Chapter Fifteen
I hate mice. Rok burst out of the supermarket and sucked in clean, fresh air, trying to clear out his nasal passages. When Chloe said the rodents shit all over everything, she’d understated the case.
She had had a different reaction. “There aren’t many mice at all,” she’d said, as she strolled down the aisles. “But we’ll skip boxes and packages and stick to cans. We don’t need much since Springfield will have grocery stores.”
Would they be mouse-free?
Kevin had loved the loathsome rodents, running around the store chasing them, killing several.
“It stinks in here,” Rok had said.
“It’s the spoiled food.”
“And the mice.” He could smell the feces and urine.
Chloe stowed their acquisitions in his bike trailer. They hadn’t collected much, just some bottled water, a couple of cans of food for them, some for Kevin, and an opener. “Did you have fun?” she asked the dog.
He looked like he had. His tail wagged so hard, his entire rear end danced.
She opened a water bottle and half-filled a dish for the dog. He drank noisily. They had water bottles attached to their bike frames, and she filled those. After settling Kevin in the trailer, they set out.
Once they left the town proper, the road to the main highway was mostly clear, so they biked side by side. He preferred that to single file, although she seemed lost in thought, disinclined to converse. He contented himself with surreptitiously studying her.
Knee-length tight blue pants hugged muscular thighs and showed off her shapely calves.
Arms were bare. The small mounds noticeable beneath her top answered the question Knife’s body drawing had raised—not all Earth women had huge mammary glands.
Chloe’s were modest. Nicer. He much preferred her curves.
Her soft, unruly hair fascinated him—there was so much of it. Progg women’s hair was even shorter and bristlier than males. Today, she had clipped her hair atop her head. Stray tendrils framed her golden-brown face.
“You’re staring at me,” she said.
“Your face and arms are browner than your legs.”
“My legs don’t get as much sun. My face and arms are tanned.”
“I like the way you look. You are”—special—“interesting to me.”
“You’re interesting to me, too.”
“Good-interesting…or bad-interesting?”
She hesitated. “Mostly…good.”
He could guess the bad. He was a Progg. He tried to take solace in that she found him mostly good—it was more than he had a right to hope for—but he yearned for her to like him as much as he liked her.
A futile wish. He could never be forgiven.
He could change what he did, but he couldn’t change what he was or undo what his people had done.
The invasion would always come between them.
She pointed to a bridge over the roadway in the distance.
“There’s the highway to Springfield. We won’t be able to ride down the middle, but the shoulder will probably be clear.
” She sped up, leading the way to the on-ramp.
Smashed cars were scattered across the ramp on and off the shoulder, forcing them to walk their bikes around the obstructions.
Her mouth tightened into a grim line, and he guessed the totaled vehicles reminded her of the massacre. There’d once been people piloting those vehicles.
Now, the hunks of metal marked the spot where the people had died.
A blanket of guilt and hopelessness dropped over him.
She might forget for a little while when they were alone, but the past would always be with them.
The past defined the future. She would never forgive him. Never fully accept him.
Could he blame her?
Upon reaching the main highway, they remounted the bikes. Roadway congestion was worse, but the shoulder was mostly clear, as she’d predicted. Once again, they rode single file as the shoulder couldn’t accommodate two side-by-side bikes with trailers, and there were occasional obstructions.
Although he would have preferred to talk, he did enjoy the view of her buttocks.
The dog was fun to watch, too. Kevin’s head poked out of the open top, sniffing the air and observing the world rolling by. He’s happy.
Duty defined a Progg’s existence and purpose.
Feelings such as happiness were irrelevant to the goals of the empire.
The only reason the concept and word existed in the language was because happiness mattered to some of the species they interacted with.
Most of the aliens they encountered were vaporized, so their happiness was really a moot point.
Hence, Rok couldn’t define joy, although, curiously, he recognized it when he saw it. The dog’s happiness showed in his furry face.
I want Chloe to be as happy as Kevin is.
I only wish I made her happy.
At least she was willing to accompany him to search for Grav. Without her, he never would have learned Grav had gone to Springfield—nor would he have known how to get there. Like Chloe, he, too, wondered who the “we” was Grav had referred to. Another Progg? Or a human?
The announcement of the incomprehensible retreat from Earth had stunned him.
According to military history, Progg-Res had never lost a battle, never retreated, never conceded.
Do it once. Do it right. Now, he realized the deaths and total absence of communication had been signs of defeat, which caused him to question the accuracy of what he’d been taught.
Had other losses been expunged from the record?
It mattered more than ever to find Grav, not just for the information he might provide but because he was kin.
But would Grav care to connect with him?
He wondered what his brother was like now.
Their parents had dismissed him as “soft” and “weak,” a damning assessment.
Grav had been twelve at the time. Had he toughened?
He and his brother were practically strangers. He knew Chloe better than he knew him. I know the dog better.
* * * *
Chloe pointed to a pond surrounded by grass. “I’m getting hungry. How about you? You want to stop for dinner?”
At the mention of food, his stomach growled.
“I’ll take that as a yes.” She laughed.
He’d amused her! A heat that was almost sexual shot through him. He’d do almost anything to hear her laugh.
* * * *
Taking the dog and some food, they climbed over the highway divider. Muscles in his buttocks and thighs protested after the long ride. He limped toward the grassy area.
“Little stiff?” Her laughter got him stiff in a different way.
“More than you know,” he replied.
When they reached the grass and set Kevin down, he charged at the waterfowl sunning themselves on the bank of the small lake. Honking, the birds flew into the center of the pond before settling in.
“Watch for goose poop,” she warned.
Tail wagging, Kevin ran around, pausing frequently to hike his leg, making Rok aware of his full bladder.
“Over here.” Chloe led the way to the shade under a tree and set down their bag. “This looks like a good spot. I’m going to duck behind that boat over there.” She gestured to a small watercraft sitting on a trailer.
“Why? Oh!” He caught her drift. “I’ll go that way.”
She went her way; he went the opposite. To his surprise, the dog followed him. After he and Kevin relieved themselves, they strolled to the pond’s edge together. He rinsed his hands while Kevin took a drink.
Chloe emerged from behind the boat. “Good idea.” She swished her hands in the water then wiped them on her pants. “Let’s eat.”
She opened a can for Kevin first. As soon as the lid came off, Rok’s stomach churned violently. Quickly, he scrambled upwind. She moved several ruga away and set the dish on the ground. Collar tags clinking, Kevin dove into the food with gusto.
The slurping noise and the sight of the dog scarfing up the noxious mash brought bile to his throat. He scooted farther away.
“It bothers you that much?”
“Yes.” He averted his gaze. Just watching it made him sick. “Tell me when he’s done.”
The rattling of the tags stopped about the time she said, “He’s done.”
He took a peek. She was pouring water into the dog’s empty dish. “You look a little gray,” she said.
He felt gray. “Could I have some water?”
“Sure.” She handed him the bottle.
He finished it off. It helped a little.
“Is it going to bother you when I eat?”
“Will it be meat?”
“It’s supposed to be. Canned beef tamales.”
“I’ll sit over here.” He pointed to an area farther upwind.
“Will you be able to eat?” she asked.
“In a little bit. Not yet.”
“Okay, I’m going to open mine.”
“Yes, please. Eat.” He retreated.
She opened a can for herself, but before lifting off the lid, she opened another bottle of water and rinsed off the can opener. Then she brought him the opener, the water, a utensil, and his can of food. “I hope you feel better.” She briefly laid a hand on his shoulder.
Shocked pleasure hummed through him. She touched me! She’d never done that before. He stared at her. “I’m-I’m feeling better already. Thank you.”
“You look like it. You’re getting silver again. Your can is plant-based chili. No meat. Just beans and spices. I can’t vouch for the spiciness, though. It might be tasteless, or it might be too spicy if you’re feeling sick. It should be served hot, but it is cooked, so…” She shrugged.
“I’m sure it will be fine.”
She retreated.
He felt almost giddy, his body buzzing, the nausea all but gone.
She ate from the can. Perhaps it didn’t contain much meat or he was far enough away, but he detected only the merest whiff of meat. Tolerable. He cut his can open. It smelled appetizing.
Hesitantly, he took a bite. Flavor exploded in his mouth. This was better than the oatmeal! Why eat meat when they could eat something like this?
“How’s the chili?” she called.
“The best I ever had.”
“It’s probably the only chili you’ve ever had.” She chuckled.
Heat shot through his groin. No woman’s laugh had affected him the way hers did. Of course, if a Progg laughed, it was generally out of triumph rather than amusement or pleasure.
“It’s still excellent,” he said. “How are your tamales?”
“Not the best I’ve ever had.” She smiled, and the warmth spreading through him brought a profound epiphany. This is what I want. This feeling. This woman. This existence.
I am not fully Progg.
He would always be from Progg-Res, but he hadn’t internalized the conqueror’s entitlement.
Do it once. Do it right. Don’t concede. Don’t surrender.
Never mind that the individual gave up autonomy, freedom, comfort, family, love, and empathy.
Before storming the galaxy, they had first conquered their own people.
But Rok had refused to surrender. A seed of self had survived the indoctrination, and Chloe was nurturing it to life.
He hadn’t sought to distinguish himself at all—just the opposite. Deep down, he’d recognized he lacked ruthlessness. Avoidance was a form of cowardice. The time had come to stand up, to speak up, to live in accordance with his own convictions.
Chloe’s eyebrows drew together. “You’re looking at me weird. Is something wrong? Are you all right? Are you feeling sick again?”
“No.” He shook his head. “I’m well for the first time in my life.”