Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Killan
Ikeep my eyes fixed on the ladder as I climb, determinedly ignoring the feeling of Lydia wrapped around me. My heart is racing, and I can only hope she is too distracted to notice.
Easily, I remember how shocked Lydia had been when she first realized exactly what John Smith had stolen from her.
She was planet-bound before LOVE GALAXY, unaware of the existence of complex space travel or of the multitude of other species that inhabit our shared universe.
Then, she was brought here, to Ril II, and her entire world was thrown into chaos.
I fixate on that memory—on the way her eyes had widened and her mouth had fallen open. On the way her muscles had tensed and how she had stared at me, as if I had been the one to betray her.
And maybe I had. When you really think about it.
It was because my brothers and I applied to LOVE GALAXY that Lydia, Briar, and Harlee were stolen from their homeworld. They were brought here for us, toys to tempt us.
Reaching the top of the ladder, I step onto the metal grate that is the balcony.
Lydia does not release her death grip on me, and I know it is because she does not want to see the view, even from the safety of the platform.
So I head toward the door that leads to my house, intending to deposit her inside before returning to my work.
Unlike Roan, I have nothing to tempt me away from our farm.
I never should have trusted LOVE GALAXY. It was a mistake from the beginning. John Smith manipulated us all, pitting us against each other, trying to stir up drama. Always, he thought about the best storylines to film. He never intended to help us find love. Always, he planned to ruin our lives.
Catastrophe and heartbreak make for much more compelling viewing than romance.
In the end, John Smith deserted Ril II partway through production, after my brothers, Briar, and I thwarted his plan to murder Briar and stage her death as another plot point in his sick story.
He really broke Lydia’s heart then, leaving her stranded here.
With me.
Stepping through the doorway, I deposit her feet on firm ground, and she grasps my kitchen table, releasing me. Her face is pale; little color stains her soft cheeks, made all the more obvious by the pink of her dyed hairs.
“I’m not thanking you.” She brushes a loose strand away from her brow, not quite meeting my gaze, and I know it is because she does not want me to see how close she came to crying.
“I did not ask for your thanks.” It comes out harsher than intended. She is here because of me. Her life was ruined because of me. The last thing I deserve is her thanks.
Glancing around the kitchen, I hunt for a distraction.
“Here.” I pick up my datapad from where I left it this morning, where I leave it every morning when I do not need it for my work.
Flicking to the broadcast channels, I demonstrate how to scroll to search for something worth watching.
Not that there ever is anything. Thousands of channels and all the content is trash of the LOVE GALAXY variety.
Lydia takes the datapad, wrinkling her nose as she swipes through a few options.
“How do I get onto the internet again?” She straightens, and even standing to her full height, the top of her head is not level with my shoulders.
“In-ter…” The unfamiliar word sticks to my tongue. I have heard it before but cannot remember what it means.
“The World Wide Web. Cyberspace. Google. Umm…” She struggles. “I mean, how do I search for information?”
“About?”
“Reality Investments.” She names the LOVE GALAXY production company.
I frown. “Why?”
We both know Reality Investments was a shell company, established as a front behind which John Smith could hide. Lydia and I spent hours researching everything to do with LOVE GALAXY during her first sennight on Ril II, but we found nothing useful.
She closes her eyes as she releases a long breath before looking up at me.
“Killan, I hate having to ask to borrow your stuff, but we both know I don’t have a tablet of my own, so I’ve got no choice.
Please, can you remind me how to search the internet?
Or, if you don’t want me using your tablet, say so.
I’m not in the mood for another one of your interrogations. ”
She thinks I interrogate her? I have been called “gruff” before by my brothers. “Bossy,” “controlling,” “aggressive,” even “frustrating.” But never interrogatory.
“Harvest begins tomorrow,” I say, filling the silence with something that is not another question.
“And you’d like me to help?”
“We will be receiving a supply drop. I have a regular food order, but if there is anything additional you require, make a list and I will see what I can find.”
“Oh, right. A shopping list.” She shows me her thumbs, pointing them toward the ceiling. “Good-o.”
I have said something wrong, but I do not know what.
“Mayhaps you have Human needs which I have been unable to accommodate.” I attempt to clarify.
“Wait. Are you…” She frowns. “Are you talking about my period?” The color returns to her face with a rush, flooding her cheeks.
I pause for my translator to supply a meaning, but nothing happens. “I do not understand. What is your peer—”
“Oh my God, never mind!”
“I do mind. If there is something you have not been telling me—”
“Roan!” Lydia catches sight of my youngest brother as he enters the kitchen and gestures for him to approach.
Immediately, his gaze is on my datapad.
“You found it then?” He walks past me to Lydia, evidently not surprised when I ignore his question. “Harlee wants you and Briar to be her maids,” he announces, using another word I do not understand.
“Her maid?” Lydia repeats. “Are you sure that’s what she said?”
Roan nods confidently. “She wishes for you to carry my finger at our wett-ing. But I have not officially asked her to marry me yet, so please do not say that I told you.” And he turns the corners of his mouth up in an approximation of a Human smile, displaying multiple rows of pointed teeth.
“Oh, you mean her bridesmaids at your wedding,” Lydia emphasizes, correcting Roan’s pronunciation.
“Wedd-ing. Wedding,” Roan practices.
“It’s probably a good word to get right when you’re about to propose,” says Lydia. “Nobody wants to be asked to a ‘wetting’ when they could be going to a wedding instead.”
“Akh, my thanks. You have been helpful. Have you seen Harlee?”
“Not today,” Lydia says. “I’m guessing she’s back at your cottage.”
“Then that is where I will be.” Roan touches her shoulder in thanks and heads down the short tunnel that leads from my kitchen to his cottage.
“I’ll come too if you like—” Lydia turns to follow.
Roan must not hear, for he continues practicing. “Wedding. We-dd-dd-ing.”
“Right. Sure.” Lydia runs a hand through her hairs. “I’ll stay here instead, then.” And she scuffs the toe of her boot on the floor. Self-conscious? Dissatisfied? Uncomfortable being alone with me? I cannot tell. And none of those emotions help the guilt twisting inside my gut.
“Here.” Biting back an angry snarl, I open InGal the intergalactic database, and type Reality Investments into the search field.
“Twenty-nine thousand three hundred and fifty-three direct hits.” I don’t bother to read aloud the considerably larger number of indirect hits also listed.
“Take it,” I growl, turning the datapad around to face her.
I do not have time for this. I have work that needs doing, more so now that Roan has given himself a half-day holiday.
Lydia does take it, but she catches her lower lip between blunt teeth, scrutinizing the first twenty search results that fill the screen, clearly unable to read any of the Common Tongue words.
There are options to change the text to multiple other languages, but I know hers won’t be listed among them.
She was never supposed to have been stolen from her planet, so of course her language is not going to be included.
Fek. I fiddle with the accessibility settings I have never needed to use before, until an artificial voice begins reading the screen text, highlighting each word as it does so.
It does not matter that what the datapad is reading aloud is in the Common Tongue because the internal translator Lydia has under the skin behind one ear deciphers spoken language into a form she can understand.
Listening to all 29,353 direct hits is going to take forever, but that is not my problem. If Lydia wants to waste her time hunting for information about a shell company, I am not going to stop her.
She would not heed my advice even if I attempted to give it.
I turn to leave but find myself pausing, almost against my will, a hand on the doorframe.
Sometimes, when I see how happy Sorin and Briar are, and how in love Roan and Harlee have fallen, I cannot help but compare them with Lydia’s misery.
They found each other despite John Smith, not because of John Smith.
Yet, Lydia and I have never connected like that.
Everything we do only pushes us further apart.
We are not a good match. Which is exactly why Lydia was chosen—because John Smith knew we would not suit. More drama. More catastrophe. More heartbreak.
But that is not Lydia’s fault.
Renewed guilt gnaws at my insides. It is my fault she is here.
“I have already contacted Reality Investments,” I admit. “Nobody there knew anything about your abduction.” Or, if they did, they were not willing to admit to knowing. Not even when I threatened them—with legal action, with media exposure, with bodily harm.
Two days later, the shell company had liquidated their assets and deregistered.
Well, of course they had. Whoever had controlled Reality Investments had also controlled John Smith, and that fek had abandoned us just as thoroughly.
“Did you ask about Earth?” Lydia’s voice is sharp, but it is impossible to miss the layer of hope coating her question. “Do they know where it is? Do you know?”
“They claimed never to have heard of it.”
“Right.” Lydia sinks an inch, growing smaller with disappointment. “You’re so fucking desperate to get rid of me.”
“Yes.” It was not a question, but I nod my assent all the same.