Earth Thirst (The Arcadian Conflict) - By Mark Teppo Page 0,8

omni-present growl of the boat and the ocean. I should just keep walking. But I don't. “Mere.”

The hallway is dim and the hood of my coat is up so she can't see my face, but she gets real close. Her hand falls on my arm. “What's going on?”

“Nothing,” I say, though the ragged sound of my voice reveals the word as the lie that it is.

“I saw you leave. You and your friends. You took a boat and went out there.”

I look down at her hand, and think how easily it would be to take her for Nigel. A simple rotation of my arm to break her grip; my other hand around her throat. The panic light in her eyes as I carry her back to the room. The smell of her fear. The hammering sound of her heart. The smell of all that blood.

It would be so easy.

“You didn't see anything,” I say as I carefully remove her hand from my arm.

In the corridor behind her, Talus is watching. I lift my head fractionally and she looks—a quick glance over her shoulder—and it is enough of a distraction for me to walk away from her. This time I don't stop or turn around when she calls my name.

The hallway is too narrow. The ceiling is too low. My breath hurts my throat, and through a film of tears, I mistake the deck door for an airtight hatch, and I'm transported back to the factory ship again. My face, beneath all the topical cream, itches and burns. I start to run. All I want to do is get away; all I want is to get out of this metal prison. Away from all the toxins spewed by these mouth-breathers. Away from all the sterile death of this construct. Back to Mother's embrace. Back to the earth.

I hit the door at a run, and the metal bends beneath my hands. The wind strikes my face with a stinging slap, and I suck in a huge lungful of cold air, ignoring the fiery tearing in my chest. The railing is cold under my hands, slick with water, and I grip it tightly. The ocean isn't the ground, but it still teems with life, and I can feel it. I can feel all that vibrant energy.

Mere grabs my shoulder. I react, spinning out from beneath her grip, and my hands bury themselves in the fabric of her coat. She shrieks as I lift her over the railing, and her feet drum against the side of the boat.

The wind blows my hood back, and seeing my face frightens her even more. I tighten my grip. “Stop struggling,” I say. “I might let go.”

Her hands are on my arms, and even though the panic light is bright in her eyes, she stops thrashing.

“We survive,” I tell her, “because we know who to trust. Everything else—every other person on this planet—does not matter. That is the first law of Arcadia. Do you understand?”

I wait, my arms strong and unburdened by her weight, until she nods. A tiny sob escapes from her as I bring her back to the deck. She backs away from me when I let go, though she runs into the railing before she can take more than a single step. Her hands clutch the front of her coat, and she won't look at me. “I'm sorry,” she says, her voice so soft against the noise of the sea.

“For what?” I say, even though I know I shouldn't reply—that I shouldn't be drawn into this conversation.

The corner of her mouth moves, and I realize I've just given myself away. She raises her head and looks at me. She doesn't flinch at the sight of my face, and the weak light from the yellow line on the horizon highlights the scar on her throat. “It must be very lonely,” she says and there is a different light in her eyes now.

She isn't afraid.

* * *

“You should have brought the reporter.” Talus is standing too close to me. I can smell the stale stink of his breath. We've been away from land too long; our bodies are retaining too many toxins. “She's too curious.”

I swallow my rage. “What did you expect?” I snap.

Phoebe gives me her enigmatic glare, saying nothing. Talus doesn't notice her—he's unaware of the tension in her frame. How close she is to doing violence. The wet sounds coming from Nigel and the young Prime Earth volunteer aren't helping. We're all feeling the