A sensation rose in him and spilled across his features as she drove away. With only empty street to see, he caught a glimpse of himself reflected in the glass. Remorse? He had never seen that emotion displayed on his own face. Not surprising, since he had only experienced it once or twice in all of his long life. Curious, he traced the warped lines of guilt with his fingertips. It was not fear behind her tears.
Could she really care so much for the young woman that she felt guilty for choosing the safer path for herself and her child? Or did she feel disloyal to the adam?
That possibility triggered yet another chemical and neural response and he withdrew from the window to stretch out on his pallet. He centered himself, slowing his breathing and channeling his emotions into their proper places. Her reasons mattered not to him. He was committed to keeping her and her progeny from the attention of the Servants, but now, with her fresh in his mind, that was going to be a greater challenge. He laced his fingers to cradle the back of his head and stared at the cracks webbing the plastered ceiling.
Her timing could not have been worse. He had just begun to make contact when her vehicle’s exhaust system woke him. The sound was distinguishable even from several streets away, and for a moment he’d wondered at the directional variation in her approach, but the possible repercussions of his aborted report were more concerning.
Having already postponed his dual-time for several days, he would be questioned for withholding notice of the young woman’s pregnancy. Intervention was a necessity, not an option, and research needed to be completed prior to Revision. If he could not justify his delay, he must at least camouflage his reluctance to synchronize. It was crucial that he allow only select information to be accessed, yet Lila’s presence had just compromised control of his thoughts. As well as their emotional side-effects.
He rolled onto his side. Perhaps that was one of her abilities. Manipulation of his psyche in order to obfuscate his allegiance. He pondered whether an ability of that scope could be a realistic mutation. Could some humans have evolved into a combination of pleasing assets that made his kind want to protect them individually even at the expense of the species as a whole?
It was possible, he decided. Theoretically, it would be no different from a noxious weed attracting pollinators with a sweet-smelling flower. The image he conjured was of a slender vine curling up from the ground and around his waist . . . offering him lush petals curved upward and outward, open to him, waiting for . . .
He jerked awake. How many seconds had elapsed? Had he made contact with the others? He should not have lain down to think!
This was going to be exceedingly difficult. He was out of practice with maintaining deceptions contrary to the greater goals. Had never been skilled at it, really. How long would it take for them to discover that he had favored a human? Two humans. Those lessons had been learned long ago and at an immense cost. He was supposed to be assisting in the recovery and realignment process, not making it worse!
Even if the Servants were not, as yet, aware, within another cycle or two the others would make note of his lack of contact. He had to compartmentalize his thoughts and feelings or it would all be for naught. His efforts would be wasted, and the punishment that he would incur would not buy either of them the protection he had promised.
And yet he could not keep her out of his mind. He stood up and paced around the small room, feeling trapped, hot, his body burning from the effects of his modulators. On the fifth circuit, he discarded his pants, stalked to the bathroom, and stepped into the shower. The plumbing in this old house was noisy, but reliable, and for the third time that day he crouched under the chilled water until his imbalance was corrected.
Guilt and Gifts
Over the next days, I sensed pressure building. The weather system off the coast had formed into a depression and stalled fifty miles out, giving us sunny, hot skies that belied the burgeoning mass of sodden clouds out in the Gulf Stream. But of course, it wasn’t just the weather I felt.
Every time I spoke with Cara—and every time I ignored Adam’s attempts to talk when I called—the pressure built. Cara and I would try to chat about nothing—anything—but something would always trigger her tears; and after she’d calmed, she would thank me for being her friend. And each time, my breath caught in my throat and the pressure increased. She’d told me the baby had started to move inside her, and she’d tried to act excited and joyful as any mother would, but the powerful movements hurt and she was frightened. I’d summoned my own maternal instincts and encouraged her, soothed her, consoled her—whatever she needed, I tried to give her—but still the pressure inside me, all around me, increased. Because no matter what I pretended or attempted, I wasn’t a friend. Not really.
And each time I hung up the phone, I looked over at Eileen as she munched her cereal or completed her homework, and my chest constricted with worry even as guilt swelled from my center, until I couldn’t decide if I was going to implode or explode. During the night I would wake again and again in fear, leaping out of bed to go check on her, but I couldn’t remember what I was checking for, and the fear of not knowing became worse than my recurring nightmares.
After seeing Sal, I hadn’t been able to work on Sunday. I’d hated to do it, but I’d called Maureen and told her I had a fever
