Vic skitters all over and jumps to his feet. “Oh, so you’re one of the so-called survivors?”

“Are you going to tell me specifics?” I ask him. “So maybe we can do something about it?”

“Look, no one’s even seen these guys. Can’t you bring ‘em out in the world and have them talk about it? Do some public mourning? Make those people believe that it’s real,” he says.

“We do not mourn on Kar’Kal,” Kila tells him. “Death is inevitable. That is our way.”

“You know just as well as I do that seeing Kila and the other Kar’Kali is not going to convince crazy conspiracy theorists that what we say is true. If you tell me these people’s names or any information, then we can do something before they hurt people,” I try to reason with him.

Vic is shaking his head and backing away slowly.

“You think I cannot catch you?” Kila whispers with a mocking smirk.

“I shouldn’t even be here,” Vic says anxiously. “Just a warning. That’s all. They usually catch people at their own places.”

He turns and sprints across the parking lot. I tug on Kila’s sleeve. “Let him go,” I sigh.

“Why? I was not kidding about the torture technique. It is rather effective, and we could bring him up to your apartment and show him your big knives.”

“That’s not how we do things here on Earth,” I tell him.

He takes my hand and places an affectionate kiss on my palm. “Ah, disappointing. At least we can be assured, these people cannot catch you here without catching me as well.”

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Chapter 19

KILA

The smell of Ella’s apartment is just as I remember it. I take a seat on her couch and simply bask in it, my head cushioned by a pile of her clothing that she must have left here. This time, she does not rush to remove her stray items from my sight. I hope this means that she feels more comfortable in my presence now. With her in my line of sight, safe and sound, I can relax if only for a moment. She is preparing a meal, which I know enjoys. She once told me it is her favorite part of the day. I watch her little ritual from my position in the seating area.

Her shoes were discarded by the door. Her sweater is next to go, and she flings it onto one of her stools. I see now why articles might begin to accumulate in her living area. The sight of her in her undershirt is much more appealing. She starts by opening a bottle of wine— her preferred drink, which she insists I partake in this evening. She lines up two glasses and fills them with a dark red liquid. Then, she ducks and bobs around, pulling out ingredients and items and her big chopping knife. I told her I don’t care what she makes, and that made her smile. I think she likes to surprise me.

The time that has passed since I’ve known her is beginning to feel like the only time in my lifespan that matters. Pakka might say that it is the hormones causing such a thought, but I have decided that I do not care.

After all, are we not a composite of inherited rituals and biological needs? How much of who I am have I truly chosen? The Kar’Kal Birth Center made me from seed and egg, gave me to a training unit, and taught me to kill Azza troops. Some unseen member of my genetic predecessors happened to possess a strong mind for calculations and gifted this trait to me. For that reason, they plucked me from the Domestics and shipped me to the research force. The luck of the draw put me in Pakka’s path. Then I ended up here, and the sights, sounds, and thoughts of this human female have changed me forever.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Ella calls across the room.

“Is this not the smallest United States coinage?” I ask. “Are my thoughts worth so little?”

“Wow, that Kar’Kali sense of humor… never gets old,” she snorts. “You’re not worried over what Vic said, are you? Drink a glass of wine and you’ll feel much better.”

As she tells me this, she is already pouring herself a second glass. The one intended for me sits on the bar top. I walk over and inspect it, giving it a sniff.

“It smells like the rotting bark of a thatha tree,” I say.

“Is that… good?”

I take a tentative sip, expecting it to taste like earth. It blooms on my tongue like a mixture of metal and berries, warming the inside of my mouth. “Strange,” is all I can think to say.

“Just wait until you taste it with the steak. It’s going to be amazing,” she promises.

I have learned not to doubt her in the realm of food and beverage.

***

When we are well and truly stuffed, and lying down hugging, or ‘cuddling’ as she calls it, I wonder which moments are deemed special enough to ritualistically confess my love to her. It feels special to be like this, but is that only because I have been kept from her side for so long? I decide the best course of action is to bring her to a dizzying climax just beforehand. After she reaches her pleasure, it will be a very special moment, and she’ll feel entirely relaxed.

“It’s been too long since we did this last,” she sighs against my chest. She is molded atop me like a blanket. Right now, all she wears are her thin fitted pants and a tiny undershirt, which clings to her breasts so closely I can feel her hardened nipples. She had removed her supportive undergarment after dinner because it was ‘bothering her.’ I admitted to her that its very existence bothered me too, and that made her laugh. “But I’ve thought about it so many times.”

“I’ve just been thinking very similar thoughts,” I admit to her.

Her hum of interest vibrates over my skin. “How could you stand it? Because I couldn’t.”

“Last time I told you of taking myself in my own hand, I was ashamed,” I muse. “Now it seems a painfully regular occurrence. I can’t bring myself to feel guilty.”

“I know how you feel,” she says.

My interest is piqued.

“You had not told me of this,” I say, running a finger down the side of her flushing cheek. “Now, how often do you touch yourself and think of me?”

“Why should I tell you?” She pokes me in the side and I flinch from the tickling feeling.

“I am conducting a study,” I begin to tease her.

She sits back, escaping the circle of my arms, and grabs one of the colorful pillows from the couch. “Oh?” she asks. She swats at my face with her pillow-weapon. Her jiggling breasts draw my attention and make me harden immediately. “What kind of study?”

It’s amusing to see her engage me in play-fighting like a child of few passings. She moves to swat again and I lazily reach for her fluffy weapon. The squirming as she dodges me causes her crotch to rub against my cock in the most pleasant of ways.

“The study will investigate the frequency of female masturbation, as it relates to the number of days since mating her male,” I say.

“You pervert,” she laughs. She stills and reaches her arms up over her head to stretch and yawn.

Disappointed that she is no longer rubbing against me, I snake my hand up her thighs and caress her. I trace my thumb along the seam of her pants. They are so thin that I can feel the heat of her through the fabric. A soft sigh of approval comes from her as I press into her folds. I slide my thumb up, seeking the apex of her slit and that little sensitive spot— the one that makes her wriggle and buck her hips. When she drops the pillow and quietly says, “Oh,” I know I’ve found it. I knead over the area, making slow circles. My palm is braced over her hot center. It begins to dampen, and her breathing rattles.

“I thought you were going to assault me for being a pervert,” I remind her. “Or did you forget what we were talking about?”

With my free hand I grasp her by the ass. Her body jumps to attention, always so responsive to my touch. I pull her forward, positioning her thighs against the sides of my chest. My face is level with her crotch, but when I glance up, I can see her breasts heaving. Perfect.