VERONICA

My golden boy seems like he woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning. I watch him move down the creepy beach with Zolaya, until they disappear out of sight. He doesn't look like he's having much fun. It's weird, because he doesn't seem to like most of the guys at the camp. I genuinely enjoy the company of all the girls here and I'm glad we have each other to lean on, but Ashtar is more of a loner.

"You think they're really alive?" Penny asks Harlow. The pregnant redhead is sitting with us by the fire today, her mate at her side. Most of the others are scattered up and down the beach and the surrounding lands, so it's a rather quiet day around the campfire. Pashov is still in his tent sleeping off his head wound, and I know the others are worried over it. Harlow explained that he was hit in the head in the past and lost his memories for a while, and they fear something like that will happen again. Poor guy. Some people are just unlucky like that.

I know how that goes. I seem to be a bit clumsier than most, so I've had my share of bad luck.

"Mardok says so, and he wouldn't lie." Harlow smiles, but she looks distracted.

"What about Willa?" Nadine asks.

"Alive, too," Harlow confirms. "And Gren."

"We know where they're at?" I ask, curious. "Mardok can track them? Why don't we go after them, then?"

Harlow hesitates. "Vektal's sent a few of the hunters to go find them, but it's a delicate situation. They don't want to make Gren nervous, in case he feels he needs to hurt Willa."

Oh. Oh no. I bite my lip. It's a hostage situation, then. Man, this planet went to hell overnight. How depressing.

Bridget sighs. "I can't believe it's 2012 and we're still having to worry about dudes kidnapping ladies. So much for equality."

"What are you talking about?" Hannah asks. "It's 2015."

"Um, no it's not. It's 2013," Bridget adds. "I know because I just turned twenty-three on the thirteenth of March. Three three three. I wouldn't forget that."

Harlow's eyes go wide. "I've been here for a few years now, and it was 2015 when I came here."

"What's going on?" Tia's voice trembles. "I don't understand."

We go around the fire, sharing the last date we remember at home. Mine is 2010. Angie's is the most out of sync, with her last remembering 2005. Hannah is the most recent at 2015, and no one is past that date. It's clear that whoever kidnapped us kept us in stasis for a long, long time…some of us longer than others. Angie touches her belly, worry on her face, and I know what she's thinking. It's what we're all thinking.

What happened in all those years we're missing? Why are they gone?

Next to me, Tia looks ready to have a nervous breakdown. I don't blame her. I feel ready to have one myself. I wish Lauren was here, because she's always been one we look to in a panicky moment. She'd be calm about it, say something reassuring, and do her best to lift everyone else's spirits. But she's gone, dead or missing, and that just makes things worse. Someone needs to step up.

Maybe it should be me. I'm the only one that's resonated so far, so maybe I should be more of a leader to the others. I'm experiencing things before they have, so it's bound to reason that they're going to have questions for me. No time like the present to take charge, I decide. "Let's not get upset over this," I say, and it sounds reasonable even to my own ears. "Let's just have some breakfast and worry about things we can control."

"Great idea," Bridget says, and Hannah makes a face at her.

"Why don't we have some tea?" Harlow suggests, and tries to get to her feet, a hand on her big belly. "I've got a great blend in my backpack—"

"I'll get it," I tell her. "You sit down." I surge to my feet and try to step over Tia's crossed legs.

My foot catches on hers, though, and then I'm falling, face first, into the fire. I put my hands out to protect myself, and I barely realize it's logs and coals that my hands smack into. I remain there for a moment, dumbly, before the pain flares in my body as it hits me. All of it hits me. I'm in the fire.

Every second feels like a hundred years. There's screaming. I try to push backward, to get out of the fire, but everything hurts. There's a smell like burning hair and I realize it's my hair. My hands throb with intense pain and then a body slams into me, knocking me into the snow.

"Stop, drop and roll, dammit," Hannah's yelling at me, slapping at my fur clothing.

I'm on fire.

I'm on fire.

Oh god. Everyone's screaming, and it just adds to my panic. I think my mind is blanking out because my hands both hurt and feel cool and tingly at the same time. The front of my chest feels scalded and my chin does, too, but none of it feels as intensely painful as my hands. I roll on the ground at everyone's feet while Hannah and Bridget slap at my clothing. Someone's screaming—Tia, I think—and all I can think is stupid, stupid, stupid. I'm such a clumsy idiot and now I've gotten myself hurt.

"Sit up," Hannah says, one hand on my shoulder. "Let's see the damage."

"I'll get bandages," Harlow says. "Come with me, Tia."

Tia sobs and moves to Harlow's side while the others crowd around me. I slowly sit up with Bridget's help, and I want to cry, too. Everything hurts so intensely I can't think straight. There's a low rumbling in my cootie, like it's not thinking clearly either, and my hands just keep tingling and tingling. I look down at them to see how bad it is.

It's bad. My hands are blistered and charred, the skin bubbling up where the flames hit. I swallow hard, because I've never seen anything so awful in my life. My chin hurts, and the front of my chest, and I suspect I've been burned there, too.

"It's going to be okay," Hannah tells me calmly. "Just keep your hands out straight and try not to bend them. We'll get some wet compresses and figure out what to do, all right?"

"The ship could heal this," Steph says, crouching by my side. "But it's gone."

"Maybe Mardok saved something," Bridget adds, patting my shoulder. "There's got to be something we can do."

I just keep staring at my hands. It's like the longer I stare, the less painful it feels. Maybe that's shock kicking in, but whatever it is, I'll take it. I continue to stare at my spread fingers, gazing down at the red welts. Burns are supposed to be some of the worst pain ever but…this actually doesn't feel all that terrible anymore. My hands tingle with that cool sensation, and my cootie's purring, except it's a different kind of purr than when Ashtar is around. This is like a purr that's just for me, as if it's telling me that everything's going to be okay. That it's got things handled.

That's kind of sweet, really.

As I stare at my hands, I notice the blisters are starting to fade. The pinkness fades, and the humming of my cootie just keeps filling me with that sense of peace and well-being. That nice, pleasant calmness. My fingertips continue to tingle, and as I watch, the burns disappear from my fingers. They bleed away as if never there, the blisters fading and smoothing as if my skin was never harmed. After a moment I flex my hands and they don't hurt. Just my chin does. Curious, I put a hand to my face and feel the blisters there, and I wonder if I can fix those, too, just by thinking about them.

"Don't touch it," Hannah says, pulling on my arm. "You'll make it worse. You…" Her voice dies away. "You…aren't burned? What the fuck?"

"I think I healed it," I tell her, and I'm just as mystified as she is. "Unless I'm going crazy. Look at my hands and tell me what you see." I spread my fingers before her face. Maybe I'm in shock and my brain just isn't registering things properly. But when she gasps, I realize I'm right. I healed myself somehow. There's a pleasant rumbling in my cootie that tells me that yes, I did. It's like it’s always known that this healing was deep in it.

Deep in me.

"Oh wow, that's pretty cool," I breathe, smiling, and wiggle my hands. "I didn't know I could do that."

No one knows what to say. Harlow returns a frantic moment later, panting, leaning heavily on Tia, and then there's even more confusion when she realizes I'm not hurt at all. "You're a healer like Maylak?" she asks, clearly astounded.

I don't recognize the name. "Who's Maylak?"

"One of the sa-khui women. She's back at the village and she's the only one I know of that can do this."

"Huh," I say, wiggling my fingers again. I can't stop looking at them. There's a bit of fog in my head, but overall I feel pretty good. Giddy, almost. Like I have an endorphin high. "Maybe we were all imagining it, though? I mean, what if I wasn't all that burned?" I glance up. "Anyone got a blister or a small cut I can fix up?"

"You could try on Pashov," Harlow says quietly. "His head wound."

Oh. I forgot about poor Pashov and the head wound everyone's so worried about. "You think I should? I don't want to make things worse."

"I'm sure you can't make things worse," Hannah tells me with a light smack on my shoulder. "Have some confidence in yourself."

She has a point. "Okay then. Let's ask him if I can give it a shot."

Our little group heads over to the tent where Pashov's resting. Even though I'm not really hurt anymore, Hannah fusses over me and keeps an arm around my waist, as if I'll need the support. I don't, though. That endorphin high is surging through me and I feel so good, I feel like I could do anything, take on anyone, heal everything in my sight.

For the first time in my life, I'm good at something. I'm special.

It's exciting to think about.

"Pashov," Harlow calls softly, scratching her fingers against the flap on his tent. "Are you awake?"

"I am here," he replies, groggy with sleep. "What do you need?" A moment later, he peers out. He looks rough, his dark hair messy around his head. One horn arches high above his craggy brow, but the other is not more than a stump, though I've been told it's growing back. He's got circles under his eyes and a bandage over his head.

"Can…can Veronica look at your head wound? We want to check something. We think she might be a healer."

He grunts and climbs out of the tent, getting to his feet. "Try whatever you like. You cannot make my head any more brittle than it already is."

The big alien looks at me expectantly, and I hesitate, because I've never been a doctor of any kind in the past. "Why don't we go sit by the fire again?" My body is humming with energy and I can practically feel the hurt pouring off of him. I'm itching to get my hands on him, weirdly enough, to see if I can fix what's ailing him. And I can feel that cool, teasing tingle in my limbs, as if my cootie agrees with me. Like we're revving up for the starting line.

Pashov staggers over to the fire, and as he does, I can see blood leaking from the back of his bandage. Harlow looks concerned at how slow he's moving, and I'm practically itching to get my hands on him. Everyone sits down again, and all eyes are on Pashov and on me.

"OK to start?" I ask, moving over to his side and skirting wide around the fire.

He waves a hand tiredly.

All righty then. I hesitate, then put my hands on his neck. I don't know if I have to touch his wound directly—sounds kind of gross and unsanitary to me—so I start there. The moment I do, my skin prickles, the hairs on the back of my neck rising. I can feel a sense of wrongness in his body. Curious, I close my eyes and try to concentrate, to follow that sensation to see if I can locate the source. I don't know anything about healing or medicine other than what a doctor charges for an endoscopy, but I'm going to let my cootie guide me.

I take a deep breath and mentally sink in, sliding into that “wrong” feeling. It almost feels like my cootie is connecting with his, the reverberations changing to something completely different than resonance, but still musical. We're speaking on a different level, parasite to parasite, and I wait, letting mine “talk” with his. A sense of peace washes over me, and I try to push that into Pashov, who feels like a big person-sized bruise. My fingertips tingle against his neck, and then it's like my spirit's being pulled into his body. I can feel the wound in his head, deep enough that there's a crack in the thick bone of his skull, and the brain behind it is swollen and bruised. It throbs like a toothache, and I hurt for him.

I want to help.

I'm just…not entirely sure how. My healing was natural. It started on its own, just from me staring at my hands. Is it subconscious, then? I imagine myself as a sculptor, and mentally, I visualize how Pashov's head should be. With my thoughts, I zero in on that crack in his skull and smooth it away, as if it's clay to be molded. It's slow going, but the more energy I push from my body to his, the better it works. Slowly, I can feel it mending, and when the crack has disappeared entirely, I slide my focus to his bruised brain. I can see here where it's healed in the past, where a healer has touched and guided this before. I keep my focus inward, but I don't know how to “sculpt” away a swollen brain, so I visualize his brain as healthy and whole, telling my cootie how it should look. How the brain matter feels and acts when it's healthy. I imagine the “toothache” throb is gone, replaced by soothing calm and quick thoughts. It's harder than mending the bone, so I shove as much mental energy into it as I can, thinking happy things and pushing my will against that of his body.

The throbbing slows and then eventually disappears. The swelling lessens, and then the only angry pulse left is that of my cootie, letting me know it’s tired and can't do any more. All right, I understand. I “slide” out of Pashov's body and lift my hands from his neck, blinking. I feel disoriented and a little topsy-turvy, like I just woke up from a three-day nap.

My head hurts and the endorphins feel like they've all left town, and all that's left is this wrung-out-dishrag sort of feeling. I plop down on one of the rock seats next to Pashov and rub my own brow, suddenly tired. "Did it work?"

"You don't know?" Bridget asks, wrinkling her nose.

Pashov tugs at the bandage on his brow. "My head no longer hurts. If nothing else, I will take that. How does it look?"

I glance over at him and the hollows are gone from under his eyes. The “off” feeling no longer throbs in the air around him, and I feel a sense of accomplishment. I'm not entirely surprised when Harlow gently runs her fingers through his hair and then looks up with surprise. "The wound's gone. You did it, Veronica."

"Neat," I say, and then pass out.