by Kelly Jensen
Dillon halted by the window, having completed yet another circuit of the apartment, and focused on Lang. “How come you’re not more upset about this?”
Lang employed the human gesture he was most fond of—the shrug. It didn’t feel as nonchalant as he hoped. “I had Upero check all the facts, and none of them are new. I was shocked when I first read the article. Mr. Kohen’s version of events is more coherent than any other I have read. But he could have gathered his facts from any of the other stories written about me over the past decade. He simply pieced them together differently.”
That an alternate spin on the story might reveal the truth had also occurred to Upero. The AI had commented on it a few times while running analyses. Watching Dillon pace the perimeter of the living room, Lang decided it was best he not share that if Kohen turned his story on its end, putting the apocalypse first, he’d be more than halfway there.
Was he too close for comfort?
That, Lang hadn’t decided.
“So he hasn’t decided you’re an alien, yet,” Dillon said, brushing uncomfortably close to the interpretation that most worried Lang.
Lang spread his hands. “To be fair, very few previous stories actually stated that. The alien rumors were started by your father.” It had been Roth’s job to watch over the visiting Skov—Lang’s team—and he’d done so by inflating rumors to the point of absurdity, discrediting not only himself, but also a number of journalists. Dillon had grown up believing his grandfather (father) was an archeologist with a penchant for conspiracy theory. The perfect cover.
“Well, he’s not here now.” Pain briefly pinched Dillon’s brow, highlighting his general pallor. “Can we do something similar to that?” He scratched his head. “I don’t suppose you can come out in support of his theory. Say, ‘yes, I’m a prepper.’”
“A what?”
Dillon waved a hand. “Doomsday prepper. There’s a TV show. We used to call them survivalists. Folks who dig bomb shelters in their backyards, with escape tunnels and armored ATVs.”
Lang tried picturing an armored ATV for a consternated ten seconds. “Aren’t ATVs recreational vehicles? And we do have an escape tunnel. My ship.”
One corner of Dillon’s mouth twitched. “Explains why Roth kept the access to his ship in the basement of his house.”
Lang allowed a smile. “Indeed. This will blow over. It’s not the most sensational story about me.”
Dillon’s phone dinged. “My grandmother wants to know if there’s room for two more in your bunker.”
“I would almost rather she wanted to know details about our sex life.” Dillon’s wince tugged another brief smile out of Lang. “Tell her there is room in the bunker.”
After tapping out a reply, Dillon circled the sofa facing the windows and flopped. His phone dinged again, and he shut it off before tossing it onto the coffee table. “How come your wrist isn’t buzzing you every three seconds?”
“Only a handful of people have direct access. As I understand it, the Skovgaard Enterprises switchboard was rather busy today, though.” And he might have to change his email address or have Upero design a more rigorous spam filter.
Dillon scowled. “If something did happen, could we take my mom and grandmother with us? Like, could we do anything?”
Lang approached the sofa with the same caution he showed the shifting conversation. “What do you mean?”
“If a meteor swung this way. Or a plague broke out. You must have had contingencies for yourself and your team, right?”
“It would depend on the nature of the emergency, and when it occurred. The building plans for Montana include bunkers.”
“Of course they do. No point in setting up on another planet without planning for the worst.”
Even if the worst often outstripped all such preparation. “We hadn’t planned for any sort of max exodus. If the worst came to pass” —Lang indulged in another shrug— “then we would suffer the same fate as the other inhabitants of this planet. It was always a one-way journey.”
“But you have your ship.”
“Do you remember Arayu telling you why she could not convey me back to Jord for treatment? Why she confiscated Roth’s ship?”
“Something about a ship being attuned to a single— Oh.” Dillon’s eyebrows crooked together. “So we’re stuck here.”
“There is no apocalypse, Dillon. Only my apparent preparedness.”
So why did Lang feel as though something was about to happen? Something that would forever change the course of their lives? Intellectually, he understood he was anxious about the article—despite Upero’s reassurances none of the information was new—and Dillon’s reaction to it. But his disquiet had a deeper source than this most recent bout of media attention.
Dillon had slumped into the couch, brow still furrowed, eyes downcast. Lang sat in one of the chairs at the end of the couch and made an attempt to direct his thoughts away from Dillon. Away from what had to be an imagined pain circling his heart. What good would it do to worry the problem intellectually? Thoughts could not influence emotion. Dillon was either happy or not, and Lang’s anxiety regarding the either/or would not affect the outcome. Was this why the clan eschewed emotional entanglement?
“I don’t know how you do it,” Dillon said.
“Hmm?” Lang glanced over.
“The double life. Juggling your mission with your responsibilities to the company you’ve built here on Earth. Being who you are and who you need to be. It must be exhausting.”
Now, Dillon was a part of it. A dual citizen of the galaxy—perhaps even more divided than Lang.
“Are you sorry you came?” Dillon asked.
Lang shook his head, a similar question burning the inside of his throat. “What about you?”
“Am I sorry you came?”
Normally, Dillon would have followed up with a joke about the word “came.” When he didn’t, Lang experienced a sad twinge. Dillon could be serious when required but tended not to live in that state. He was lightness personified. A man determined to find his own path and live it joyously. Lang had interrupted that course.
Instead, Dillon took his time considering his response, and for every second that passed, Lang’s heart shriveled a little more in his chest. Dillon had been the one to teach him what love was, even if they’d never expressed the sentiment out loud. Would he also be the one to teach him about heartbreak?
No, my heart broke when I learned my people were at war and might never join me here.
That my mission had no conceivable end.
Yet he had prevailed. Six months on from the demise of his purpose, he was still here. Still waiting, still hoping, but no longer in despair. Because of Dillon.
Lang peeked over at his lover, afraid of what he might see. Dillon was looking at him, and when their eyes met, the tense lines of Dillon’s face eased into a gentle smile.
“I can’t say as I’m happy to be half alien,” he said. “So far, it’s been… weird. But life is weird, man. That’s what makes it fun. And I’m not sorry I met you, if that’s what you’re asking.” He scrubbed his cheeks, which were finally flushed with a little color. “Sometimes it’s as if we were meant to be. I know that’s kind of sappy, and I’m not locking you into anything, or whatever. But that doesn’t change the fact that I lo—”
“Steilang, you have visitors.”
Upero’s voice hit Lang’s eardrums like an icepick. Wrenching his attention away from Dillon, he spoke to his smartwatch. “Who is it?”
“Elders Obele and Vagnan Jord’Wren.”
“Did you say Vagnan? Where are they?”
“In the elevator.”
Nerves jangling, Lang jumped out of his chair and motioned for Dillon to do the same. Before he could inspect their appearance, the elevator dinged softly and the doors opened to admit two tall figures, one in traditional robing the same color as her striking purple hair and eyes, the other wearing a midnight-blue tuxedo, trimmed with a velvet bowtie and
boutonniere.
Lang dropped to his knees and held out his hands in a posture of respect.
Dillon, on the other hand, remained standing. “What’s up?”
Stars above. That was not how one spoke to the brother of the clan chief.
The Wren were not Dillon’s favorite people. He did have Arayu to thank for saving Lang’s life, but only because he’d talked her into it, and he hadn’t forgiven her for taking Roth’s ship. So what if he’d never have been able to fly it anywhere? He’d have liked to have had access; he might have ended up with an AI companion of his own.
The elder in the tuxedo favored Dillon with a smirk before gesturing for Lang to rise. “Good evening, Steilang Jord’Skov. How go your plans for the apocalypse?”
Flushing an unnatural shade of red, Lang rose to his feet. “The article contains no new facts and can be refuted with proper evidence. My documents are above reproach, and my business practices have been fully audited.”
“I would expect nothing less from such a loyal Skov.”
Dillon’s face pulled into a scowl and he didn’t fight it, especially when Lang dipped his head in acknowledgement. He hated to see Lang all but grovel when he otherwise commanded respect from everyone he dealt with.
“Can I offer you some refreshment?” Lang asked.
“Arayu spoke of a juice you had when last she visited.” As if Wren dropped in socially.
“Pineapple juice.” Lang had been keeping a can of the stuff in the pantry. “For both of you?”
Tuxedo offered a small, punctilious smile. “Thank you.”
Dillon watched Lang retreat toward the kitchen and then turned back to the Wren. “Why are you here? There’ve been more sensational articles in the press. Roth wrote half of them. This will blow over.” Dillon wasn’t as confident as he hoped he sounded, but Lang had him mostly convinced that if neither of them responded, the impact would fade in time.
“Dillon Rothkel Jord’Wren,” Tuxedo said.
The inclusion of Rothkel, thus stating his full bloodline, felt akin to being full-named by his mother. In Korean. “Or plain Dillon Lee,” Dillon replied. “Seeing as we’re here on Earth.”
Dillon hadn’t made a career out of challenging authority, despite the statement of his appearance. His hair color and piercings had always been more about self-expression and owning his unconventional features than any objection to what passed for normal. The structure of clan society bugged him, though. He could never understand how Lang could be considered inferior because he was Skov rather than Wren.
Tuxedo’s little smile tightened. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Vagnan Jord Jord’Wren, Chair of the Office of Skitt and brother to the clan chief.”
He could probably add a few other titles and nicknames in there, but the one that stuck out the most was the double Jord. Dillon could hear “brother to the clan chief” all night and think, okay, he’s the brother of their king. But was he a blood brother, an adopted brother, a married-into-the-family brother, or one of the other weird clan bond relationships? Jord Jord told him all of that. Vagnan was first family. A true, genetic brother to the clan chief.
Dillon wondered if he should kneel. It would totally wreck the persona he was trying to put together—or gripping the tattered remnants of—but for Lang’s sake, he should try to be polite, right?
Compromising, Dillon offered a bow. “I won’t say it’s a pleasure, but…”
No one was perfect.
To his surprise, Vagnan chuckled. “Cousin Arayu’s stories about you are very entertaining.”
“Glad to be of service?” Dillon lifted his chin in Robe’s direction. “And you are?”
“This is my bodyguard, Obele Jord’Wren.”
No double Jord, no bloodline name. Meaning she wasn’t important. Dillon bobbed his head in respect, anyway. For Lang. And because being an ass was exhausting, and he’d already had a long day.
Lang returned with a tray bearing four glasses and two pitchers, one full of pale and slightly pulpy yellow juice, the other water, ice, and lemon slices. He’d also included a bowl of fresh strawberries and sliced melon. Fresh fruit was rare on Jord, and Vagnan redeemed himself somewhat by acknowledging the gesture. “Thank you, Steilang. It is most kind of you to indulge us.”
Lang visibly relaxed. Lifting the tray, he led the group toward the arrangement of sofas and indicated his guests should sit on the one with the best view—that of Central Park. Juice was poured all around and fruit was nibbled. Dillon started to relax, but only partially. He knew Lang couldn’t ask the purpose of the visit, not without begging permission to do so. He could feel the questions piling up behind Lang’s sealed lips, though. No touch required.
An uneasy shiver pinched Dillon’s shoulders together.
Finally, Vagnan sat back and put his hands in his tuxedoed lap. What was with the suit, anyway? “I am sure you are wondering why we are here.”
Lang spread his hands. “The article is sensational and goes into much detail, but it is not particularly dangerous.”
“You will be under heightened scrutiny for a while, however,” Vagnan said. “We are aware of the patterns of fame and notoriety on Earth. The Office suggests you remain circumspect for the next few weeks and take steps to address the source of any scurrilous rumors. To that end, we have a new module for your AI that should help it construct better identities. The manner in which data is stored and retrieved on this planet is evolving rapidly.”
“Thank you.”
“Your presence on Earth remains sanctioned, but should your heritage become suspect, we may have to rescind our decision.”
Lang paled visibly, which, considering his complexion, was quite a feat.
Vagnan turned his attention to Dillon. “How are you adjusting, Dillon?”
“To what?”
“The alteration of your DNA?”
“Um, fine?”
“You do not sound certain. Have you been experiencing any unusual episodes, outside of the heightened senses reported in August?”
Upero stuck him every month to extract a sample to send “home.” A brief questionnaire had accompanied the first three packets with Upero only asking, “Any change?” after that.
Warily, Dillon asked, “What do you mean by unusual?”
Lang—who had suddenly become the universe’s worst poker player—stiffened on the couch. Obele flicked a glance in his direction before leaning forward to snag another slice of melon from the platter on the coffee table.
Vagnan showed his weird little smile again. “Anything out of the ordinary?”
Dillon sucked his lower lip in a little so he could play his tongue over the piercing. The urge to share his story—the flash, the headaches, and the “feels”—tugged sharply. But the very fact of two elders sitting on their couch warned him against giving up too much.
Maybe he could go for a truth that didn’t say much?
“So, something weird did happen on New Year’s Eve,” he started.
Lang managed to lose another degree of color in his cheeks.
“We saw the pictures,” Vagnan said. “What happened?”
“A camera flash caught me full in the eyes, blinding me. After that I felt dizzy and sick. Disoriented? I was basically blind for a bit, too. My sight did come back, though, pretty quickly. Repair cells and all that. But I was left with this massive headache. The headache lingered for a few days.” Dillon touched the back of his head. “Here. I still get it in short bursts.”
Lang shot him a concerned look.
“Let’s see, what else? Oh, I’m having trouble adjusting my body clock. Not sure if that’s relevant?”
Vagnan gestured for him to continue.
“Well, I don’t need to sleep for a couple of days, really, but my body sort of wants to. Or my mind, I guess. I don’t know. Is this the sort of thing you wanted to hear?”
“Thank you, yes. Your parentage is of obvious interest, as is your continued good health.”
“Sure.”
Vagnan leaned forward. “What about when you touch someone?” The elder reached out and grasped Dillon lightly about the wrist.
When Dillon touched other people, his perception of their emotional state usually began with a fuzzy warmth that slowly sharpened into whatever they were feeling. Not so with Vagnan. Reality fell away. Dillon no longer sat in Lang’s apartment; he was swimming through a haze of purple.
He’d registered colors when he touched other people, but not in this way. Not as fact. He’d experienced a pleasant sunniness or felt sadly blue in a brief and fleeting way as he trawled through the confusion of someone else’s emotions. This was different. The shock of purple pulsed with meaning—duty, duty, duty—and Dillon couldn’t break free.
Instead, he was sucked deeper, wrapped in the sense that this was what he was here to do. This was his purpose—which made no fucking sense, as living the rest of his life in a purple tunnel filled with the idea his duty lay right there was so not happening.
Dillon kicked back using metaphorical feet. He had no plan other than to extricate himself from the nightmare threatening to swallow him. He pushed and strained, his entire body getting in on the effort.
Then he was free.
Rocking back, Dillon clutched his arm to his chest, his fingers stinging. It was as though he’d just pulled them out of the spiralizer, but not quite in time. His head ached, and a high-pitched whine dove down his ear canals. Someone was shouting. Lang. It was Lang—leaping over the coffee table, knocking the pitchers of water and juice sideways, mouth moving in the same pattern, over and over.
“Dillon! Dillon! Dillon!”
Chapter Ten
Obele started moving at the same time as Lang. She batted aside the pitcher of pineapple juice—the wave of her hand a blur—and glass shattered in slow motion, tiny shards of starlight flying up and out. Lang angled his shoulder into Obele’s side, knocking her out of the way as he cleared the coffee table and landed in front of Dillon. Another splintering crash signaled the water jug had hit the floor.