by Maren Smith
“Initially, often. Until I realized it was an intoxicant. In the beginning, it was a struggle just to find things he would eat or drink. He didn’t acclimatize to being fostered very well.”
“Gee, I wonder why.” Leaning back in her seat, she stifled a groan as she crossed her legs to massage her other shin. “You know, the history of disease is a funny thing. On my world, the continents that humans populate are separated by huge expanses of ocean.”
“It is here as well.” Rowth nodded.
“We’re all one species, but in the early days before the invention of planes and boats and worldwide travel, diseases affected us all different. And by that I mean, diseases that were no big deal to one ethnic group proved life-threatening to others. The South American Indians were damn near wiped out by illness brought by the Spaniards that discovered them. The North American Indians were decimated by common childhood illnesses carried by the white settlers as they pushed a westward expansion. Even as recently as twenty years ago, the common cold brought by western doctors had a devastating effect on what were at the time the indigenous tribes in the Amazon, or the aborigines in Australia. Small pox, the West Nile virus, Ebola, malaria; a person’s susceptibility to these kinds of diseases has always in a large part depended on their genetic immunity and inherent ability to fight off each disease. As worldwide travel increased and became more popular, more and more people were exposed to these foreign diseases, the illnesses began to jump continents, and—”
“Our natural immunities became more prevalent,” he finished for her. “Or we developed potent inoculations. Or we died out.” Rowth leaned back in his chair too, eyes narrowing. “We have a similar history.”
“Okay so, what we could be looking at is what the Pra’kirian common cold does to a Mekron.”
“The Pra’kirian common cold does not last ten years.”
“I should hope not. But you get my meaning.”
“Yes, but it still presents a problem to your theory. Rog has been ill more than six years, but he was healthy far longer than most of his companions. Some have been affected since we brought them. Within days, in fact. Also, you have been here nearly two weeks and you’re not ill. We took precautions and had all of you, the Mekron included, inoculated when you first arrived.”
“But our physiology is so vastly different from yours. How could you possibly know the inoculations would be effective?”
Rowth both nodded and shrugged. “That is a valid point.”
She pressed her point further. “Also, inoculating me doesn’t protect you from the diseases I’m carrying.”
“As with the Mekron—indeed, as with our own people practically from the moment worldwide travel became as prevalent as it is today—your blood was screened for viable antibodies. It was then combined with the antibodies screened from the blood of your companions and every foster household was inoculated with that.”
“You can do that?”
He nodded, then shrugged again. “Don’t ask me how it works. I’m not a doctor either, but I have been assured unless some dangerous mutation takes place, we should be all right. Rog and I have lived quite comfortably together for a decade. I can count on one hand the number of times either of us has been ill.” Rowth glanced over his shoulder at the sleeping Mekron. “Except for this, of course.”
Swiveling back to face her, he folded his hands under his chin, elbows braced upon the arms of his chair. He was halfway through crossing his legs, when something in the way she was staring caught his attention.
“What?” he asked. It wasn’t until her eyes suddenly refocused on him that he realized she hadn’t been staring at him at all. She’d been staring through him, deep in the storm of whatever thoughts had just occurred to her.
“What if this isn’t an illness at all?”
Uncrossing his legs, he leaned toward her. “Of the eighty-four Mekron we started with, less than twenty still survive. If not an illness, than what is killing them?”
“What if this is an allergic reaction?”
He arched an eyebrow, eyes narrowing skeptically. “A species-wide allergic reaction with a hundred percent mortality rate, capable of lasting more than ten years?”
“From a species that had been living, possibly all their lives in outer space. Rog was born on that ship, remember you said that yourself.”
“I did,” he acknowledged.
“So, they went from a completely sterile environment—”
“Sterile is not exactly the word I would have used to describe the state of that craft, but go on.”
“—to an alien world full of every foreign allergy factor imaginable,” she continued as if he’d never interrupted. “It started slow, right?”
“With a rash,” Rowth confirmed, his own thoughts beginning to race along the path she’d just forged. “Then sneezing, vomiting, and digestive issues. The fungal whiteness accompanies the final stages. Once it spreads into the mouth and air passages, death follows close behind.”
Brinley looked from him to Rog, then back again. “I don’t suppose you’re still powerful enough to call in a favor, are you?”
He never should have told her the extent of his authority. That she should know he had one grated fiercely on nerves that already felt raw, but to have her mention it… He frowned. He’d deal with it later when he had the time. “What kind of favor?”
“We need the help of someone who knows what he’s doing. We need a doctor.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Doctor Xan came into the room pretty much exactly the way Brinley expected him to. Irritation at having been summoned so late in the evening showed in every step as he followed Rowth through the open door and then stopped when he saw her sitting at Rog’s bedside. His dark gaze raked her up and down. He frowned. His frown deepened when he noticed the microscope and slides set up on the table against the wall.
“Settling in, I see,” he said, disapproval dripping from each consonant and vowel.
“Do as you’re told,” Rowth replied in a tone that matched.
Passing Rowth, the stern doctor stalked toward her. He could have gone to the other side of the bed, but for whatever reason, forcing her to abandon Rog’s bedside and limp the few steps needed to get out of his way seemed to amuse him.
“Regaining her mobility, I see,” he noted with a smirk. “I don’t know if I would have gone that route. I’ve begun to see a certain wisdom in keeping them bedridden.”
When his gaze raked her again, Brinley retreated another step. She bumped into one of the two chairs and lost her balance. Fortunately, Rowth’s empty seat was turned far enough around to catch her or she might have fallen all the way to the floor. Pain shot through her shins, but she had no more than caught her breath before Rowth was between them, the whole of his large body now a very physical barrier between her and the doctor’s smirking stare.
“Just because you are incapable of keeping your human contained,” Rowth said, “doesn’t mean I should hobble mine.”
The smirk died. Doctor Xan stiffened, lifting his chin. “I was told that information was not made public.”
“It’s my business to know.”
Brinley’s heart did a painful double-thump as the implication of what they were saying suddenly became as ruthlessly clear as Xan’s dark eyes. “He’s one of the foster parents?” she blurted. Unable to sit still, she grabbed the table for stability and heaved back onto her feet. She barely felt that pain over the shock of Xan’s renewed smirk.
“Blythe,” he confirmed. “Don’t worry. Her escape attempt was most… temporary. Your friend is once more back in my attentive embrace.”
Jaw dropping, Brinley stared at him. Her eyes stung. She blinked hard and fast to keep the build of startled tears from forming.
Pointing to the bed, Rowth redirected his attention with the equally ruthless warning, “I don’t repeat myself without consequence.”
Sniffing, Xan propped his medical bag on the bed near Rog’s feet and popped it open. Sitting besid
e the unconscious Mekron, he withdrew a metal syringe and a small glass vial of pale blue liquid. Loading one into the other, he checked his patient’s wrist for a pulse, then the side of his neck, then turned Rog’s head away before tucking the syringe up against his neck and emptying the vial into his bloodstream.
“Done,” he said with feigned cheerfulness. “For all the good this will do.” Taking stock of Rog’s pupils, he stood to repack the syringe into his bag. “By the looks of him, I give you all two days. Enjoy your evening. I’ll show myself out, shall I?”
Rowth snorted, waving a hand toward the door. “After you,” he said, darkly polite.
Xan lead the way, though as he passed Rowth he paused long enough to say, “You will, of course, let me know when you learn the rest, won’t you?”
“The rest of what?” Rowth asked.
Xan chuckled and kept walking. “Don’t worry. I’m sure you’ll ‘make it your business’ to find out.”
Rowth frowned at his back. Glancing back at Brinley, he followed Xan from the room, disappearing from her sight long enough to escort the man from his house.
Limping back to the bed, Brinley eased herself to sit on the bed beside Rog. She took his hand into her lap, resuming her vigil in silence. Her thoughts weren’t easy ones. Not for Rog or whichever of her companions had been gifted into the doctor’s care. Like water poured into the all recesses of her being, guilt overwhelmed her. Since coming to this house, she’d barely spared a thought for the other women she’d crashed with. What must they be going through—Mira, Blythe, Sarai, Lily, each of them confined with at least one stranger, be he like Rowth or like Doctor Xan. She had no way of knowing how they were adjusting, if they were being cared for as well as Rowth cared for her, or if they were being tormented, their new lives here an alien hell.
She shuddered. At least Rowth wasn’t cruel. Not really. He had even been kind at times.
But only because he needed her, her subconscious whispered. Not for any other reason. Knowing she couldn’t help them, all Brinley could do was hope they knew comfort wherever it was that they were. She hoped they were happy.
“That man is an ass,” Rowth said, stalking back into the room. He stopped when he saw her swiping at her eyes, but Brinley quickly turned away. She stroked Rog’s two-clawed hand and did not look up.
Rowth approached the bed more slowly. “Xan delights in making himself seem worse than he is. Don’t be troubled by what he said.”
“You don’t like him,” she pointed out, still not looking up.
“We went to school together. Let’s just say, no one school is quite large enough for two students with our kind of ambition. Never mind. It’s not important. We’ve done what we can do. Come. Let’s get you to bed.”
“I’m not tired,” she said, though that was far from true. At the moment, all she felt was tired. But he was right, there was nothing left for either of them to do. Not tonight, anyway. And nothing would be gained by staying up just to worry, though at the moment it was hard to tell who owned more of her concern: Rog, or herself. She felt selfish, and that made it worse. Which was probably why she couldn’t bring herself to protest when he, stifling a sigh, bent to slide his arm around her waist and his other beneath her knees. He picked her up and carried her back down the hall to her own room.
So much for the mythical cellar.
Oh, like anybody really wanted to be hauled down into a musty old cellar, stretched over a barrel and beaten. That’s what he kept promising… er, threatening to do. Put her on his barrel and beat her. And yeah, whenever she got lost in her worst moments of frustration and loneliness, he certainly could make that threat sound seductive. Or maybe breathing all this alien oxygen was making her sick in the head, who the hell really knew? But what Brinley did know for sure and for certain was this: She should not be letting herself get this upset over the fact that he’d first lied to her, then seduced her, and now he was taking her to bed and leaving her there instead of following through with all those seductive threats he’d promised all day long.
Only she was. Deeply upset. The kind of upset that started out as a twinge of annoyance as he carried her out of Rog’s room, holding her in his arms as if she were a princess, when they both knew he couldn’t have given two shits. Until in the length of time it took for him to exit Rog’s door, pass two closed rooms, and slip sideways past Brinley’s opening door, she wasn’t just upset. She was ready to spit nails. Preferably at Rowth, but only after she’d slugged him twenty or so times first.
“Do you need to use the necessary?” he asked as the lights and the door whispered shut behind them.
“No,” she lied. She was proud of herself for being able to speak without sounding angry. She only wished she could do it without sounding as if she were sulking.
Rowth carried her into the bathroom anyway, damn it, going so far as to set her down on the toilet. He took up his spot at the sink to wait. Maybe her next foster ‘parent’ would let her pee on her own. If Rog recovered, then Rowth would no longer need her and surely that was where she was headed. Out the door and to another accommodation. If Rog died, then not only would Rowth no longer need her but then, who knows, but he might actually resent her failure. In which case, she’d either be shuttled off to another family or her last few seconds would be spent watching him stalking through her bedroom door with that gun in his hand and, as had happened with the guard, walk straight up to her without a word, put the muzzle to her head and pull the trigger. Either way, at least she wouldn’t have to put up with him much longer.
For some reason, that made her eyes sting even worse. She glared at her knees, blinking back the tears and refused to let them fall.
“Do you need help?” Rowth asked.
“I wouldn’t mind privacy,” she countered.
“Snap at me again and what you’re more apt to get is a thorough spanking.”
“In your mythical dungeon? Bring it, big man,” she sniped before she could stop herself. Once those words had been sharpened to dagger-points on the iciness of her tone and thrown, she couldn’t recall them. If forced to be honest, she wasn’t sure she wanted to.
She hoped she hit him right in his stony, expressionless heart.
Pushing off the counter, Rowth came towards her. He folded his arms, as if he needed that extra help to avoid touching her when he came within range. She fixed her stare back on her knees so she wouldn’t have to watch him come.
He hunkered down, resting his elbows on his own knees as he settled in at her level. “Have you something to say to me, Brinley?”
Yeah. How in the hell was she supposed to exist here, in this house, on this planet, for the rest of her life, knowing she’d served her only purpose and now… now she was what? A half-crippled inconvenience for whom he was—how had he put it?—counting down the days until he no long had to put up with her?
“You should go,” she said thickly. “Rog’s alone.”
“He is in a place where he’s as incapable of mourning my absence as he would be of appreciating my presence. I’m more concerned with you. Why are you crying?”
She would sooner gnaw through her own tongue than make herself any more vulnerable by answering that. “Humans don’t like audiences when we’re on the toilet.”
“Pra’kirians don’t like being lied to by naughty children who would rather sulk than admit they feel used. Perhaps even betrayed.”
“I’m not a child!” she shot back.
“Compared to me you are an infant.”
He didn’t just leave the bathroom then; she heard him walk all the way out of the bedroom and the most incredible urge to throw a fit swelled over her. If only there were something close by, she’d have thrown it. But there wasn’t anything. Not even a roll of toilet paper. She cried instead, a brief but furious flurry of tears as bitter as they were useless. What the hell kind of planet was this that they didn’t even have toilet paper? How was she supposed to blow her nose?
Sniffing noisily, sh
e scrubbed her eyes dry with both hands, finally peed and let the automated toilet clean then dry her. Limping to the sink, she tapped, then smacked, then strangled the unresponsive faucet and finally gave up. She wiped her face on a towel, then looked at it. Shrugging, she blew her nose and left it wadded for Rowth to find. Served him right. Her eyes and nose red-rimmed and her cheeks blotchy, she limped back to bed.
Halfway there, she started crying again. God, she was pathetic, crying over something this pointless. Of course, he didn’t want her here. It’s not like they were long-distance lovers. He hadn’t invited her to his home under false pretenses. She’d crash-landed on his world and he’d took her in. A good host, as he’d said. He was doing exactly what good hosts did, seeing to her basic needs and only sort-of-kind-of molesting her on the side.
Molested, ha. She wasn’t a reluctant participant, or at least she hadn’t been back when she thought he was doing it out of some kind of attraction to her, not because he thought he had to in order to win her cooperation. He should have just said something. No, she wasn’t a doctor and all her arguments aside, she’d have done anything to help Rog had she known. He should have told her what was going on. He should have been honest right from the start.
If she kept thinking about it like this, she was going to start bawling.
She was absolutely, heart-wrenchingly pathetic.
No sooner had she reached the foot of the bed than did Rowth return, a small paring knife in one hand and a piece of what looked like a yellow-white carrot in his other.
“I’m not hungry,” she groaned, sinking down to sit on the edge of the mattress. She bent, grabbing her aching shins. “Just… leave me alone.”
Rowth went into the bathroom. She heard his tsk when he found the towel, then the water ran as, presumably, he washed his hands. From where she sat massaging her legs, she could see part of his reflection and the back of his right arm moving as he washed, then peeled and then washed the ‘carrot’ again.
“You’ve got a kitchen,” she reminded. Frankly, if he thought she was going to eat anything that had been washed in a bathroom, he could think again.