by Amanda Milo
Mace bares his teeth. “By night’s fall she could succumb to starvation. Look at her.”
I tip my head. “Rush her now and she’ll push herself until she’s dead.” As if to illustrate my point, instead of resting as she so desperately should be, she’s pacing with her husbandman as sounds begin to disturb them.
“I believe we’re about to see the landowner tribe make an appearance,” Mace says. He sounds as discouraged as I’m sure we all feel. We had worked to make this end of the clearing as inviting as possible, adding warm sandy soil perfect for lighting a fire, we’d even provided the tinder and wood, and if our heartstones should happen to be arranged in such a way that the female might notice them, and might even be coaxed to blood them…
We had hoped. But she hasn’t so much as glanced down yet, and now with her tribe’s arrival, she might not be allowed to blood us even if she suddenly decided to.
Interestingly, it’s the husbandman that backs her to the sandy area, and he nudges her to stand right over our heartstones, even going so far as to join her on top of them.
I glance to the other two and see we’re all in agreement: this seems like a positive sign.
That is, until all underworld breaks loose.
CHAPTER 8
PRETA
Even the space squirrels have gone quiet as we wait to see what’s snapping twigs and crushing leaves.
Other humans materialize from the trees.
Somehow, it’s no less threatening to be hunted by people than it is creatures. With the creatures, at least it’s not personal. “Any chance these guards are your friends?”
“Negative.”
“The boss-guards weren’t your friends, the asshole-guard wasn’t your friend, the hur-hur ‘I’ll take her to solitary’ guard wasn’t your friend. Stars above, man—did you have any friends?”
He spares me a look.
“Oh.”
He turns his attention back to the group advancing on us.
“I can’t feel it,” I whisper.
“Can’t feel what?” His fingers sweep down my back, reaching into the pocket of my suit for the handgun tucked there. Quickly, I snake my hand around his hips, and go for the gun in his holster. From this distance, it must look enough like we’re hugging, because nobody shoots us for moving.
“I don’t have my super powers,” I explain, and one of the assholes in front of us is close enough to hear me, and he laughs—a short, surprised sound that seems magnified in the clearing’s quiet. Guess he thinks I’ve gone crazy. I risk a haughty look at Drogan. Seems that’s going around.
He rolls his eyes at me before we both swing our gazes back to the guy who laughed. This dude could almost be forgiven for thinking that an inmate that survives the Concord Treatment is going to be screwed up, but he’s not a good guy, so who’s going to be in a forgiving mood? Judging by the way he and his friends are eyeing us, we sure as heck won’t be.
“I don’t care if a bitch is crazy in the head, it don’t change her snatch,” the chuckler informs us.
His standards are charming. Truly.
“Preta,” Drogan says, and in his tone I hear both warning, and regret, and it makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand straight up. “I’m sorry.”
I do not like the way he says this.
“Do you see the antlers on these stags?”
Just like that, my wiring is back online. The group in front of us pauses, confusion plain on their faces as they glance around, looking for said stags.
I take out three in rapid succession, Drogan takes out another, and as if we choreographed it, we swing to fire on the last two. The sound of strikers hitting nothing but chamber is about as terrifying as it can get when the opposition has you, quite literally, in their sights. We could have cleared this field by now if we’d had the bullets.
A bellow of terrifying proportions splits the air. It’s different from the shrieker call, this one so deep the ground under our feet shakes, and it makes everyone hesitate.
I whip my now-useless handgun at them.
I was never good at throwing—well, not good at aiming either, really, but it strikes my target smack in the forehead and he goes down.
But it’s too little, too late. The last man aims, just before something rushes him from the trees.
Drogan’s already leaping to tackle me, twisting us, and I think his plan was for him not to land on me. On account of a bullet grazing his leg, he isn’t able to execute it as smoothly as he planned. I end up under him, and he is heavy. I didn’t know I should have counted myself lucky we always banged against a wall—this brute is crushing me. My face smashes into a rock, making my eyes water and my nose bleed.
When his body lifts off of me with a pained shout, I roll over, my hand going to my nose now that his weight isn’t pinning my limbs in place, and I ask, “Are you okay…”
I hadn’t been sure what was attacking the last shooter, and with Drogan going full bodyguard on me, I hadn’t had the millisecond to worry about it yet.
That millisecond opening is happening right now.
Suspended above me is Drogan, and he’s being held aloft by a very alive dragon-tree. Twisting branches, clinging plant life, and now I see the eyes; how did we miss these before? They project light like they’ve got halogen lamps in their sockets. But the surface is shiny and glistens like a normal eye. A living tree-creature.
Movement has me panning my gaze around to see that there are three of them.
One of them holds his foot—his hand?—up in front of me, spreading his claws. I scramble to my feet, my mind a jumble of useless commands in this instance. There is no protocol for this.
I don’t see the tree-dragon’s other hand until it scoops me up from behind.
CHAPTER 9
PRETA
I’m cold. Inside, and out. Drogan said I’d be practical, and despite the fact that I feel like a tundra chip has replaced the heart in my chest, my mind is giving me orders. The targets are dead, so I’ve been released from the killer sequence and I’ve been supplied with the next essential task; assess teammate condition, and immediately find food source.
Whoever wrote this program spent way too much time with computers and not enough time with loved ones. It’s a bit of a relief that I am scared for Drogan, and although I feel like the old me would have been panicking right now, panicking about arteries, and infection, and the lack of supplies to prevent infection—I have a handle on myself. I don’t want to be the old panicky me, but I’m relieved I’m not entirely unfeeling.
I’d take the food suggestion in a heartbeat though. Because starving.
Just before he cups me in his massive palms, the creature rakes his claws along the ground and picks up… a rock?
Some birds swallow stones to help them break down food in their gullets. What do dragons (!) made of trees (!!) do?
I don’t know yet, but I do know it’s real, it is alive, and it picked! me! up!
Air rushes over me as its wings flick open and slam down, launching us into the air.
My heart settles down a little when I see that Drogan is being carried by the biggest tree-dragon… not that this is a great thing, but leaving him lying in the dirt, wounded, prey for anything, sounds worse than… whatever is about to happen to us—at least we’ll be together.
Not ‘at least he won’t be alone,’ but an emphatic ‘we’ll be together.’ I’d like to think that’s the romantic side of me wanting to keep us tight, but I’m more afraid it’s my programming attempting to salvage its unit.
Images flit in my mind; more sequences—for escape this time—it feels like my brain is shouting all sorts of commands at me. For instance, one command scenario involves the rock this dragon has with us, but I immediately reject the idea that I use it as a weapon because this behemoth plummeting out of the sky while he’s clutching me is not a good play.
Movement has me chancing a look up at a GIANT eye. “Ahhh!”
Its head rears back, which
changes its momentum which means I end up slamming against its opposite half-cupped finger. Its nose is suddenly against me, nudging. “Hey! Quit it! You’re going to push me off!”
It brings its other hand around me though, so that I’d have to stand up and jump if I wanted out now—which I do not. The ground is currently far, far below us. I’m bathed in hot breath, and I cough, feeling like I’ve just opened the door on a car that’s been baking over summer-heated asphalt. I shove at the nose, and I have to catch myself when it immediately moves away from the pressure of my hand. “Thanks,” I gasp.
Its head tilts. “Keilmort’baan din.”
My translator pushes, “Welcome.”
I knew it! This—this!—is the source of the ‘space squirrel’ chatter Drogan was giving me crap about! I did hear alien creatures talking and my translator is learning! It’s supposed to be able to teach itself any language. It’s been learning tree-dragon!
I look at the thing—as much of its body as I can see—its massive face, and the thickness of its neck, and the expanse of its chest are so big, I can’t see around it. In front of me though, it looks like it’s made up of braided vines and moss. It has a head shield like a Triceratops, but made of branches. This thing is entirely made of various types of plant life, and it reminds me of terrarium art. Just on a way, way big scale.
I scoot forward on my knees, squinting at its shoulder. There’s a bird nest on it. There’s a bird in it.
The poor thing looks kind of freaked out, and I wonder if its mate is going to be looking from tree to tree, unable to find home, grass bits or night crawler worms dropping from its little beak when it shouts in bird, “WHAT THE HELL?!”
I shake my head—then just as quickly, I put a hand up to my temple. I’m starting to feel dizzy, something I’ve been fighting off and on for hours, but the crummy excuses for food I’ve been able to consume at least kept the worst of that at bay. My head is also starting to pound, and for now, with a daredevil skydive off this dragon’s hands not looking like my best option just yet, I settle for closing my eyes, and hunkering down on his palm.
CHAPTER 10
PETRICHOR
I’m losing her. “Do not die,” I order, even though I know she can’t understand me. Her eyes pop open, and my heartstone flares next to her, which makes her sit up. This is good. She’s still responsive despite the stresses placed on her by fear and the extreme effects of hunger.
Dimly registering the caress of the Sonhadra sky on my wings, I skirt the unfinished city, our Ruler’s pride and joy once, and descend to our hometree. I’m gentle with her as I shift to my two-legged form; I don’t want to drop my azibo.
My azibo. I have an azibo.
I look much like her now, though she is soft-skinned, whereas my skin is like packed loam, and might grow the occasional creeping vine and twisting twig. Sharing a similar appearance in shape does not comfort her, however.
She begins to struggle, and to counter it, I lock my arm around her, and carefully reach up to my shoulder to transfer the bird’s nest to a nearby tree before it gets dislodged by her thrashing. I tug up a few small shrubs and drop them in front of it to act as a windblock should the weather take a turn in the night.
In the circle of my arms, my azibo falls still, which takes my attention off of nest cozying in order to access her condition.
She’s looking at the bird.
I turn back to it too, but it seems fine. “Your mate will find you,” I tell it and very carefully stroke my finger over its silky-feathered head.
My azibo makes a small noise, her eyes darting to mine when I look down at her in question. Slowly, I take her hand and bring it up so she too can pet the bird. Her fingers stay limp, her head turning to me in question until I demonstrate, and verbally explain, how carefully she should move.
She brings her forehead forward and widens her eyes, her strips of brow turf rising straight up. I get the sense that she knows how to pet a bird—she simply wasn’t certain of my intention. I laugh. “My apologies.”
Tentatively, she takes over, and when she’s done, the bird seems confused about being touched by a stranger, but my azibo’s anxiety about me is nearly extinguished.
I stare down at her. If petting small animals is reassuring, I can take her to meet all sorts; I begin to consider who best to introduce her to, and which ones have litters with young, because babies of all kinds are a joy to behold. My azibo shifts and the bonyness of the hip against my stomach makes me wince for her. Forget introductions; feeding first. I thought I’d wait for her husbandman to arrive, but she needs replenishing as quickly as possible.
“Pretty,” she says as I open the intricately woven door at the base of our hometree. I ponder her expression—her word, not only her face—relieved that I am now able to understand her speech because she blooded me when she was injured on my heartstone. I don’t know about the other valos in the land, but the Kahav gain their azibo’s speech immediately, as a gift from our Ruler, who wanted our pairings successful.
After all, more families meant more workers.
She continues to appreciate the beauty of her new surroundings as I swiftly carry her through the maze of tunnels that make up our warren. Throughout this, she remains relaxed against me; trusting.
I almost breathe a sigh of relief, but when we arrive at my bed, I feel as if I’m very suddenly holding onto warm stone. Her trusting, relaxed manner has disappeared along with her interest in her surroundings. She’s focused on me now, and from where I grip it in my hand, I spy my heartstone glowing like chastising fire in reaction to the betrayal she’s feeling.
I set her down carefully, and I want to be relieved that she doesn’t attempt escape, but seeing her resignation is no better a sight. Discontent fills my chest as I slowly and gently begin to work her odd coverings loose.
I stop when I see her skin begin to change pattern. I witnessed this when one of the land beasts of the area was stalking her. Like most beings that can conceal themselves into the background, they most often display this trait when they feel threatened or frightened.
I take her hand, and am further saddened when she doesn’t so much as try to fight me. I can see that she is feeling weak and in this it’s almost as if I can read her thoughts; resistance is futile, assault is inevitable.
I want to point out many things, starting with the fact that this must be done now because her husbandman did not feed her as he should have. Yet, casting blame on another husbandman seems like a terrible method of easing her misgivings—let alone the fact that doing so would be an inauspicious start in the extreme. “You need to feed,” I try to explain.
Unfortunately, blooding my heartstone does not make it so that she can understand me. This was a common enough problem in the days when females were brought from other tribes. There would be a period of courting, in which we would learn about each other’s language and cultures and it is unfortunate that we do not possess this luxury of time due to her condition.
I’m still uneasy and wondering how to explain when, with a startling swiftness, she returns to her natural coloration.
When she gives me a dull look and tugs on her hand, I let her go. She begins to remove her coverings herself, starting with her feet. I move back to give her more room. Her stoicism is admirable, but it is painful that she has to exercise it at all. I feel her unhappiness like sour notes from a still-green piper flute. This is all wrong.
“Here,” I bring my heartstone to her lips. “At least we can complete this part properly.”
I’ve seen her eyes dance playfully, I’ve seen her eyes turn heated with lust for her husbandman. I’ve seen her eyes go fierce before a battle.
Now the summer-warmed brown has turned muddy, and all of her has lost a luster. She’s tolerating this, not welcoming it—me. It’s turning our ceremony into something forced, and ugly, and without prolonging what should have been a joyous joining, I press my stone to her lips.
She doesn’t react except to part
them as if she’s ready to take it into her mouth. With growing incertitude, I pull it back, and plug it into my chest.
A little bit of spark comes back to her person as great vines of ivy bloom and weave, and unravel across my skin, tiny crimson and vermilion flowers budding and unfurling right before her stunned eyes.
By her shock, she’s never blooded a Kahav before, this much is obvious. I don’t know what her husbandman’s ceremony involves, but I know many valo have a heartstone that comes alive for their azibo.
Azibo.
I have an azibo.
I’ve dreamed of this day for so long, I’ve imagined how it would happen, and how beautiful it would be to twine together. To provide for her. Wanting just this one small aspect to match the scene I’ve often relished in my head, I lean in to press a kiss to her forehead.
She tips up her face in the last moment, and our lips touch instead.
CHAPTER 11
PRETA
Practical. That’s what Drogan said my programming was at its base. It’s sure defaulted to practicality now. I’ve never been more aware of my options: I can fight and lose to an alien that, in his tree-dragon form, has teeth longer than my forearm—or I can just give him what he wants, and hope he’s pleased enough he won’t hurt me, yet not have so much fun that he wants multiple sessions.
I don’t need to gather courage, or anything. I feel like I’m a spectator as I numbly consider this towering male specimen that looks sort of human now. He’s got moss for hair and eyebrows, and his skin has areas that look like grit, with raised parts that aren’t stone, but aren’t skin either.
He smells great. That shouldn’t matter at all, but I guess it’s just a nice bonus not to be taken advantage of by an alien that oozes and stinks like a urinal cake; little bits of luck can’t be taken for granted. I breathe out and look up at the ceiling.
Submit. He’s an alien creature and it’s obvious he's horny. This is the smart play—I’m not strong enough to stop him—I can be raped or I can help myself along, make him happy, and hope I get a chance to slip away. Really, it could be worse; this guy could have shifted into a human-ish thing back there and thrown me down right in front of Drogan, but he didn’t, and a soft bed underground seems like a nice gesture by comparison. I hope the other two bring Drogan to the same tunnels and if I do get to escape, I can find him and we can both make it out of here alive.