Variant: A Sci-Fi Romance (Variant Trilogy Book 1)

by J. Q. Baldwin

  “Hey have you talked to Ella since you been back?” Cory asked out of the blue, as if he just remembered. And he had - just remembered.

  He’d always been so distracted, a difficult child I knew, that had never fit in. He still missed social cues when broaching personal space. But his brain was a busy highway of synapses. I admired them.

  “No. Why?”

  “She was lookin’ for you today. Out by the barracks. Where were ya?”

  “Out,” I warned.

  “Out,” Cory repeated dumbly.

  “Yeah.”

  “Uh-huh. Man I thought I had it bad.”

  “What did Ella want?” I pointedly ignored any conversation involving Delilah. Cory had never personally met her anyway. Cory had an idea of claws. Played at the idea of a relationship without constraints; an indulgence of base human behaviours. Variants played at nothing; were given no choice. Every instinct demanded I cloister protect and brand. But that way lay madness. One could only hide that madness for a spell.

  “Don’t know. Not like that female’s ever gonna tell me anything.” And didn’t that just prove that Ella or perhaps even the females of our intrepid species had inherent traits. Ella was routinely disgusted by Cory, perhaps sensed in Cory the very opposite found in our males. I know Delilah fought her instincts as much as I had sedated mine for Delilah.

  Bessina returned with our beers, handed them to us from the tray, whacked the empty tray against Cory’s shoulder and said, “You better be at my place by two or you’re sleeping on the steps.”

  “Yes Mam,” Cory saluted, then tapped Bessy’s arse again to get her on her way. Their interactions were light, whimsical and flighty. Variants, from experience, sunk towards extremes in the opposite. I found Cory’s sense of responsibility to his mate appalling and neglectful.

  “Ella said if I didn’t tell you to call her she’d…” Cory tapped a finger against his dimpled chin. “Oh yes, that’s right. If I didn’t tell you to call, she would castrate me while awake, thus saving the world from my possible breeding into it. Such a charming girl.”

  “If you came off more than a brainless man-slut she’d see your worth. It would certainly take an hour or more to replace you on the hill,” I laughed amicably, like a stranger might to a short acquaintance. I would never master the art of real inflection but Cory had never noticed.

  “An hour my arse! I hit my targets, hard,” Cory smirked. And actually he wasn’t a bad shot. It was the reason I’d locked him in as the Sniper for PsiHawkI - the team I’d been building strategically for a decade.

  Ella, an irreplaceable member, would want to know about Delilah. I hadn’t told her Delilah had left while we were away on assignment.

  I’d staggered physically on my return two days ago when I’d found her scent cold at Onyxeal. I’d taken my team on that assignment to grant her ever more space.

  Space: it suffocated me.

  Two months after I’d left, Delilah came unhinged. I’d almost broken one evening, truly and irredeemably split apart and I knew. Spartan had finally mustered some fucking respect and told her the truth and I’d been too far away to catch her. His scalding betrayal splashed back toward me in my absence and Delilah’s mistrust of me tore down strand by strand of a connection forged through years of concentrated actions to gain her utter belief and trust.

  I cared little of the connection Spartan had hidden, or his agenda. I’d never allow that her that link anyway. Delilah was mine. My biological responses turned feral at the thought. My canines lengthened. My tongue tasted the tips.

  I possessed her from the thoughts in her mind to the downy hairs at her nape, that lay in a direction only I saw as I lifted her hair into a tight hold while she look up from her knees. I owned those charcoal eyes dark and lewd. The twitch of arrogance in the line of her lip.

  Dominion was intoxicating. It grew ever harder to allow her these precious few years to become who she would be without interference. I was anything but hollow away from Delilah. I quashed the inherent drive to find her and drag her under me. Control and posses, whispered, soliciting me to pin her at the back of her neck with the teeth that readied for her.

  The last I saw of her was her toned, tanned back in a black tank. The roll of her shoulder blades flexing while she’d thrown the knife. I’d watched her saunter away inside the compound while my jaw recovered from her left hook. But even as I’d stood there, contemplating our future, her anger took a back seat.

  My primal brain saw an image of her crescent shaped nails raking down my chest, a vision more prominent than the pain she dulled and the doll like blankness she’d shown for years. I had to trust my instincts to be true, that her dissonance was unfounded.

  The time of independence has passed. Her façade would fall eventually just as ancient civilisations fell to dust.

  All of her; Mine. Always had been. Always would be, no matter her… circumstance.

  But - a vacuum existed between reality and myself. Even now, that I’d made a decision that could take one hundred years to mend and though I usually felt no need to disclose information to others, especially pertaining to Delilah, I’d admit if I was an honest person that I had been processing her leaving so hadn’t told Ella in particular. I should have told Ella myself, she deserved that much. Ella ‘Mayhem’ Murphy was not a woman to piss off. Her telekinesis was a kicker when emotionally triggered.

  And she’d definitely be emotional.

  Damn I should have told her. I figured Deli would be back by now that I was home. Her instincts coupled mine. But she fought them so. It scared me she hadn’t ran toward my protection. Scared? No fuck that. I was angry. Of all the stupid things she could have done, leaving hadn’t entered my head.

  It should have.

  It had entered hers.

  Chapter Four

  Delilah

  I remember the orphanage well. I remember the day I left it also. Though, these days it felt a lot like what it has become: a wilfully repressed memory. One skewed by a child’s understanding. Some days I wish it were someone else’s beginnings but then, others, I make myself remember so I held it as a foundation on which to base present situations.

  Like the other little girls who shared my dorm, I knew only my communal room with thirty one cots, complete with one military style grey, scratchy blanket and drafts that found your toes numb before whistling past, sweeping through the corridors and seeping into even the belly of Casa Inimă Hope (Heart’s Hope Orphanage).

  I don’t think I was ever warm or happy there, but then, I’m not sure I understood that you could be happy. Happiness was a fairytale I didn’t understand anyways, even at five years old.

  Tears I understood though I never cried them. The other children cried ‘til rivers streamed down their cheeks splotched with burst capillaries from the effort. I knew they cried because they were scared or hurt or in need of someone, anyone to hold them – I could scent it; see it in the way their shoulders curled in defence and defeat.

  I never felt any of that.

  The concept of physical pain I understood but never really experienced, not for lack of trying on the Sisters’ part. Punishment was a very real part of life, so was religion, chores and lines.

  Lines of formation to leave the dormitory at exactly 5.30 am, cold metal bowls filled with porridge or vegetable broth, lined along the collection area in the meals room and what seemed like even more lines and piles of dishes. It became an autonomic way of life; repetitious and somewhat comfortable in its predictability.

  “Deli,” Ana whispered, nudging my rib discreetly. “Can you finish my porridge? It’s too gluggy and I don’t wanna get in trouble for not eating it.”

  “Okay,” I said simply, swapping her bowl for mine. Ana, Little Bird Ana never could eat very much. A lot of the kids were like that, though they were forced to eat. We all knew the most of the children at our orphanage were sick. EG2 – no cure, they said. I had never been sick and wondered at how it happened that a person di
d get sick.

  Not that I knew it then but the disease was wide spread across the world, spanning social status and cultures. It was the year 2944 C.E and the entire planet was in disrepair and had been since the fifth world war that ended in 2852 C.E. What remained were impoverished nations struggling to rebuild and re-establish basic amenities and medical supplies. Nuclear bombs and electromagnetic pulses had hit every continent. The world had plummeted right back to the dark ages for a time.

  Despite this, in Brasov Romania nothing much had changed. The orphanage was still filled with unwanted children and chores still needed finishing. I never knew any other way of life. Neither did Ana, but I knew Ana would not need to worry about change soon.

  Ana was dying.

  I couldn’t say then how I knew or why, I just did. And as much as I wanted her to eat a little more I knew she couldn’t without being sick. Then one of the Sisters of Hope would curse little blonde Ana and have her clean up after herself. Besides, I was always hungry. I never felt full.

  “Tell me ‘bout Carne, Deli,” Ana prompted. I wasn’t supposed to talk about him, I’d get punished again if Sister Christinel heard me but I wanted to see that wistful look on Ana’s face, the little curl of a smile and the shine on her dull green eyes that was something close to our orphanage’s name sake.

  “Carne named me Delilah,” I began. And he had, though Sister Christinel said he wasn’t real. Her thoughts stabbed at me always. ‘Stupid Marime Chav’ she would screech at me. ‘Stupid, dirty child, unclean child.’ I knew she called me unclean because of my features - my dark eyes and dark hair, my dirty coloured skin. Stupid because people weren’t supposed to hear voices in their heads.

  I did.

  I’d been tested by a doctor with a ‘battery’ of experiments, who’s conclusion was summarised by Sr. Christinel as: The Devil. The doctor used the words ‘thought insertion’, and ‘primary symptoms of schizophrenia’ but Carne had been a comforting presence for as long as I could remember. He murmured nonsense to me before I could talk and before he had even grasped language properly. I was two years old when I’d had my first visit to one of the many closets – punishment for taking bread from the kitchen. Stealing being a sin.

  My first real encounter with Sister Christinel hadn’t frightened me. Not when she’d dragged me by my hair to the closet, nor when she hurled me inside and slammed the door. Rags had quickly blotted out the small bit of light glowing from the crack under the door. The darkness was complete and it hugged me, but it didn’t frighten me. Emptiness was nothing to fear. It was the encroaching weight of the opposite to my emptiness that I dreaded.

  Deli, Carne had whispered. Where you Deli? It’s so dark.

  Clos – closet. My first word - to Carne or anyone.

  Don’t go, Car, were my next.

  I won’t go, Deli. You’re mine, Deli. I’ll come get you. No more dark, promise.

  I leant in to Ana bird and smiled indulgently. “Delilah. Carne said I should have a name and that one was pretty enough to be mine. Delilah was a pretty flower he said. He said when he comes to get me then my name will be Gracer as well. Delilah Gracer. What do you think Ana?”

  “It’s very pretty Deli. My name was on a note left with me. How come your real mum didn’t leave a note with you?”

  “Don’t know,” I shrugged and shovelled the lumpy porridge.

  Ana tapped my arm. “When is Carne going to come get you Deli?”

  “Soon,” I sighed. “He knows where I am now. I didn’t know ‘til I heard Sister Madalina tell the Father that the good city of Brasov was cutting our fun.”

  “You won’t leave yet will you Deli?” Ana abruptly clung to me, her eyes glassy and panicked. “What happens if the angels come to take me and you’re not here? I don’t want to go with them Deli, really I don’t.”

  “I don’t want you to go either Ana bird.” I spoke into her coarse blonde hair as I wrapped one arm around her.

  Snap!

  Sister Christinel’s cane came down hard on my fingers, so hard the cane bounced up from my hand holding the spoon on the steel table. I didn’t flinch and that made her beady eyes scrunch.

  “Either eat or get up and pick up the dishes. The Good Lord provides only for those who are appreciative, Marime Chav.”

  It wasn’t that night or the next but Ana’s time did come. The angels came to take Ana-bird. Hers was the cot next to mine. When I heard her cough wetly and sob quietly I knew it was time. I couldn’t see the angels but I told Ana-bird I could. I crawled up into her cot and gently lifted her head and cradled it in my lap. I brushed away her red tears and told her about Delilah the flower and Carne who was going to come like the angels.

  When morning came I sat bathed and crusted holding the little broken Ana-bird shell. Still brushing her cold, balmy cheeks. That morning I wanted to cry. I wanted to cry when they took her away with someone else’s scratchy blanket hiding her pale, empty face.

  Weeks or more passed. I hadn’t said a word. I lined up, I cleaned, I ate – and I missed Ana-bird. I didn’t speak when slapped, cajoled or threatened. I only stared at Sister Christinel, who always seemed to be just around the corner. She hated the staring the most I think. “Death is a part of life; let’s hope that the Good Lord accepted her into his home.” Slap. “Look at me.” Slap.” Look at me!”

  My vacant stare and vacant soul reached hers and my cheek twitched but that didn’t seem to be what she wanted. “Get out of my sight. Demons have taken up residence in your soul, child.”

  I hadn’t heard from Carne since before Ana-bird died. He would tell me later that he tried but I couldn’t hear him. I missed him as well.

  I was called to Father Andrei’s cramped, messy office that day. I sat on the hard wooden bench beside the door with my hands in my lap, counting the thousands of tiny cracks webbing the paint on the wall in front of me and waited to be asked in.

  I could hear the conversation inside.

  Carne’s mother had sounded shallow even to my untried ears. Gushing over my dark hair, my ‘stormy’ eyes.

  “The one you want is not quite there, if you know what I mean. I know you picked her for looks, for your family, but those can be deceiving. Did you not notice the way she didn’t move in the corner of meal room? We have plenty of other little girls here, if I can just show-”

  “That won’t be necessary Father Andrei. Please.” Her voice changed. A charade fell but Father Andrei missed it.

  “Surely, Mrs. Gracer you would want a child to love you and cuddle you in return? The girl you want does none of this. And most recently hasn’t even spoken. She will be a true hardship, now if I could just show you some photos of the other children at that age, I’m sure you could find a more,” he hesitated, “complete child.”

  “Father, my generosity this morning has been great and my patience is waning. I will leave with no other child.” The woman’s voice became hard but it sounded musical. Pulling the lie back into her voice. I knew Carne’s mother was here to take me away.

  I experienced a moment of panic. Casa Inimă Hope was all I’d known. Was it too much to hope for that Carne was real, that his mother was as he promised? Was I headed somewhere… warmer?

  The door creaked open and Father Andrei asked me in. My muscles were a little stiff and my heart beat too hard but I went without meeting his eyes or flinching at his hand on my shoulder, covering the widening hole on my grey tunic.

  There were three motley chairs before the desk. Two were taken. The woman – Mrs. Gracer looked into me from her slightly slanted, knowing eyes. She was very still - as still as I could be if I wished - but her smile was real and it lightened her face. She was beautiful. With long dark hair pulled into a neat ponytail, and her shirt the crispiest white I’d ever seen.

  “Good morning Delilah,” she said in our local language, on a light, almost hesitant breath.

  I wondered if I should answer.

  Chapter Five

  I cocked my head to the s
ide to stare at the man beside Mrs. Gracer. He was also new. He was the biggest man I’d seen, whose thick shoulders appeared crammed in his line free black suit. Like his wife, he sat prone while I looked him over. He didn’t exactly smile but it was there in his autumn eyes. I nodded to him and myself before focusing back on Mrs. Gracer.

  “Good morning.” My greeting pleased her. Because of Carne my English was as decipherable as my Romanian. She patted the chair on the other side of her, almost grinning if one knew how to look. I shuffled to the chair with heavy feet, and after a quick glance at Father Andrei and the other man, I sat.

  Father Andrei plodded around his desk to sit. It took a little effort on his part and I wondered how a person could get so flabby. He had a flabby neck that wobbled and a fat belly that hung over his corded rope belt. But Father Andrei wasn’t a bad man. He wasn’t nice either, but he’d never slapped me.

  Father Andrei regarded me silently for a moment then said, “Mr. and Mrs. Gracer have adopted you Delilah. This is good news,” he tried to convince me. He also seemed to be waiting for an answer.

  “Am inteles, tată, I understand, Father,” I answered. My throat was a bit scratchy from lack of use but it was clear enough.

  Mrs. Gracer’s smiling mask fell when she turned away from me to speak. “All documentation including that,” she nodded at the papers before Father Andrei, “is to be included in our paperwork. No records are to be left behind.”

  “I’m afraid that isn’t possible Mrs. Gracer - ” he halted, confused at her sudden hardness but a thick envelope was passed along the desk to Father Andrei from Mr. Gracer, distracting him.

  “Of course such things do get lost or misplaced sometimes…” Father Andrei said absent-mindedly as he counted the contents.