Chapter 2
- Krix’vorr -
My boots touch down softly on the alien ship.
I fold my wings in. They’re mostly useless in the airless space, but the instinct is to fold them out when I fly regardless. And I suppose they give me some balance.
Right below me is the transparent part of the alien cockpit. Inside it’s all black with swirling smoke. Yellow flames lick out from the rear of the ship, meaning oxygen.
I should stay away.
But there’s someone in there, and I’m curious about the pilot who flew this rickety ship so far through that minefield.
I ball up one fist and smash it down through the canopy, shattering it. Hot smoke shoots out, and renders the cockpit clear.
“Sris,” I order using hand signs. “Cut that harness.”
“Yes, Chief Harrower,” the servant crab replies with one claw. She climbs down my arm from my shoulder, lands inside the alien ship and quickly snips the harness in four places.
I grab the alien by its shoulders and yank it up. It’s encased in heavy fabric and metals, which strikes me as remarkably exotic and alien. Does it really need all this?
“I recommend against opening that head casing,” Sris signals with two claws. “Some species can’t survive in open space.”
“Certainly this species doesn’t own worlds worth harvesting,” I signal as I stare into the clear portion of the alien’s head casing. “The ship is laughably fragile. But it got far.” The material is dark, but I spot eyes that appear to be closed.
“Yes, Chief Harrower,” Sris says as she climbs back up my arm. “Shall we go back?”
My instinct is to tear the ship apart, piece by piece, looking for anything else I may harvest. But this is not a cargo ship, and it’s too primitive to have any value. Still I rip off a few pieces and stick them inside my belt. “Yes.”
I put the alien pilot under my arm, locate the Beast, fold out my wings and jump towards it. The alien ship has just enough mass to give me something to kick at, to give me some speed through the emptiness.
The Beast hangs against the stars exactly where I left her, a dark shape large enough to swallow the alien scout a hundred times over.
She turns slowly, directing her horns towards the minefield.
Even at this distance I can feel her awareness brush against my mind.
She knows I am returning, and she knows I am carrying something unusual.
The alien hangs limp beneath my arm as I cross the gap. I study it while I travel. The suit appears absurdly elaborate for a species capable of spaceflight. Layers of fabric. Layers of metal. Layers of equipment whose purpose I can’t immediately determine.
I find myself returning to that fact repeatedly. The scout should never have reached this far. Even a Thyrr Junior Harrower would think carefully before attempting such a crossing in a ship of that size. Yet this alien did it alone.
“Perhaps it was merely lucky,” Sris signals from my shoulder.
I glance toward the servant crab while continuing toward the Beast. “Luck is a useful servant. A pilot who survives because of luck is still alive afterward.”
Sris flexes her claws thoughtfully. “You seem impressed.”
I consider the question for several moments. Among my people, acknowledging another hunter's skill is not a weakness. It is simply recognition of reality.
“I am impressed,” I signal at last. “If not, I wouldn’t have gone to this length to inspect the ship and pilot.”
Ahead of us, the Beast unfolds part of its body.
A circular opening forms along its flank as layers of flesh peel apart like the petals of a night flower.
Warm air pours from within. The scent reaches my scent senses even before I pass through the opening.
Nutrients. Water. Living tissue. The familiar smells produce a subtle sense of comfort that I rarely notice until I have spent time away from them.
I carry the alien through the opening. The chamber seals behind us with a wet muscular contraction. Air returns. Gravity settles over my body. The transition feels so familiar that I barely think about it anymore.
The alien's body reacts differently.
As I walk, I feel a movement beneath my arm. I look down and study the transparent section of the head casing. The eyes remain closed, yet the breathing has changed. It is faster now. Less regular.
“Chief Harrower,” Sris signals as she scuttles along my shoulder. “The alien's condition is deteriorating.”
I examine the strange suit more carefully. Several indicators flash in the color red, signifying joy. One has already gone dark.
But this is not my first alien, and I know that red can mean different things to some of them. Showing joy during this apparent decline would be strange. Now I think the systems keeping the pilot alive are failing one after another, and the pace of that failure appears to be increasing.
That realization produces an unexpected reaction: I would prefer that this pilot survive.
The thought surprises me enough that I spend several moments examining it. Curiosity explains part of it. The alien crossed a minefield that should have destroyed it. It may know what lies beyond the barrier. More importantly, I dislike seeing competence wasted.
“Take us to the healing chamber,” I order.
“Yes, Chief Harrower.”
The Beast senses my intent before I begin moving. Membranes along the corridor withdraw, opening a direct route deeper into the vessel. I lengthen my stride and carry the alien toward the healing chambers while Sris scuttles ahead.
If the pilot survives, I may learn who built that ridiculous little ship. I may also learn what lies beyond the minefield. I find myself hoping the answer arrives before the pilot dies.
The healing chamber occupies a swollen cavity near the center of the Beast. Warm light filters through translucent membranes overhead, illuminating rows of living growths that serve as instruments, monitors, and storage organs.
The Mirex is already waiting when I enter. The Beast must have alerted it to the emergency.
I lower the alien onto the cushioned surface of the platform. The old Mirex approaches immediately, its pale tendrils rippling through the air as it studies the strange suit. "What have you harvested for us, Chief Harrower?"
"An alien pilot."
The Mirex pauses while examining the figure. "Respectfully, sir, a pilot is not a species."
"There are some who would disagree,” I reply. “But I know what you mean."
While the healer begins its work, I remove several pieces of damaged equipment from the alien's body and place them beside the platform.
The amount of machinery attached to the suit continues to surprise me.
Tubes, seals, regulators, monitoring devices, and protective layers cover nearly every part of the pilot.
Species that require this much assistance to survive are usually prey rather than predators. Yet this one crossed most of a living minefield in a vessel that should never have survived the attempt.
The Mirex studies the indicators still flashing across the suit. Its tendrils brush lightly against the surface while information passes into the biological systems embedded in the chamber walls. "The enclosure is maintaining atmosphere," it says.
"I assumed as much."
"It is also maintaining consciousness suppression, circulatory support, and several functions I don't recognize."
I look down at the motionless figure. The suit appears to be fighting a desperate battle on behalf of its occupant. "Can we remove it?"
The healer hesitates. "We can. We should proceed carefully."
A flick of irritation passes through my wings. Careful procedures are rarely efficient, but killing the pilot after retrieving it from a minefield would be wasteful. I step aside and allow the Mirex to work.
Living tools emerge from recesses in the surrounding walls.
Tendrils connect themselves to ports on the suit.
Information begins flowing through the chamber's systems. As the diagnosis progresses, the extent of the damage becomes increasingly clear: Internal injuries.
Radiation exposure. Chemical compounds moving through the bloodstream.
Several biological systems appear to be approaching failure simultaneously.
The pilot should already be dead.
I find myself studying the unconscious figure more closely. The realization surprises me less than the feeling that accompanies it. I do not merely want answers from this alien. I want it to survive.
The Mirex finally reaches for the seals around the helmet.
"Atmosphere stabilized," it says.
"Remove it," I order.
The locking mechanisms release one after another. A faint hiss escapes the suit. The healer lifts the helmet away, exposing the pilot's face for the first time.
I go still.
The features are unlike those of any species I have encountered.
Smooth skin covers the face where I would expect armor, sensory structures, or protective ridges.
The mouth is small. The jaw appears delicate and devoid of mandibles.
Every part of the creature looks vulnerable in a way that seems almost impractical.
Yet the longer I study the face, the more difficult it becomes to look away.
There is a balance to the features that appeals to me. The proportions are harmonious. The structure is elegant. I have encountered beautiful worlds, beautiful creatures, and beautiful architecture. This is different. The appeal feels strangely personal.
Sris climbs onto the edge of the platform and waves both claws excitedly. "It’s tiny."
"It is,” I agree absentmindedly.
The servant crab leans closer. "It is also female."
That observation draws my attention toward the healer. The Mirex is examining biological indicators now visible beneath the opened sections of the suit.
"Female? Are you certain?"
"There is little room for doubt. Sir, despite her alien-ness, she may be compatible for life-saving treatment."
I look back at the unconscious pilot. A female pilot.