15. Kalith
KALITH
“Touch nothing” & “break nothing” were both tantamount to “stop breathing”.
Ipaced the small living space, my new human legs still feeling oddly stiff and jointed compared to the fluid grace of my natural tentacles.
After hours of studying Tammy’s dwelling, I’d categorized precisely twenty-three mechanical devices whose functions remained mysterious to me.
What wonders they might contain! Back home, I’d have dismantled them immediately, but even my excitement couldn’t override the clear warning Tammy had given before departing: “Touch nothing. Break nothing. Learn nothing. Just sit and wait.”
It was like asking me to grow wings and fly instead of swim! A nearly impossible task for someone like me—who’d never met a piece of machinery I didn’t want to strip down to its individual components. My shorter tentacle twitched with nervous energy as I tried to stay still.
The time measurement device on the wall—a “clock,” according to the television programs—had completed three full rotations of its thinnest appendage since Tammy’s departure.
Vantor had positioned himself near the transparent wall section, maintaining vigilant observation of the external environment.
His human disguise remained perfectly poised, not a molecule out of place.
Cyro had settled into what Tammy called a “recliner,” his expression shifting between contemplation and what appeared to be existential distress.
Neither seemed as fascinated as I was by the infinite mysteries surrounding us.
“Do you think this device creates artificial climate zones?” I asked, pointing to a rectangular object with numerous small holes and buttons. “Or perhaps it’s for communication with other humans?”
Neither responded. They’d grown tired of my questions approximately one hour and seventeen minutes ago.
The distant rumble of approaching machinery silenced my next inquiry. Vantor’s posture stiffened, his manufactured human muscles tensing beneath his simulated clothing.
“She’s returned,” he announced, unnecessary information since we’d all detected the distinctive sound pattern of Tammy’s vehicle.
I rushed to the window, pressing my face against the transparent barrier.
My excitement manifested in an unintended molecular shift—my right hand momentarily reverting to tentacle form before I hastily corrected it.
The brief fluidity felt like blessed relief after hours of maintaining rigid human structure.
Tammy emerged from her vehicle carrying multiple large containers.
Even from this distance, my enhanced visual acuity detected the shift in her expressions—exhaustion giving way to determination as she approached the dwelling.
The sunlight caught her red cranial filaments, igniting them like the bioluminescent plankton fields of Sentari IV.
Something in my newly formed chest cavity contracted at the sight.
“Should we assist her?” I asked, already moving toward the door.
“Negative,” Vantor replied. “We maintain position until invited. Tactical advantage remains with her on familiar territory.”
The door swung open before I could protest, and Tammy staggered in under the weight of five bulging containers. Her eyes widened as she took in our altered appearances.
“Wow, see, this works,” she exclaimed, setting down her burdens with a relieved sigh. “You guys look like you could be related to a famous person, but not actually them.”
I preened slightly, pleased that my modifications met with approval.
I’d maintained the basic structure of the television human I’d selected but had adjusted the cranial hair to a lighter shade, altered the nasal cartilage by approximately two point eight millimeters, and reduced the prominence of certain facial features.
My human shape now looked like what Tammy called a “second cousin” to the original—similar but distinctly different.
“Well, there goes the last of my free capital,” Tammy announced, gesturing toward the containers. “Wally World’s best of the best.”
Cyro’s human eyebrows shot upward. “You’ve visited another world?” His voice carried astonishment. “Your propulsion technology must be considerably more advanced than our briefings indicated. This means our necessary materials must be readily available, or similar enough proponents to modify.”
“And you returned so quickly,” I added, my mind already calculating the impossible velocities required to cross the distance to a reasonable planet suitable to Tammy’s anatomy. “The nearest habitable exoplanet you could visit without specialized equipment would be—"
Tammy’s laughter erupted suddenly, cutting off my calculations.
It was that same musical sound from earlier, but fuller now, genuine amusement bubbling up from deep within her.
Her entire body participated in the expression—shoulders shaking, eyes crinkling at the corners, respiratory rate increasing by more than a third.
“Oh my God, you guys,” she gasped between bursts of laughter. “Wally World isn’t an actual planet. It’s just what people call Walmart—a big store where you can buy pretty much anything. It’s like... twenty minutes away by car.”
Heat flooded my facial region—another strange sensation of this human form. Back home, embarrassment manifested as a ripple of pale yellow across my mantle, visible but quickly dissipated in the currents. Here, the sensation seemed to linger, trapped beneath the skin with nowhere to disperse.
“Of course,” Cyro recovered first, his innate and often undeserved dignity reasserting itself. “A humorous colloquialism. I was merely testing your reaction.”
“Sure, you were,” Tammy smirked, beginning to remove items from the containers. “Now come see what I got you.”
I approached eagerly, my curiosity overriding my lingering embarrassment. The items she spread across the flat surface were fascinatingly diverse textiles in various configurations, and each were apparently designed for specific body regions.
“These are jeans,” she explained, holding up stiff blue fabric constructs. “And plaid shirts—very Kansas farmer chic. Plus socks, boots, and hats. The basic farm boy uniform.”
“But our forms already include the appearance of clothing,” Vantor noted, gesturing to his perfectly simulated attire. “I quite like this,” he pulled the length of cloth from around his body again, fanning it outward and showing it off.
“So, that’s a cape. And real people only wear things like that on Halloween.” She smirked, shaking her head, swallowing down a laugh.
“I find it appealing,” Vantor mumbled, his voice taking on a surprisingly human quality. Something like… irritation.
“Yeah, but I know you’re actually naked under there,” Tammy replied, her facial skin tinting slightly. “And that’s just... weird. Plus, what if someone touched you and felt that it wasn’t actual fabric? Better to be safe than sorry.”
I reached out, running my fingers over the “jeans” material. The texture was intriguing—coarse yet somehow pleasing, with a complex weave pattern that spoke to sophisticated manufacturing processes. I could spend days analyzing just this single textile variant.
Tammy arranged the items in neat piles, then stepped back, surveying her work. Suddenly, her expression brightened, lips curving upward and eyes sparking with new energy.
“You know what we need?” she said excitedly. “80s makeover music!”
She practically skipped to another corner of the room, retrieving a small rectangular device. Her fingers danced across its surface, and without warning, sound erupted from various points around the room.
The effect was immediate and overwhelming.
Waves of organized vibration assaulted my sensory receptors—not unpleasant, but utterly unlike anything on my home world.
We had something akin to it, though our “makeover music” relied on pressure wave modulation through water, subtle and felt rather than heard.
It was most often gentle, carried on waves. This was... magnificent chaos.
My body responded before my mind could analyze the reaction.
The molecular structure I’d so carefully arranged into human form began to move, not according to my conscious commands but to the rhythmic patterns filling the air.
My limbs extended and contracted, joints bending in ways human anatomy wouldn’t permit.
I felt myself stretching taller, then compressing shorter, my manufactured body flowing like liquid as it sought to express what these sound waves made me feel.
“I like it!” I called out, my voice barely audible over the magnificent din. One arm, overcome with the joy of movement, reverted partially to its natural state—splitting into two tentacles that waved enthusiastically in perfect time with the pulsing beat.
Tammy’s eyes widened, but instead of fear, her expression bloomed into delight. She reached for a control mechanism and increased the sound’s intensity. The vibrations penetrated deeper, resonating with my true form beneath the human disguise.
“Are we under attack?” Vantor shouted, his hands clamped firmly over his auditory receptors.
“I believe it is meant to be enjoyable!” Cyro called back, visibly wrestling with his discomfort.
“Come on,” Tammy said, eyes widening, “You must have music back home. You listen to it. Dance to it. Hold a boombox blasting music over your head while you try to win back the girl.”
“It is tantamount to warfare,” Vantor groaned, shutting his hazel eyes.
“Barbaric. Definitely not meant for mating!” Cyro added, his body coloring going haywire.
“This painful din must cease,” he demanded, his human face contorted into what the television programs had taught me was a grimace. Even in this borrowed form, his military bearing remained unchanged, shoulders squared with precision, stance wide and defensive.