Earth Thirst (The Arcadian Conflict) - By Mark Teppo Page 0,51
she asks quietly. “Arcadia or the natives? We're hundreds of miles from anywhere. If the ecosystem of the island gave out, how could the residents survive?”
What happened? My legs are weak, and I'm oddly short of breath. The skin on my back starts to prickle, a thousand needles jabbing at my burned skin. The thirst is building and, deep in my blood, something bubbles. An alien presence trying to change me. “I need to lie down,” is what I say, but what I need is to sleep in the ground. I need to be covered in humus, the rich loam of the earth. My hands ache. The desire to dig is overwhelming.
As is the desire to hurt someone.
There were trees here the last time I was on Rapa Nui. Why can't I remember what happened? What has Mother taken from me?
* * *
When I open my eyes again, the sun has slipped from the sky. A tiny breeze is flowing through the open glass door, and it toys with the bottom edge of the curtain. I smell cooked food and spices—lots of spices—and the potpourri of scents drags me upright.
Mere is sitting at the table, on which are several trays from room service. “I ordered a couple of things,” she says, “figuring maybe some food would do you some good. It's mostly vegetarian with some fish. Is that okay? I didn't know if you needed raw meat or something…”
“It's fine,” I manage. I take off my optics and blink heavily for a moment or two as my eyes water. “I don't eat a lot of meat.”
“Really? But, don't you—?”
“I'm not a meat sucker, Mere. I don't need to cut up cubes of sirloin and stick them in my cheek for an hour.”
“Thank God for that. You'd have the nastiest breath.”
I sit down at the table with her, and my stomach makes a noisy rumble as I reach for a plate. I am hungry, and the hotel has a surprisingly good menu. There is baked shrimp with fennel and feta. Pan-seared cauliflower with wild rice and a rich tomato pesto colored like the heart of the sun. A plate of marinated eggplant, chilis, and—I have to taste the sauce to be sure—burrata over brown rice pasta. A slab of seared salmon with a black and shiny tapenade of anchovies and olive, complete with a sprig of freshly harvested rosemary lying idly across the top.
The food will help me not think about the fluttering pulse in her neck. She's pulled back her hair, showing a lot of the pale skin there.
“You were angry,” she says after I've loaded my plate and started to shovel the food into my mouth. “While you were … resting, I guess you could call it. I tried to talk to you once or twice, but you snarled at me.” She shows me her teeth like she's an angry dog. “I figured it was best to leave you alone. I was going to go out, but I didn't want to leave you here on the off-chance that…” She shrugs. “So I ordered food. It's always a good idea when you don't know what to do next, right? Get a meal in because you can't be sure when the next one is going to happen.”
“It's a good plan,” I say around a mouthful of broccoli.
She smiles, and her hand drifts up to the scar at the base of her throat. It's not very deep, but it will always be there, a curling reminder of how close she came to dying. Kirkov had been an old soldier; his brain didn't even need to tell his muscles what to do anymore. He operated on instinct, and part of him had sensed me coming. He had already started cutting when I put my hand through his chest.
“When you and the others came onboard the Liberty, you brought your best don't fuck with us vibe. It worked well, didn't it? They left you alone, but then, most of the kids on the boat had never been at sea before, much less taking part of in an environmental protest. I could make any number of them cry just by raising my voice. I've been around meth heads who've totally lost it, some bad-ass mercenaries who could probably kill me as easily as they picked their teeth with a toothpick, and a couple of political lobbyists who would sell a busload of their own children if it meant ramming a bill through Congress. It was