by Susan Grant
He regarded her from where he stood in the center of the sky, looking like a vengeful god from ancient mythology.
“So I’m afraid of heights,” she blurted defensively. “Nothing else bothers me. Don’t look at me like that, Kào. I’m telling the truth. I’ve landed airplanes in typhoons, pulled a dog from a burning house, killed a rattlesnake . . . with my bare hands.” Actually, she’d whacked it with a broom, but that wasn’t important now. “I ate a grasshopper, a whole grasshopper, in survival school, and that’s not all.” She stopped to catch her breath, which was proving all but impossible.
Kào read his translator for long moments before he finally returned his midnight eyes to her. His dimple had returned. “The six-legged green insect, was it alive or dead?”
“Damn you, Kào, it’s not funny! Change the scene.”
“Exactly. It’s a scene, a simulation.” He stomped on the floor to prove it. “See? It’s not real.”
“This is an irrational fear. Reality has nothing to do with it.”
He started walking toward her and didn’t stop until he stood only inches away.
He towered over her. She could hear his slow, even breaths, could smell the sterilized fabric of his uniform and his skin—warmly scented with the apple fragrance of a recent shower and mingled with his own scent, one that was undeniably male.
She gulped.
“Jordan.” He said her name in that sexy, meant-for-her-ears-only voice, the way he sounded in her dreams. She shuddered, this time not from fear of heights but from fear of losing her heart, of giving in to her inexplicable attraction to a stranger of strangers, a man with a past so dark that the worst of her nightmares wouldn’t do it justice. But no man had ever touched her heart as he had.
“I’m not going to ask you to pretend your fear is not there,” Kào said in his deep, resonant voice.
“Good.”
“And I’m not going to force you to leave the wall.”
“Ah. Even better.”
“You’re going to do it.”
A thousand butterflies took flight in her stomach, and she chanced another downward glance. Her feet were planted firmly on the “cliff.” But Kào’s floated in the “sky.” Simply looking at the sight made her queasy. But it also confirmed what common sense told her: The scene was a simulation.
It wasn’t real. If she stepped off the cliff, she wouldn’t plunge to her death. The only thing holding her back was her mind. Stepping away from the wall would have to be a choice, a conscious choice of which she had complete control.
“But if you would like me to change the scene, Jordan—”
“No. Wait.” She cast her gaze across the expanse of valley and sky. In a way, her reluctance to walk across the arena was symbolic of everything that her life had become. If she could take a step forward, just one, the next one would be easier as well as the one after that, a challenge no different from waking each morning and getting out of bed despite her sorrow. Maybe that was what Kào already knew, and why he insisted on her making her own choice. “It’s like looking to the future, isn’t it?”
He paused, then smiling with his eyes he nodded.
“You know it won’t kill you to do it, but you’re scared to death to try.” She swallowed. “Or at least I am.”
Kào held out his hand, palm up, beckoning. You can do it, his eyes said. He was forcing her to do something that scared her, just as she’d forced him to examine his own fears on the observation deck. If he could face his horrific past, then she could face . . . this.
Bracing herself mentally, she grasped his hand and walked off the cliff. Her stomach wobbled like a bowl of Jell-O, and convulsively her fingers closed over Kào’s fingers.
Her reward was a brilliant, heart-stopping grin, and the first true smile she’d seen on him. It transformed his face. “It’s like flying,” he said.
“Yes,” she breathed. “Flying.”
“You can’t fall.”
“No. . . .” Her spirit sang. Her heart beat wildly as she took another step, and then another, tugging Kào to the center of the arena. Not daring to let go of his hand, she gave a loud whoop and whirled around to face him. “Look at us, Kào! Look!”
Impulsively she threw her arms around him. He looked startled for the briefest second before she felt his arms slide around her waist.
His smiled faded as he gazed down at her. The silvery light didn’t flatter his stark features, but to her he’d never looked more handsome. Easily, she could have attributed her attraction to the honesty in his eyes, his broad shoulders, or his large, wide hands with those long, blunt-tipped fingers. But it was more than that, and it always had been: Life had not been kind to Kào, and yet he didn’t let that stop him from being kind to others. To her. His encased-in-armor compassion touched her to the depths of her soul, stirring unexpected feelings at the absolute, most dismal, rock-bottom point in her life.
“Thank you,” she whispered in Key, stroking one hand over his cheek. His mouth was so close to hers that she could see the tiny nubs above his upper lip where he needed to shave. She wanted to pull him close, to feel the roughness of that skin against hers.
As if on its own, her thumb moved in a tender and curious exploration of his cheekbone and jaw. His skin was warm, golden, and smooth where his beard didn’t grow and raspy where it did. His scar, pale and needle-thin, ran in a raised ridge from eyebrow to jaw, a scar that cut far deeper than what was apparent at first glance. The aliens had plastic surgery; he could have had the scar erased. But he chose to keep it—in protest? In memory of his comrades who hadn’t made it out alive? Or because he, too, had trouble letting go of the past? Her hand shook as she traced the scar’s length with her fingertip.
Kào grabbed her hand, stopping her. His eyes bored into her, dark and intense. “You took a chance, Jordan.”
“Yes . . .”
Dry fingertips skimmed lightly down her cheek to her throat. Parted slightly, his lips grazed over hers, his breath warm and soft. She shivered from his caress. “So will I, Jordan,” he whispered. “So will I.”
With one big hand cupping the back of her head, he slanted his firm mouth so that it fit perfectly against hers. A surge of heat coursed through her, a sigh parting her lips. Kào might appear harsh and cold, but that was not the way he kissed: When his tongue swept into her mouth, it was with such sensuality and tenderness that her knees went weak.
She ran her hands over his back, savoring the movement of hard muscle beneath the fabric of his uniform. His arms folded around her, molding her to his body. Passion scorched her, igniting her every nerve ending. His mouth muffled her sigh, and his tongue penetrated hungrily, passionate and demanding. The kiss deepened with mutual urgency, and he slid his hands upward, stopping just under the swell of her breasts before he started another downward slide.
Frustration swelled; her taut, sensitive breasts rubbed the inside of her T-shirt. She wanted to feel his hands on her bare skin, his hot mouth on her body. Thoughts of making love with him exacerbated the sweet-hot ache between her legs that said her body was ready for more—even if she wasn’t.
Look to the future, he’d said. But their relationship had no future. He must know it, too, or he wouldn’t be holding back from touching her more intimately. She should be happy that he respected her enough to keep the whole thing platonic. If it was recreational sex she wanted, she could get it in New Earth—a passenger or even one of the male flight attendants, any number of them might have filled the bill. But she was hopelessly old-fashioned. Emotional closeness and trust put the “love” in lovemaking, in her opinion. That was probably why she’d gone so many years doing without. She’d dated occasionally, but her focus had always been on her daughter and she hadn’t looked to deepen the relationships. Maybe she hadn’t wanted someone else to take care of, like Craig. Maybe she’d wanted a guy who’d be there for her, for once. A man like Kào.
But she was a refugee on her way to a relocation port, and he was stationed
aboard this ship. He couldn’t follow her, and she couldn’t by any stretch of the imagination stay with him and abandon her people.
She jerked her mouth from his and buried her face against his chest, breathing hard as she listened to the powerful thumping of his heart. Kào’s fingers played tenderly in her tousled curls. Desire flared. She almost groaned aloud from the temptation of lifting her mouth to his and starting all over again.
She lost track of how long they stayed there, holding each other close. There had been so much pain lately; she hungered for something that didn’t hurt, something that made her feel good about herself and gave her something to look forward to. Kào was all those things.
Floating in the afterglow of the kiss, she had no desire to open her eyes. It was like waking from one of her dreams; she wanted to hold on to the happiness for as long as possible, knowing full well it would disappear.
“As much as I don’t want to,” he said low into her hair, “I have to bring you back to New Earth. It’s growing late.”
“I know,” she whispered, understanding and speaking in Key.
He kissed her forehead so tenderly that her belly contracted. “But we can come back.”
“I would like that.”
“Computer,” he called. “End program.”
The arena returned to normal, beige walls and all. She took Kào’s hand and walked with him to the exit. In so many ways, her developing relationship with Kào reminded her of the stories her grandfather used to tell her about being stationed in Europe during World War II. The ones she’d liked best were those of the star-crossed lovers of that era, the wartime romances of local women and GIs.
That was how it was with her and Kào: two people from different worlds who were never supposed to meet, thrown together by cataclysmic events and destined to part when real life caught up to them. And catch up to them it would. Of that, she had no doubt.
Spring fever was the closest Jordan could come to describing how she felt in the wake of Kào’s kiss. Inhaling deeply, she let out her breath in a sigh and walked through the hatch into New Earth. All she wanted to do was lie on her back in bed and daydream about Kào for an hour or so. Fat chance. With one glance at the displeased faces upon her return, Jordan’s euphoria fizzled.
“You were gone a long time,” Natalie said as she glided up. Her white teeth were clamped together. “I was worried. We all were.”
More than a few passengers cast curious looks over their shoulders. Jordan’s lips still tingled, and she hoped no one guessed why. “I didn’t realize I’d been gone that long. What’s happened? Let’s take a seat and you can brief me.”
Natalie spread her manicured hand firmly on the small of Jordan’s back. “Nothing’s happened, but I’d like to chat,” she agreed. She steered her to a group of floating chairs in a quiet corner.
The flight attendant plopped into one and waited patiently for Jordan to get comfortable in the other. Natalie’s brown eyes were soft as she leaned forward and rested her folded hands on her knees. “Have you heard of Stockholm Syndrome?”
“Stockholm Syndrome? I’ve heard of it. It’s a psychological condition. I think they named it after a Swedish bank robbery. The hostages developed positive feelings for their captors.” Jordan shrugged. “Why?”
“I think you might have it.”
“What?”
Natalie pressed her hand to Jordan’s knee. “You and the alien, Kào. You’ve gone off with him alone. Twice, that I know of.” Natalie searched Jordan’s face with knowing eyes. “There’s definitely an attraction there. A spark . . . something.”
“For crying out loud, Natalie. Ben attacked him. I had to go patch things up.”
Natalie raised a brow. “Did you?”
“I think so.” Warmth fluttered inside Jordan as her thoughts swung back to Kào’s kiss. “But Stockholm Syndrome? Come on, Nat. Who put this in your head? Ben?”
Natalie pulled a folded piece of notepaper out of her pocket. With her Versace reading glasses balanced on the edge of her nose, she read: “Stockholm Syndrome results from sensory deprivation, from being forcibly removed from your daily life and put in a strange place from where you can’t escape.” The flight attendant waved at the expanse of Town Square. “Bingo. Our whole world revolves around our captors.”
“Rescuers,” Jordan corrected.
“That’s what they say. But we’re pretty much stuck here.”
“We’re confined for our own safety. They just ended a war. This ship is looking for enemy ships trying to sneak past the border. Those enemies take human slaves, Natalie. I don’t think you want to be one of them. If we wander around this ship, we might muck up their security. Or worse, get hurt.”
Natalie looked unconvinced.
Jordan threw her hands in the air. “So I’m overprotective. That means I have Stockholm Syndrome? What do you find lacking about my leadership? Maybe I wasn’t so smooth in the beginning, but I think I’m doing a pretty decent job as captain now.”
“Of course you are. Hey, hon. I’m not saying I believe you have the syndrome. I want you to be aware of it, that’s all.” Her voice dipped to a private tone. “The reason I brought it up at all—besides the fact I care about you—is because of the rumors going around. The word on the street is that you seemed more concerned about Kào than Ben. And you seem kind of fed up sometimes. It’s got some people worried that if push comes to shove, you’d take the aliens’ side and not ours.”
Jordan’s voice shook with indignation. “Everything I do is for us. You guys come before anything I want.”
“I know . . . I know.”
Jordan shoved her hands through her hair and glowered at the floor. She’d be the first to admit that she was vulnerable right now. Kào’s affection and empathy filled the gaping hole left from the loss of her family, and she knew it might be giving her the sensation of falling in love when in fact she wasn’t. But she was self-aware enough to know that her attraction to Kào wasn’t Stockholm Syndrome. Wasn’t she?
Groaning, she cradled her head in her hands. “Shit.”
“Come on, girl, give me a hug.”
Jordan submitted to the squeeze. But her mind spun with self-doubt as her blood boiled with anger. Natalie had ruined the sweetness of her developing relationship with Kào. Never again would she be able to feel her heart leap when he walked into the room without thinking it was some dumb captive syndrome. It wasn’t, but the gloss had been rubbed off their relationship all the same. Maybe it was better this way. Maybe she wouldn’t be as distracted and could concentrate on what was ahead. The relocation port. A new life. A life she wouldn’t have been able to share with Kào anyway.
The two women moved apart. “You okay?” Natalie asked.
“Yeah, Nat, fine. You’ve given me a lot to think about.” Jordan stood. “Now, I’ve got stuff to do.”
“Me, too. I’ll catch you later. Dinner?”
“Sure,” Jordan replied tiredly. “I’ll see you at dinner.”
Feeling as if someone had anesthetized her brain, she tromped toward her quarters, hoping to disappear for a while before the evening meal was delivered. But when she was halfway there Dillon sidled up to her, hands in his pockets. He was one of the few who’d taken to wearing the pale orange jumpsuits.
“So you’re back,” he said.
“Yes, I’m back.” Silently she dared him to say something about Stockholm Syndrome.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said in his lilting voice. “The deal with the hard drives. Kào said it was a mistake.”
She sighed. It must be bash-Kào day. “Don’t you believe him?”
“Currently, I have no data to the contrary so, yes, I suppose I do.” He scratched the orange stubble on his chin. “It begs the question, though. How prone are his people to errors? We know that their technology is fantastic. Couldn’t they have extracted the data from the laptops without destroying them? Couldn’t they have recovered what data they lost? But they made an error, so
they say. What about Earth? Could the finding that no one survived the comets be an error, too?”
Jordan’s heart flipped over. Survivors! There could be people left alive. Suddenly she couldn’t breathe. Roberta, the rest of her family, they might be among them.
Unexpectedly, tears burned her eyes. She’d told her daughter she would come home. She’d never dreamed she wouldn’t. What if now she could?
Dillon searched her face. “It changes everything, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, everything,” she whispered. Her entire outlook had changed in the space of five minutes. Dillon had planted the seed of doubt and it had blossomed into hope, sending her roller-coaster existence crawling up another steep hill. “What Kào told us might be a mistake.”
“Or worse,” he said. “A lie.”
Ah, Kào. Would you lie to me? To my face? After what they’d shared, she couldn’t fathom it. Unless that, too, had been a lie. A sharp sense of betrayal shredded her insides. “Why would he lie? What would be the point—except to exert control? And he already has that. Total control.”
Wringing her hands, that nasty habit she’d picked up, she began pacing, another addition to her repertoire. “Kào told me that they recorded the disaster. He even invited me to watch it, but at the time I said no.” she glanced at Dillon. “Maybe he hoped I’d say that.”
Unease slithered up her spine, and she clutched her knotted hands to her chest. “If there are people left, we have to go back, no matter what the aliens’ official flight plan says.” Her mind percolated with hatching plans. She hadn’t realized how disheartened she’d been by the lack of hope until it came flooding back. “Do you know where we are in relation to Earth?” She pressed her hands together. Her palms were damp. “Can you access the ship’s navigation system?”
“I’m trying.”
“Don’t get caught, or the only door we have into their activities will slam shut in our faces.”
