9. Chapter Nine

3days, 22 hours, 55 minutes EST remaining Crey injected Mari again, placing the neutralizer against her flushed skin. She looked better than when they had arrived, despite her occasional bouts of incoherent mumbling. She was most certainly better than when she had stopped breathing entirely due to a reaction from her immune system. This was better. It had to be.

When Crey had dressed the shallow scrape Mari had received, he had found a dark line running from her wound up her arm. The line stopped just below her shoulder; that was where he had inserted this second injection.

After Crey had acquired the device for Mari, he had meticulously read the directions—as was his new custom since his ability to memorize had emerged. The instructions had caused an unfamiliar emotion to build in him. He now could categorize that emotion as "apprehension."

Foolishly, Crey had not realized a xenobotanist's job could be dangerous, prior to that. A xenobotanist on an exploratory-class ship was most likely exposed to a wide variety of toxins. Crey had begun having the Beagle-2230 return more frequently to Bogarta. He would not lose Mari to a poisonous plant before he had her. Now, this objective included the addendum that Crey never intended to lose her.

The device's directions had also included specifications such as weight guidelines to use in dosage frequency for various compatible seed races. It was good that he had asked Mari about the dosage frequency while she was coherent. He was uncertain what Mari weighed in any method of measurement, Earthen or Prime. He was not even certain what he weighed.

He should have asked her.

He should have planned for this.

Crey's "worry" was exactly like when he had read the device's directions, but to a hundredfold strength. Crey would protect Mari from everything—all at once—forever. Now, Crey knew her, his passionate, intelligent, and fierce mate. Losing her was not an option.

Ever.

He loved her.

He loved Mari.

Crey would give all his blood—all his breath—all of him, if it kept her alive. He understood.

Crey loved Dr. Marigold Clemons. His Mari. His mate.

It did not require the physical joining of their bodies to recognize this love emotion. The feeling had burst through him like an explosive spur when a stumbling pale Mari had swatted at things only she could see. His recognition had coalesced when she quit breathing. His brain had shouted something was wrong with the mate he loved. If he did not save his wonderful, passionate, fierce Mari—there was nothing for him.

He loved her.

It was a litany in his brain: he must save Mari, the woman he loved.

In the dim light provided by the Tarsin lantern dialed to its lowest setting, Crey stared at his beloved Earthen. She was so wondrous and beautiful.

Mari mumbled more disjointed nonsense about trees. She muttered "cones," "named," and possibly the English profanity "bastards." She wanted to name trees?

Despite his strain and tension, Crey smiled. This was what a xenobotanist dreamt of.

Reaching behind him, Crey grabbed the hydration pouch and gently lifted her head from the "pillow" he had created by putting her clothes underneath the parachute. "Here, my heart, drink a little." Crey put the pouch to her mouth and dribbled liquid across her dry lips. Slowly. Slowly. He did not want her to choke on it.

Mari's eyes opened. Her unfocused gaze fell on him. She swallowed.

He lifted the pouch away. Good. That was good.

"Did I tell you you're my favorite?" Her words were low and mumbled but audible.

"Your favorite color?" Mari had said that the first light-cycle on the ship, and her skin had flushed to his favorite color.

"No." She squinted. "Yes." Mari's expression turned frustrated, as if her confusion was entirely his fault.

"Your favorite what?"

"Favorite favorite."

"I am your favorite?"

"Yes." She visibly calmed.

A tightness inside him relaxed also. He was her favorite. It was good to be her favorite. It implied a belonging. "You are my favorite also." Pushing back his concerns, he said, "In Gaiian, that is ‘melayfah.'" She was breathing and talking. This was good.

Mari licked her dry lips and mouthed the word.

Actually, melayfah had a far more intimate meaning than "favorite." Hopefully, Mari would not tell other Gaiians about her ‘melayfah' foods or drinks.

"You are my melayfah." Crey lifted her head for another drink of the hydration pouch. His very favorite. His own sweet Mari.

His melayfah shifted her head to look at the shield, spilling the liquid down her cheek and into her ear.

Shaking his head ruefully, Crey used a rag to wipe her cheek and ear. He had made the rags he used to bathe her skin and wipe her face by tearing up the cleanest clothing in her bag, with much regret. The bottommost packed item was a dress sealed in a pouch, which meant he had not touched the cloth with his dirty hands while searching through her pack previously. He would replace the dress as soon as possible. Crey would replace it with ten dresses—or twenty.

"Something out there?" Mari asked, squinting.

Crey turned also. Indeed, a creature was preparing to hurl itself against the shield. Having the lantern lit increased their desire to attack; therefore, he had gradually tuned out the incensed screeches of predators hitting the shield for the third time and tumbling down the rocky hill.

"Not a Thalarin?" Her beautiful mouth pursed in suspicion.

"No. However, as frustrated as I am, I will shoot them from the sky if they come for us." He would jump on their ships and tear them apart with his bare hands in defense of her.

Mari returned her attention to him. "You should rest. You look tired."

Crey wanted to laugh, inexplicably. Yes, he was tired—physically, mentally, and, even, emotionally. These emotions affecting him were exhausting, but sleeping when she was like this would be impossible. It was beginning to make sense why passionate, emotional Earthens slept for such long periods.

"I will rest when you are better." Crey brushed his hand across her forehead and down her cheek lightly. Mari had given him permission to touch all of her, and there was no innate resistance when Crey had changed her stained outer clothing. He had done as much of it as possible with his eyes closed. His mate had asked for privacy while dressing earlier, which suggested significance was attributed by her race to that act. When Mari revealed her body to him, at a later time, it would be by her choosing.

"I feel better when you're resting beside me." Her frown was petulant.

Crey eased down beside her. "Very well. Is that better?"

"Hold me. Like last night." The petulance increased.

He pulled her atop him.

"Tell me more stories," she said, relaxing.

"I do not know stories. My people do not tell stories. We recite factual accounts."

Stories were an Earthen practice. Gaiians had no desire to create fiction. Thalarins told stories, in a way; they lied, and they spread these lies to cause damage. Earthens created stories and vids, which some races, like the Fah'hilians, found entertaining. Admittedly, Crey had been entertained while reading their stories to learn English.

"Neaahngh." She made anxious movements while her breathing became erratic.

"I know Earthen stories," Crey said quickly. "I read them and memorized them while learning your English. Would you like to hear them?" His brain had grasped onto the texts and kept them. Crey had hoped that, if there was finite space in his memory, these books would be purged when necessary.

She settled again. Her breathing became slow and steady, which Crey took for assent.

Crey searched his prodigious memory for a "good story"—while giving thanks to the Greater Beings for this ability. He would tell her The Lord, the Highwayman, and his Lady. That would keep her interest. The story began on the moors. "The moors in this part of England were fogged with such thick atmosphere that, even inside the carriage, Lady Priscilla felt its oppressive gloom. She should not have traveled at such a late hour or on this road. Dangerous men were said to lurk along this path."