When Cara had wiped down her chest with a damp cloth and changed clothes, she returned to the nursery. She scanned the vast room for Gram, beginning with the transparent cribs, pressed flush against one another with see-through dividers so the babies could socialize. From there, she turned her gaze to the various stations—specialized places for feeding, changing, bathing, intellectual stimulation, open play, and even physical contact. Centuries of research had taught L’eihrs the precise amount of touch a child needed to maximize brain development, and caretakers didn’t dole out a minute longer than necessary.
Cara noted the absence of swings, cradles, and rocking chairs. L’eihrs were big on “self-soothing” and didn’t want the babies to grow dependent on motion for comfort. There were no newborns here at the moment, but according to rumor, they cried a lot for the first two months, then kind of gave up the fight. Thinking about it made Cara’s heart ache. It wasn’t right, breaking a person’s spirit fresh out of the package like that.
“Here, Miss Sweeney.” Gram waved her over to the front window, where the afternoon sun filtered inside and bathed a pair of infants lying face-up on a floor mat.
Cara strode across the nursery, still searching for her sick baby. She eventually found him at one of the feeding stations, suckling clear fluid from a plastic sack attached to the wall. She motioned toward him. “I can feed him his electrolytes.”
Gram appeared confused at first, but then understanding dawned on her face. “Oh, no, Miss Sweeney.” She shook her head as if Cara had proposed a blood sacrifice. “We never hold the children while they feed. It’s important they don’t associate food with comfort.”
Just add this to the list of Top Ten Reasons Why L’eihr Is Whack-a-Doodle. “But food is comforting,” Cara said. The scent of Mom’s gingerbread still had the power to transport Cara to her happy place. And nothing took the edge off an awful day like a few squares of dark chocolate.
“That may be true on Earth,” Gram said, “but here, food is fuel for our bodies. Nothing more. Our meals nourish us, and while we might enjoy the experience, it’s not meant as a form of pleasure or a means of finding solace.”
Maybe if L’eihr food weren’t so tasteless, Gram would feel differently.
But the woman was wrong about L’eihrs not finding solace through familiar foods. During the exchange, Aelyx had lit up every time Mom made roast for supper—not because of its nutrients, but because it tasted like l’ina. Each bite had nourished him in a way that had nothing to do with protein. That’s why Cara had flipped out when Syrine waltzed into Aelyx’s bedroom to announce she’d cooked his favorite supper. There was love in a good meal—not that Cara had ever produced what she’d call a good meal, but still.
Cara kept those observations to herself while turning toward her sick baby. “But he’s not feeling well. He could use an extra cuddle, don’t you think?”
The smile on Gram’s face said, Silly human, but she conceded the battle. “You may hold him once he’s drained the supplement bag.”
While Cara waited, she knelt on the mat and smiled at the pair of infants, their tiny legs kicking out, fists balled, eyes wide and peering at the dust motes dancing in the sunlight. She noticed they shared identical features—their lips slightly asymmetrical, the same cleft dimpling both their chins.
“Are these twins?” Cara asked. She hadn’t met a pair of identical clones until now. Aelyx had said the geneticists never used the same archive twice in a generation.
“You’re very observant,” Gram answered. “These were the last younglings incubated in the artificial wombs.”
“But why two? Are they gifted?”
“You could say that.” Gram stared into empty air and zoned out, the ghost of a grin on her lips. “I remember the last clone from that archive. He grew up in this Aegis. Such a gentle boy, always smiling. The others gravitated toward him—he was a friend to everyone. Empathy was his gift.”
From the way Gram spoke about the boy in past tense, Cara wasn’t sure whether he’d moved to the work dormitories or if he’d died.
“I believe you met him briefly during his stay on Earth,” Gram continued. “His name was Eron.”
The hair on the back of Cara’s neck prickled, and she glanced around the room to make sure Elle hadn’t returned. The last thing her roommate needed right now was to meet the double reincarnation of her dead l’ihan. Cara tried to imagine how she’d feel in the same situation, but she couldn’t wrap her mind around it.
Cara gazed at the baby nearest to her. “I can’t believe this is Eron.”
“He’s not,” Gram said, her chrome eyes lingering on the child. “This is Mica.” She stroked the other infant’s arm. “And this is Ilar.” She delivered a pointed look. “Eron is dead. We can generate new offspring from that archive, but they will be shaped by their own experiences. Each clone’s path is distinctive. The young man you and I knew as Eron is gone forever.”
Naturally, Elle chose that moment to rejoin them. The word Eron moved silently on her lips while she blinked in confusion. Moments later, the pieces must have clicked into place, because she glanced back and forth between the twins, the color gone from her face. Her throat worked as she swallowed, her eyes welling, her grief forcing its way to the surface. But in true Elle fashion, she stuffed down her emotions and stubbornly set her jaw.
“Elle and I should go,” Cara said to Gram. “Maybe tomorrow we can work with the older children.” Away from the nursery and reminders of Eron’s crooked smile. “I’d like to learn some basics of science with them.”
“Of course,” Gram said. She might have been talking to Cara, but she regarded Elle when she spoke. “You can’t move ahead until you face what impedes you.”
Definitely a message for Elle—but one best pondered from the privacy of their room. Cara pushed off the mat and gave her roommate a gentle tug. Elle stiffened at the bodily contact, but she didn’t complain when Cara linked their arms and led the way out of the nursery. Instead of the main elevators, they took the secondary stairwell on the far end of the Aegis and made their way down to the first floor.
They let the echo of their boots fill the silence, Elle deflecting each of Cara’s glances in a message that she didn’t want to talk. Cara recognized that avoidance tactic. She’d used it years ago, when Mom had begun her second round of chemo and Dad stopped coming home from his hospital visits. Then Troy had snuck off to join the Marines, snapping Cara’s last tether to normalcy. Her friends had known better than to ask if she was okay.
But when they reached their hallway, it was Cara’s turn to fight for composure. Sitting in the middle of the floor was Troy’s luggage: two military-issue duffel bags and a black trunk with SWEENEY, USMC stenciled on the lid.
Cara’s boot soles clung to the floor. Until now, she’d managed to block out Troy’s departure date in hopes that he wouldn’t abandon her this time.
Troy’s door hissed aside and he hauled another bag into the hallway. Then the real blow came—a cold shot to Cara’s chest that made it hard to breathe.
He’d cut his hair.
Troy’s loose black curls were gone, replaced by the standard military “high and tight.” She remembered his words to Dad on Christmas morning, When in Rome….In Troy’s camouflage uniform and buzz cut, dog tags clinking together against his chest, not a trace of L’eihr remained on him.
Troy’s eyes widened when they met hers. He stood stock-still without saying a word.
“What’s the matter?” Elle asked.
Of course Elle wouldn’t understand. L’eihrs didn’t form family bonds. Genetics only tied them together as strongly as whatever friendship they formed, if any. She and Aelyx were more like buddies than brother and sister.
“It’s fine,” Cara said, keeping her gaze fixed on Troy. “Go ahead. I’ll meet you in a minute.”
Troy took abrupt interest in his bootlaces, crouching to retie the left one. “Hey,” he finally said. “Glad I caught you.”
Gl
ad I caught you. That implied he would have left without saying good-bye if their paths hadn’t crossed.
“Aw, come on, Pepper.” Still bent low, he scrubbed a palm over his fuzzy head. “Don’t look at me like that.”
How should she look at him? With a smile and an easy wave good-bye?
At her silence, he pushed to standing. “I don’t have a choice. Sooner or later I have to go.” His blue eyes bored into hers. “Because I don’t belong here. Neither of us does.”
“I can make a life on the colony,” she insisted. It tasted like a lie, but she had to keep believing.
“Come home with me,” Troy said. “There’s nothing for you to pack. You know everyone misses you, especially Mom.”
His offer tempted her more than she wanted to admit, but she shook her head. “I can’t.” The L’eihrs had almost called off the alliance after Eron died. She was the one who’d convinced them to try again. “The alliance is too important.”
“Plus, you’re in love, right?” Troy mocked her with his tone. “You’re staying here because you’ve found The One.”
“That, too.” She wrapped both arms around herself and tried to blink away the moisture blurring her vision. “Either way, I can’t go.”
Troy turned his face aside and swore loudly. He splayed his hands. “The Marines issue orders, not suggestions. What do you expect me to do, just tell them no?”
A lump formed in Cara’s throat, but she swallowed it and refused to make a sound. He’d leave, no matter what she said. There was no use begging.
“What?” he pressed. “What am I supposed to do?”
“I don’t know,” she choked out. She’d made the decision to join this fledgling colony, but Troy hadn’t. She had no right to ask him to stay.
Troy cursed again and braced himself against the wall, letting his forehead thunk against the stucco. For several seconds, he fell silent. Then he made a sudden move for one of his duffel bags. Cara sniffled, preparing to watch him grab his luggage and bolt for the lobby.
But he didn’t.
Troy unzipped his bag and rummaged inside until he found his com-sphere. He mumbled his passkey and connected with his unit on Earth. When his commander picked up the line, Troy heaved an aggravated sigh. “Sorry, sir. I missed my transport. I’ll have to catch the next one in a couple weeks.”
While Cara listened to her brother mutter excuses and apologies, hot tears leaked down her cheeks and made her blind. A few of her classmates passed in a sodden blur, but she didn’t care whether they shook their heads and called her an emotional fool. Let them think what they wanted. She wasn’t alone—at least for now—and that was all that mattered.
Troy shoved his sphere into his duffel and stood, gripping his hips. “I hope you’re happy. He’ll have my ass when I get back.”
Cara didn’t wait another second to lock both arms around his neck. She buried her wet face in his shoulder and took in his scent of cinnamon Altoids and shaving cream. Knowing he’d push away soon, she filled her lungs with him and held it in.
“All right, all right.” He gave her a few token pats on the back and made a show of glancing at the clones passing them in the hallway. “The ladies are going to get the wrong idea. If I’m stuck here for two more weeks, I might as well make the best of it.”
Laughing, Cara released him and used her tunic to blot her eyes. “I’d hate to hurt your game, Casanova.”
“Oh, I got game!”
She shrugged. “You smell gamey, so there’s that.”
He shot her the bird and palmed his keypad. Together, they dragged all his luggage back inside, and then Cara gave him her extra nutrient packet.
“Thanks.” He nodded his approval and yanked her braid. “Dorkus.”
Cara beamed at the insult. She never thought it could sound so sweet. “Any time.”
Inspiration struck that night, and she uploaded a new blog post. She knew Troy wouldn’t read it—he never visited her site—but she didn’t care. She had a message of hope to share with siblings across the universe.
WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 12
Big Brothers: Life Beyond the Wedgie
Unless you’re an only child, you are doubtlessly aware of the varied forms of sibling torture: the noogie, the wet willy, the towel snap, and the ever-maddening “I’m not touching you,” in which a spit-laden index finger is held one millimeter from your nose. Friends, I’m no stranger to a good pantsing. I quit wearing drawstring shorts after my brother tugged down my Umbros in front of the entire youth league soccer team. But I’m here to tell you there is life beyond the swirlie. You may not believe it now, but sibling tormentors actually grow up and even become—dare I say it?—useful!
Nonsense, you say?
Just keep reading.
My brother is a United States Marine. (OOH-RAH!) He joined the service two years ago, and I haven’t seen much of him since. But when he found out the L’eihrs picked me for the exchange, he volunteered to come here and learn the culture so he could serve as my mentor. In the past two weeks, he’s taught me:
• How to change the pitch setting on my translator earpiece so my professors sound like helium-huffing Oompa Loompas. Alien teachers are a lot less intimidating when they’re channeling the Lollipop Guild.
• Which bugs NOT to squash. There’s an insect here whose self-defense mechanism is secreting a stench that makes skunk musk smell like Chanel No. 5. My brother discovered this the hard way when he whacked one in the lobby and the whole Aegis had to be evacuated. He could have let me make the same mistake, but he didn’t.
• That despite years of jackassery, he cares about me. That might sound cheesy, but it’s true. My brother claims he volunteered for this position so he could be the first human to travel at light speed, but I think there was a lot more to it. He’s proven that whether in Midtown or on L’eihr, he won’t let anyone torture his kid sister. Only he gets to do that. And I kind of love him for it.
So to all of you back home, hug your siblings tonight—and not so you can tape “Kick me!” signs to their backs.
Posted by Cara Sweeney
Chapter Nine
Aelyx never expected to become so good at cheating death. As a child, he’d resented his assignment as translator, a seemingly dull occupation. He’d wanted a position in the genetics labs, or perhaps aboard the voyager shuttles, cataloguing new planets and unfamiliar species. He’d craved adventure and discovery. Who would’ve guessed that his job manipulating mere words would result in so many assassination attempts?
The most recent attack had been rather creative. After the bomb squad had swept and secured the building, Aelyx and his pseudo-family had returned to their suite and settled at the dining room table for supper. Syrine had abandoned her interest in cooking—thank gods—so they’d resumed their habit of ordering takeout. She’d just brought a spring roll to her lips when David stopped her and asked who’d ordered the meal.
Syrine had assumed Aelyx placed the order. Aelyx figured it’d been Syrine. The ambassador insisted he hadn’t called for delivery—he didn’t even like Szechuan. David boxed up the dinner and sent it to a government facility, where it’d tested positive for strychnine. Since then, Aelyx had taken it upon himself to learn how to cook.
Again, Stepha had reported the crime to Alona, and again, she’d pardoned the act, citing no harm, no foul. It was as if she didn’t care whether Aelyx lived or died. She’d even gone a step further, insisting they double their efforts to reform his and Syrine’s reputations and endear them to HALO members. Now Aelyx had a government-appointed crisis communications specialist and an image consultant named Blaze.
An image consultant! As if a trendy haircut would fix everything.
But strangest of all, HALO continued to deny responsibility for the attempts on his life. Nothing made sense anymore. It was as if he’d fallen down the rabbit hole in that popular children’s story and landed in an alternate dimension…in which he had an image consultant.
“Damn,
I’m good,” Blaze said as she added a dollop of sticky goop to his hair. She had one of those faces that made it impossible to guess her age, but she pinched his cheek like a grandmother. “Of course, it’s not hard making you pretty, is it, hon?”
Gods, kill me now.
“Are we done?” Aelyx gestured toward the living room, where his next interview was set to begin. This time the government had flown Cara’s parents to Kansas City to participate. Or at least that’s where Aelyx thought he was. He tended to lose track these days.
Blaze patted his chest. “Knock ’em dead, hot stuff.”
On his way to the living room, Aelyx crossed paths with Sharon Taylor, the journalist who’d conducted his exchange program interviews in the fall. Clad in her signature pink suit, she devoured him with her gaze while a predatory grin curved her mouth.
“Aelyx,” she practically purred. “You look delish, honey.” She twirled one finger toward his head. “Love what you did with the hair. The ponytail was hot, but this is edgier. My audience is going to eat you up with a spoon and fight each other to lick the bowl.”
He tried to hide his annoyance. “Thanks for accommodating us on such short notice.”
“Oh, please!” she cried with a wave of her red-tipped fingers. “I should be thanking you.” She indicated for him to sit on the sofa with Bill and Eileen Sweeney while she picked her way over wires and around crew members to the adjacent armchair.
Eileen threw her arms around Aelyx’s neck before his backside had met the sofa. She brought with her the scent of lilacs and a warmth that he’d missed more than he had realized. She took his face between her palms. “It’s so good to see—”
“Hands off,” Sharon interrupted. “You’ll make his skin shiny.”
Eileen obediently released him while Bill extended a hand for a firm shake. If the man harbored any ill will against Aelyx for stealing Cara away from her home, he didn’t let it show. Bill’s eyes gleamed with the respect Aelyx had regularly seen there, even if he hadn’t always deserved it.