Chapter 6
- Nora -
The crewmembers place the trays onto a low table and withdraw with remarkable speed.
Watching them, I get the impression that nobody aboard this ship enjoys lingering around my captor longer than necessary.
The feeling reminds me of the way people behave around powerful executives or military commanders.
They show respect, complete their task, and get out of the way.
But here, there's an element of fear, too.
The Space Locust approaches the table and begins arranging the dishes.
For a moment I simply watch him. It's a strange thing to witness.
A giant alien predator surrounded by hunting trophies should look threatening every second of every day.
Instead he's organizing dinner. The contradiction has been bothering me ever since I woke up.
Every time I convince myself he's a monster, he does something unexpectedly normal.
He picks up a bowl containing something pale and steaming and gestures toward me.
I study the contents suspiciously. The substance resembles a cross between soup, mashed potatoes, and industrial lubricant. "I appreciate the offer. But I've already had one near-death experience today."
He answers in his own language and nudges the bowl closer. The gesture is patient enough that I find myself reconsidering my first assumption. If he wanted me dead, there are probably easier methods than poisoning dinner.
I glance toward the debris pile where Lucius is pretending to be dead. "Official status report," I say conversationally. "The giant locust is trying to feed me.”
The alien's antennae move as he watches me speak. He clearly recognizes that I'm communicating something, even if he has no idea what. The problem is that I don't know what he's trying to communicate either.
For several seconds we stare at one another across the table. Then he appears to arrive at some conclusion. He reaches into the bowl, takes a portion for himself, and eats it. Afterward he waits.
I study him carefully. No signs of distress. No sudden collapse. No indication that he's just swallowed something dangerous in order to trick me. Whatever the substance is, he seems perfectly comfortable eating it.
"That's a compelling argument," I admit. “And it would have been even better if you hadn’t been so clearly an alien. Because they have other needs than humans, you know?”
Slowly, I reach for the bowl. Every survival course I've ever taken would strongly disapprove of accepting food from an unknown alien species. Then again, every survival course I've ever taken assumed I wouldn't be trapped aboard a living spaceship owned by giant Space Locusts.
I take a cautious bite. The flavor catches me off guard. It's warm and rich, with hints of spices I don't recognize. There's something faintly similar to roasted nuts underneath it all. Before I realize what I'm doing, I've taken another bite.
Then another. Apparently my body has decided that starvation is a more immediate concern than paranoia.
Across the table the locust settles into a seat and begins eating as well. Every now and then I catch him watching me. It's a look of curiosity, not of anger.
That somehow makes me more self-conscious. I lower my bowl. A moment later he lowers his.
I take another bite. A few seconds later he does the same.
The pattern repeats often enough that I begin wondering whether he's doing it deliberately. I can't decide whether the possibility is reassuring or unsettling. Probably both.
"Current situation update," I announce, again for Lucius's benefit.
I point around the chamber with my spoon while the locust watches attentively.
"I'm trapped aboard a living spaceship. My host decorates with skulls. Said host appears to be some kind of giant alien locust. He’s doing some kind of mirroring thing where he repeats what I’m doing a second later. "
The locust says something. He has a remarkably deep voice, and it doesn’t sound that insect-like. Apparently he believes we're participating in a conversation.
"Don't get excited," I tell him. "You're contributing very little."
The moment feels unexpectedly strange. Up until now my alien host has existed in my mind as a problem, a threat, a representative of every story I'd ever heard about Space Locusts.
Looking at him across the table, it becomes harder to reduce him to any single category.
He is still dangerous. The trophies on the walls are proof enough of that.
Yet there is also intelligence there, curiosity, and a degree of patience I hadn't expected.
Then he reaches for another dish and the spell breaks. I lower my gaze to the bowl in my hands and focus on eating.
Whatever conclusions I eventually reach about the space locust, this is not the time to reach them. Especially when Lucius is hiding in a debris pile and warning me that we're in danger.
Dinner appears to be over.
At least, the locust seems to think so. He rises from the table and crosses the room toward a section of wall that looks no different from the rest. After resting a hand against the living surface, a fold opens beneath his touch.
He reaches inside and withdraws something cradled carefully in both hands.
At first I assume it's an animal. A few seconds later I realize that assumption doesn't narrow things down very much aboard this ship.
The thing resembles a pale starfish wrapped around a cluster of translucent roots.
Its body pulses with faint blue light while dozens of thin tendrils drift through the air as though floating underwater.
Nothing restrains it. The creature simply clings to his hands while he carries it back to the table.
"Lucius," I murmur, keeping my eyes on it, "either that's a pet or I've completely lost the ability to identify lifeforms."
The locust places the creature on the table between us. The moment it touches the surface, the tendrils begin spreading outward. Several anchor themselves to the tabletop while others unfurl into the air. I find myself leaning forward despite every intention of remaining cautious.
Lights begin appearing throughout the creature's translucent body. One by one they ignite until hundreds of tiny points glow among the tendrils. For several seconds I can't make sense of the pattern.
Then my brain finally recognizes what I'm looking at: Stars.
The insight sends a chill through me. The creature isn't glowing randomly as some kind of pretty decoration; it's displaying information.
The tendrils continue extending until a three-dimensional star field hangs above the creature.
Bright clusters form islands of light connected by faint streams, and the entire display changes with slow organic motion.
Nothing about it resembles human technology.
There are no screens, projectors, or interfaces. Yet the purpose is immediately obvious.
“It’s a star chart,” I realize. “A living one.”
He watches my reaction closely. Once he's satisfied that I understand what I'm seeing, he points toward the living constellation.
His finger traces a path through several glowing clusters before stopping near the edge of the display.
Then he points directly at me with his whole hand, palm out, and returns his hand to the stars.
I feel my stomach tighten. The question couldn't be much clearer: Where did you come from?
For a moment I simply study the map while my thoughts race ahead. Until now, the locust has been showing me things. His trophies. His quarters. His food. This is the first time he's obviously asking for something in return: Information.
Nothing moves in the debris heap where Lucius is hiding. No lights flash. He doesn't need to repeat the warning. Red means danger.
“No kidding,” I mutter. My attention returns to the living map. Maybe he’s is simply curious. Maybe discovering new civilizations is part of his job. Maybe he's an explorer. The problem is that every story I've ever heard about Space Locusts pushes my thoughts in a different direction.
The refugees who reached human space never described explorers. They described sentient locusts. Swarms of them.
I study the stars hanging above the creature and try to think through the possibilities. If I point toward Earth, what happens next? Does he tell his government? Does he contact somebody higher up the chain of command? Does a fleet suddenly become interested in humanity?
"Sorry," I tell him. "I'm going to need a lot more information before I start handing out directions."
Naturally he understands none of that. He simply repeats the gesture. His finger moves from the stars to me and back again while the living map glows between us. There is something almost earnest about the attempt, which only makes the situation more complicated.
I briefly consider pointing somewhere random.
The idea survives perhaps two seconds before I discard it.
If this creature truly functions as a navigation tool, the locust almost certainly knows the map better than I do.
A poor lie would accomplish nothing. And I’ve pored over enough Space Force charts to be able to pinpoint pretty well where exactly Earth is on this map. Or at least the Sun.
So I settle on a different answer. I lift both hands and shrug. Then I make a face that I hope translates into confusion.
He studies me for several moments. The map continues pulsing softly between us while he evaluates my response. Finally he repeats the gesture once more.
Stars. Me. Stars.
This time I shake my head.
His expression changes. He looks thoughtful, as though he's trying to determine whether I genuinely can't answer or simply don't want to. Unfortunately for both of us, the second explanation is much closer to the truth.
Well, until I understand exactly why he wants Earth, he isn't getting a single coordinate.
Eventually he appears to decide that further attempts are pointless.
He says something in his own language, gathers the navigation creature into his hands, and carries it back toward the opening in the wall.
As he walks, the tendrils slowly retract into the creature's body.
The stars fade one by one until the room returns to its normal illumination.
I watch him the entire time. He doesn't appear angry. If anything, he seems thoughtful. But also getting impatient.
He leaves the room and the opening closes behind him.
The change gives me room to think.
My gaze drifts around the chamber. The trophies hanging from the walls seem even more ominous now than they did earlier.
Beyond them, the living surfaces of the ship pulse with slow biological rhythms. Every so often a membrane opens somewhere in the distance before sealing itself again.
The entire vessel feels less like a machine and more like a giant creature carrying us through space.
Except for the window, which I suppose could be a thin membrane but which looks a lot like some truly transparent material, like a crystal.
The great mass of stars outside remind me of the Intrepid 21 and its fate. It must have sent out the emergency signal that’s supposed to guide rescuers to it. But no rescuers will be sent - everyone will realize that the ship is dead, and so am I.
Yeah. Nobody knows I’m here. Space Force thinks I’m dead.
The Bliss Pack is wearing off and I feel panic tugging at my mind.
My eyes drift toward the debris pile. Nothing moves. The little drone remains exactly where it has been since the crash, disguised among scorched fragments of hull plating and my broken spacesuit. Beyond the transparent wall, stars slide past in silent streams of light.
For several moments I simply watch all three.
Then I pull the clingfilm tighter around myself and finally acknowledge the conclusion I've been avoiding since waking up aboard this ship. "I have to escape."
The words barely leave my mouth before a familiar voice answers from somewhere within the debris pile. "I think that's a good idea."
Every muscle in my body locks up. The voice is calm, dry, and unmistakably familiar.
It's Lucius.