Craved by an Alien

by Amanda Milo

  “Thank you, God,” Gracie moans as we approach a shelving unit that is hob-tall and nearly half the length of a gladiator arena. It’s filled with a curious array of colorful, eye-catching products.

  She snatches a large packaged satchel of small foil covered items, and rushes us to what she refers to as a checkout.

  “I need to buy these right now,” she explains to the good woman who takes payment at this establishment. “I need chocolate so bad it’s not even funny.”

  The good woman’s response seems knowing. “One of those days, huh? Sure thing, hon, one... second…”

  All of the hobs are bowing differentially—except for myself, because I was easy to break of the habit of bowing to humans. Gracie yanks two hobs up by their shirt collars and motions sharply for the rest to stand. To the other woman, she laughs and says, “Foreign… exchange students.”

  The proprietress wears a uniform that bears her insignia and presumably her rank. Gracie has taught me human English letters, and I’m working out what her position is when she replies, “Wow.” Her gaze snags on the camera braced on Wirav’s shoulder. “Where are you all from? Are you making a TV show?”

  She swishes Gracie’s colorful item across a raised black table in front of her.

  A sharp beep peals through the air, and we all reach for our weapons.

  Before we can so much as brandish them, Gracie rips open her purse, the snap coming undone loudly—and it shouldn’t be possible, but it sounds both accusatory as well as chastising.

  After all... she did remind us not to display that we have weapons unless they were truly necessary.

  This wasn’t covered in the Human Customs Preparation Course we encouraged the humans to assemble for us.

  If it wasn’t covered, how are we to know when it’s necessary and when it isn’t?

  I tap my talons together, keeping them low to avoid further fabric snagging. I’ll convince the humans of the logic in adding another addendum.

  “Don’t mind them. They’re in training. Uh, to answer your question, it was a long, long ride through the skies.”

  If I were the proprietress, I’d point out that this did not answer my question at all.

  Instead, the proprietress asks, “Would you like to apply for a credit card?”

  I look to the other hobs. I, as well as a few others, have traveled to planets other than our own. It’s rare to be offered a line of credit at an establishment unless you’re well known in that community.

  Or unless you are a Gryfala. Gryfala toil at their crafts ceaselessly, gain wealth, and always pay their debts. Therefore, shopkeepers love to extend princesses credit.

  I narrow my eyes on Gracie, contemplating this.

  “Is something wrong, sir?”

  I startle, and look to the good woman. “I am most curious if everyone qualifies for a line of credit.”

  Through falsely smiling teeth, Gracie warns, “Dohrein, my darling flittermouse…”

  Oh, how interesting. Flittermouse. Now I’m in a quandary; she’s never before used this endearment with me and I’d like to make note of this for inspection later, but I’m also awaiting the good woman’s answer.

  “Well no,” she says, face pinching as if she’s bracing to give me bad news. “You have to be approved.”

  “I see,” I reply. “And what qualifications gain approval? Who’s responsible for this credit establishment’s approval process—”

  Gracie presses green paper into the woman’s limp hand before she snatches the bag she purchased, rips it open and selects a wrapped item. She shreds the wrapping, tosses it in a waste receptacle she finds tucked under an empty purchasing station next to us, and she approaches me, her lips smiling but her eyes full of warning—before she stuffs the item into my mouth with a muttered, “Bite it, sweetheart.”

  The item rests on my tongue like a brick and it’s… surprisingly… I don’t quite know. Smooth, with a flavor I can’t describe. It lights up my taste receptors with the energy of bursting stars, and as I follow her instructions and bite down, it pops and crumbles, half the substance sliding off my tongue and into my throat, leaving behind a core of a different flavor—and texture. I bite on it again to test it, and in an obvious bid for retaliation it oozes between my teeth and holds fast.

  Alarming in the extreme, but the thing is delicious—I’ll give her that.

  As Gracie guides us further into the establishment, I wonder for how long my jaws will remain fused, and if I should at any point panic. She however, seems to have no such compunction.

  If it were anyone other than Gracie, I would find the lack of concern reassuring.

  Either oblivious or uncaring of the danger, she pops one into her mouth, moaning, “I’ve missed you sooo much.”

  I glare around us when I see my fellow hobs all staring at her, their eyes locked on her lips.

  “This is chocolate?” I surmise, my teeth tacking together firmly enough to garble my speech.

  For a necessary vitamin, it tastes good, and this is surprising. On our planet, vitamins are either bland or bitter.

  I attempt to separate my jaws with mixed success—a piece tacks next to one of my fangs, wedging there, and when I attempt to lick it free, drool escapes from my mouth.

  Gracie laughs. “Oh man. Best entertainment I’ve had all day. Here, everybody try it.”

  We begin to follow her order.

  “What the—!” Gracie exclaims, making a few of the hobs choke on the creatively-formed vitamins. “Where’d we lose our Rakhii? When?”

  My wings shrug, and Gracie eyes my cloak as it rises and falls. “They’re headstrong,” I explain. “As well as self-sufficient. They may not blend well but they do behave appropriately in public,” I assure her.

  She stares up at me for a long moment. “I’m afraid that your ‘behave in public’ and my ‘behave in public’ might be a little different.”

  I cup my chin as I shift my weight onto the balls of my feet. “Provide an example.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. If a Rakhii heard a man catcalling a woman—”

  Before I can ask, she clarifies, “Shouting rude shite—”

  Shite: regional variant of shit. Definition: having to do with defecation. Or foolishness. Or worthlessness. Or pointlessness. Or—

  Gracie clarifies her word choice even as I attempt to narrow down the translation on my own. “—rude suggestions. Threatening her, scaring her, shaming her, all right out on the street for everyone to see and hear.”

  Human men subject their females to this? To what purpose would it serve? This cannot possibly be an attractant. The disgust in her tone tells me females find it to be as offensive as it sounds. “The Rakhii would beat him soundly until he apologized.”

  Gracie’s expression slowly lightens to one of profound amusement. “They can get a little grouchy but they’re awesome. You know what they remind me of? There’s these Japanese dogs that were bred for fighting. If you’ve got their loyalty, you’ve got a great protector.”

  As I attempt to follow her point, she claps her hands, apparently done with her lesson. “Okay! If we hear sirens—like a lot of sirens—and a helicopter, we need to run and rescue our Rakhii, but maybe they’ll do some good.” She appears quite pleased.

  “What is a helicopter?”

  “It’s what it’s going to take to shoot a Rakhii down—and the crowd of women that will want to protect them if they’re running around doing chivalrous-hero worthy stuff.”

  We pass rows of the shelving units burdened with products, dutifully following Gracie as she hunts out her items, mumbling about needing a cart—which prompts questions of Earthen cart animals and where they would be tethered in this place—until odd cries make us freeze.

  Younglings. Wailing.

  Our hobs break from each other, racing for the source—

  “Stop!” Gracie shouts. “It’s just—”

  The closest hobs falter at her command, but several have already rounded a shelving unit, a
nd we quickly catch up, my wings straining my cloak, my filed claws feeling too short to be of use—

  The only thing we find in the aisle is a lone female. She’s pushing a smartly-weaved metal wire basket transporter with three squalling younglings.

  They’re begging her for cereal.

  Addendum forty-three in the Human Customs Preparation Course covered this item. Cereal is a form of basic human food that they tend to prefer for breaking their night fasts.

  What sort of planet is this where children cry for food?

  Of course I’m not the only one disturbed by this. Panting, Kio asks, “Where are your males?”

  “My what?” the female responds.

  Kio reaches out to a youngling, offering his fingers for the child to grasp. “The males who care for you and your offspring. May I hold one?”

  Two more flanking hobs attempt to stare each other down, not yet approaching the transporter, perhaps so as not to overwhelm the female.

  The woman’s eyes are on Kio, her mouth hanging open. Then her cheeks brighten by no less than four shades when she reaches up to her somewhat disheveled mane, which is gathered at the back of her head with no braids, no adornments.

  A glaringly obvious clue she has no hobs, this is for certain.

  She runs her hands nervously over her comfortably loose, square-shaped top, to the tops of her thighs, her legs clad in what looks much like the stretchy clothing humans instructed us to make for them: leggings.

  Her top has human words scrolling across the front that appear to read, ‘My llama don’t like you, and she likes everyone.’’ The alien creature depicted beside the words looks wooly and extremely unimpressed.

  The younglings’ wailings have subsided to soft snuffles as they stare up at the hobs right along with their dam.

  She nods once, and the teariest youth quiets completely as it’s lifted from the transporter and its small hands land on Kio’s wing-bound shoulder.

  Both women sigh—but then Gracie snaps straight and shakes herself soundly.

  The other female looks to Gracie, then to us—her eyes snagging on the camera before she slowly asks, “Is this a reality TV—”

  “What else could it be?” Gracie retorts woodenly.

  Kio holds the youngling, declaring, “This is the cutest human youth I have ever seen.”

  “That’s not hard,” Gracie mutters. To the female, she remarks, “Ha. You’d think it was the first baby he’s ever held.”

  The human’s eyes haven’t left the hob, so I assume she’s addressing him. “Are you from around here?”

  Another hob, Barjali, offers his hand, and bestows a slow smile on her when she places her fingers on top of his as he answers, “We are not. It was a very lonely flight.”

  He pulls back—physically. But his heated gaze holds her mesmerized.

  “That sounds terrible,” she squeaks.

  The youngest hob in our bunch, Pennik, turns pleading eyes on Gracie. “May I bestow chocolate upon her?”

  Gracie clutches her package tightly for a moment before baring her teeth in a facsimile of a smile. “Sure.” She places a chocolate in Pennik’s hand, and in turn, he gallantly offers it to the female.

  In an odd voice, Gracie says, “Anything for a woman who needs chocolate.” She quickly stuffs another piece into her mouth before offering me one.

  The female gazes at the hob, her cheeks flushing to the color of a vroka-teeb before she appears to take it from him out of politeness—yet she also appears charmed.

  One of her younglings stands upright in the contraption and loudly objects. “Mom! Not supposed to take candy from strangers.”

  We’re perplexed. Kio looks at the child in confusion. “Candy?” He looks at their dam as if seeking confirmation. “This is an essential nutrient, yes?”

  She bursts out laughing. She places her hand on his arm.

  Gracie chokes on her small bar of nutrients.

  We all stare at the female’s obvious contact point.

  When Gracie recovers, she gasps a furiously whispered, “Fuck me, he’s flirting with her by accident! And it’s working!”

  Despite the fact I’ve heard her use ‘fuck’ in this way before, it’s always jarring. In the time it takes me to decipher the translation in this context, Kio’s had a few clicks to chat with the female and he finds some of her conversation distressing.

  “She does not have males. Not any,” he says in outrage. “And she says she isn’t going to spend what coin she has on the cereal her offspring beg for because they won’t eat what they have at home.”

  His eyes say exactly what we’re all thinking. Finicky eaters.

  Humans led us to believe they’re only difficult to feed because our food is alien to them. The words from this female’s mouth certainly seem to indicate otherwise.

  And to have a food that younglings resort to begging for yet be denied due to concerns over coin...

  Kio drops to a knee. “May we bring her—”

  Gracie sputters. “Get up and No.”

  “But she—”

  “No. You can’t just take—” Gracie snatches him by the arm he isn’t holding the youngling with and drags him back a few steps, hissing, “—women and children, that’s wrong.”

  The hob whispers, “She is attracted.”

  Gracie nearly spills her chocolates as she vibrates in place. “She’d have to be dead not to be! You’re going to get that reaction everywhere so don’t take it to… hearts. Look, she doesn’t know what she’s getting into, and it’s not fair to ask her to make that choice for her and her kids.” Gracie grimaces, true regret plain in her expression. “I’m sorry, okay? I know you want one, and I know you’d try to take good care of her…” she sighs, and runs her fingers through her hair, shoving her mane away from her face. “But this is like going to the animal shelter. They ALL need someone to love them, but you can’t take them all home, all right?”

  He appears confused even as he peers around her, watching his brother hobs advance on the female he still hopes to claim. “She has three offspring. She NEEDS help. She is hobless—”

  “And you’re hopeless.” Gracie covers her eyes for a breath. “Just…” She drops her hands, only to bring them together as if she entreating with him to understand—before she scans her gaze over those of us not actively courting the human. “You’re right, she’d no doubt love your help—it’s everything that comes with—”

  Kio turns his eyes on me, pleading.

  I meet Gracie’s disbelieving gaze, and gently intercede. “She does appear to be in need. If she’s willing…”

  Gracie scoffs. “Not you too! All right. You think he should ask her to leave Earth?” She looks up at the rafters so plain they border on ugly, crossing her arms under her attractive bosom. “Fine. Try it. I dare you.”

  Relieved, hopeful, Kio approaches the hobless, maleless female and seems to be explaining our situation. She displays a range of expressions: alarm, relief, expectation, and oddly, amusement. The woman glances at all of us, at the two males still holding her offspring.

  He pulls out a gem—

  Gracie explodes. “Put that away!”

  The female looks around as if she’s waiting for someone to round the aisle. “What show is this for? Is this one of the ones where they set up fake—”

  “I assure you my offer is genuine,” Kio says in confusion.

  The female stares into his eyes, then looks at Gracie’s very visibly displayed emotions—equal parts disgruntlement, disbelief, and resignation—before she turns back to the hob, gesturing to the gem. “This is real?”

  “Everything I offer you is real,” he confirms. “I can prove it.”

  “Okay.”

  “Are you shit—” Gracie glances at the youths and she finishes a stuttered, “...S-sugaring me?”

  Kio murmurs something that seems to settle the woman. She takes his diamond off his palm, causing the other hobs to reach into their own purses—but she doesn’t appea
r to notice this yet. She’s peering at the jewel she already holds. “He says I can have this appraised, and there’s more where this came from.”

  “You can, and there is,” he assures her.

  Slowly, warily, she places it in her purse, which she wears strapped in a protective fashion across her chest.

  I’ve spied this style of wear on some of the more dangerous planets.

  This female lives in a place where she fears someone will snatch the provisions for her and her offspring from her body.

  Creator knows I support Gracie but… this woman’s situation seems dire.

  Gracie stabs her entire arm in the woman’s direction. “Are you serious? The guy just told you he was an alien and you’re okay with that?”

  The woman looks at Gracie in bafflement.

  Kio, standing behind the female, shakes his head slightly to indicate that in fact he hasn’t—hadn’t—quite shared this tidbit of information.

  The female says, “Like an illegal alien? Like he just needs to be married and he can become a legal citizen kind of thing? Is that what the show’s about?”

  Kio leans into her space to declare, “To become a citizen of this place?” He doesn’t snort but it’s obvious he’s only restraining himself out of politeness. He gently offers her his hand. “I would never betray you by using you.”

  The woman loses focus on Gracie as she cautiously accepts his hand. “You could use me.”

  “There is no reality show.” Gracie sighs, eyes imploring the unappealing rafters once more. “I’m going to save you time. They’re all aliens. Real alien-aliens, Okay?”

  The female’s face screws up and she steps away from Gracie.

  Human nonverbal behavior is so interesting. I examine the way she rubs her hands as if uncomfortable, the way she grimaces and sends me a pitying look, as if I’m mated to a soft-headed helpmate.

  Incidentally, the female’s moved further into Kio’s personal space, and his eyes glaze over as he soaks in her contact.

  The woman sounds disbelieving when she asks, “You think he’s an… alien. As in ‘outer space.’”

  Gracie pulls up short. “Wait a sec. You think I’m crazy? You do, don’t you?” She scoffs. “The fuc—fudging irony.”