Designation 261 (The Wholeness Project)

by Catherine Miller

  And now friendship was to be added to his growing list of matters to study, though that one was of greater import than the rest.

  He did not want to have her withdraw the offer. Not on the first day.

  So he was particularly careful with her, seeking to please as best he could.

  “Are you content with your surroundings?” he asked as she surveyed her dwelling space.

  Her smile was present, but so was the colour in her cheeks that usually suggested embarrassment.

  Or so his search had claimed when he had conducted it.

  “I’ve never had things like this,” she admitted, her tone suggested she was grateful, though she had yet to truly thank him for his efforts in their procurement. “Even back at home. Everything was shared, and not... not really mine.” She gave him a quick glance, her words coming faster. “Not that these are either,” she hastened to clarify. An unnecessary thing, though she did not appear to notice. “You bought them, after all, and it’s your ship, and you’re just allowing me to use them.”

  He knew what it was to have everything be lent. To own nothing and to be reminded of it often. He did not want that for her. If he was to experience that feeling of claim and ownership in his own room, then so should she.

  And he was... gratified to be the one to give it to her.

  “The things are yours,” he pronounced, looking back at her, wondering if she would accept them. “I obtained them solely for your use, and have no need of their return at any point.”

  He would not speak of the future, and he hoped she would not either. It was too uncertain to be worth discussing, their course set for the next facility, and much planning to be done in the meantime. He still did not know what he would do with her while he invaded their ranks, while he manufactured the next disaster, though he doubted he would be able to perform it with such ease. Not if they suspected their sister-ship had fallen to sabotage rather than mismanagement.

  “Thank you,” Clairy murmured, her eyes soft and perhaps holding a bit more moisture than was usual. “I don’t think I said that before.”

  He looked away, back to her room. “You did not.”

  There was no point in pretending otherwise.

  Her blush deepened when it became clear that he had been waiting for it, and he realised his error in confirming its absence.

  “Then I’m sorry for that too and not saying it before.”

  Cydrin shook his head once, something about her constant need to give her sorry troubling him. “I do not require your apology,” he instructed, hoping she could begin to rescind them. He certainly gave her none, or if he did, only when they were truly deserved. Not simply because gratitude was slow in coming.

  Clairy shrugged gently. “Well, it’s yours all the same. I hadn’t expected you to include me in it at all, and I’m... I really am thankful.” She looked back over the room, and he wondered if she was going to go fuss with something again, but she remained by him, and for reasons he did not recognise, he was glad. “Mama used to show me rooms like this. We couldn’t afford anything nearly as grand, but we would look over our chipped datapad and see how other people lived. Imagine what it would be like to have such finery, for things to be new and just for us.”

  Cydrin thought that a tremendous waste of time since she had already admitted that there would be no funds to actually make such fantasies into reality, but he did not give voice to the comment. Clairy was looking wistful and a little sad, and that was not what he wanted for her. He wanted her bright smile, her thoughtful abuse on her lower lip as she considered the perfect placement for pillows and a great deal too much pondering on how to properly fold a blanket. “You miss her,” he said at last, choosing to acknowledge her shift in emotion rather than dismiss it outright.

  Clairy smiled, a dim offering that was not at all what he wanted. “I do,” she confirmed. “She would always talk about the home I’d have one day, and even with...” she paused, glancing at him nervously, and he could see her recalculating her approach before she began again. “Well. This isn’t exactly a home, and I’m not married, so it hardly counts. But for some reason, I still would want to show her.”

  For the first time, no matter how quickly he dismissed it, he found himself briefly considering allowing her to do so. Perhaps it was because there would finally be something for her to share that would cast him outside the role of villain and captor. Maybe that’s what he’d been waiting for all along.

  But it was dangerous and unnecessarily so. Clairy had already cried all her tears for her family, though he supposed it had only been this morning that he had found her, despondent and grieving for a family that now thought her dead.

  It was preposterous to consider.

  Despite Clairy’s assertions, they would find someone to contact. There was no story that she could concoct that would satisfy them, especially given her abysmal skills at deceit.

  He supposed that was a testament to the home she grew up in, that there had never been a need to hone such abilities. He had been forced to learn from the moment he first drew breath outside his pod. Hide everything away or be beaten for it. Speak nothing that was not of absolute necessity.

  Clairy rambled. Clairy felt things. Too many things. Freely and fully.

  He envied her that, even as it drove him to distraction with the way she could flit from one mood to the next.

  He considered his words carefully, not wanting to give her too much hope of a communication that was not going to be had, but wanting to express his thoughts on the matter. Just as he had requested she do with him. “I would... like... if there was a way for you to be able to share the good things in your life now with your family.”

  Despite his efforts, Clairy looked at him sharply, her eyes already filling with something that greatly resembled expectation.

  He could not be harsh with her. Not when he knew what would follow. She would beg for seclusion, she would cry—again—and he would feel as if he had taken on a role he never wanted.

  A master, moulding and shaping an unwilling participant. Forcing her to deaden ties and loyalties that did not suit him, to forgo mention of them because dwelling on what could not be was tedious.

  He wasn’t a master. Not of her. Not of anybody.

  “Clairy,” he began again, and something in his tone must have alerted her that she’d misjudged his intentions. He wanted to offer sympathy, yes, but nothing had changed in regards to the risk, and he could not pretend otherwise.

  “Right,” she murmured, swiping at her cheeks though no tears had begun to fall. “Stupid of me to think you’d...” She shook her head, and even though she did not allow them to be released vocally, he could well limacine the inner chastisement she was providing herself.

  He closed his eyes, an odd thing to do but something he’d seen from her on numerous occasions. It seemed to be an attempt to refocus, to think things through before speaking, and he needed that.

  Because lunacy was in his mind and nearly on his tongue, and when had he grown so permissive?

  “If there was a way,” he tried again, wondering at himself and if he really meant it. He did not wish to toy with her, did not want to play upon her hopes and desires simply to garner her favour, though he could begrudgingly admit that was what he truly wanted. “If I could believe you would follow the story I dictated to you...”

  Her hand, back on his arm, caused his eyes to open of their own accord.

  Her eyes, wide and shining, pleading with him.

  “I would follow it,” she swore, every nuance in her expression insisting she was being honest with him.

  “You would not stray?” he pressed, knowing she claimed so now, but knowing could all fall to pieces the moment she was faced with the family she claimed to love so dearly.

  “I told you already,” she insisted, a hint of frustration seeping into her tone. “My family is not well connected. They aren’t going to be able to come after me in any case. They can’t help me. Not with this. And
it would hurt them too much to know what’s really become of me.”

  He very nearly took a step backward at that, feeling nearly as if she’d struck him.

  She quickly realised her error, her fingers gripping his arm all the more tightly.

  “I didn’t mean it like that,” she hastened to soothe, but the damage had been inflicted all the same. “You have been good to me, despite it all, and... and that is what I would like to share with them. Not the rest of it. How would they be able to understand when I’m only just now coming to terms with it myself?”

  A slip of the tongue, and she would reveal it all.

  He would have to be there—not within view, no, but present, his fingers at the ready to sever the connection. That would not be uncommon, and not great cause for alarm, but the potential for damage was still there.

  He did not know what he was doing. Instinct dictated he leave her for a time, to at the very least, think things through more fully. But another part insisted that he stay, that he relish the feel of her hand on his arm, a touch given freely and without coercion or compunction, and do whatever he could to please her.

  Even if it included risk.

  He had done it already today. Allowed her out in public, making a stop that was not truly needed.

  And it had been worth it.

  In every way.

  “Very well, then.”

  What was he doing?

  “But I am trusting you, Clairy,” he warned, even as she already was nodding her head, her smile so bright and full that he felt a strange clutch in his belly in response to it.

  “And you won’t regret it,” she promised. “Really. I’ll stick to the story you give me, and that’ll be that.”

  He could only hope that it would be so simple.

  ◆◆◆

  Setting up the transmission was not difficult, though his trepidation insisted that it was so. Clairy sat beside him, in the chair he had insisted be properly positioned two days ago, nearly unable to control her excitement. “You will have to provide me their frequency,” Cydrin reminded her, almost hoping that she did not have the code memorised and he would be absolved of having to place the call at all.

  But she nodded with enthusiasm. “I have it memorised,” she confirmed, much to his disappointment.

  “And you have your story equally committed to memory?” He gave her a severe look, although from her mannerisms, she did not appear to notice.

  He’d made her practise it until he was convinced that she was remotely believable, and he could tell that she only put up with it because to reject it was to say that contact with her family was not worth such troubles. And from the colour of her cheeks, the embarrassment.

  To her credit, she managed to suppress the roll of her eyes he was certain was threatening to come. “Yes,” she promised. “I remember.”

  Cydrin took a moment to centre the view from the other side, ensuring that he was completely removed from it. He would stay, finger poised over the controls lest their conversation diverge into dangerous territory, but he hoped it would not come to that.

  Despite his reservations, despite every instinct insisting that he was foolishness itself for attempting this, he wanted to trust Clairy at her word.

  He had reminded her of his earlier argument, that when she failed to return home in an appropriate time it would cause a great deal of strain amongst her family, but she’d insisted she would handle it if needed.

  And then she had promptly asked again if they could hurry because her family would be sleeping soon and she’d very much like to catch as many of them as she could.

  He almost insisted they wait until the next morning to transmit at all, simply to give her time to settle, to go over her story and gather mastery over the anxious anticipation that might derail the entire venture.

  But he couldn’t disappoint her like that. Not when she was looking at him that way.

  He input the code she provided and hit transmit, already regretting it.

  It was a slow connection, Clairy watching the small dial in the lower corner of the screen as if she could will it to work by sheer stubbornness alone. Cydrin was confident in his ship’s capabilities, so any difficulty would stem from Clairy’s homeworld—and they did not seem terribly interested in outfitting communication networks with the latest tech, regardless of its need.

  “They won’t recognise who’s calling,” Clairy fretted, her hands tugging at her sleeves. Unlike typical transmissions, his were meant to subterfuge and privacy rather than announcing his designation and location for all to see. Doing so was not even an option.

  “Then hopefully they will be curious enough to answer,” Cydrin answered simply, not knowing what else she expected him to do.

  Clairy nodded, eyeing the screen worriedly.

  And promptly burst into tears when a man’s face appeared, tired and worn as he peered through to whoever was disturbing his evening’s respite.

  “Hello?” he called, clearly unable to see through to the other side. He squinted, shaking the device and scrambling their view for a moment, and Clairy seemed to find her voice, if only to stop the quaking. “Papa, stop! Just set it down and it’ll settle.”

  Eyes widened, and his face came nearer, a flash of pain crossing his features. “Clai...” he swallowed, shaking his head. “If this is a joke, it is a very cruel one.”

  Clairy wiped at her eyes and released a trembling laugh. “Not a joke, Papa,” she assured him. “Can you see me yet?”

  A strangled sound came from the man, something more akin to a wounded beast than an overjoyed father, but Cydrin was not going to be critical.

  “They said you were dead,” he croaked out. “Martna!” he called, the sound of a door opening. Whatever device he was using was put down, muffled voices still coming through the audio even if the visual had turned to a rather spectacular view of the home’s ceiling. Metal panelling riveted together with misaligned bolting, a crack through one of them smelted back together with fuse-paste. It was a glimpse into Clairy’s history, and one he would not take for granted.

  He had been hard-pressed to find a way to give her one of his own past. But perhaps that was for the best.

  “Mama, it’s really me!” Clairy called, raising her voice in hopes of catching the woman’s attention. “Please, I’d really like to see you...”

  Clairy kept glancing at Cydrin, and she would have to stop that if she intended to keep it hidden that anyone was with her in the room. He gestured for her to keep her attention forward and she nodded, remerging herself and all he had insisted she learn, silly though she had claimed it to be at the time.

  “Clairy?” a woman appeared, her face streaked with red and already swollen, how Clairy’s looked after one of her long bouts of crying. It was even less flattering on her mother, but he was a poor judge of such things. “Is that really you?”

  Clairy laughed again, batting at her eyes in an attempt to push away any signs of her initial tears. “It’s me, Mama,” she promised. “I’m here and I’m all right.”

  The woman drew a hand to her mouth, her eyes darting about at last the image cleared and came through, taking in her daughter’s features—ones she obviously thought she would never see again.

  And she wasn’t supposed to.

  None of this was supposed to be happening at all.

  And yet his regret was retreating, slowly, but steadily.

  Though his finger still remained ready to terminate.

  “How are you... how is this possible?” Clairy’s mother—presumably the Martna her father had mentioned—asked, her voice tight with disbelief. “They showed us pictures of the remains when they came to tell us about what happened and...”

  Clairy smiled dimly. “I was in a piece of wreckage. A ship nearby saw and came to check for survivors and they got me out in time.” Cydrin studied her parents, her father pushing into view so he too could get a better look at his daughter. Clairy was doing well so far, and they appeared to be accep
ting it. He doubted the truth would occur to them, as they seemed far too preoccupied with the simple knowledge that their daughter was alive at all.

  Perhaps he had miscalculated their priorities.

  “Thanks be,” Martna murmured, closing her eyes and clutching a hand to her chest. “I didn’t want to believe it when they said you were gone. I told them I’d feel it, but to see pictures of what happened to that station, to all those people...” Martna’s eyes welled again, incongruent with the smile burgeoning on her lips. “But you’re all right?”

  Clairy hesitated. “I am... now. Apparently I was in a pretty bad way when I was found which is why I haven’t been able to contact you sooner.” A grim smile, and he could almost see the edges of regret in Clairy’s face. She did not like deceiving them, and he knew that. But it was the only way he would allow her to talk to them at all, so she pushed away her scruples—though not entirely happy about it.

  If she fretted over it later, he would remind her that there was truth even in that. She had been in shock, trembling all over and fearful of his slightest movement and in no condition to be speaking to anyone, let alone making contact with her family.

  They had been together much longer than that now, and she was vastly improved, though he still could not quite believe he was allowing this transmission to take place.

  “When are you coming home?” her mother cut in, and Cydrin could easily see the pain in Clairy’s features.

  “That’s the thing, Mama,” she said gently. “They’re on a rather tight schedule and are due in another quadrant. We’re on our way there now and there just wasn’t time to drop me off first.”

  Clairy’s father looked reproachful at first, as if somehow Clairy would get to dictate the actions of an entire fictional crew, but he smoothed his features quickly enough. “But they’re treating you all right?” he asked instead. Clairy seemed to know what he referenced even if Cydrin was not certain.

  “I’m treated like a lady, Papa,” she answered, her voice much more firm. “My room is lovely, and there’s good food to eat, so I...” she hesitated, and Cydrin could see her fighting the urge to look over at him.”I’m not going to mind waiting. Though I miss you all terribly, and I’m sorry I’ll miss Camter’s wedding and...”