympathy had grown, though she did not feel it her place to intervene. To interject with her own sensibilities that might have meant saving a few more of his own goods.

  If there was one thing her parents had instilled in their children, it was the art of a barter.

  But he had done well enough, and perhaps he would grow in confidence now that he’d begun.

  Though he was likely too confident in a great many things. His constant rightness being one of them.

  “Why now?” he asked, and he took a step backward, and she was fairly certain it was an involuntary movement, an odd thing coming from him. He was always so measured, so calculated, and for him to slip, to allow something natural to come unimpeded...

  She had jostled him greatly. Hadn’t meant to, not really, but she had.

  Compassion mixed with a mortifying satisfaction that she could do it at all. She shoved that part away firmly, locking it away before it made her do something dangerous.

  “I don’t know if there’s a why that would satisfy you,” she told him truthfully. She could not tell him that it was partly because once she had seen the direct contrast between him and a normal person that it was blatantly obvious something had been altered in him. That was insulting, and she did not want to do that.

  Eyes narrowed further. “Try.”

  She rubbed her hands along the dark fabric around her legs, choosing her words carefully. “Because... because the man I saw today was not who I thought you were. Had... had decided you were. Because I thought that the only way you could justify killing all those people was if there was evil in you, and wasn’t willing to hear that maybe it was because there was something wrong with the people themselves.”

  She doubted that made it right, but she was not going to dismiss him any longer either. It was not for her to condone what he did, to offer absolution, only to listen.

  If he still wanted to share it with her.

  “And you are now?” he pressed, giving her a dubious look. She couldn’t blame him. She had ignored things he had said before, had overlooked the wrongness of this ship and its very creation. A medical craft would not need cells. There would be rooms, so patients might feel safe as they were treated for whatever ailed them.

  There would be medicines and surgical supplies tucked away in closets, not weaponry.

  Their emblems would be blazoned across the bow of the ship, their coming something to be celebrated rather than hidden in secrecy.

  All of it had been before her, but she’d ignored it. Because a part of her was still grateful for the opportunity they had provided her when no one else would.

  “Yes,” she assured him, meaning it.

  It might not change anything. He could still come out of it as the villain, and she would still grieve those that were likely as ignorant of the Project’s dealings as she had been.

  But perhaps Cydrin was less the monster she had determined him to be from the start. And that was worth something.

  “Then come,” he ordered, his voice tight.

  Clairy almost expected him to lead her back downstairs, to distract himself with clearing up the dishes from their morning meal that they’d neglected to tend to before they left, but instead he went to the cockpit, sitting down and fiddling with buttons and screen, the ship humming gently to life as it began its ascension.

  That was not exactly how she’d expected their conversation to begin, but she would not bully him, instead choosing to sit quietly in her own seat and wait for him to be ready.

  They had nearly cleared the atmosphere before he turned to her again, a hint of something vulnerable touching his eyes. “I am uncertain where to begin.”

  Clairy nodded. That was more than fair. But she did not have an answer for it either, not when her mind was swimming with what he had told her already, mixing with her own doubts and previous assumptions, now spoiled and almost seeming childishly naive.

  “Perhaps it would be more effective to show you something first,” Cydrin mused, tapping out a string of code on one of the controls, the screen flickering away from their trajectory to a warm, familiar face smiling back at them.

  Clairy eyed it warily, uncertain how this would help.

  Cydrin was not looking at the screen, but
instead studied her expression. “You know this?” he asked, his voice deceptively soft.

  Clairy nodded, seeing no need to deny it. “It’s a promotional vid for the Project.” An advertisement, really. Sent throughout the galaxy to draw people to them. And it worked.

  Even worked on her.

  Cydrin made a noise, not a hum, not quite a grumble, but pressed the control so it might begin.

  The woman on the screen smiled serenely, dressed all in white, her teeth nearly as bright as her clothing. Clairy remembered how she had coveted those teeth, the sleek swathe of dark hair that was slick and shiny, tidily knotted at the back of her head. An arrangement that Clairy’s own hair fiercely rebelled against whenever she attempted it.

  “Greetings.”

  A calm, soothing voice. Inviting. A lilting thrum of impeccable standard, making Clairy’s own drawl seem unrefined in comparison.

  “I’m Ventrix Hartbridge with a life-changing announcement for anyone longing for the one thing we all need to feel complete—family.”

  Clairy bit her lip, her own desire for her family acute.

  “Are you disheartened by endless fertility procedures that offer no results? Have doctors from your homeworlds told you to give up on the desire to carry your own children? The Wholeness Project offers hope like no other medical facility; hope sealed with a guarantee to deliver results.”

  The screen flashed, first to the research labs, overlooking the synthesisation of chemicals Clairy could not begin to name.

  “Utilising new techniques, and state-of-the-art technology available exclusively through our facilities, we are here for you. We are here for families.”

  Cydrin swiftly paused the screen, the image appearing so quickly and leaving just as rapidly that she had never noticed it before.

  But he had.

  And evidently it was of some importance.

  She leaned forward, trying to understand what she was seeing. A circular device hung low from the ceiling by a great mechanical claw, a baby moving gently within.

  Cold. Sterile.

  No mother’s womb to thrive in, no rumble of voices soothing and gentling even before the birth.