by Chance Maree
“Hate to tell you guys, but you're an ugly bunch.” Krull puffed on a cigar that angled upward due to his monstrous under bite.
Brown lifted his patch to flash an empty eyehole. “Ladies have assured me I'm manly in all the right places.”
“How about you, Holcomb? Is the big snake having trouble getting the little snake laid?”
“Please,” Holcomb said, “have a little sensitivity. We prefer to be called sliders or sidewinders.”
The three lizards wheezed, which may have been laughter—the commander couldn't tell. Krull choked on his cigar. Grimly, Gunner picked up his glass and held it at eye level.
“Allow me to propose a toast.” Gunner looked at each man, gauging them, one after the other. “To all the things on Earth that will forever go un-missed.”
“Endless, boiling hot days!”
“Recycled air!”
“X News!”
“My ex-wife!”
“Dead sea rotten smells!”
“Traffic!”
“Trash!”
“Politicians!”
“Hear, hear!”
Gunner's lips curled at the back corners of his long snout. “It's the small things, too. I enjoy the lack of billboards,” he said. “When I see a clear, wide, open sky without corporate logos crammed into every corner, it feels natural, like freedom. No advertisements screaming on every square inch of landscape. No corporate panderers. This, gentlemen, is Utopia.”
“Corporations give us stuff we want, though, like these…” Brown held up his whiskey and cigar. “I wouldn't mind a good burger, and I miss watching football.”
Gunner waved his hand. “Patience, Joe. We'll have those things.”
“Everything we have—is all 'cause of corporations.” Holcomb knew he was favored by Gunner, but he spoke in a low, submissive tone. “None of the world governments could have coordinated this themselves. Most of themcouldn’t find their heads up their asses.”
Gunner smiled. “And for that, people are treated like corporate livestock.” He laughed, waving his drink. “Moo.”
Krull leaned back in his chair. “What's the plan, Commander?”
“I propose that here, on Ostara, we do not exchange Earth money with power. We will create our own value system.”
“I knew you'd make this interesting.” Krull puffed on his cigar.
The others sat on the edges of their seats, motionless, perhaps in shock—wheels inside their heads whirling, ticking.
“Thoughts?”
“It is a new world.” Chang nodded with chin in hand. He, like most lizard types, had a certain Yoda-like look of wisdom. “We should avoid old world mistakes.”
“Exactly!” Gunner felt the fire of whiskey in his belly. “This is our world. We, here at this table, can mold it as we choose!”
“Seems we are treading familiar paths already. I heard one of ours caused the death of a native.” Aleksandrov jiggled his empty glass.
Gunner walked to the corner of the tent to retrieve another bottle. “It was an accident involving a civilian. In any case, I do not plan to have a race of disgruntled natives. The history of our people's settlement on Ostara will be pristine.” He refilled Aleksandrov's glass. “Natives never assimilate, never recover, and never forgive colonists.”
Krull laughed. “And here I left my pox-infected blankets back at home.”
“I see no need for bloodshed. The natives can live out their normal lives. A lack of their replenishment will do just as well.” Gunner's tongue flicked the air and his eyes darted to a shadow and a movement behind the tent wall. He recognized the intruder. “Khropfen, kali,” Gunner yelled. To his puzzled comrades, the commander extended an apology and promised to return shortly.
Gunner gathered Tyr's limp body from outside the tent and carried him to his quarters. He deposited the boy on his bunk.
“Sir, what happened?”
Squatting near the edge of the cot, Gunner leaned in close to observe the boy's eyes. The pupils were partly dilated. “What do you remember?”
“You in your tent with soldiers. Talking.”
“About?”
“Eliminating the natives.”
Gunner smiled. He'd wager the boy had understood more than some of the men at the meeting. “Wergessen, sabyvat,” Gunner whispered. He waited until Tyr's pupils were fully dilated. “All you heard was talk by old men about old war days. Boring talk about aches and pains and indigestion. That's all.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Go to sleep now.”
Tyr's eyes closed. The commander removed the boy's shoes and covered him with a thin sheet. The mask—that annoying mask, a symbol of the boy's pop idol crush, an unwelcome gift from an oversexed corporate hawker—was not only unnecessary, but also unacceptably sentimental. Gunner removed it. It was cheap plastic, white lacquered, and featureless, except for a haunting carnival grin. Gunner looked upon the boy's face for the first time since landing on Ostara. He gasped and nearly dropped the mask.
Tyr's face was a mixing bowl of parts—a surrealist painting of not one, but multiple creatures from nightmares. The sensory organs were near the usual places, but mismatched, and, in the instance of the nose, barely recognizable. Part of the nose looked horned, like a turtle’s; the other side was a mass of wet black tissue with a single air hole. The boy's left eye socket was as large and deep as a moose's, but the eyeball itself was flat, like that of a fish. The other socket was but a small opening on a flat plane from which a smaller brown eye protruded, like a spongy ball stuffed into a hole. The boy had a floppy ear on one side, and no observable hearing structure on the other. He had a horn stalk, like a young stag. Bits of fur, scales, and feathers were strewn about like confetti over his visage. Tyr's features, like his DNA, were sewn together to define a life more unnatural and horrible than Frankenstein’s monster.
CHAPTER 13
Doctor Jacob Reynolds
Reynolds mugged into the camera. “I've been awake for four azfracing days!”
His colleague scowled, apparently unimpressed. “I told them I could perform the autopsy.”
“Yes, Dr. Otto, you could have, and I would have vouched for you except this is an azfracing alien and I'm screwking thrilled to be the first one to get a look inside it, him, the native, whatever.”
“Excuse me, Dr. Reynolds, but how much Dynastimix have you taken?”
“So much, I can stick my tongue out of my pupil.”
“Do you think it's wise to work in your condition?”
“Not like I'm going to kill him!” Jacob doubled over and made a sound like wheezing.
“Very amusing. I would recommend that you wait, but Commander Dovmont wants it done ASAP. I've kept the body as cold as possible; however, the conditions for preservation here are inadequate.”
Jacob hummed as he pulled on scrubs.
A space in the clinic had been prepped. From the looks of it, Dr. Otto had hoped Jacob's arrival might be delayed. Begrudgingly, Otto cleared out his personal log and adjusted the video recorder toward the autopsy table. “I'm lucky, in a way,” he said in a sly tone that caught Jacob’s attention. “Opening the body could be hazardous. I mean, we don't know, do we? It could harbor some exotic bacteria, or a virus that might be harmless to the natives, but it could be mortiferous for us. Just a whiff of the intestinal gas or exposure to a drop of body fluid might be catastrophic.”
Jacob winked. “We can only hope.”
“Would you like me to assist you?”
“The commander said I am to operate alone, and he wants the video. ASAP. Chop, chop.”
“But why?” Dr. Otto clenched both fists, which caused Jacob a moment of concern. “It's because I'm…it’s because I'm an ostrich, isn't it?”
“I was thinking emu.”
“I knew it!” Dr. Otto pulled at his bill, a habit particular to avian heads. “I've had enough with reptilian prejudice. I'm through with Galileo. First Lieutenant Goody is a hawk. Maybe my work will be ap
preciated in Franklin!”
Jacob couldn't help smirking. Mediocre people always find an excuse for their own failings. “Screwking A, Otto.”
Otto put both hands on his hips. “You really need to back off on the Dynastimix, Dr. Reynolds.”
⁂
Jacob stood beside the boy's body. He peered, squinting, directly into the camera. “I'm exhausted. I've been working nonstop for the past four days. But that's a secret project, so I won't go into it now. On a general note, the clinic doctors have had a slew of work-related injuries, and poisoning—believe it or not—because people are eating native plants before anyone's had a chance to test them.”
Jacob yawned and scratched his neck. The section where skin and scales intersected always seemed itchy. “Anyway, I probably shouldn't be doing this autopsy. But oh well…”
He took a deep breath and leaned over the corpse. “Conditions here are crude, to say the least, so we'll be examining the body the old fashioned way. Here goes. The first autopsy ever performed off Earth on a native of Ostara.
“The body is that of a normally developed Caucasian male child, slightly undernourished. He has only four fingers on each hand, but the missing digit doesn't appear to have been caused by trauma or mutilation.
“Dr. Otto's notes state that the body measurement was 121.92 cm, with a weight of 35 kg. He appears to be 13 years of age, by Earth standards. The body is cool and rigor mortis is fully developed in the major muscle groups. Non-blanching lividity observed on low back, areas of the feet, upper thighs, the left arm, and the neck.
“The scalp is covered by long black hair, about 25 centimeters. The body hair is early pubescent. The skull is asymmetric. Extensive trauma is evident in the temporal and occipital regions. The irises are brown and the pupils are asymmetrically dilated. The teeth are native and healthy. The anterior chest and pelvis are intact. The external genitalia are male and unremarkable. The back is symmetrical and appears intact, but cervical vertebrae show abnormal movement. Extremities are…”
Jacob heard his name whispered. “Pots?” He moved uncertainly toward the clinic's entry flap.
“Jacob, can I come in?”
Definitely Pots. “No. Wait.” Jacob removed his mask and gloves. He stepped outside the tent and embraced her. Damn, she smells good! Pots pressed her face against his chest. That cute, creamy white buffalo face. “I missed you,” he said, and meant it.
“The boy died. It was my fault.”
Keeping a grip on both her arms, Jacob stepped back. “No, it wasn’t. Look at me.”
Pots shook her head. Tears streamed from her eyes, which stayed focused on the ground.
“I'm so sorry for what you've gone through. If it's any comfort, the boy didn't suffer.” Jacob lowered his voice, but to his own ears, the tone sounded too impersonal—and way too professional.
Pots put her hands over her eyes and sobbed, understandably, yet such fragility wasn't consistent with the woman he'd viewed as the most courageous—if unduly headstrong—pilot on Alpha Horizon.
“I want to see him.” Her voice was thin. Unsure. Child-like, even.
“Not a good idea, Pots. I don't think you can take another shock. You can't even look at me.”
“Who's going to tell his family? The commander won't talk about it. The tribe will want the boy's body, but how can we give it to them once it’s been cut open?”
“Let other people worry about all that, okay?”
Pots wiped her eyes. She nodded, all the while continuing to look at Jacob's feet.
“I'll be finished in a couple of hours. Can I come to your tent afterward?”
“Yes, of course.”
Jacob hugged Pots again and kissed her forehead before sending her off. He lingered a moment longer, watching her slender figure vanish outside the tent's glow light. Just as he opened the flap, a woman with the golden-striped head of a tiger slipped between him and the tent. The monkey on her shoulder turned its face towards Jacob and stared.
“Welcome back, Doctor.”
“Celine! I didn't know you were in Galileo.”
“Yes, you did.”
Celine had the remarkable ability to render men speechless. Jacob was certain the actress knew the effect she had on him, but she couldn’t possibly conceive how powerful a man’s desire can be. But it wasn’t a loss of control that he feared; he knew entanglement with Celine would consume him far more than it would ravage her. He was tempted to explain all that to her, but changed his mind. Definitely had too much Dynastimix. “Is that a real monkey?” he asked instead.
“Allow me to introduce my friend, Rafiki. He's Byrd's secret pet.” Celine touched the monkey's cheek. It closed its eyes and made a soft chirping sound. “I was just taking the little fellow for a walk when I decided to come and pay my respects.” Celine slipped inside the tent.
Jacob followed and closed the flap behind them. Even with a tigress mien, Celine's face displayed heart wrenching compassion and grief. She leaned forward and placed a white wildflower on the boy's bare chest. A tear fell from her eye upon the boy's throat before pooling into the dimple above the clavicle.
Jacob cleared a catch in his throat. Don't be an idiot, he thought. She's an actress, remember?
“He's just a little boy,” Celine said. “I'm truly sorry our coming here has resulted in the loss of this child's life. Ostara has welcomed us, but his death fills our heart with sorrow.”
“His death was an accident.”
Celine looked up. Her golden, feline eyes were glimmering. “I miss seeing human faces. Rafiki looks more like the natives than we do. Anyway, Rafiki and I must go now, before Dr. Byrd worries himself to death. Don't tell anyone about the monkey.” Before leaving, Celine looked back at Jacob. She placed her hand over her heart. “Dr. Reynolds, thank you for your service. Operating on a dead child cannot be easy.” Celine turned to leave, and Jacob fought an overwhelming desire to spin the actress around and kiss her.
Oh shit! The video camera was still on. Jacob stood in front of the camera's eye and stared at the blinking red light. “Sorry. I can't do this right now.” He stumbled forward and flipped off the power.
⁂
Pots was waiting for Jacob with food and drink, but he desired only her. That was a lie, but Pots didn’t appear to notice. She allowed him to kiss and undress her, keeping her eyes closed all the while. Together they moved through the dimly lit tent to an air mattress that smelled of detergent.
Jacob pulled off his shirt. “Look at me.”
“I can't.”
He dropped his shorts and kicked them from underfoot. “Pots, look at me.”
“I'm trying.”
Jacob climbed slowly over her, kissing the smooth flesh of her thighs, stomach, and breasts. He stopped. “I've been dying to taste your mouffle.”
Pots laughed and pushed Jacob onto his side. “A woman never grows tired of hearing that line.”
Jacob lightly caressed the fleshy, hairless skin of her snout. “Mouffles are quite good in a stew, but I find yours sexually arousing.”
Eyes closed, Pots snuggled her nose against his neck. She appeared to have no idea what Jacob was talking about, but she moved downward, exhaling warm breath over his belly.
“Look at me,” Jacob said, placing his hands on the sides of Pots's wooly buffalo cheeks.
Pots's breath slowed and deepened. Jacob waited, willing her to see him—needing her to accept the visual change in him as he had accepted hers. Dark buffalo eyes blinked as Pots struggled to focus on him.
“You look the same to me.”
“I'm not. Keep looking.”
Jacob watched, fascinated. He knew she was witnessing the shimmer, the sudden ripping of reality from illusion or illusion from reality—it was difficult to judge one from the other sometimes.
The moment she saw him, really saw him, her body stiffened. The sternocleidomastoid sprang like tense cords alongside her neck. Her palms pressed against his chest, pushing him aside.
/> “I can't,” she panted, jumping up, struggling with clothing, and grabbing shoes.
“Wait!”
Pots stumbled like a kidnapped heroine escaping out of the villain's dungeon.
“Pots! Stop. Please. I'm still me. I haven't changed. Inside.” Jacob stood at the tent's threshold. “I'm still me,” he said, rubbing the scaly surface of his long crocodile snout.
CHAPTER 14
Tyr Dovmont
Through the clear plastic skylight of his tent, Tyr could see the night sky was cloudy and dark. He reached out from his cot, knocking his mask off its nail and sending it sailing lightly to the floor. He didn't remember taking the mask off—or going to bed, for that matter. Tyr slipped the elastic band behind his head and strapped on his hiking boots.
Daylight on Ostara was much like spring days on Earth, but at night the similarity ended, and for those who enjoyed gazing upward towards a sky full of stars, the consistent absence of a moon was disturbing. Tyr was not troubled by dark. He walked without night goggles or glow stick and cared little about the lack of moonlight.
On this night, he avoided people, moving through the camp between remnants of campfires and rows of darkened tents that spoke to one another in snores, and then along a dirt pathway to a nearby outpost on a rocky ledge that overlooked a steppe to foothills of the canyon. Tyr followed a well-planned course outside the security patrols, which consisted mainly of drones and a few scattered guards. He retrieved his secret stash of provisions from four hidden places among military lockers and rocks and gathered them in a framed backpack. The final and most risky item to acquire was an air board he'd liberated and hidden after the supply center had closed earlier that evening.
The boy waited in the shadows with his dark cloak’s hood up, his ghostly white mask covering the back of his head so he appeared as a motionless form, in the dark, waiting. A patrolling drone passed overhead, and with its departure, a guarantee of a window of privacy, at least during the night guard's watch, when Tyr had determined he could most easily leave the camp without gaining any notice.