by Sharon Rose
Kena ensured her voice was calm and pleasant. “Greetings.”
They twitched and widened their ice-blue eyes.
Sure hope that word doesn’t have some bad meaning in their language.
The center being spoke again, and the front rider rubbed his hand down the animal’s neck. It folded its legs, like an eight-legged llama, beginning with the front set and ending with the rear. Sweeping its head over the ground, it scooped up more plant matter, crunching away.
The speaker uttered another long sentence, while he and the one behind him dismounted and drew near.
No hope of understanding. The best she could do was to match the length with her own words. “I cannot understand your language.” She gestured and emphasized names. “I am Kena. He is Antony.”
A gust drove her hair back. Antony shuddered and winced.
The wind seemed to jerk the aliens—no, natives—from their rigid, staring poses. The two of them hurried to Antony. Before she could decide what to do, they had him up, supporting and guiding him past rocks to that giant octa-llama thing. They got him seated astride and anchored his feet in looped straps.
She could not let them take him away from her. She darted to the octa-llama and swung her leg over behind Antony. Even through thick fur, the bony structure felt all wrong. The front rider bestirred the creature, which raised itself with a heave. Pearly gray hands gripped Antony and Kena as their seats lurched. Kena steadied Antony, but he choked back a groan.
The beast began to walk, then sped up—sort of a quick shuffle. Smoother than a horse, but it had to be torture for Antony. She gripped his belt, fearing he’d pass out. The two natives jogged beside them, bound for the hills. They soon clung to the hide of the beast as though their legs could barely support them.
They entered a valley, which twisted to the right, ending at a cavern mouth.
A concave hillside rose above the gaping hole, protecting it from the wind. From the slope, clusters of natives stared at Kena and Antony. The smaller ones pointed and chattered, tugging on their elders, who held them back. They lacked the heavy clothing of the riders, but many held animal skins draped over their backs. Maybe protection from the wind and its nasty projectiles, several of which were now lodged in Kena’s hand.
Their mount was halted at the entrance. The speaker among their escort rapped out short sentences between heaving breaths. Natives brought a simple stretcher as Kena jumped down. One look at Antony’s face, and she was quite ready to let them lay him on the stretcher.
His eyes found hers. “Is this…a good thing?”
She hurried along beside the stretcher. “It’s not like they’re giving us any choice. Besides, we need to get out of this weather.”
Sunlight sliced into the cavern, revealing the edges of massive doors and more spectators. The crowd slowed them. A voice rose above the murmurs, and a pathway cleared, just wide enough for single file.
Kena hurried after the stretcher bearers as they entered a lighted passage. She glanced back. A couple people followed, the speaker from their escort and the one who had cleared the way.
They twisted and turned, passing chambers and dozens of branching passages. A labyrinth.
The stretcher bearers came to a halt in a well-lit chamber. Someone took a quick look at Antony, then they turned him from the stretcher onto an elevated surface, a cross between table and bed. They propped him on his right side, and someone pushed a thick pad under his head. Every movement made him grimace. Kena ached for him.
She took his right hand. “How are you doing?” Dumb question.
“Been better.” He licked his lips. “What’s goin’ on?”
No clue what to say. She straightened and looked around the irregular chamber, partly hewn from rock and partly natural. It felt nothing like a cave, too warm and bright. Lighting strips, molded to rock formations overhead, cast a brilliant glare. In the hewn section, where she stood, equipment was arranged on a carved counter.
“I think this is their version of a medical facility,” she said.
A few meters away, a broad, woolly rug lined the floor and sloped wall of an alcove, which bore the signature of an ancient river. Another wall held embedded structures. No time for that with so many natives around Antony. One brought cloths and a tray of implements. Another pulled a device near. It had a flat, dark surface, much like a screen, but what were those wires hanging from it? Must be sensors, for when they touched Antony’s temples, a vertical, blue line began to scroll up the screen near the left side.
A native tucked the end of a tube into his own ear and pressed the other flattened end to Antony’s chest. He listened, feeling along Antony’s right arm in a searching motion. Another apparently checked Antony’s respiration by holding a hand near his nose. They seemed to record findings by marking a flat surface. How crude.
Antony’s gaze darted between their motions and odd equipment. “Their med-tech…is scary.”
“Not quite up to Collaborative standards, but at least they have a little.”
“D’you think…they’ll get that…stuff outta me?”
“They’ve brought some tweezers and such.” She wouldn’t mention the narrow blades. “Just rest.”
She studied their interactions, searching for attributes. They all had sunken cheeks and bare, pearly gray faces, hands, and feet. Sleek fur covered the rest of their bodies. Clothing must be restricted to outside use. None of them had fur as dark as Ghent’s, but the one who studied Antony’s wound through an optical device was darker than the others. Some had patterns along their shoulders, and all had a vertical streak down the center of the torso, where angled fur overlapped.
A shorter native with a prominent streak focused on Kena, bringing another wire-strung monitor. Her motions to attach sensors were tentative, as though she feared. Never had Kena felt like such an alien. She tolerated the sticky sensors, for that gave her a way to compare her data with Antony’s. The blue line puzzled her, similar for both of them, showing little variation over time. What were they measuring?
The nuances she sought became apparent. Whenever the darker one spoke, at least one other person responded. He seemed to be in charge of those who tended Antony. The one who had cleared the path through the cavern entrance now stood near the passage, watching. His fur, with its silvery sheen, was so light it almost matched his skin.
So hard to follow all of this. Not only did she need to watch what they did to Antony, but the shorter one was trying to interact with her, removing the sensors, gesturing, and nudging her arm.
The dark one pulled on a pair of thin, flexible gloves and opened a cylinder. A pungent odor escaped. He said something, and two others gripped Antony.
Kena took Antony’s right hand again. “Wound cleaning, I think.”
He gasped as they sponged the back of his shoulder. The motion nudged a shaft that had gone all the way through. The dark native gripped the other end with tweezers and pulled a long, red splinter from the wound. Antony took his lower lip between his teeth.
“No, don’t bite your lip.” They had barely started. It was going to get a lot worse. She unbuckled his belt, unhooking his computer as she pulled his belt free.
The dark one spoke again, and they turned Antony onto his back.
So hard to listened to him trying to choke back another groan. He pulled his lip between his teeth again.
Kena hurried around a native to Antony’s head. “Here, bite on your belt instead of your lip.”
The natives cut off the sling and strapped him down. This wasn’t going to be easy.
Antony panted. Sweat dripped down the sides of his brow, his skin more pallid than ever. He groaned and bit into his belt as they moved his left arm to spread the wound. Blood flowed.
They tried edging Kena away. One of them took the belt from her but kept it between Antony’s teeth. Another pulled a strap tight around Antony’s right bicep and felt along his arm. Now, what?
The shorter one nudged Kena again. She he
ld up a needle, tube, and jar assembly and pointed at the inside of Kena’s arm.
“Antony, I think they want to do a blood transfusion. Metchell told me a while back that we have the same type.”
“Yeah,” he muttered, turning his head away from the belt.
“This gives a whole different meaning to why I needed to come with you.”
“Sure wish…he woulda…prevented...”
Hard to blame him for that bit of complaint. “Time for that later. Just remember, he loves you no matter the circumstances. He will never desert you.”
A native pushed the belt back between Antony’s teeth.
Kena grimaced as he grunted again. “I should lie down if they’re going to draw blood, but I won’t be far. Through all of this, think only of how much God loves you.”
The silver-gray one came up behind her. He took her arms in a gentle grip and turned her from Antony.
Kena let him guide her to the alcove. A basin of water sat on a rock ledge beside the rug. She knelt by it and scrubbed the dried blood from her hands. The water was warm—like everything else.
The short native seemed to approve, handing her a soft brush then a dry towel.
The slivers made the back of Kena’s hand tender but didn’t look serious. She pulled out the only one she could grasp. The others would have to wait. She had to get blood to Antony. She tugged her nav shirt off. Her cami was damp with sweat. They urged her to lie back against the sloped wall, with its woolly rug. Much like the octa-llama they’d ridden, but cleaner.
The short native heaved a sigh with an exaggerated lift and fall of shoulders, then tightened a strap around Kena’s upper arm and began inspecting her forearm.
The silvery native pressed fingers against his chest and enunciated, “Turglund.”
Was he trying to distract her? Maybe not such a bad idea. She repeated, “Turglund,” then touched her own chest and said, “Kena.”
Turglund said, “Kena,” then touched the one preparing to draw blood. “Vinzlet.”
Kena waited while the needle was inserted into her vein, before repeating, “Vinzlet.” No small needle, that. She glanced at the tube and container where her blood collected. At least they knew how to hit the vein.
Vinzlet showed no interest in names, instead darting off to get the listening device, then monitoring Kena’s heart rate.
Turglund identified the dark native working on Antony as Murloff, then gestured toward Antony.
Kena stated his name. Thankfully, Turglund left it at that, for Kena found it ever harder to endure the half-suppressed, agonized sounds from Antony as Murloff worked on his wound. Natives clustered around him, so she couldn’t see much except his legs jerking against the straps.
More distracting yet, Vinzlet inspected the splinters in Kena’s hand. She took the container of blood to those near Antony, then returned with tweezers and started working out the slivers.
Antony uttered a gasp more anguished than the rest. His legs fell limp.
A squeak escaped on Kena’s breath. She tried to leap up, but they wouldn’t permit it. Turglund said something, and a native turned Antony’s monitor enough for Kena to see the blue line. It had shifted farther left, but still moved.
Did it show a level of consciousness? He must have passed out. A relief. Or was that bad? She closed her eyes. Please, beloved, help them finish before he wakes up.
They brought Kena a flask of water and a small bowl of something mushy. She drank the water but did not dare eat.
Long after Kena’s blood had drained from the container hanging above Antony, still he did not wake.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Kena waited in the alcove. Not that she had much choice. The natives wouldn’t let her stand, and she had no idea what to do for Antony. She didn’t feel the best, and her hand throbbed.
After removing splinters, Vinzlet had doused it with something that stung, then bandaged it. Was the cleaning solution even safe for a Human? Their intentions seemed good, but Kena doubted they’d ever seen an alien.
Her first-contact training felt so academic now. Mostly stuff about how to prepare. Nothing about a surprise encounter. Apparently, no one envisioned dashing up to a barren planet, desperate for fuel, only to find cave-dwellers who left no hint of their presence on the surface. Hm. Maybe they did. Normal procedure was to gather data from multiple orbits of the planet. That didn’t happen!
She should quit the silent grumping. Do something about emfrel. As though she had the means. Not! She wasn’t worried about the emfrel she could feel. It was the components she couldn’t feel that might cause silent damage, slipping past her intrinsic shield, messing up one neuron at a time. She pulled her computer from her belt and wedged it against her thigh. After sampling the plant, she’d left it in a neutral recording mode. Did it have useful data yet?
She scrolled past the air analysis, for none of it was flagged as dangerous. The sairital data was more complete than she expected. Emfrel was faint. Just unused energy that flowed from sairital beings. Perhaps the enclosed environment helped her device get enough data for analysis. It listed components, both the cryptic names and the races that naturally included them. Just as she’d suspected, the highest percentages were also found in Plynteth emfrel. Relief crept in as she read the rest of the list. She’d been acclimated to all of them.
She checked emergency medical data on Antony’s computer. Yep, he was clear, too. They were bandaging him now, immobilizing his arm in a sling strapped to his chest.
Kena got to her feet. They let her, this time, though Vinzlet hovered near as Kena crossed the chamber to Antony’s side. Eyes closed. Lips parted. Still so pale. She touched his cheek. No response. Clammy skin, but at least his breath was steady against her palm. Ancient words came to mind, and she whispered them. “The same spirit that raised Christ from the dead dwells in you, enlivening your mortal body.”
She longed for something to do, but what? Antony needed Metchell. Maybe she did, too. Her injured hand throbbed if she let it dangle. No telling what poisons could have entered their bloodstreams.
Vinzlet and Murloff stared at her. So did the crowd in the passage. Lots of talking, maybe arguing, all gibberish to her. At least Turglund kept them out.
Vinzlet guided her back to the alcove. Kena sat cross-legged on the rug and recorded a report on her computer. Somehow, she would have to get out of the cave in order to connect to the raepour craft. Best to be ready when that moment arrived.
The talking subsided, and Turglund brought an ebony tray. He and Vinzlet knelt on the rug, placing it between the three of them. It held a matching bowl, carafe, and three small cups, all inlaid with gold and glistening disks of rose and vermilion. Its beauty drew her smile.
They returned Kena’s smile, and their shoulders settled. Turglund picked up the bowl, and Vinzlet gestured to Kena’s good hand.
A custom? Or ceremony? Declining could be as dangerous as participating.
They whispered quick words, and Turglund poured from the bowl into Vinzlet’s palm. It looked like seeds and maybe fragments of dried fruit. A tiny portion. What if they wanted her to eat? She couldn’t. Give me wisdom, beloved.
More gesturing. When she didn’t respond, Turglund took her hand in his thin fingers, turned it palm up, and poured another tiny portion into it. He took the last of it for himself. They ate and gestured for her to do the same, smiles fading as she hesitated.
Not good. Kena closed her hand and brought the food to her chest, holding it there for a second. Then, she took Vinzlet’s hand and dropped half the portion into it. She gave the rest to Turglund and gestured for them to eat it.
They looked at each other. Murloff, watching from Antony’s side, said something. Advice, perhaps. They ate but did not smile.
Vinzlet picked up the carafe and poured a burgundy liquid into a cup, then started on the second.
This wasn’t improving. Kena was sure she needed to drink. She grabbed the flask of water from the ledge and set
it on the tray.
The three natives conferred. Vinzlet, her face drooping, poured water into the third cup.
Kena took it as they picked up their cups and drank with them. She smiled and said, “Thank you!” with all the warmth she could put into her voice.
Vinzlet returned her smile, though it quivered. Her eyelids fluttered as she took the tray away.
Again, they talked. Kena tried to get a feel for what was going on, but she could gather so little. They had used gestures with her, but not with each other.
Beyond them, Antony lay unresponsive. The blue spark still traced a steady line on the left side of the monitor, whatever that meant. She needed to get him to Metchell…or Metchell to him. What was the weather doing? How much would it delay getting proper medical care? Or interfere with mining the benzlium? Ramifications spiraled. Technically, that benzlium belonged to the native race of the planet. Even if they didn’t know it was there. What of negotiating payment? And mining—how far did these caves extend? What if they were too close to the benzlium? Maybe they could find other deposits. But there were likely more natives…governments…no telling how many hindrances. All when she needed to reach Pernanyen. So much for clearing obstacles!
A touch on her shoulder brought Kena back to the present. She straightened, for she had brought her hand to her forehead.
Vinzlet wanted to put the sensors on her again. Was she worried? But that didn’t seem to be it. Turglund was gesturing. What, now?
Turglund and Murloff knelt, facing each other. They each raised a hand to eye-level, pressed their palms together, and interlaced their fingers. They released that touch but continued to regard each other in silence.
Oh, no. This looked way too much like telepathy. Kena scooted away from them.
She felt her beloved’s presence as though she had backed into his embrace. What troubles you, my child?
Her mind darted to Pernanyen and fled the thought. I cannot go through this again.
They are nothing like her. Turglund will not force.
I’m not acclimated. Or…well…emfrel may not be a problem, but…telepathy?