Page 36 of Star-Born Anomaly
He extended it toward her. “You can analyze it.”
She shook her head as she took small steps toward him. “I’ve analyzed my blood before, for school, many times. That won’t prove anything.”
He did not respond to those statements because he had nothing to add. The only way to prove she was Calypson was for her to perform the task herself.
Eyes narrowing, she crossed to the secondary terminal and gestured to the flat surface in the middle. “Place it there.”
He moved toward her, and she tensed, her eyes flicking up to his, then down to the towel as he set it on the glossy black surface. She tapped the terminal, and the panel lit up beneath the towel.
A moment later, data streamed above the terminal, breaking down the makeup of the towel and any liquids within its fibers, including her blood. She enhanced that portion, the white blood cells now as large as his hand, traveling in a sea of red blood cells.
“It’s human blood. Nothing unusual about it,” she stated, waving her hand at the information scrolling beside the holographic reconstruction.
He stepped closer, and her spine straightened. Emotions shot toward him, then mellowed when he did not get any closer, a half meter separating them.
“Change your analyzing filters to the following,” he said, then listed filter adjustments that would allow her to see the truth.
“Hold on, hold on,” she said, holding up one hand. “Repeat them again.”
He started at the beginning and spoke slower the second time. Tiny bumps developed across the back of her neck. A sudden urge to brushhis fingers over those bumps overwhelmed him. His fingers twitched, but stayed at his sides. He would not touch her without permission.
She changed the settings as he spoke, until the images hovering over the terminal shifted, revealing an entire spectrum of color. He was about to tell her to magnify a portion of the white blood cells when she did it on her own.
“What in the…?”
Red fissures cracked along the surface, snaking like fingers.
She drew back at the sight, then shook her head. “You could have put that there. It isn’t a clean sample.” Her fingers flexed on the edge of the terminal. “With your own blood or something.”
He had not tampered with the sample, but he did not want her to think he had lied when he had promised not to. He took one step backward. “You can provide a fresh sample.”
She stared at him for a long while, a multitude of emotions crossing her face, and along with it, echoing waves. His own rose in response, and he was not sure how to process it all. These emotions felt ancient, a distant memory that he could not fully grasp. So much of what he had experienced in his life since had replaced those sensations.
“Fine,” she huffed, reaching underneath the terminal to open a cupboard.
Many items crammed the small space. Pushing some of the larger containers aside, she grabbed a small one like she had used in the greenhouse for her seeds.
Standing, she closed the cupboard with her foot and set the container beside the bloody towel. It opened with aclick. A flick of her gaze to his, and she swiped the dermal syringe from its place nestled in the foam that protected it.
She turned her body slightly, lifted the sleeve of her shirt, and pressed the syringe against the vein on the inside of her elbow. It hissed quietly. She pulled it away from her skin and set it inside the analyzer cradle beside the towel.
The image of the new sample took the place of the old one. Red blood cells spun around in a vortex, white blood cells interspersed among them. All the data showed regular human blood. Her shoulders lowered.
“You must change your settings,” he reminded her.
She twitched, then shook her head slightly before doing as he said, resetting the terminal for a modified analysis. Her heart rate accelerated as the image shifted, revealing the same darker red substance coating the white blood cells.
“What is it?” The question was a whispered plea, matching the shock that washed over him in waves.
“You are Calypson.” It was the only explanation he could give her that encompassed everything.
She seemed to want to deny the evidence in front of her, because she kept shaking her head.
He tried out the movement, back and forth, wondering if it was enjoyable. It did nothing for him.
“Oh, you don’t shake your head at me.”
At her harshly spoken words, he stopped, uncertain why she took exception.
