by Amanda Milo
At a tap on my shoulder, I take a break from playing team-mate with Petrichor, slipping out from under his arm and turning. The alien that came along with us (the tallest one stayed with Ryan) presses a triangular, heavy, watermelon-pink goodie at me. I know it’s a goodie, because he’s got the other half of it in his mouth. He swallows before saying, “For the Sproutling. He craves sweets.”
No way… I actually have been jonesing for something with sugar. “Thank you, Bortammos… can I just call you Bort? Or Ammos? Is that okay? My… uh, my people—my kind?— like nicknames, if that’s alright.”
He ducks his head. “Of course. I’d be honored.”
My translator got all of his words this time. I’m impressed at how fast it’s zipping along, considering it was only intended to learn human languages. I look to the other alien. “And can I call you...?”
“Chor. Please call me Chor.” Petrichor looks very pleased.
With a nod to both of them, I take a tentative nibble off of the pink food, and despite the crumbly texture, it hits the sugar-gimmies so good that I sigh in utter bliss.
“Very good,” Ammos murmurs, and he’s smiling at my stomach, like he senses approval from the tiny baby inside me that is very happy right now.
He can tell what the baby is craving, this is crazy!
“I don’t know when I will be able to feed you again,” Chor informs me as I take my next bite. “This is why Bortammos has come along; you will need to tell him when you get hungry.”
I glance back and wiggle my fruit, “Thank you, I’m good.”
When I face forward though, Petrichor has moved so close that I almost collide with him. I have to crane my neck in order to see his face now, and he’s smiling like he thinks I’m the cutest thing.
Bad, bad portent. Stupidly though, my insides warm a little. I guess everyone likes being liked?
“The other hunger,” he says with a quiet laugh.
And he turns away. Like that explains everything. Blinking, I trail after him, and when I finish my sweet, Bortammos offers me a damp leaf. The jungle version of a wet napkin, aha.
I keep a special eye on Petrichor, and part of me is watching for him to do something cruel or threatening. If I hadn’t woken up to the mess between my legs, I’d never have believed he’d done anything to make me a victim. I wasn’t sore, I felt better than I had in a long time, actually, and he didn’t harm me in any way besides, well, have sex with me when I wasn’t lucid. I thought I was having a really great dream with Ryan, not having very real sex with an alien. As far as I can see it, there are two possibilities: Petrichor is a sociopath, or he doesn't feel that having sex with me without my express permission is wrong.
Neither of these are great options, but the second one might be more workable. At least less… dangerous. If he’s a decent guy… erm, alien—he could be informed, and reasoned with. Slim chances, but if I get a choice, I’ll take ‘was ignorant’ over ‘he disregards my basic human rights.’
Ahhh, human rights. Being that he’s never seen one before—at least I don’t think; he thinks I’m his kind of female and so I’m getting the impression this is all well and good if you are a lady tree-dragon. I have explained I am not, but for someone who lives inside of a tree in a hole in the ground, it just means I’m from another tribe. I will give him this; he’s taken every one of my answers in stride. Me coming from far, far away doesn’t faze him. He has no concept of planets and Earth, and no matter how I try to explain, to him it just sounds like a couple days’ walk from here. Crash landing? He’s just ‘Glad you are all safe,’ referring to me, the Sproutling, and Ryan. There’s a third option, but it’s an offshoot of the first. He thinks I’m his mate, that because he made me come, he did all the right things, like hitting all the buttons for the winning sequence with the old Simon Says game, so to him… nothing about what he did with me was wrong. Again with my hope that he can be reasoned with…
I flick a glance back at Ammos, and catch him staring at me, and like all of the other times we’ve already done this, he looks away quickly. He seems shy.
Whenever I do this, casting my gaze towards Ammos, Petrichor will let our conversation lull like he’s giving me time to peruse his friend, like he knows I’m as curious about them as they are about me.
Petrichor has mostly rounded ears like a human, but Bortammos’ are alien; a little tapered, a lot of greenery—not his color, because he’s brown, but actual tiny growing plantlife on the tips—but both of them can move their ears. They are forward whenever I talk, but when I send a direct stare his way, Ammos’ drop flat. It looks more submissive than aggressive.
Not that I’m trying to stir him up; I’m just curious.
So are they. As we go along, me stuffing what they hand me into a pouch at my waist, they are asking loads of questions. “Past the great waters?”
I hesitate, trying to think of how best to explain this. I’ve been trying to describe where Earth is and I’m having absolutely no success. “There are great waters but it’s off the planet, like the stars, but way beyond them and...” I trail off, seeing no recognition on their patiently watching faces. It’s a concept they just can’t fathom.
“We have never flown past the great waters. Dangerous territory,” Chor comments, and he looks at me with a heaping amount of—unwarranted—respect for not only me being assumedly brave, but successful.
“Our great waters are different than your great waters,” I finish with a little grimace.
He pets my shoulder though, and it makes my insides happy.
A little too happy.
As Chor continues to be everything curious about my ‘tribe’—and Ammos starts to jump in more and more frequently with quiet inquiries, I try to determine why it’s making me feel so… content. Ryan’s laid up, hurt, alone with an alien and worrying himself sick, I have no doubt—and I’m worried about him, yet I’m feeling… peaceful. I wanted to know what we were up against, and I got that. And I’m feeling more settled than I have since before my sentencing to the Concord.
We’re hunting for leaves—LEAVES—but it doesn’t matter, it makes my brain happy. The group activity is invigorating.
Hive mentality. This walk is satisfying a desire I should probably be disturbed over, but getting freaked would be pointless; I can’t change what was done to me, and knowing why I’m feeling this way helps me set it all aside—it’s programming—I can struggle against it, or I can accept it.
Specifically, our group activity is collecting zemerac leaves. Well, the guys are collecting zemerac leaves. I’m not tall enough to reach the the ones with the red-undersides, so I’m basically here to cheer them on, and they are helping my recon plan, because they are showing me trails and they want me to get familiar with this place; I don’t have to cleverly pry loose the information because their answers and their questions don’t stop. Which is good, because my translator is soaking this up: what tribe am I from? Did I choose Ryan, or did he trade for me? How many husbandmen did I have…?
Well, the translator tries. I smack the back of my head twice, wishing there was a way to calibrate this thing.
Seeing me hit myself disturbs the other two though, so I send them an ‘it’s all good’ smile and go back to doing the rah-rah as they inspect zemerac and stuff them into pouches tied near their skimpy green loincloths.
Did you know that jungle aliens basically show off all the goods when they stretch up high? They are fantastically muscled and when they aren’t being tree-dragons, they have the kind of bodies human men would kill to own.
I smirk to myself. Human women would kill to own these bodies too.
I’m not leering at them or anything; I’m curious. I’m basically a researcher right now. A researcher that is contemplating how a woman would climb them. When one holds out a new variety of leaf for my inspection, trying to explain what it does when it’s steeped in hot water, I’m hearing his every word, but not eyeing the offering he intends. I’m watching his arm muscles flex
.
My thighs clench, and without panties, I feel my wetness run down the inside of my leg.
Oh no. This right here was what I was afraid of back on the Concord. I’ve only felt a low-level desire all day, and that’s abnormal, because I usually have to corner Ryan twice a shift, but when it really hits, I’m ready to jump anybody and I was always relieved that I had Ryan, who would double back to the cells on his off-hours to take care of ‘paperwork’, or whatever he had to claim in order to get me out and give us a chance to be alone, however temporary. It wasn’t easy; the responsibility had to fall to him to manipulate the roster, the timeclock, the shift changes, the inmate transfers, and camera coverage—he made sure we were taken care of so that I could get this out of my system safely.
When I return my attention to the guys, it’s to see them both staring at me, and I don’t have to ask: they must be able to smell or sense my situation somehow, judging by the looks on their faces. “I need Ryan,” I inform them. “I need Ryan right now.”
“You are hungry,” Petrichor states.
I’m not even capable of answering him—I’m pretty sure my mouth is hanging open. The other hunger. The other hunger. That’s what he’d said to me earlier. How would they know I’d get hungry for sex? How could they know this?
They sense things, they have to: first the pregnancy, now this.
...And back up; Bortammos came along for the ride—like, for the ride, for the ride!
I swing a very wide-eyed stare to him.
Tiny vines trail over his cheekbones like a blush and he averts his face quickly. Ears dropping flat, his hand scratches across his chest in what I believe is a nervous move, but it only draws my attention to the carved muscle of his incredibly fit, uncannily human-like torso.
In overall form. Obviously not in texture.
Somehow, it’s still ridiculously hot.
I cover my eyes.
I haven’t seen a naked man in months, not since before I got to the Concord. Whenever, um, sexual congress occurred with my guard, I was the only one that had to half-disrobe in order to make sex happen. It was a quick affair in all the ways, so this visual buffet—despite growing flora—here should be an opportunity to satiate an itch that’s been growing for awhile… except that I’m not feeling satiated. And this ‘hunger’ is getting worse.
“I need Ryan.” What will they do?
I peek when I sense Bortammos stepping away, taking his tempting muscles with him, looking resigned, and Petrichor is watching me like he can read my mind and that’s as equally unsettling, but whether he can or can’t, at least he doesn’t push. “Have another fruit for now,” is all he says before he turns and starts to snatch the tree bald of the red leaves. He’s moving fast, reaching up high—
He staggers, poultice-making-supplies going in every direction as he crashes to the ground.
CHAPTER 18
RYAN
I don’t know how long we do the silent staredown. By the time my eyes are burning bad enough that I have to blink, and after I’ve played the mental gymnastics it takes to decide this isn’t a concession—I can blink without losing, dammit—I stay locked on him for what feels like another forever as the asshole across from me just stares right fucking back.
It goes on for so long like this, I want to haul off and cave his teeth in. Maybe he doesn’t realize how confrontational this is. He is a motherfucking alien. Nostrils flaring, I spit, “There a reason we’re doing this?”
The alien smiles. “Good. You gave in first.”
I lunge for him.
He catches me like a person grabs a little kid; big-ass hand planting under my chest, shoving me upright, then slamming down on my shoulder to keep me from trying it twice. “I’m beginning to suspect that you have the intelligence of a ground mushroom, with only enough extra mobility to be a nuisance.”
“I’ll KILL Y—”
His other hand pops over my mouth, and he shakes his head, and I did not know just how threatening this move was until just now. My hands are wrapped around his wrist, but I’m not fucking strong enough to budge him. What’s got me tweaking the most is this tiny kernel of what feels a lot like fear.
“I am going to take my hand away. Ask what you really want to ask.”
Is this a game? I’m afraid to show where my weak spot is, but it isn’t like he doesn't know. He has to know. “What are you doing to Preta?”
He nods, and finally, his gaze dips, and I feel myself relax a centimeter. “She is well. Here, let me change your poultice while we speak.” He motions to where they cut flaps in my pant leg in order to clean and pack the bullet graze. “Bortammos and Petrichor are taking the chance to get to know her, and giving her the same opportunity. This is good. You have to see… we are not like the males you knew.”
Asshole, you have no idea.
The alien stares at me some more. To say I don’t fucking appreciate it would be an understatement.
I crack my knuckles and take a much-needed second to think. My leg pain is going killer on me right now, which is not making it any easier to concentrate. And that makes me think, because it’s not like the movies where a gunshot wound means the hero runs around and does all the things. In real life, if you take a bullet, you are not doing all the things. It pretty much means you’re not doing any of the things.
As I lie here, fighting infection and having dead plants changed out, I know my odds are bad. If I die, Preta’s alone. If we hadn’t been... saved by the jolly green giants, the best scenario out of what went down back there would be her miraculously escaping and probably starving to death before infection even got a chance to take me out.
Whatever the Clown did to her… it helped her. He made her healthy. If I die, she’s stuck alone with aliens, but they could have really hurt her, and they didn’t, and they don’t have to take the time to explain a damn thing, but they are, and there’s a lot of things they could have done to make the situation worse since we came, but they haven’t.
I’m struggling, but I can say it: it could be worse.
This… this isn’t all a bad thing. Not necessarily.
The colony quirk she has is going to love this setup, and sure, it’s not what the research team intended, but she’s essentially a lab experiment that made it to the wild. It’s like the dinosaur-island movie said; shit’s bound to adapt and find a way.
The tall one finishes changing the pesto-paste crap on my wound, nodding to himself with whatever he’s seeing. “You know of tribes that will kill off competing males.”
Not a question, but also not a threat, despite how threatening his words should feel.
I guess it’s a true statement, as far as he’d understand from what happened in the clearing between the survivors from the Alphapod’ anyway. “Yeah.”
“We don’t. The Kahav don’t.”
“The Kahav,” I say slowly, and he seems pleased.
“You have heard of us before?”
I smile a little. “No, man. Can’t say that I have.”
“We operate as a good tribe, a healthy tribe, back when we had our own people.”
As he tells me their fucking sad, and frankly terrifying history, I replay and review the valos’ behavior.
That’s what this planet is filled with. Valo. It’s their version of human. The valo we were carried off by are the Kahav tribe.
What’s left of them.
With only three males, they’re feeling pretty damn lucky that Preta dropped into their lap. They think she’s the answer to their lonely prayers.
I couldn’t care less about them. But Preta…
She’s needed a group. She’s like the ants in the ant farm at the lab; she’s driven to form a healthy hive that will work together, tackle assignments, be useful as a team.
What the aliens have her out there doing right now. This is what she’s been altered to do, kind of. I’m not so blind by fear, and concern, and yeah, jealousy, that I can’t recognize that she’s needed what they can off
er her: a hive.
I’m not giving her up though.
Preta’s mine.
So is the little Drogan-Sol.
I don’t fucking share.
A fist is squeezing the shit out of my heart right now, and I drag the heel of my hand over my chest.
She needs them.
I look down at my leg.
I…
I can…
I. Can. Share.
For however long I’ve got left.
CHAPTER 19
BORTAMMOS
Hauling Chor up, I feel Preta brush against me as she takes one of Chor’s arms across her shoulders in an effort to assist. “That log over there,” I direct her, and she helps me deposit his bulk where he won’t fall far if he loses the struggle for balance again. I could have easily managed his transplantation myself, but I like that she was near me and not testing me. All this stretch, I’ve felt her measuring me, and for a withering moment, when she asked for Ryan to be the one to feed her, I had to believe she found me lacking.
Oversensitive in regards to myself, but not sensitive enough to her; of course she’d be more comfortable with the husbandman she’s had the longest. I shake my head as I check with Chor. “You seem drained in the extreme.”
He looks at Preta, who appears sweetly concerned. He gives me a fatigued smile. “It was worth it.”
I make quick work of recollecting everything that he dropped, and I bring it to Preta. “Here. I will take you both back.”
I hand her my leather pack too, because unlike the loincloth which is made from plant fiber, the pack won’t change with me when I shift. Her eyes are a little wide when I approach her in my Guardian form, but she tries to help me get Chor into my hands before she joins him.
I’m hyperaware of her increasing hunger.
So is she.
My cupped palms ensure that neither one of them will tumble out of my hands during the flight back, but it also means that they are pressed up against one another, and its accelerating her need.
By the time we arrive back at the warren, I can tell that we’re all bracing for her husbandman’s reaction. I’m surprised, relieved beyond measure, when his gaze is steady and there is acceptance in his eyes. He isn’t thrilled, that’s clear enough, but he isn’t going to attack her despite them having different ways than our own tribe. He must genuinely care about her, and what she requires.