Atticus's Angel - A Sci-Fi Alien Romance (The Quasar Lineage Book 9) | eBook

“Oh, doctor! I’ve been waiting for your call!” 
My mother’s high-pitched voice screeches from the next room as she answers the phone. 
Pausing the game on my hand-held device, I continued to stare at the screen of the app I was playing. Despite the way she treats me, I’m not stupid. I know that the outcome of this phone call is something I’ll want to hear.
Today, we went to the Hope Intermediate Care Facility for our formal application to be completed. My favorite caregiver, Sheila, referred my mother to Hope Intermediate. Now that I’ve turned twenty-three, the program I’ve been attending at the local school has become unavailable. 
“And they’re confident that will pass through?” 
My mother’s voice has dropped in volume, which means she’s calming down. Everything’s going her way, then.
Restarting the game, my body works on autopilot, continuing to move through the motions to get to the next level. Then the next. Then the next.
If only real life was this easy. 
Hope Intermediate is the opposite of its name. There’s no hope there. If anything, it’s despondent within its walls. 
Drugged, catatonic, and depressed adults are all there. Some live there full-time. 
That’s one of my biggest fears. 
And it's happened. My mother finally decided that I needed to get out on my own. She trying to permanently move me into that facility. 
But she’s struggling just to qualify for the funding for me to attend there during the day, so it won’t be this year at least. It’ll be bad enough having to attend there all day, though.
They don’t allow you to bring any of your own items with you. They say it’s to avoid issues with others taking them. Or to prevent breakdowns and fights. That means no games, no blankets, and no stuffies. 
All the items that make life tolerable.
“When will they review the extended application?” 
Mother’s hopeful voice echoes in my head. 
Extended application. That’s what they call the additional funding she’d need to get me in there full-time. 
Overnight. Out of her hair for good.
“So, only then, huh?” 
She blows out an exasperated breath before I hear her straighten and look in my direction from where she’s sitting at the kitchen table. “You’ll keep me updated on our placement in the wait?”
It’s only a matter of time then. 
My mother always acts like everything she’s doing is totally for my benefit. All the shuttling around, phone calls, applications—all for me. Because my life can be so much better. 
Any time I’ve tried to express that I’m unhappy with anything, I’m locked in my room until I can “settle down.” It’s not my fault that it’s hard to communicate, and my body betrays me when I try. 
FXS, FXS, FXS. 
That’s all I ever hear about!
Fragile X syndrome is genetic, and I’ve lived with it my entire life. By adolescence, I was hearing doctors adding on the words ‘attention deficit disorder’ and ‘autism spectrum disorder.’ Which opened up a realm of other programs for me to attend. 
Like Hope Intermediate Care Center… where it appears I’ll be spending at least some of my days for the rest of my adult life.
Ironic considering the facility is stripping away any hope I may have had left. My mother keeps saying I’ll meet new people, and new friends, and develop new skills… but I’m so shy, I can barely look around me—let alone look at strangers. 
From what I saw when we visited, anyone who does have the capability to look around isn’t looking at anyone. They’re talking to themselves or someone inside them. 
I do it too. It’s a coping mechanism. 
Soothing. Along with the repetitive behaviors of our hands and mouths. 
It’s interesting because I think just like everyone else, but my body… isn’t like everyone else’s. I’m trapped in here and at the mercy of my guardian. 
My mother.
“… it seems like such a long time. Especially since they won’t even review it until our place in line comes up. Isn’t there a way to find out if we’ve qualified before then?”
I know she loves me. Of course, she does. She’s just tired.
I’ve heard other caregivers discussing this. Nobody signs on to having a child live at home their entire life, right?
But at least she has a child. What I wouldn’t give to be normal and have a baby. My own baby. A girl baby.
I talked to my mother about having a baby once. It was a difficult thing for me to bring up and discuss. But she said no. No babies. 
She didn’t explain much, just said that having babies is for other people who don’t get taken care of. That if I can’t take care of myself, how can I take care of a baby? 
I think I can take care of myself, but she says if I can’t remember to eat, let alone take my medicine, so how would I remember to feed a baby?
We didn’t talk about how to make a baby, but I learned that a long time ago. I understand that it’d take a man to put it inside me. I didn’t have anyone in mind, but I considered a few options.
But my mother also said there’s a good chance that I wouldn’t even be able to get pregnant with a baby. Because of my disease, I may not be able to carry it long enough. Just thinking about it makes me sad. 
Everything makes me sad these days, though. 
“Okay, well, I can call back next week—no?” My mother pauses, “Alright. That’s fine… certainly. Thank you, doctor, and we’ll see you tomorrow.” 
The chair creaks ominously as my mother moves toward me. “Ashlyn! We’re all set for tomorrow.”
I don’t look up as she moves into the room in front of me. Two more levels and I’ll have the bonus I want, but she’s going to make me shut it down.
“You need to go get ready for bed. It’ll be a big day tomorrow.” 
As she yanks the game from my hands, I stare ahead in defeat. “Come on, now. I know you know it’s time. Let’s go up.”
Standing, I move slowly toward the stairs of the only home I’ve ever known. Rounding the corner, I walk directly into the small bathroom we share. The face staring back at me looks like a stranger’s, even though I see it every day. 
My black hair is parted in the middle around my narrow face. The long braids down the sides are the one thing I do myself every morning. I enjoy braiding my hair although my mother sometimes undoes it and fixes the part in the back before making me do it again. I don’t mind. 
When I’m worked up about something, she’ll unwrap my braids and let me redo them. The repetitive motions calm me. 
I wish she had long hair, but her style has been short and curly my entire life. 
“Your application is under review, along with all the financial information we submitted today. But it doesn’t look like you’ll be going full-time this year.” 
My mother leans against the doorframe of the bathroom like she does two times a day, every day, while I brush my teeth. “Get the top right, honey.”
My hand moves automatically at her prompting, brushing obediently at the odd angle in my mouth. 
Leaning past me, she fills the glass with water and passes it to me as I spit out the additional toothpaste. “I think you’re going to love it there. Remember the outside?”
Nodding obediently, I agree. The brown eyes that stare back at me in the mirror know the truth. 
I couldn’t care less about going outside. Every time I do, I have to make sure I have on sunscreen, and I don’t like the way it makes my skin feel oily. 
“And all the other people there are going to want to get to know you. They have classes for arts and crafts and music and dancing…” 
Her voice drones on and on as she passes me my pills and watches me use the bathroom. It’s been a long time since I wet the bed, but we still do this same process every morning and evening.
Without a word, I leave the bathroom as she steps aside and follows me into my bedroom to supervise me changing into my pink, ice cream cone-covered pajamas. They’re my favorite and are made of a soft, thin material. 
I have two pairs that I rotate between.
“…won’t that be great?” 
When she pauses as I’m straightening my blanket over me, I nod and meet her eyes. Tucking Junior, my stuffed pig, inside the top of the blanket, her little head rubs against my chin as I nod. It doesn’t matter what she’s said or whether I agree. 
I don’t have any control—either over my body--and definitely not over my life. 
I try to act normal, but inevitably, my mother or someone else will grab my hands that I don’t even realize are moving to help me “settle down.” I just don’t seem to be aware of the little things I do to make them think I’m different. They just happen, just like the occasional seizure. 
I’m trapped. Forever. 
Maybe not in this room that’s still the light blue we painted it when I was ten but in this life. In a body I can’t control, and a brain that can calculate but not remember to shower, even when I start to smell. It just doesn’t make sense.
“Night.” 
Mother flicks off the light on the way out, shutting the door to barely a crack, and I hear her move into the bathroom that backs onto the wall behind my head. Bath water runs as I doze. The sound is soothing and lulls me to sleep.
The bright light I dream about surrounds me in colors I’ve never seen before. It’s everywhere, and for a while, I experienced trying to control my body and not being able to. 
It’s not exactly the same as my everyday life, but similar. The light gets brighter and brighter, like drifting slowly toward the sun. 
I notice sweat pooling under my arms and goosebumps cover my skin as my heart speeds up. It’s going to wake me up. I know it!
But I don’t. 
Like the light my mother flicks off every night on the way out of my room—it just ends. 
And all is dark and calm again.

Staring at the patient in the bed in front of me, I can’t help but feel thankful.
Yes, I’m not in the most ideal situation myself. I’m promised to someone that I’m not attracted to, with a pending commitment ceremony looming closer and closer. But this male was raised in a group home on Quasar… he never knew his family.
What would that be like? Never knowing who your parents are? Never having the slightest possibility of joining with another?
According to the brief conversations I’ve had with my patient, Vekel, he just did what he was told. Like all of us. But now he’s paying… and almost with his life too, as his body detoxes from the drugs that contaminated his food his entire life.
When we realized exactly what the issue was, we started the slow detox program Hannah drew up. At first, we underestimated how compromised and dependent on them he was. He’s suffered so many seizures we’ve knocked him out for his protection.
Even though tomorrow will be twenty rotations of treatment and we have taken him off the sedation, he hasn’t woken.
“The same?”
Brock questions me from where he’s sitting, reading a medical journal Hannah shared with him. We’re so used to working together that we rarely need to talk. He’s my best friend and closest confidant.
“Yes.”
Quickly, I roll Vekel’s large body onto his side and begin the daily shuffle of cleaning the surrounding bedding.
Even though he’s bigger than me, his muscles have deteriorated in the short time he’s been unconscious. If he doesn’t come out of this soon, Hannah says we’ll have to begin “physiotherapy” or what we consider rehabilitation.
Making quick work of the task, I toss the used bedding into the cart when I hear our patient mutter, “It’s wrong…”
“What’d he say?”
Brock’s whisper behind me makes me realize I’ve frozen. It doesn’t happen every day, but often we catch him talking in his sleep.
“It’s wrong,” I whisper back.
We both stay frozen in place, waiting to see if he says anything else. Not only is it interesting, we don’t have much else to do.
Until the human females arrived, our jobs consisted of a rotation of health monitoring of the staff on the Discovery. That’s the spacecraft we’re on, rotating around Dactyles, the Quasar prison planet below us.
Now, with two pending female pregnancies, we spend every spare minute studying the female information we’ve gathered from Hannah, Shelly, and Beth, who all permanently live on the ship with their mates.
A burst of warmth shoots through me as I stand frozen in place next to Brock. If I had to explain it, I’d say it started inside me from my center before moving out through my limbs, leaving them tingling in its wake. What was that?
I glance around, confused.
Vekel hasn’t moved or said a word, but I’m uncomfortable as I tug lightly on the collar of my standard-issue gray uniform. It feels scratchy on my chest as I pull the material and twist my neck slightly.
Brock shifts next to me, and I wonder if something is malfunctioning with the temperature on the craft when I hear a yell from outside the medical bay. More than one, actually. And the voices and shouts are escalating.
Turning, we run for the door, and they slide open before we reach them as another shout calls out. I can’t understand what they’re saying, though.
Stepping into the hall, I notice two males embracing not far away from us. I’m shocked as they pull apart, noticing the one facing me has his flight suit gaping open.
That’s not the fascinating part, though—it’s his chest that draws my attention. The smooth skin is now covered with intricate, highly coveted mating marks.
The male he’s embracing turns slightly, and his jumpsuit is open, too. Neither look at us. Instead, their attention is on another male exiting his station across from them with his suit open, too.
“It’s a miracle!” echoes down the hall, as more celebratory hoots and hollers begin from the other side of us.
Brock’s hands on my neck startle me before I realize he’s releasing the fastener at the top of my suit. Cool air blasts against my hot skin as the release parts with no additional effort, exposing my chest to his gaze.
I don’t even have to look down to know why he audibly gasps as feet pound behind me, running past. The yells around us are still escalating as I tilt my head down to look at my chest. Faint, light red markings decorate my skin.
Lifting my hand, I run my fingers over the decorations just over my heart which is beating so fast, that I can feel the pounding against my palm as I flatten it there. Hope and then thankfulness makes me light-headed, and I slump against the wall to my right, sliding down the smooth surface and dropping onto my ass.
My breathing is loud in my ears, but Brock’s howl is louder and has me looking up from where I’m studying myself to see him jumping into the air. His suit is now open to his waist as he leaps off the floor, his fists pounding against the ceiling. His flight suit continues to open to mid-thigh, and I’m given a full frontal view of his body.
His mating marks are darker, thicker, and already more colorful. In most places on his body, there are more markings than skin, and tears spring to my eyes. My prayers to the Sacred Mother have been granted not only for me—but for both of us.
Brock’s family commitment would have broken him. In just the short time he spent at his promised dwelling before coming to the Discovery for his tour, he’d already had issues to work through.
Now… now we are both committed to another… forever.
Brock dances away, still jumping and spinning in circles, celebrating with others. They have come out of stations and conference rooms up and down the hall on the level we’re on. It wasn’t just us.
Could it be the entire spacecraft?
Smiling so hard my face hurts, I watch normally stoic and serious males, running up and down, grabbing each other, hugging and admiring—all with their clothing practically falling off them. One overzealous fool—yes, that’s Ticon, has removed his boots and entire jumpsuit to strut down the hall with his arms in the air.
Brock bounces back over, almost running to me, before throwing his arm out to pull me up and into a hug that takes my feet from the floor. He’s always been one of the largest males I’ve known, rivaling some of the smaller females at Quasar in height.
“Congratulations, my brother!”
I realize we’re both crying as his voice breaks in my ear.
“Yes…” Sniffing slightly, I feel my feet touch back down, and we pull away, still clasping each other’s arms. “…we’ve been truly blessed. Congratulations to you, too.”
Pulsar claps us both on the shoulders, squeezing enthusiastically before bouncing off down the hall, his open suit flashing markings that show he’s as lucky as we are. Few have spoken about the hope we’ve all harbored that the blessing Bren started with the human Hannah would continue to roll out to us all.
With Earth so far away and protected in the Ashen zone, we could only wait to see how things would turn out. It looks like our waiting is over.
But I can’t help wondering why and asking, “Do you have any idea why this has happened?”
Brock scoffs, releasing me to turn and move toward the door and back into the medical bay. “I’m certain I don’t care about the why right now, but you could contact Bren to ask him. He’s on the surface of the prison planet and has been since we arrived. From the sounds of it, everyone else is too busy celebrating to worry about that aspect yet.”
He releases me to hurry across the room to our patient, who’s beginning to stir again. At first, I think Brock’s just interested in listening to Vekel, but as I watch, he lowers the coverings to expose his chest. I didn’t think of that.
Will he have mating marks like every other male I’ve seen on board so far?