Part 2 (1/2)

It seemed a hopeless question, but Collins asked anyway. ”Do you speak any English?”They did not reply.

”Eng-lish,” Collins repeated.

The guards exchanged glances. The male ran a hand through the brown-and-white stubble of his hair and shrugged. He said something in their strange language.

The woman replied, equally incomprehensibly.

”Hurt.” Collins. .h.i.t his left arm with his right hand. He shook his head vigorously. ”No hurt.” He peeled his right hand away, dropped it to his side, and patted it with his left.

The two watched his every movement.

Collins continued, ”Friends.” He hugged himself fondly. ”Friends?”

”Frinz?” the woman repeated in a questioning tone.

The man put things together more quickly. A frown scored his features, and his crow's-feet sprang to vivid relief around his eyes. ”No friends.”

Encouraged by their clear attention, Collins explained again. He slapped his left arm again, then looked surprised. ”Hurt.” He shook his head. ”No HURT.” He plucked loose his right hand and patted it again, followed by a self-hug. ”Friends. Yes.” He bobbed his head eagerly.

The man glared. ”No friends.” He jabbed a finger at Collins. ”No no no friends.” He turned his back.

”Yes, aguryo.”

Clearly, the guard had understood his pantomime. And rejected it. Heaving a deep sigh, Collins slunk to the back of his cell, dropped to the floor, and buried his head. ”Friends,” he whispered. ”Friends . . .

yes.”

Hopeless terror kept Benton Collins awake far into the night. Despair gave way to rocky acceptance, then to desperate worry. He paced the confines of his cell like a zoo tiger, afraid to try to sleep. When he went still, thoughts crowded him, horrible considerations of what his future held. Suddenly, all the things he had cursed earlier that day seemed insignificant. So his parents had chosen their lovers over their son.

He was grown now, and they had a right to lives of their own. It only made sense for the other lab a.s.sistants and professors to go home over Thanksgiving, since he had nowhere to go. His student loans- only money. None of it mattered one iota if he never found his way back to Algary.

In the wee morning hours, the female guard reappeared. She stood quietly in front of Collins' cell, studying him. The lantern light kindled glimmers in her pale eyes, but she otherwise blended into the dark obscurity of the prison.

Collins stopped his pacing to look at her. With little hope, he tried one more time, touching a hand to his chest. ”Ben. That's me. Ben Collins.”

”Falima,” she replied.

”Falima,” Collins repeated. ”Pretty. Is that your name?”

”Yes. My name is Falima.”

He had not expected a reply; so, when he got one, it stunned him to wide-eyed silence.

”Why?” Falima added.

Collins found his tongue. ”You-you do speak English,” he said, holding accusation from his voice.

”English,” she repeated, rolling the word in her mouth as if to taste it. ”Is that what I am speaking?”

”Yes.” Collins approached the bars but did not touch them. ”And quite well, I might add.”

”You might add?”

Knowing idioms, slang, and expressions often confused newcomers to a language, Collins amended.

”Well, I did add, I guess. Do all your people speak English?”

”No.” Falima considered her own answer briefly, apparently recognizing the word from their previous encounter. Her eyes narrowed, and she studied him further. ”No friends.” She spoke the last two words with a heavy accent that had not tainted her previous conversation.

Collins' heart rate quickened. He had finally found someone with whom he could communicate, and he seemed to be failing miserable. ”Why 'no friends?' ” he asked with genuine concern.

Falima p.r.o.nounced each word with slow and bitter force. ”You . . . are . . . evil.”

”Me?” The question was startled from Collins. ”Evil?””Yes.”

”Why would you say such a thing?”

”Murderer,” she hissed. ”Cannibal.”

Collins blinked ponderously, certain Falima had chosen the wrong word. ”Cannibal? What are you talking about?” A moment later, he wished he had reacted as strongly to the claim of murder. To his knowledge, he did not have a violent bone in his body.

Apparently misunderstanding, Falima defined the word. ”One who eats its own kind. Cannibal. You.”

”I've never eaten a person in my life.” Seeing the opportunity, he added. ”And I've never killed anyone, either.”

Using her thumb and middle finger, Falima pulled back her locks, black as ink, thick, and s.h.i.+ningly soft. They fell instantly back to the sides of her head. ”You killed Joetha, Ben Collins.” The blue eyes filled with ice. ”Then you ate her. We found the remains in your possession, some in your very hands.”

”What?” The suggestion seemed nonsense. ”I didn't have-” Realization struck with the force of a speeding truck. ”Are you talking about the rabbit?”

”Joetha,” Falima corrected.

Stunned, Collins stuttered. ”I couldn't-I mean I didn't- know . . .” He trailed off. It seemed impossible that he had discovered a society so tolerant of differences that its citizens considered animals on a par with humans. Why not? There are people in our world who do. He recalled incidents of loonies breaking into laboratories, murdering humans to ”rescue” laboratory animals that swiftly perished in the wild. ”I-I didn't know. You have to believe me.”

”I have to?”

”Because it's true. In my world, animals are considered . . .” Collins chose his words with care. ”... our charges, not. . . our equals.”

The blue eyes narrowed, as if Falima found his explanation impossible to fathom. ”What is your switch-form?”

The compound word made no sense to Collins. ”My what?”

”Your switch-form. Your switch-form?”

The repet.i.tion did not help. ”I don't understand.”

Falima spoke louder and with awkward sluggishness. ”YOUR . . . SWITCH . . . -FORM.”