by Ann Christy
“Lysa,” the Hub says in that calm voice. “You’re not understanding the situation clearly. I did suggest that you wait for this until after orientation. You would have understood then with greater clarity. Your reaction is not appropriate to the conditions.”
“What? Of course, it is! You’re going to zombify me and replace me.”
Even as I speak, I feel a sharp prick on my wrist and look down where my hands are pressed against the top of the cabinets. A thin, flexible snake-like thing made of metal is already retracting into an opening along the back of the cabinets.
So, they do have probes! Freaking aliens.
“This will calm you, Lysa. No one is going to proceed without your permission.”
The hub’s words grow distant and echoe-y, like I’m falling into a canyon in the middle of a conversation. I feel calm and ridiculously tired. My legs fold under me and Jack catches me in his arms as I fall.
The last thing I hear is him saying, “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”
Fourteen
When I wake, I’m lying on my bed and Jack is sitting in a chair next to me, idly flipping through my catalog. He looks up when I turn my head and smiles sadly. “I’m so sorry about that. It was too soon. I should have done this much better. I shouldn’t have let you know why you’re a non-transfer.”
He seems so contrite and sincere. I have no doubt that he’s genuinely sorry and believes that he screwed up big time. I have to agree. Massive screw-up. Even so, part of the blame is mine and I know it. I pushed him for more, even when he said I wasn’t ready. I should have waited.
“I didn’t make it easy on you.”
His smile shifts, and he says, “No, you didn’t.”
Rolling my eyes, I stretch and take stock of myself. Then I have a thought and sit bolt upright, feeling along my face and arms frantically. “Did you do it? Am I me or a replacement?”
“You’re still you, though if you were a replacement, you would still be you.”
Leveling a glare at him, I say, “Not helpful.”
He sighs. “I’m sorry again. No, you are still the original you, including your physical problems.”
I can’t even believe he just said that. “Again, not at all helpful.”
Jack slams the catalog closed and stands to walk to the dining area. He tosses the catalog onto the table with an exasperated breath. “I’m not the right person for this job. Not with you.”
For some reason those words send even more anxiety-borne adrenaline coursing through my system. Maybe it’s because I can’t take yet more change or maybe it’s because Jack is who he is, but I don’t want him to go. “No, you’re the right person. I don’t want anyone else.”
He gives me a look, but must see that I mean it, because his eyes crinkle in confusion. “Why not? All I do is upset you.”
I’m not going to say I want him to stay because he’s gorgeous and I enjoy staring at his butt when he walks in front of me, but I’m sure thinking it. Instead, I flap my hand at him and climb out of bed. “Never mind why. I just don’t want anyone else.”
He shrugs as if he truly doesn’t understand me at all—which he probably doesn’t—and says, “Okay. It’s your call.”
I feel like I’ve been asleep for ages, so I look up at my interface. It couldn’t have been later than lunch time when I had my little episode. My interface shows we’re nearing supper time.
“Holy smokes!” I exclaim. My stomach answers with a rumble that reinforces how long I’ve been out. I also need to pee. Stomping across the room, I shoot a glare Jack’s way and say, “You guys need to be more careful when you drug folks. I’ve been asleep for hours.”
His mouth opens to answer, then closes again like he’s not sure what to say. As the bathroom door slides closed between us, he shrugs and says, “Okay.”
So eloquent.
After I do my thing, I look in the mirror as I wash my hands and recoil in horror. The hair tie I used to put up my ponytail clearly lost the fight while I was sleeping. I’ve got the worst case of bedhead in the history of bedhead. I must have been sweating in my sleep, because I’ve even got those tiny curls around my forehead that I get when I run.
In short, I’m a freak show and I would never, ever want any guy to see me like this.
The bot that delivered my goods didn’t unpack, but a package labeled, Grooming set, Medium to Long Hair, is sitting on the counter. Next to it are paper envelopes with the extra brushes and such that I ordered.
“Thank goodness,” I whisper and get to work.
When I step out, Jack is slouched in a dining chair with his legs splayed out in front of him and his head propped up by his arm on the table. He looks exactly like any human guy who’s been kept waiting too long by someone in the bathroom.
He jerks upright when I clear my throat and his eyes widen when he looks at me. “You look different,” he says.
I narrow my eyes at that, because really, what does that mean? Good different? Scary different? Considering the fact that Jack isn’t even really human, he might think I look like the freakiest spider on earth would look like to me. It’s possible.
Smoothing a hand over my hair, I cross to my pile of boxes. Sorting them out until I find the one labeled with the clothing I ordered, I rip it open to find clothes neatly folded inside, each item sporting a tag. If I didn’t know better, I’d think they were from the mall. Maybe they are. Maybe they’ve been stealing shipments meant for the department stores. Probably not, though.
Grabbing an outfit, I retreat to the bathroom and catch a glimpse of Jack’s pained expression when the door closes. I almost want to laugh. Poor guy.
After I change, I feel so much better. I have no way to know for sure if I’m a replacement or not, but if I am, I’m a perfect match. The scar from my knee surgery is still there, along with that single blue vein that bugs the crap out of me along the front of my left shin. The scar on my chin from the skating accident is still there and all the other dings and dents I’ve acquired are exactly where they should be.
I was an accident-prone kid. Adventurous, one might say. It was entertaining, but it came with a price. I’ve got way more than my share of scars and marks.
The clothes fit well, and I like them. My t-shirt reads, Don’t tell anyone I’m an Alien. Below that is the typical big-headed alien shooting the peace sign with his overly long fingers. I thought it was funny and they had it in their catalog, so it must be okay. The jeans are nicer than the ones I usually buy, and they fit like a dream. I feel a little self-conscious because when I turn to look at the back, I can’t help but think my butt looks awesome in them. Like, really awesome.
I don’t generally think things like that, and there’s pink in my cheeks when I look up at my face. Secretly, I’m wondering if Jack will also like the look. I find it difficult to keep the thought in mind that he’s not human. I’ve twisted two sections of hair from the front of my head to the back and fastened it with one of the hair clips I ordered. The rest now falls in nice, normal waves down past my shoulders. It feels good to have imposed some order on the chaos. This is like armor in a way.
Dabbing on a bit of mascara—it’s the good stuff too—I don’t look much different than when I used to go to school before all this started. I like it. Now, I just have to face whatever happens next.
And decide if I want to have failing female parts or be a zombie replacement.
The bathroom door slides open and this time, Jack’s head is on the table. He’s fast asleep. So much for my entrance. He jerks upright when I cough, looking a little bleary eyed and confused for a moment.
“Oh my, that happens fast,” he says, wiping a spot of drool off his chin.
“What does? Sleep?”
He nods and stretches, grinning at me. “But that sure does feel good. I like this.”
I’m positive he means the stretch because he does it more, grinning like an idiot as he does. I can only shake my head
and ask, “You’ve never slept before?”
“Not like this. Not in a human body.” He grunts as he finishes the stretch, then goes back to sitting like a normal person.
I’m pretty sure my secret desire for him to like the way I look in these jeans is pointless. If he hasn’t slept before, I’m confident that he can’t possibly have learned the nuances of cheek-curves in denim. Sadly.
“What next?” I ask, ready to move on from my disappointment.
He gives me an evaluating look. I know he’s still concerned about my reaction in the medical bay. More than likely, he’s wondering what will cause another such reaction. His stomach speaks before he does, letting out a rumble even louder than my earlier one.
Jack grabs his middle, his expression shifting to one of confused discomfort. I’m pretty sure the way he’s staring at me means he’s looking for me to explain this sudden change. I can feel my stomach gnawing away at me too, so I say, “That means you’re hungry. Do they not tell you anything when you get a new body?”
I’m assuming a great deal here and I know it, but I must be fairly correct because Jack rubs his flat belly and says, “I don’t usually hop into a new body and this was urgent. Like I said before, normally we study, then spend time on the planet, then come to work. I didn’t exactly get a whole lot of notice and skipped most of that. Yes, I knew about hunger, but this is…quite insistent.”
What an interesting way to put it. Short notice change to human form, eh?
“Well, you’re hungry and you need to eat. I’m hungry too. Should I order dinner for us?”
He eyes me skeptically, like he’s not sure he wants to try that kind of new adventure, but eventually he nods. “If it will make this feeling go away, then yes.”
They don’t have menus or anything like that, so I try to decide what I would most like to eat. So far, they’ve not said they can’t provide what I’ve asked for, so I’m guessing I can ask for anything. My dinner last night wasn’t chosen by me, but it consisted of some of my favorite foods and that can’t be an accident. Well, except for that fake-chicken, which makes me think meat might be a problem.
Now that I think about it though, I’m sort of glad meat is a problem. I’m taking it to mean that I won’t wind up on a dinner menu.
Holding up a finger for him to wait, I look at the interface, which lights up, then say, “I’d like to order a meal.”
To my delight, Esme answers me. “Hello again, Lysa. Would you like me to take the order or are you ready for the interface?”
“Uh, I’m going to order for two, so can you do it? I promise I’ll learn how to use the interface better.” I feel sort of bad and high-maintenance. There must be others here that need attention and I don’t want to be a baby.
I can hear the smile in Esme’s voice. “No problem. Just go ahead when ready.”
Given the meat situation, I decide to go for a favorite that doesn’t have meat. “I’d like two trays. Both with Punjab eggplant, bowls of jasmine rice separate, naan bread, sautéed green beans, iced tea, and water with lemon.” I realize I just made a super-complicated order that belies my intention not to be high-maintenance, so I add, “If you can’t do those, I can order something easier.”
Esme pauses for just a second, then says, “No problem. I have listings for all those items. The bot will be there shortly. Anything else?”
“No, thank you, Esme.”
I’m genuinely excited about this, and I rub my hands together while I grin over at Jack. It’s usually a big deal to make Indian food at my house, because the cooking takes so long. Most of the time, we simply go out for it, but the food is never the same as when it’s made at home.
Jack smiles at me readily enough, but I also think he looks a little worried. If this is his first time eating, I suppose that would be natural enough. I have to know. “Please tell me you’ve eaten, at least in some other form.”
He gives me a look and says, “Of course, I’ve eaten. Every living thing needs to replenish energy. I’ve just not done it as a human before.”
Truthfully, every time Jack says something like that, I grow more curious about what he was before he was human. It seems rude to ask, like I’m asking a stranger to show me their underwear.
Still, I’m really dying to know.
Rather than look at him, I cross over to my big pile of boxes. If I unpack, then I have a legitimate reason not to look at him. As casually as I can—which probably isn’t casual at all—I ask, “What did you look like before?”
As I rip open the top of the box labeled, Art Supplies and Paper Goods, he says, “You mean when I was a giant squid person?”
That stops me cold, even as I reach for a packet of markers that looks like it came from any discount store. I look over at him and he winks.
“Such a tool,” I mutter and grab for the plastic packet full of colorful markers.
That makes him laugh, and he says, “I know what that means!”
Underneath the markers is a wooden box with the biggest and fanciest set of my favorite art medium on Earth. This big kit has been on my wish-list for ages, but it’s too expensive and remained out of reach. I’ve had to settle for getting the colors one at a time at the art store. Forgetting about squid-people for the moment, I drop the markers and lift out the heavy wooden box. It even feels expensive.
“Oooo,” I croon, crossing to slide the box onto the table. Putting my fingers to the latches, I try to savor the moment. “Inside this box is heaven. Pure heaven.”
Jack’s eyebrows screw up and he looks at me like I’m insane, but he also eyes the box with curiosity. I slide it around, so he’ll see the contents when I open it, then flip the latches with a flourish. Inside are over two hundred half-pans of the most delicious watercolors in existence. I slide open the drawers underneath and tiny tubes of color come into view, all of them perfect and unsqueezed.
Running my fingertips over the treasures, I say, “Oh, this is a dream come true. Look at this.”
The hot guy who isn’t even human cranes his neck to look inside, but if anything, he’s merely confused. He gives me a little shrug when I look at him. I’m pretty sure the dreamy look on my face makes me look like an idiot, but I don’t care.
“It’s color!” I exclaim, picking up one of the half-pans gingerly and unpeeling the wrapper. “These are watercolors, but very special ones. The color is as smooth as butter. You know, luminous and totally beautiful colors.”
He shrugs again, so I paw through the big box until I find one of the smaller watercolor paper blocks—again, a far nicer weight and brand than I could ever afford—and one of the dreamy brushes I ordered. Dashing into the bathroom, I fill my metal cup with water and sit at the table next to him.
“Watch,” I order. Taking a deep breath—because anyone who knows anything about using a new art toy for the first time knows a deep breath is required—I wet my brush and swirl it in the open half-pan. With only a few dabs of the wet brush, I know what I’m about to see when I touch the brush to the paper. With one long swoop, I lay down the most brilliant blue you can get outside of an oil paint, yet it’s translucent and luminous in a way no opaque pigment can achieve. Because this one is made with ground lapis lazuli, it shimmers a little in the light. Beautiful.
With a sigh, I look at the swoop and then at Jack, “See?”
It’s completely obvious that he’s really trying to be impressed and supportive, yet has no clue why this is special. “It’s a very beautiful color and you’ve made that mark very nicely.”
It takes a second, but I burst out laughing at his expression. He squinches up his face and asks, “Not the right thing to say?”
I poke him with the hard end of my brush and shake my head, still laughing. When I can speak, I say, “No, you’re fine. I’m going to guess this means you’re not an artist.”
“Isn’t that sort of relative? I mean, you have no idea what we squid people might consider art?”
This time I can tell he’s serious when he says, “That’s not nice. Don’t be species-ist.”
I’m saved from my gaffe by the ping and I throw back a quick apology as I head for the door. I know I can’t smell the food with a door and a closed cabinet-bot between me and the plates, but I can almost feel it tickling my nose all the same. My mouth is more than ready for some good food.
What Jack said does register, and I suppose I should be more careful. Considering that I have no idea what forms aliens take, I shouldn’t be so flippant. For all I know that was the height of rudeness.
The bot favors me with the same smiley and winky faces as I unload the trays, then adds a chirpy, “You’re welcome,” when I thank it for our meals.
Jack watches me carefully as I unload the trays and set out the dishes the way it works best for eating. When he sniffs the bread, he licks his lips. I take that for a good sign.
I demonstrate by spooning the eggplant over the top layer of my rice, then dipping a piece of my bread into the bowl. Before popping it into my mouth, I say, “I eat it American style and Indian style. All the better for being a total glutton. Try it. And yes, we can talk while we eat.”
His eyes widen and that tentative look disappears as he chews his first bite. He swallows it fine, then says, “This is really good.”
I grin at him and nod. “Yep, not so bad being human, is it?”
As he loads up his rice with more eggplant, he smiles and says, “Not at all. I like this. It feels sort of good going down.”
We’re mostly silent until we’ve got the first half of our dinner down, except for a few moans and grunts of appreciation. Watching him eat the long green beans is pretty hilarious, but he gets the idea of folding them into his mouth quickly. No one would ever accuse me of having proper manners, but I can certainly eat efficiently. That’s probably why I’m shaped like I am, and I’ve got zero problems with that.
