Chapter 7 #2
He grunts, as if it's hard to agree with me. “Scans showed lifeforms. Some of them were pretty big,” he says, gaze shifting toward the horizon. “I’d need to turn into a Parthiastock to check if they’re sentient.”
I raise an eyebrow and give him a little wave, gesturing for him to go ahead. “Well, what are you waiting for?”
Closing his eyes, he shifts. His skin ripples and darkens into a deep, shimmering purple as his shoulders broaden and his frame grows bulkier, his new form casting a wide shadow across the field.
Something brushes against the edge of my mind, a warm, almost amused presence.
“So.” A rumble of laughter weaves through his voice. “You like a Parthiastock’s shoulders?”
Heat rises to my cheeks. “Get out of my head and do something useful.”
His chuckle lingers in my mind, a teasing echo that makes me want to roll my eyes, and a small, involuntary smile tugs at my lips.
The alien stares off into the distance, concentrating, and the air around us goes still. Eerily quiet. The horizon seems to stretch, a colossal unknown home for someone else, where I'm the intruder.
When he finally opens his eyes, the stillness fades, and it's like I can move again.
“There’s sentient life about ten klicks north,” he reports, his voice back to normal. “The rest of what’s nearby are just animals.”
“Animals? What kind?”
He shrugs, the movement making his scaled shoulders ripple. “I don’t know, I only brushed their minds. I didn’t dig around for specifics.”
As he shifts back to his usual gold-and-black form, he stumbles. I reach out automatically to steady him, but he shakes his head. “I’m fine.”
I withdraw my hand. What the fuck am I doing, helping my kidnapper? But at the same time, I have to get him to relax around me.
He takes another few steps and stumbles again, this time right into a patch of brambles.
“You okay?” This time I practically shove my hand in his face. He’ll need it to get out of that patch.
Muttering, he takes it and I yank him out of the thorny prison. If a few spikes scrape his skin, he doesn’t make a fuss about it, swatting at his pants.
“Hold still.” I pluck a few thorny vines out of his fabric. “Did you get scratched?”
“No. Did you?”
“No, I’m fi—” A sharp sting pricks my finger. “Ow.”
His scales shift to a slick green color as he transforms into a Selthiastock, and he holds out his hand imperiously. “Let me see.”
“It’s nothing—”
“It could be poisonous.” The concern in his eye makes me halt.
But it's not really for me. It's for his mission.
Realizing he’s not going to let this go, I sigh and hold out my hand. He takes it gently, turning it over as he inspects the tiny cut. Then he sniffs it, his brow furrowing.
Without warning, he leans down and presses his lips to the wound.
I yank my hand back, a flush of heat racing up my neck. “Gross. What was that?”
“It’s an efficient pathway of diagnosis and a healing medium,” he replies, meeting my eyes unfazed. “Your friend Arra-bellah found that out.”
“So you’re, what, able to tell whether it’s poisonous?”
“And produce the antidote.” He runs his tongue along his teeth. “No extraneous compounds present in your blood. My saliva will seal the wound.” Arture bends his head over my hand as if he’s going to kiss it like an old school knight.
“Uh, no.” I put my hand behind my back, making him dart behind me to get it. I spin around again, and totter next to the ditch with the brambles. He snatches me to his chest, green eye sparkling with mischief. “This isn’t how we wash wounds on Earth,” I point out.
“But you’re not on Earth now, Nic-coal.” He lets me go. “Without fuel, we have to prioritize certain systems in the ship. If you won’t let me heal you the Selthiastock way, we’ll keep the medbay online, but that takes up a shit ton of power. We’ll have to turn off lights and heating.”
“Fine. Do that.” I rub my hand against my ripped jodhpurs. “All I need is something to eat and some clothes which aren’t torn to shit.”
“We’ll keep the replicator laser on,” he muses. “Best way to make food if we give it raw materials. But first, we need to find said raw materials.”
He shifts again, his form compressing and scales going brown as nutmeg. This time, his physique slims down, his hands taking on a more precise, delicate look, and his nose twitches slightly as he sniffs the air.
It's fascinating. “Which clone type are you now?”
“A Magirustock, a clone built for getting the best out of ingredients. They're… rather touchy about the meals they prepare.”
“Oh?” I leap to why he's telling me this. “You want me to feel bad about not eating your culinary delights? You get a negative review from me, mate, because you kidnapped your one and only diner.”
His rich brown scales pale like all the color’s boiled out of them. “Mate?”
Aw, fuck. My cheeks heat yet again. “I shouldn't have used that word. I'm aware of its connotations for you aliens. In my part of the Earth, it means friend.”
“Huh.” His color doesn't return, almost like he's disappointed. “You consider me your friend?”
“Well, it's complicated. Brits call their best friends ‘mate,’ but they also reserve it for assholes they've just met.”
His cheeky grin spills across his face. “And I bet I know which category I'm in.”
As we walk in the grassland, he grabs at various plants and mushrooms, chocolate brown eyes lighting up as he sniffs and examines each one.
He shifts back into a Selthiastock to check the edibility and safety of certain things, wobbling a little, then returns to his Magirustock form, sniffing out a treasure trove of seeds and rolling them between his quick fingers.
He bounces with excitement as he pulls herbs and seeds from the underbrush. “Do you have any idea the dishes I could make with these?” His eyes sparkle. “I’m thinking toasted nuts. I’m thinking rich mushroom sauce. I’m betting I can mix up and set a seedcake.”
I can’t help but grin listening to him chatter about potential dishes, flavors, and textures. The big, intimidating warrior I’d been so wary of is gushing over edible plants. He pulls out a bag from his big cargo pants pockets. Man, I want more pockets.
But this could be a front. He changes his appearance with ease, and can probably change how he acts just as easily.
Gathering some of the same berries, I say, “You don’t talk like the other aliens.”
“Like you’ve met so many.” He stands upright, sack full of foraged goodies. “I absorbed your culture, idioms, and style of speech listening to the shortwave broadcasts.”
I have to think about that. “You mean the radio?”
“Indeed.” He raises his voice and says in a sing-song radio announcer voice, “Live at ten, what do the British public really think about brat summer? Text your opinions to the free phone number, calls may be recorded, and please make sure to get the bill payer’s permission before you spill all.”
Despite my reservations, I can’t help giggles jumping their way up inside my chest. They finally erupt and I burst out laughing, setting a flock of purple winged creatures flying from their roosts in the trees.
We both tense, staring at the sky, but I know an animal fear response when I see one. “They’re flying away from us, not toward us. We’re safe.”
“How do you know that?” He shifts into the big petrol-blue Ilia type.
“Because I work with animals day in and day out. I'm a large animal vet and equine behavioralist. I'm very busy. It’s why I hardly ever visited the farm.”
“But these are alien lifeforms.”
I shrug. “They share similarities and patterns. Enough for me to know in my gut we're in no danger from those birds.” I point to my stomach.
Unfortunately, it chooses that time to make an unholy gargling noise.
“Let’s go back to the ship.” His brown eye sparkles. “Time to cook.”