In that instant, the pods broke apart, shooting off in different directions. All except mine. I seemed to still be connected to someone else. I peered to my right, trying to see if the other girl noticed, but she was sitting in her seat with her eyes squeezed shut, clearly hyperventilating. I waved my arms frantically trying to get her attention, praying that she knew whether or not we were supposed to stay connected like we were, or if it would mean something had gone terribly wrong and we’d explode midair. Can you blame me for being terrified?
When we neared the planet’s atmosphere, an image popped up on the console screen, a little LED-light animation of putting on a safety harness. I sat down and did as I was told, fastening a buckle around my waist and tucking my arms through the shoulder straps so I could fasten a second buckle around my sternum. Now things were getting bumpy.
And I couldn’t breathe.
And there was fire blowing past the window.
And I knew, I knew, this was how I would die. This was how. And I willed myself to wake up from this nightmare.
I heard a great release of air as the parachutes on our pods opened up, but something went wrong. Maybe since we were still connected, one parachute got in the way of the other, because what I assumed should have been a gentle descent to the surface of the planet was a jarring fall into a rapidly approaching groundswell. And there was nothing I could do. I saw the treetop canopy of a great forest and squeezed my eyes shut, bracing for impact, praying to anything that could hear me to keep me safe.
I felt a jolt that knocked me violently against my restraints; I felt a catch that tossed me into the back of the chair again, whiplash-sharp and fast. Then, everything went still.
CHAPTER 3: ODRIK
I saw the firebeam shoot across the sky and drop to earth a few hundred meters from my dwelling, a fallen star, perhaps, with a heart that pulsed and must be thrown back up into the sky. I was not of a mind to be accommodating to anything of this planet, but a star… she could have my attention and, should she require it, my aid.
I slid my blade into the sheath at my hip and tied my hair back with a leather thong, startled as I ever was by the absence of my right horn. It ended so abruptly, a raw nub at my temple; I do not believe I shall ever be accustomed to its absence. I ran my fingertips along my remaining horn, and it curled around my head like a crown, black as onyx and flecked with speckled gold.
Lacing up my boots, I climbed the crest of the hill that would slope and give way to the Great Forest. The rimosha plants bent their sharp, pink heads toward me as I passed, eager to nip at my ankles; I crushed the more brazen buds underneath the soles of my feet as I moved.
It was not a difficult hike, an hour’s worth of trudging, maybe two, and it was a pleasure to have something new to break up the monotony of the day. Ever since my shame and subsequent exile, I had been spending the vast majority of my time fasting and contemplating the ways in which I might return to my tribe and take my rightful place as Chieftain. Rightful… that word. In my hours of meditation, I had come to question whether or not it was, in fact, “rightful.” Had I abdicated my birthright, simply by failing to conquer Fegar Gael? Perhaps I had.
My body had mended — all save my horn, which would forever remind me of my defeat. But my soul was very much in a state of unrest. It was imperative that my tribe migrate, in the hopes of finding viable female mates. Otherwise, this would be the last generation of the Qeteshi. Fegar did not see it that way; Fegar languished in the luxuries of the valley, easy food and shelter from the winternight, precious gemstones and metals with which to adorn himself so that it might look as though he had won battles he had never fought.
I spat at the ground at the very thought of his name. Fegar Gael, at once my tribe’s leader and my sworn enemy. Push him out of your mind, Odrik, said I to my spirit self, my better part, my highest consciousness, and enjoy the morning hike to the Great Forest. I enjoyed this time of day, midmorning, after the beasts of prey had killed their morning meals and my only true enemies were the nagging little rimosha plants who were limited by where they were stuck in the dirt. I liked that I could leave my hunting gear in my dwelling and stroll unencumbered. I liked that there was something new, my fallen star, to explore.
I came upon the canopy and narrowed my eyes, lifting a hand to shield my vision from starshine. There was… an egg. Two eggs, one up high in a tree, one cracked, half-buried in the ground below. Both were enormous. What mighty bird had laid such eggs? I moved forward to approach them, to examine them further, but heard voices and hid myself amongst the underbrush. It was Fegar and his brother Yorn, trudging up to the egg half-buried in the dirt.
“This is the site,” Yorn said, “this is the place the Visitor promised.” Fegar glistened in the morning light, starbeams catching on the many gems that glittered in his sash. His horns, still fully intact, curved down in back and ended at the nape of his neck. He was a broad beast, ever so slightly lacking in height, but his brother was lithe as a reed and a head taller. Yorn had the blunted horns of a Qulari, the priests of our clan, but I recalled him as a child, still graced with the broad, arcing horns of a would-be warrior. He was a pale, shimmering opal in hue, where Fegar was dark like amber and honey. I watched them from behind the cover of low-hanging leaves.
“Fetch her out, then,” Fegar said, gesturing vaguely toward the egg, hesitant to get too close to it. Yorn drew in a deep breath, puffing out his chest, and approached. The egg was cracked down the side, and when Yorn tried to pry it open, it would not give way. I could not tell, from my vantage point, how he finally managed to crack it open, but when next I saw Yorn, he had a figure in his arms, limp and heavy.
I held my breath, peering intently: a female. He had a female in his arms.
“What is wrong with her?” Fegar asked, reaching forward to brush the hair out of her face.
“It seems that she expired upon impact,” Yorn replied, impassive. Fegar bore a startled look and reached out to take the girl from Yorn.
I watched Fegar’s proud form curl around the precious cargo in his arms. “She was supposed to be mine,” I thought I heard him say.
They buried the woman under an old tree and departed, and it was after they’d gone that I emerged and made my way toward the second egg, obscured by foliage, up high in the branches of a Panyan tree. Fortunately, those particular trees are excellent for climbing, as vines snake up the trunk, making for easy footholds. I ascended with great speed, drawn toward the egg by a stinging curiosity about what it held.
When I drew nearer, I saw that the egg was partly made of glass, giving me a glimpse of its delicate cargo: another female, eyes closed in unconsciousness. I was stunned by how strangely beautiful she was, round and pale, with skin like sweet cream tinted with the pink dye squeezed from a rimosha petal. I furrowed my brow, worried that I was perhaps too late, that this one had expired as well, that when I touched that perfect flesh, it would be cold with the onset of decay.
I ran one hand along the outer surface of the egg, trying to see if there might be a way into it that did not involve shattering the glass casing. Finding nothing, I curled my hand into a fist and brought it down hard on the crux of the egg. The glass splintered and cracked underneath the force of my blow, and I brought it down again, and a third time, all the while keeping a weather eye on the female inside of it.
I noticed that my lady also had no horns; I wondered what sort of dishonor she had suffered, and how she’d managed to have them shorn off without a scar to show for it. I slammed my fist down a final time and the glass shattered, raining bits and pieces down onto her.
That was when she awoke, startled by the glass, sliced here and there by tiny falling pieces. I regretted the necessity of harming my lady, but my priority was to free her; her flesh would heal. She made a few mewling noises of protestation, brushing frantically at her body to get the glass away. And when she looked up at me, I proffered a smile down at her.
My lady. She
screamed.
She raised a hellish cry skyward so that a murmuration of starlings broke off from the branches of the Panyan and took flight. I reached into the egg and clamped my hand down over her mouth to keep her quiet; I did not wish for Fegar to hear her and return.
“Quiet, lady,” I said in dulcet tones. But she was in a panic, and I realized that my hand was large enough to cover the whole of her lovely face. My lady was tiny, though plump. I was desperate to touch more of her.
“I am going to take my hand away, but I need you to remain silent,” I said, and withdrew my hand from her lips.
She shrieked again and freed herself from the restraints that held her in the egg. “Take my hand,” I said, and held it out to her. But I realized, then, that she did not speak the Qeteshi tongue.
Vatdafukaryoo? She seemed to be asking me something, over and over, fear coloring eyes the hue of a summerday sky. I squinted at her, trying to catch some snippet of a recognizable word, but to my ears it was only nonsense.
My lady was making a great deal of noise, and I was concerned that she would not only attract Fegar’s attention, but some greater, more primitive beasts as well. I growled my frustration and reached into the egg, curling my fingers around her tiny little arm and lifting her easily up and out of the egg that held her. She thrashed, yelling to the stars, and I sighed, resigning myself to having to descend the tree with her shrieking and wriggling about.
It was considerably slower, my descent, but we made it without further incident. As soon as I placed her on the forest floor, however, she darted off, away from me, toward the edge of the forest. I blinked and watched her go, brow furrowed with concern. Why should she want to flee from me? I followed at some distance, one stride of mine carrying me the same distance as almost four strides of hers, but I let her stay ahead of me. That is, until I saw her heading recklessly toward a cliff that gave sharp way into the riverbed. I knew she could not see it: I knew when she turned to look at me over her shoulder as she ran that she was not paying close attention to the terrain in front of her.
“Wait!” I cried out. “Hold!” But she did not heed me. She let out a howl as the ground gave way beneath her feet and she went sliding into the river. I hissed a curse and bounded faster forward, leaping over the edge and into the icy riverwater.
I opened my eyes under the clear waters and saw her struggle to swim up; her ankle was caught in a wet nest of contichi weed, the rimosha’s water cousins. Their sharp little teeth were nipping away at the flesh of her thigh, and they would have held her there to drown her if I had not encircled my arm around her waist and crushed the weeds underfoot. I lifted her to the surface and she sucked in a great, gasping gulp of air, sputtering and coughing, but no longer trying to fight me.
I swam her to the bank and hoisted her up out of the rushing current, cradling her like a babe in my arms. I set her down gently, but when her foot made contact with the dirt, she cried out again and collapsed at my feet. Her shoulders were wracked with sobs and when I bent forward to brush her matted brown curls out of her face, I saw that river water ran with salt over the slopes of her cheeks. Deep lacerations in the flesh of her inner thigh made tracks of blood run down her leg, staining the pale, thin fabric of her gown. She’d lost the bit of armor, shimmering gold, that she had been wearing before, and the curve of her breast was exposed to the air, adorned as it was with tiny jewels. I was struck once more by her strange beauty.
“Can you walk?” I asked. Then, frustrated by how she shook her head frantically from side to side, I mimed walking, tromping in a circle around her, and then pointed at her. She placed her hands on the ground and tried to push herself to a standing position, only to collapse again. She turned her eyes, red-ringed and swimming with tears, on me. Then she lifted her hands and made two fingers of one walk across the palm of the other. Then, she gave a definitive shake of her head to signify that, no, she could not walk.
I nodded to indicate my understanding, then made a cradling motion with my arms: would she allow me to carry her? She furrowed her brow, not immediately understanding. So I knelt in the dirt in front of her and showed her my back, gesturing that she should climb on. She was speaking words, more gibberish that I could not parse, so I turned around again and simply scooped her back up into my arms.
I situated her so that I might show her how to encircle her arms about my neck, and she did. I thought I might explain that this would give me more celerity of movement, but what good would that serve? My lady was not of the Qet; my lady was not of this world.
We moved in silence out of the forest and back across the plains. I gave the rimosha a wide berth so as not to startle my lady. I wanted to tell her how her skin looked tinted pink with petal dye. I wanted to tell her how she was so out of place on this world, where everything beautiful was lethal. And she, this soft, delicate thing. But I made no sound, I simply moved, closing the distance between ourselves and my dwelling in a little less than twice the time it took me to span the distance on my own.
I was a bit embarrassed — my dwelling was new, a work in progress, as it were. It looked rather like a dead fish with its mouth hanging open: tensile leather stretched from curved wooden ribs that served as ceiling beams. There was a fire pit just out front, and when the winternight set in, it would warm the pod from top to toe. Inside boasted only furs over a straw mattress. I hadn’t built any of my furniture yet — I suppose because I hadn’t yet begun to think of this strange little dwelling as my home. But it was situated on a pleasant stretch of land, tucked halfway into the trees to hide it, and not twelve paces from a pool of still water which, as far as I could tell, was home to no flesh-eating plant life. Were I the Chieftain, I might have considered moving my tribe to this very spot, but…
Something caught my eye several hundred yards away, a glint of light off of something that shined. Peering, I could see three figures moving in the distance and — could it be? — yes, another egg.
“My lady,” I said, shifting so that I might hold her up with one arm. “Look.” I pointed, and she followed my gaze, squinting against the starshine. She pointed with me, frantic, glancing between me and the egg, the egg and me. I took a few steps toward it and she patted my shoulder as if to say, yes, yes, go. And so I went, happy to comply with her request. We drew ever nearer, and I saw another member of my tribe, a hunter with some status called Pjarn, and he had a female with him, his fingers curled proprietarily around her arm. The female was alive and standing on her own, but she trembled in Pjarn’s eager grasp. I ducked down low in the tall grass when I saw Fegar and Yorn approach; my lady was watching with terror in her eyes.
“Chief,” Pjarn said, eyeing Fegar dubiously, “this was my drop zone, was it not?”
“Yorn and I have traipsed all over this infertile rock,” Fegar hissed, “only to find his female was dead upon arrival, and mine never arrived at all.” Fegar turned his hungry gaze, then, on the female behind Pjarn. “It is only right that the Chieftain of your tribe should be mated.”
“Ask another, lesser hunter,” Pjarn said, standing tall. “I have earned the right to take a mate.”
“So you have,” Fegar agreed, nodding his head, “but hear me, Pjarn Qu’taiya, you shall not keep both your mate and your life.” Pjarn hesitated. I knew he could kill Fegar in single combat; I had seen both men fight. But with Yorn at Fegar’s side, the odds had turned against him. “There is to be a secondary delivery,” Fegar went on, “should this trial prove to be successful. You shall be the first of us, then, to be mated.”
Pjarn scowled and tugged his female forward, handing her over to Fegar as though she were a sack of grain. Fegar smiled, showing his sharp canines, as he took her into his arms. “And so there is no confusion,” Fegar said, pushing his female down into the dirt and lifting the skirt of her gown up her thighs, “I shall claim her here, in the company of witnesses.”
My lady cried out, even as Fegar’s female began to thrash on the ground, kicking
at Fegar to keep him at bay. I clamped a hand down over my lady’s mouth, praying that her cry had not drawn attention to us, but I saw Pjarn and Yorn look around: they had heard. Fegar, for his part, was too focused on the female, holding his hands up to say, very well, I shall not touch you. But the female glanced nervously between the warriors around her and laid back, spreading her legs for her would-be mate, who was practically salivating at the sight of her. I gathered my lady up into my arms, and we stayed hunched low, my hand still tight over her insistent mouth. I could not see Fegar thrust home, but I could hear how his mate called out, and the sound echoed against the far-away mountains.
Back at my dwelling, my lady convulsed with the force of her weeping as I laid her down on the furs. She trembled and shook, so I moved gently to tug her gown off over her head, leaving only the tiny jewels that adorned her nipples. I hung her gown over the entrance of the dwelling so that it might dry, and sat down close to my lady. She was saying something as I carefully pushed her back so that she was lying down, something pleading, and I tried to smile to reassure her, but I know she could not see my face, obscured as her vision was with her tears.
I examined her body, covered in tiny little cuts, her ankle swollen with injury, and pried her legs apart so that I might examine where the rimosha had sliced into the flesh of her thigh. I could not help but look briefly at the flower of her sex, and I felt myself hunger at the sight of it. But I would not take her immediately, as Fegar had his mate; I would wait for her to come to me, if ever she would. No, instead I cleaned her wounds with fresh Panyan liquor and bound them with strips of clean cloth. Then I closed her legs and covered her with a soft fur.
“Sleep,” I murmured to my lady, and lay down beside her. “Sleep.” I encircled her with my arm to keep her warm when the winternight set in and watched her tremble, watched her weep. She was so soft; I reveled at the feel of her in my arms. We had so much to discover, she and I.
Alien Prince: (Bride of Qetesh) An Alien SciFi Romance Page 24