Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Sorin
“ … w
ill not be able to keep up,” Killan is insisting. “And we cannot have our work interrupted.”
“You have already agreed,” argues the Drah’os, raising what he clearly believes to be a placating hand. His heavily armored neck limits his ability to turn his head, and his thick-set body gives him a distinctly immovable appearance, as though he were made from stone, instead of bone and flesh like the rest of us. “The contracts you signed give us full access.”
J-on. Silently, I test my pronunciation— J-on. Jon. S-mi-th. John Smith— until it sounds in my head the same as how he had introduced himself.
John Smith and his assistant are squished into the mudroom at the back of the main house. We have not progressed deeper inside because Killan is blocking the door to the internal corridor, determined to hammer out the minor details of our daily work schedule before granting them access to the rest of his home.
The assistant is of a species I have never met before. Hu-mans, they said. She is short, her head covered in pale, wispy hairs, with smaller, darker hairs in two patches across her brow.
“I am not debating the contract nor your access,” Killan says, crossing his upper arms over his chest and holding his remaining lower arm against one side of the doorframe, determined to remain as uncompromising as the Drah’os. “I am merely trying to gain assurance that your filming schedule will not cause delays in our production.”
“We cannot talk comfortably here,” Roan says from behind Killan, trying and failing to push our oldest brother out of the doorway. “Where are our Females?” Standing to his full height, he looks over Killan’s shoulder, examining the corners of the mudroom as if expecting to see the eligible Females packed into what little free space remains.
I look down at my four hands, feigning disinterest in the answer and attempting to ignore the lump that has formed in my chest. It has been three Common months since Roan persuaded Killan and I to complete our application forms for the reality broadcast. For the first month of waiting, Roan could talk of nothing else. Then, after the production crew had informed us of our success, he spent the following two months working long hours to prepare his home for his potential Mate.
Killan and I spent that time preparing the farm, cleaning the tunnels, ensuring everything was in full working order. I had relished the distraction, desperate to keep my thoughts away from the impending onslaught to my privacy.
“Your Females are in isolation,” John Smith says, in answer to Roan’s question. “We can’t have them seeing you before we begin filming. But,” he adds, “they’re keen to meet you. The sooner we can get the cameras set up, the sooner we can introduce you.” He gestures at his assistant to begin.
She opens the bag slung over one of her small shoulders. Inside the padded case sit three dozen miniature cameras, all approximately a quarter the size of my palm. I could crush them in my hand should I wish. Retrieving one, she clips it to the panel that forms the overhead lintel of the outer door.
“Motion activated,” she says, meaning anyone entering or exiting the house from the mudroom will be caught on film.
Unease tightens my chest, and I shift from foot to foot as the Human selects another miniature camera.
“Not so fast… ” Killan begins, but I miss hearing whatever else he says as movement catches my attention.
There is an eye pressed to the narrow gap between the blackout blind and the windowsill. It is surveying the mudroom, swiveling left and right, as if searching for something. It is a very blue eye, the color of the sky on the rare days when the wind stops long enough for the dust to settle.
They must be another crew member. Although why they would spy on us, I do not understand.
They might be an eligible Female. The thought jumps into my head, causing the tightness in my chest to expand. A Female. A potential Mate. One who has crept out of the spaceship. Is she so keen to meet us that she would risk breaking the rules on day one?
I raise a hand, intending to draw Roan’s attention to our watcher, then remember the camera clipped to the lintel, and the words shrivel up in my throat. Instead, I glance around the room, searching everyone’s face for signs that they have noticed our watcher.
“… every working hour… ” Killan is saying, evidently in the middle of another lecture that Roan and I have heard a dozen times or more.
The Drah’os has his mouth slightly open, as if shocked by the force of Killan’s passion. His assistant has fixed the lens of her handheld camera onto Killan’s face, undoubtedly recording what will be the first of many arguments.
I shuffle sideways, toward the exit and the hidden Female.
Briar
I’ve never been on a film set before, but even I know this production is a shitshow. Nobody in their right mind is going to watch a so-called reality dating show where the men are dressed in alien costumes like they’re members of an extreme Halloween trick-or-treat gang.
I grasp the windowsill to keep myself upright as my headache beats a drum solo inside my skull and return my attention to searching for a cellphone.
Inside is Chloe, standing there bold as brass as if she’s never committed assault before. I can only presume the person standing beside her is Mr. Smith. He’s got his back to my window, so all I can see is the black of his suit and his bald head. Bald? Huh. I guess I didn’t pay much attention to his appearance.
Aside from my two abductors, there are three men dressed like alien lizards, each with four arms and no clothes.
Well, no clothes that look like clothes. I imagine they’re actually wearing skin-tight jumpsuits that are textured to give the impression they’re covered in scales. The jumpsuits cover their entire bodies, even their heads, except for their faces, hands and inner wrists. These appear to be free of scales and instead have been generously painted in a green-colored foundation, complete with expert blending and contouring so it’s impossible to pinpoint exactly where the skin-tight jumpsuits end and their painted skin begins.
The producers must be certifiably insane to think I’m going to fall in love with anyone dressed like a four-armed lizard man.
And how the fuck are they able to move all of their arms at once? I can’t see any wires, and I can’t hear the whirring of an engine to suggest robotics.
Two lizard men are vying for position at the entrance to a passageway which leads farther into the building. The third guy is standing a little separate. He’s got his back pressed against a wall, like he’s trying to avoid whatever confrontation is happening between everyone else.
I can tell they’re arguing by reading their body language, although I can’t hear what they’re saying. Soundproof windows, maybe?
Panic swirls around my stomach like assassin-trained butterflies, and I press my lips together to keep from crying out loud.
There’s got to be a cellphone somewhere, even if it’s in someone’s pocket.
Sorin
When nobody glances my way, I take another sidestep toward the exit, hoping the camera attached to the lintel has yet to be turned on. Killan is waving an obstinate finger in the director’s face, and Roan is actively pulling on Killan’s shoulders, trying to evacuate him from the doorway. At this rate, John Smith and Chloe will not have installed their remaining cameras by nightfall, and I suspect filming will not officially start until tomorrow.
The door hinges creak as I pull it open. Still nobody pays me any attention, and thankfully the door opens outwards, not inwards, so there is space for me to slide out.
The Female remains in place, one cheek pressed to the blackout blind, her eye to the gap. She has her other eye closed, or else she might have seen me approach.
Like the Human currently filming Killan in the mudroom, this Female also only has two arms. Otherwise, I think we are not too dissimilar in form. Except… Part of her head is covered in long russet-colored hairs that reach down over her shoulders. And her skin is smooth, not scaled at all.
As if finally noticing my presence, she straightens, her eyes wide. Of what little skin is not covered, I can see no scars or any other sign of hard labor. Everything about her is delicate, petite. Easily broken.
“Please don’t tell them I’m here,” she says in a rush.
“Who are you?” I glance at the closed door.
“Sorry, what?” She furrows her otherwise flawless brow. “Is that Swedish? Or Norwegian? Do you know any English?” She suddenly presses both hands to her temples. What little color there is in her pale face drains away, and she sways where she stands.
“You are not well.” I move to step closer, but she holds a shaking hand between us, halting my progress.
“Do you have a cell? I need to make a call.”
“I do not know what a cell is. That word does not translate.” When all she does is frown, I switch to Common, repeating myself in the universal language all space travelling species know.
“What?” She wrinkles her small nose.
“You cannot understand me?” I frown. Even Roan, who has never left this planet and who meets very few people beyond Killan and me, can speak Common.
“A cell? A cellphone?” She holds one hand to the side of her face, extending her thumb toward her ear and her smallest finger toward her mouth. “A mobile?”
“Akh… ” The Human inside has a translator chip. And the first thing John Smith did when arriving was to push an update to our translators so we could understand them in return.
There are always new civilizations developing advanced space travel and joining the Alliance, bringing with them their own cultures, technology and language. Undoubtedly, this Female and her fellow Humans are amongst these new arrivals, those who joined the Alliance after our parents first established the farm and our isolation from civilization.
Nevertheless, even with the new update, my translator cannot understand words that do not have an equivalent in either Common or the language of my home planet. Whatever a cell is, it is not something we have.
“Do you have a pocket?” She steps closer and runs her small hands over my chest and down the outer sides of my legs. “God, this jumpsuit feels like real scales.”
“I have scales, yes.”
It is evident she has not met another Ril’os before me. I remember what the director said about not wanting for us to meet before the cameras had all been set up, presumably so they could capture this exact moment.
A little of the tightness that has been holding my chest enthralled since finding out I was to be a contender on LOVE GALAXY eases. I am pleased that our first meeting is private and that I am not going to make a fool of myself before an audience.
I have met Females before, of course. Over the years, a few have visited the farm. They pilot the Freighters with which our buyers collect their purchases of Nufaral. And there is the Female in the mudroom right now, a member of the production crew.
But I am discovering there is a considerable difference between meeting a Female in the course of business and meeting a Female with the intention of potentially Mating.
Surely I should be doing something to prove myself worthy of her attention.
Mayhaps she is expecting me to say something or to do something in particular. Only… I do not know what. Silently, I curse myself for not preparing more adequately. Instead of helping Killan clean the farm for being filmed, I should have worked with Roan, ensuring my house and myself were ready to welcome a Female.
I remember what Roan told us when he first pitched the idea of applying for the broadcast: they do full compatibility tests and find Females who they think will suit us. Compatible Females. Willing Females.
I open my mouth, but no sound comes out.
She is not what I was expecting.
Not that I let myself linger on thoughts of our potential first meeting, over the last two months of waiting. But in the few moments between waking and sleeping, when I had less control over my thoughts than usual, I had formed a picture of her as being… well, larger.
Not this small creature before me, still running her hands over my legs, searching for a cell.
“Seriously, not a single pocket?” she murmurs, walking a slow circle around me, examining me from multiple angles.
Self-consciously, I straighten, filling my lungs with air to increase the breadth of my chest. Does she find me pleasing? Am I what she was expecting?
As she completes her circle, I catch sight of a dark substance at the back of her head, matting stands of her hairs together. Again, she sways where she stands, and this time she grabs at the windowsill to keep herself from losing her balance entirely.
That is blood, I think, in her hairs.
With fresh eyes, I examine her more closely. There are dark circles under her eyes, pinched lines at the corners of her mouth and tension in the way she holds her body, as if she is preparing to run or to fight. As if she is in a lot of pain. Clearly, she was attacked.
Pah! So much for her being willing!