“Yes, ma’am,” he whispered, nuzzling my cheek.
I filled a plate for the two of us and returned to sit beside him. The room fell silent as Murphy and I made quick work of our breakfast and Julia and Ian played with theirs. Julia had lost the skittish look she’d had when they first came in, but she was quiet and looked miserable. Ian wasn’t much better off.
Murphy cleared his throat like he was about to say something, but before he could, Julia said, “I want to apologize to both of you.” Her gaze moved between Murphy and me, and settled on Murphy. “At the counseling center they told me it was the right thing to do. They said we were helping you. I believed them at the time.” She glanced down at her plate. “I was angry too. It seemed to me you were doing exactly what I’d been told I couldn’t do with Ian.”
“You’re right, I was,” said Murphy. “I don’t blame you for being angry.”
I glanced at Ian, who avoided looking at her.
Julia went on like she hadn’t heard Murphy. “But then one day I heard one of them say that Elizabeth was likely to die there. They said it like it was a good thing—like maybe a replacement would be easier to deal with. I couldn’t stop thinking about that.” Again she looked at Murphy. “Lex told me they’re just imitations of us—not human. You told me they’re not human.”
“That was narrow, Julia,” Murphy said in a low voice. “And arrogant. Lex doesn’t get to define what’s human, and neither do I.”
“I’m a doctor.” Julia’s eyes moved to Ian, and his gaze lifted to hers. “They breathe. They bleed. They die. Their bodies work almost exactly like ours. And their minds. They can love and hate. They can fight back against people who hurt them.” Her eyes came back to me. “They can make babies. What do they lack, Murphy?”
Murphy raised a hand to my cheek. “Nothing.”
Ian rose from the table, clearing their dishes. “Why don’t you two finish up what’s left of breakfast. I brought you enough food for a couple days—it’s all put away. We’ll check on you again a little later.”
Julia rose too, and suddenly I remembered something. I dug a hand into my pocket, pulling out a drying sprig of ivy.
“Before you go…” I held up the ivy and Ian approached to have a look. “I found this sticking out from under one of our neighbor’s doors. It might mean nothing—maybe they like houseplants. But it made me think of what I told you and Blake last night—about the clover, and the stuff growing on the transport.”
Ian rubbed a leaf between his fingers.
“So maybe there are other people only paying lip service to Blake’s rules,” Murphy observed.
“Exactly,” I agreed. “You might keep an eye out for stuff like that—stuff growing where it shouldn’t be. Plants that stand out from the native ecology. There appears to be some, um … personalization in the phenomenon.”
“How do you mean?” asked Ian.
“Well, the woman on the transport, Yasmina, she had jasmine growing over her bed. I had clover growing under mine.” Ian looked blank, and I shrugged, embarrassed to even say it. “Murphy’s Irish. I know, it’s stupid.”
“I don’t know about that,” said Murphy. “It hadn’t even occurred to me. But if the growth is triggered by the symbiont/host bond, why wouldn’t it manifest something personal about the pair? Symbionts are manifestations of something personal about their hosts. The planet itself is a manifestation of something personal about the colonists.”
Murphy always listened to me. He always took me seriously—even before I’d grown into a human in his eyes—and right then, more than anything, I wanted to kiss those ruined lips again.
“It’s fascinating, isn’t it?” said Ian, still turning the ivy in his hands. “I wonder if it’s a subconscious connection with the planet. Or maybe even a biological connection—an interaction on a microbial or cellular level.”
“Maybe both,” I said. “If we can get Blake to loosen up, we can spend some time exploring the possibilities. In the more immediate future, it could serve to point out others in camp who might be sympathetic, or even interested in working with us.”
Ian nodded. “Agreed. I’ll keep an eye out for it.”
They left us, and we finished the rest of the eggs before I washed the dishes and made more tea. Murphy’s pain worsened, and after he’d spent half an hour trying to get comfortable, I persuaded him to take a painkiller from the first aid kit. Then he slept.
I passed the time on the flat-reader Blake had left me. I spent a few minutes looking up recovery times for broken ribs (which varied greatly), and then I found myself perusing information on the different trimesters of pregnancy and familiarizing myself with what pregnant women were and weren’t supposed to eat. The banned food list mostly didn’t apply—the fish on this planet weren’t contaminated with heavy metals—but I discovered I was probably going to need to reduce my tea consumption.
Of course, the most critical questions I had about my pregnancy—and my baby—no one could answer. No one but me—by going through the process. And I couldn’t imagine having a baby in this camp, or on this world, for that matter. To carry and deliver a child, only to see it taken away from me by someone like Blake or Mitchell … I was pretty sure it would kill me.
Once again bemoaning the complexity of the trap I found myself in, I groaned and pushed the flat-reader away.
“What’s wrong, love?” Murphy blinked at me, groggy from the painkillers.
I smiled at him, shaking my head. “Nothing. How do you feel?”
“Hungry.”
I got up from the table. “Me too. I’ll see what I can do.”
“Err—”
“Take it easy. Even I can’t screw up pasta and dehydrated sauce.” He gave a raspy chuckle, and I said, “Watch yourself. I don’t have to feed you at all.”
“Yes, ma’am. Just promise me not to cut off—or in any way maim—any of those lovely fingers.”
* * *
We made it through dinner without event, but as it got later Murphy became increasingly cranky. He made a poor patient. He couldn’t stand being bedridden, but even sitting up caused him intense pain. Finally he took another pill, and then I sat down beside him with the flat-reader.
“How about if I read to you? That always put my ex right to sleep.”
“So he was surly and illiterate.”
Mentioning Peter to the cranky invalid had perhaps been a mistake.
“I don’t know that you have any business calling anyone surly right now.”
“I’ll go one further. If he preferred sleep to your company, he was also an idiot.”
“That’s very sweet, but what does it say about my taste in men?”
He lay thinking about this a moment. Resting a hand on my thigh, he said, “What are we reading, love?”
I smiled. “What would you like?”
“Whatever is your favorite.”
I searched for and quickly found an online version of my favorite novel. “I’ll read, and you see if you can guess.”
“Pride and Prejudice.”
“You’re not nearly as clever as you think you are.”
“So I’m discovering. What do I get if I guess right?”
“The satisfaction of knowing you’re smarter than Peter. Now be still.”
“‘There was no possibility of taking a walk that day. We had been wandering, indeed, in the leafless shrubbery…’”
Genesis
Warning signals blared. Lights flashed above the exits.
A voice sounded over the com, warning us of primary engine failure and instructing us to prepare for impact. The pilot was ditching into the ocean.
My hand moved to my harness, double-checking the buckle on instinct rather than from any sense it would make a difference. Could we survive crashing into the ocean? Did I want to? The idea of riding to the seafloor on an alien world in the belly of this transport—it frightened me more than the idea of a sudden, violent death.
The man in the seat
beside me turned, shouting something I couldn’t understand. He grabbed my hand, squeezing so hard I felt the bones in my fingers grinding together.
Our ship raced over the water—dropping, dropping, dropping, then striking the surface so hard I slammed breathless against the harness. We skipped along with bone-jarring impacts, as if the water was solid ground.
The transport had held together, but just as this was leading me to hope, something went wrong. The craft’s aft end flew forward and it flipped. My harness wrenched my body in a rib-snapping embrace.
Pain exploded in my head and chest as we spun and tumbled, finally slamming to a halt. A groan came from somewhere deep in the ship as the nose angled down, and people started screaming.
I dangled in my harness as seawater spewed through a slit between the cockpit doors. Glancing frantically at the window, I could see our precious air bubbling toward the surface. I sobbed from pain and terror. From loneliness, and regret over impulsive decisions.
A hand gripped mine.
I’m here, Elizabeth.
As I angled my head toward the voice, a punishing heat scorched down my spine.
A different man hung in the harness next to me. He held my hand between his.
You’re not going to die. I’m coming for you.
The cockpit doors burst open and water roared into the passenger cabin.
* * *
“Elizabeth, wake up!”
A scream ripped from my throat. I felt hands moving over my face.
“Shh, shh, shh.”
“The water!” I cried, panting.
“There’s no water. You’re here with me. I’ve got you.”
I pressed myself closer against the warm body holding me and felt it shudder and groan like the ship.
As I breathed him in, it came back to me—where I was, who was holding me—with a swell of relief.
Then I remembered his body was broken. I let go of him and scooted back. “I’m sorry! Are you okay?”
“Don’t worry about me,” he said, reaching for me. “Come back here.”
Slowly, carefully, I let my body come to rest along the length of his. I didn’t want to hurt him, but the renewal of this physical closeness was irresistibly soothing.
He folded an arm around me. “Better.”
“I had a horrible dream,” I murmured against his neck.
“I know. The transport crash. I didn’t know you remembered it.”
“I didn’t until now.” I tilted my face up. “How did you know I was dreaming about that?”
“I was there with you.” He stroked my hair back from my face. “Something interesting has happened, Elizabeth.”
“I dreamed you were there, but … I don’t understand.”
“You were tossing and turning, and sounded frightened. I was worried. I called to you, but I couldn’t get you to answer, so I came to the bed. I took hold of your hand, and that’s when it happened. Something opened. Like a channel. A connection between us. It felt like open space, and light, and, I don’t know … possibility.” He laughed, shaking his head. “I’m not making any sense. I can’t think how to describe it.”
I stared at him, scarcely breathing. “How did you see my dream?”
“At first I just felt this flow between us, like a current of warm water. But then somehow I was in the transport. I was disoriented at first, and terrified. It felt very real. I saw you, and I could see you didn’t know it was a dream. I don’t think you even recognized me.” His fingers slipped into my hair, rubbing my neck. “You were so frightened. I think you were in pain—there was blood running down your face. I knew I had to wake you. I couldn’t stand to watch you die.”
I struggled to draw breath past the tightness in my throat. Murphy pressed my cheek against his neck, and his hand slipped down to rub my back. I closed my eyes, trying to dispel the lingering impressions of the nightmare. Letting him work the tension from my body.
“Every day we spend together we learn something new about the bond between us,” Murphy said. He eased back a little and held his hand up to me. “Let’s see if we can do it again.”
Uncertainty gripped me. I stared at his hand.
“What’s wrong?” he asked gently. “Where’s the girl who plunges in with a thousand questions?”
I gave him a weak smile. “I do have a thousand questions. But it seems … I guess I’m worried that maybe it’s going the wrong direction. We’re trying to dissolve our bond, not deepen it.”
I’d believed this was something he understood—something he wanted too—so the change in his expression surprised me.
“Yesterday you thought interaction was the key to detachment,” he said. “Has something changed your mind?”
“I believe it more than ever. This just seems…” What? What are you afraid of?
He kissed my forehead, but I could hear the disappointment in his voice as he said, “You don’t owe me an explanation.”
“Murphy—”
“There’s something I want to try, if you’ll let me. There’s something I’d like you to see. After that I won’t ask you to do it again.”
My heart ached. This new level of intimacy frightened me, made me want to yank on the emergency brake. But I hadn’t meant to hurt him.
Nodding, I raised my hand and pressed my palm to his. We threaded our fingers together and I closed my eyes.
“Breathe, Elizabeth. Try to relax.”
There was a rushing sound and I felt my body drawn into a current, warm and silky like Murphy had described, but less substantial than water. It felt like the air before a storm—humid and heavy, charged with electricity. But I didn’t feel afraid. I saw what he had described, and understood his uncertainty in describing it. The channel was vast, like staring into deepest space. But rather than cold and distant, it felt inviting and intimate. As I allowed myself to drift into it, the bleakness of space collapsed, shrinking and enfolding me in light. I couldn’t see Murphy, but I felt him, very close, wrapped in the same sheltering light. An indistinct cord, a ribbon of iridescence, anchored us to each other, vibrating gently with his presence.
* * *
I was torn from the protective cocoon.
A prisoner again at the institute. I recognized the cell. I recognized the warden.
I froze in his arms. I couldn’t breathe.
Only memory, whispered a familiar voice in my ear. She can’t hurt you.
No, you’re wrong! I warned.
“Did you hear me, Dr. Murphy?” I cringed at the sound of the woman’s voice.
“I think I must have misunderstood you, Dr. Mitchell,” replied Murphy, his voice ringing in my own head. This was different from the transport dream. I felt I was inside Murphy looking out.
“I doubt that,” replied Mitchell. “You’re a scientist. I’m sure you’ll acknowledge we could learn a lot from studying a hybrid. I have to admit it wouldn’t be my own highest priority. I think the project’s resources could be put to much better use.” She folded her arms across her chest. “But it’s a lucrative contract for my employer, and I’m under pressure to produce results. Months of trials in the lab have yielded nothing, so here you are—my last resort.”
I could feel Murphy’s disbelief. His shock. His disgust.
“Are you honestly asking me to force a child on Elizabeth?”
“Force will hardly be necessary, Dr. Murphy. We’ve probed into her feelings about you. I think you’ll find her receptive.” Oh God. Why was he showing me this? “She’s lonely. She misses you. I told her she couldn’t conceive, so there’s no obstacle there. I’m sure you can be—persuasive—as you need to be. Am I mistaken in assuming that you’re attracted to her?”
I felt the explosion building in him with every word she uttered. “All of this is irrelevant!” he shouted. There was a motion behind Mitchell, and I saw Vasco standing in the door to his cell. “Setting aside, for the moment, the inhumanity of what you’d have me do to Elizabeth, have you considered the fact yo
u’re asking me to offer up my own child for research purposes? You—you’re completely cracked, doctor! You can’t possibly expect to get away with this!”
This is personal, echoed through Murphy’s mind, and I had to agree. Professional jealousy, or perhaps punishment for his lapse. Impregnating his ghost would cement the end of his career on Ardagh 1.
She’s trying to punish Elizabeth. This follow-up thought from Murphy astonished me—the idea I mattered enough that Mitchell would have an interest in punishing me. Maybe we were both right.
Mitchell’s expression hardened into a mask of disdain. “You’ve been admitted here, Dr. Murphy, for violation of the protocol. I have proof that you colluded with a species that threatens our very critical interests on this planet. Your fate is very much in my hands. I can keep you here as long as I feel is necessary. And I can see to it that you never work again.”
Murphy gave an angry rumble of laughter. “Now you’re threatening me.”
“So it would seem.”
“Threaten away, doctor. I won’t do it.”
Mitchell gave him an icy smile. “In that case, I’ll start Elizabeth on detachment trials tomorrow. She’ll most likely be dead within the week.”
Rage arced out of Murphy. He bolted up from the bed and made a grab for Mitchell’s throat. I saw the flash of the guard coming for him. Felt the jolt of the stun stick, and his head knocking against the floor. The guard’s boot slamming down on his chest.
“Delusional,” clucked Mitchell, rising from her chair, “with violent impulses.”
Murphy struggled to breathe with the boot grinding down on him. I felt the boot, and the panic of insufficient oxygen. I felt the knot forming on his head.
“Wait,” Murphy croaked.
Mitchell leaned over him. “Did you have something else to say to me, Dr. Murphy?”
“I’ll do what you want. Just—please don’t hurt her.”
* * *
Murphy’s arm shifted as he untangled his fingers from mine. The memory faded and we returned to the present. My eyes opened, locking with his.
“I know it was wrong not to let you make the decision, and I hope someday you’ll forgive me. But you’re here, alive, lying next to me, and I’m not sorry, Elizabeth.”
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