It was called Prima Praeceptum, or the First Rule of Visitation. Some called it Rule One. Anyone on Caelus so much as considering Earth migration knew of Rule One. It came before all other rules, even before the forbidden abuse of psy. Rule One was such an important mandate that it was rarely even taught—it was simply 'known,' just as knowing how to eat needs no teaching.
In over fifty years of living on earth, there was never a reported instance of Rule One having been broken. There were times when some needed reminding of Rule One, but never a known violation.
Do not, under any circumstances, develop feelings of love, engage in physical relations, or become close enough to indigena that your decisions become compromised.
It was simple, easy to understand, and very easy to follow.
There were many reasons for this rule. Much was still unknown about genetic compatibility between the Caelans and the indigena. But even beyond that, what sort of ramifications would come about from an inappropriate relationship? Secrecy would surely be put at risk, but what about political standing? If Caelan identity were revealed through such a breach, would all indigena feel taken advantage of, possibly becoming hostile?
Worse, what would such a relationship do to a Caelan's judgment? Would feelings cloud protocol, compromising the safety of all Caelans? Love had played a significant role in sparking violence—even wars—in both worlds' histories. With a carina and knowledge of Caelus' location, could an indigena use love as a means for a violent invasion of Caelus?
The list of reasons for Rule One was long, but the most important reason of all was the fear of the unknown. What would happen?
Incompatibility—differences in looks, interests, and intellect—had taken care of the problem naturally, making it a self-sustaining rule. Decades of interaction without issue had proven its viability. Of course, the recent anger outbreak stained that record, putting into question the entire stability of the Caelan's presence on earth.
Avery considered all of this as she lay on her bed staring at the ceiling, and wondered with a bitter sense of irony if this was the universe's way of balancing out the anger problem.
Completely lost in thought, she had hardly moved since coming upstairs, getting up only once when she heard Chase leave through the front door. She had watched from the upstairs window as he drove away in Cadence's car. With him now gone, it felt as though the ground had given way beneath her feet. It was a sensation of falling, of not being in control, all coupled with helplessness and despair. Trying to manage her feelings was an exercise in futility, like being along for the ride—an unpleasant ride—with no ability to steer or control the vehicle in any way.
In all of her twenty eight years Avery had never felt this helpless. She had no memory of ever being at such a loss for answers—in any aspect of her life.
At home, she was very well respected—one of a select few scientists chosen to come to Earth. Over one hundred discoveries on adaptive plant morphology alone were credited to her, and her techniques on indigena bio-grafting were exactly why she was chosen.
And among the indigena, she was adored and respected, supervising a staff of forty three and providing valuable oversight at the research center.
Avery had always lived a life of selflessness, both at home and on Earth. She was very happy doing so—in fact, it was something of which she was very proud. Even the challenges of her recent hardships drew no complaints. The attack at her house, as well as her near death today, were met with maturity and professionalism—she had no bad words for anyone. It was always a priority for Avery to put the needs of the many ahead of her own, and she was always first to help others.
