Afterburn

by S. L. Viehl

  A short time later they were seated at a small table and being served their orders. Hkyrim had warned her ahead of time that the Omorr diet consisted mainly of insects and root vegetation, so she was not alarmed to see what appeared to be a bowl of gleaming blue crickets sprinkled over a pile of orange beet slices. She was just hoping he wouldn’t ask her to taste it.

  Hkyrim took interest in her selection as well. “Are those maggots?”

  “No, this is a type of Terran grain.” She pushed aside the mental image his question invoked. “The little round things are legumes, and these round slices are spiced synpro. It’s called red beans and rice, and it’s very tasty.”

  “Grain, legumes, and imitation flesh. That all sounds so . . . nutritious.” He gave her a sudden, worried look. “Do Terrans require dining companions to share their food during a meal?”

  “Generally, no. Sometimes friends offer each other a sample, but everyone generally eats their own food.” She leaned forward. “Tell you what. I won’t ask you to taste mine if you won’t ask me to taste yours.”

  His eyes crinkled with relief and amusement. “Agreed.”

  Emily felt very self-conscious at first, and had to forcibly keep from staring at the Omorr as he used his gildrells to eat. It was somewhat bizarre—his three arms stayed at his sides while only the white tendrils covering the lower half of his face dealt with the food—but he ate with a precise sort of delicacy. She kept up a flow of what she hoped was casual conversation, but was only too aware of the attention the other diners were giving them.

  Why do they have to stare at us like this? Can’t they see we’re just normal people having a normal meal? Emily flinched as something small and blue jumped onto the edge of her plate.

  One of Hkyrim’s tendrils whipped out and snatched the insect back, popping it into his mouth. “I am sorry, Emily,” he said after he chewed and swallowed. “I think the cook neglected to prepare the karaja properly. It requires at least ten minutes of steaming to kill the oldest ones.”

  “Right.” She gave him an uneasy smile. “Does karaja taste better, um, cooked?”

  “No. I prefer them raw—alive—but it disconcerts others to see them hopping about the table.”

  “Oh.”

  Neither of them ate very much after that, and after the attendant came to clear, she felt miserable.

  “May I ask you something, Emily?”

  “Of course.”

  “Do Terrans eat the flesh or body of anything alive?”

  “No, we eat synthetics so we don’t have to slaughter our animals anymore.” She rested her hand on her chin. “Does it bother you to see me using my hands or chewing my food?”

  “No, but the fact that you do not have gildrells makes you seem . . .” He paused, searching for a description.

  “Unattractive? Unnatural? Ugly?”

  “Unusual. Emotional.” He frowned. “Your features change with your feelings. I am not sure what all the changes mean as of yet, but I believe I will learn from verbal accompaniments. At present I can tell when you are happy, and when you feel concerned.”

  “I was pretty concerned during our meal,” she admitted, taking a sip of her tea.

  “Yes, you were. I wondered if that small line between your brows would ever disappear again.” He ran one of his membranes over his gildrells. “When I was not afraid that I had food crawling all over my face.”

  A laugh bubbled up in her throat, and she choked a little. She grabbed her napkin and covered her mouth until the coughing spate was over. “I had a bad moment there when that karaja jumped at me.” She cleared her throat and wiped her watering eyes. “I didn’t know whether to swat it or ignore it.”

  The warm light in his eyes danced. “On Omorr you would have been expected to eat it, and then give me a portion of your meal in exchange.”

  “Which you would have been obliged to eat,” she guessed.

  He nodded. “And not regurgitate it, either.”

  They both laughed. The low, lovely sound Hkyrim made blended beautifully with Emily’s higher-pitched laughter.

  “On Terra you would have been arrested for eating that meal,” Emily said when she caught her breath. “Off-world cuisine that contains alien life-forms is illegal.”

  “I offended a Hlagg the first day I was on-planet. Apparently they make pets of their insects, and to watch me eat made him ill.”

  “You didn’t like the look of my food, either,” she reminded him.

  “Yes, well, that is because grain on my world is consumed by our milk producers,” he confided. “The temer, or chaff, is used to stuff headrests for our sleeping platforms.”

  A giggle escaped her. “So to you I was eating the equivalent of cow feed and the inside of a pillow?”

  “Omorr.”

  Emily looked over her shoulder to see an armed security officer standing directly behind her. He didn’t look amused.

  “Yes?” Hkyrim rose to his feet.

  “Is this female harassing you?” The officer’s weapon swung casually in Emily’s direction.

  “No. Why do you ask?”

  “She’s new, and the new ones are always trouble.” The officer’s head lowered as he said to Emily, “I saw you spitting before. You were told to keep your body fluids to yourself, weren’t you?”

  “She was choking, not spitting, and your interference is uncalled for.” The Omorr’s gildrells resembled icicles. “My friend and I were sharing a meal and not bothering anyone. You certainly had no reason, other than your own prejudice, to come over here and make your offensive inquiry.”

  The officer shrugged and moved on.

  “You didn’t have to do that,” Emily said, feeling wretched and touched at the same time.

  “On my world, friends defend each other. That being is fortunate I did not challenge him.” Hkyrim sat back down. “I apologize for naming you as my friend before any such relationship was formally declared and established between us.”

  “Hkyrim,” she said, very grave now, “I think you just did that.”

  “I am a life sculptor and barax expert,” Paal told Moleon as they walked from the Hlagg embassy to the border of the forest. “How do you serve your people?”

  The Skartesh hunter adjusted the straps holding his quiver to the middle of his back but said nothing. He did not even glance at Paal.

  The artist did not mind being ignored; he had gone on many hunts with the Skartesh now and knew that few chose to communicate verbally. It was always good to try conversation, though; a young female he had once accompanied had shyly responded and told him much about her culture.

  Paal also liked the Skartesh. There were a number of furred and lupine species on K-2, but most had shown a distinct aversion to the Hlagg’s unusual bond with their insect friends, and those who did not were few in number. There were many Skartesh on colony now—some said all that were left from the military disaster that had destroyed Skart—and while they had seemed as indifferent to the Hlagg as they were to all other species, they were not afraid of insects, nor did they try to harm them.

  Paal admired the stateliness of the Skartesh species, too. They were twice the size of the tallest Hlagg, and much stronger physically. The unfamiliar heat and humidity of K-2 had caused the Skartesh’s fur to fall out, but one of the FreeClinic physicians had found a counteragent and had been given reluctant permission by the Elders to administer it to every member of the cult. Now their pelts were thick and healthy, just like Moleon’s, and Paal thought them a very handsome species.

  He had no such illusions about himself. Like all Hlagg, he was short and lean, with shiny reddish-brown fur, small paws, and a sharp-snouted face. When he was excited, he had an unfortunate tendency to forget to walk erect and instead ran around on all fours. He did not have a wide mane like Moleon’s, nor would he ever be able to wear such clever braids in his fur. His small, sharp green eyes were hardly as dramatic as the hunter’s large, liquid black eyes that seemed to glitter like polished volcan
ic rock.

  The Skartesh, like most of his kind, disdained forming friendships with those outside his species. Still, Paal could make some conversation, even if it was with himself. Anything was better than this brooding silence.

  “My mate is back on Sret, the Hlagg homeworld,” he told Moleon. “She did not wish to leave our barax, and indeed it was very difficult for me to transfer here without them. I had hoped to establish a new colony for our smallest sculptors before returning, but if we do not soon find—”

  Moleon made a gesture indicating silence and dropped down to sniff the soil. Paal watched as the hunter then stood and turned his head slowly, breathing in deeply. Finally the Skartesh nodded and pointed in the direction of a thick grove of trees.

  It was not as polite as saying “That way” but Paal nodded and trotted after the bigger male. Along the way he talked, keeping his voice as low and soft as the shuffle of their footgear through the layer of fallen leaves covering the ground.

  “I hear this Peace Summit being held in orbit should be something to observe. Our ambassador, Heek, offered his services, but I think he was merely being polite. I hate getting wet, and all know that we Hlagg cannot function well when immersed in water.” Paal knew that the Skartesh were hydrophobic, but even the mention of the word seemed to upset the hunter, whose neck ruff bristled. He decided to change the subject. “It is so good of your people to assist us in finding our small friends. I worry that my barax are lonely for me. You can never truly tell, of course—barax are so aloof to begin with—but I have always sensed they enjoyed the sculptures we have fashioned together.”

  The big Skartesh hunter stopped and looked down at the small Hlagg. Had there been whites to his eyes, they would have been showing. “You have been . . . submerged?”

  Paal grimaced. “I should not have mentioned it. Excuse my offense.”

  “I am not offended.” Moleon swallowed hard. “Would you tell me how it happened to you?”

  “It was during one of our monsoon seasons. The rainfall exceeded our expectations and overran our town’s retention ponds during the night.” What a mess that had been, too—it had taken their field burrow-worms weeks to build new irrigation gutters. “I woke up in darkness to discover my sleeping platform moving on its own around my bedchamber, and climbed off before I realized it was floating.”

  “You fell into water?” Moleon sounded utterly horrified.

  Paal squelched a sharp bark of laughter. Like everyone on colony, he knew that immersion in water sent a Skartesh into shock, and could easily kill them. It must have seemed to Moleon as if he were describing a dip in a vat of acid. “Oh, yes.” How could he make this gruesome tale seem slightly more amusing? “You know, I’d never cleaned my fur with anything but checrymin lice before the dunking I took that night. I found out just how water strips all the oil from your fur—when I finally dried the next day I swelled up like a ball of fluff.”

  Moleon didn’t laugh, but regarded him through solemn eyes. “You were not afraid?”

  “I was more miserable than anything.” He shuddered, remembering the horrid sensations of soaked fur. “I still find it hard to believe there are land-dwellers who voluntarily submerge themselves each rotation. I wish we could have our lice here. They are so much gentler to the pelt.”

  “So is scrub sand.” The big hunter scratched the side of his neck. “The sonic cleansers they make us use at the compound now always leave my pelt feeling flat and too slick.”

  Paal tried to imagine washing in sand, and couldn’t, but then imagined the use of cleaning insects might seem very outlandish to the hunter. “What else do you miss of your homeworld, if I may ask?”

  “The ice hills,” Moleon said, his words coming slow and hesitant.

  Skart had been an ice world, Paal remembered, before the Hsktskt’s orbital bombardment had destabilized the mantle and turned it into a global volcanic inferno. “Were all your hills made of ice?”

  “Most. The wind would sing to us on our hunts through the formations, and they were poetry for the eyes as well.” Moleon looked up. “I miss, too, the white sky. Here it is so green I sometimes cannot tell up from ground.”

  “We must all make unpleasant adaptations, I suppose.” Paal sighed. “I think friends best help ease the discomforts of being away from one’s home place. May I call you friend, Hunter?”

  The Skartesh’s brief friendliness disappeared abruptly. “We do not make friends with outsiders.”

  “Why not?”

  “Before the Knowing and Seeing, it was entirely forbidden for us to even speak to those not of the Promise,” he said. “Now . . . now it is yet frowned upon by the Elders.”

  “But not forbidden.”

  “No.” He met Paal’s gaze. “You are very brave, and you survived water. I would know you as my friend.” He slapped Paal’s narrow shoulder with one paw.

  Paal managed not to fall over. “Good. Now if we can find my barax, the day will be one to be remembered.”

  They moved deeper into the forest. Some of the trees here were not familiar to Paal, and he paused now and then to admire them. It was during one of these brief stops that Moleon went ahead, and then a crackling sound preceded his sharp outcry.

  “Moleon?” The Hlagg looked ahead, but the hunter had disappeared into thin air. He hurried forward, following the same path the Skartesh had taken. “Hunter, where are you?”

  “Stay there,” Moleon called out. “I have fallen into a sinkhole of some kind. It is deep.”

  Paal saw the two-meter-wide gap in the ground and hurried to the edge. “Moleon! Are you injured?”

  “No, I do not think so.”

  The edge of the hole was crumbling, so the Hlagg scrambled back and grabbed a vine hanging down from one of the nearby purple-leafed trees. He wrapped the vine around his wrist and tested it to see if it would hold his weight before creeping forward again. “Can you climb out?”

  “It is too deep for that,” the Skartesh called up. “I cannot see to find a handhold. I think this is some sort of nest; it feels as if it has been dug out. Have you a light emitter?”

  Paal fumbled for the small penlight he kept in his pouch—the luminous worm inside the lens case was sealed in, so it would not escape—and held it over the edge. “I am dropping a light down to you. Be careful of your head.” He released the penlight.

  “I have it.” There was the sound of shuffling. “Sculptor, there are your insects here, I think. I can feel them all around me.”

  Paal squinted, following the light’s beam until he saw the familiar gleam of a small green shell. “By the Flanks of Solstra, it is a hive! You have found my barax, Hunter. Well done.”

  “They do not seem pleased to be found.” Moleon stifled a yelping sound. “They are biting me.”

  “I will tell them you mean no harm.” Paal released the tonal order for his barax not to attack the Skartesh.

  “There. They will leave you alone now.”

  “They do not . . . seem to being heeding . . . your call.” The hunter cried out and the light wavered wildly. “There are too many. You must help me out of here.”

  Paal tried the tonal order again, but heard the sound of barax swarming. Cursing, he dragged another, thicker vine to the edge of the nest and dropped it over the side. “Can you climb up?” He was not sure he could pull the hunter’s heavy body to safety.

  The length of the vine went taunt, and then jerked as the Skartesh hunter climbed up and emerged. Dozens of barax clung to his lower limbs, which were bleeding from as many small wounds.

  Paal gave the sternest tonal order he could produce, but the barax did not respond.

  “There is something terribly wrong with them.” He was forced to knock them from the hunter’s legs with his paw, and yelped himself as he was bitten.

  “Perhaps they are hungry.” Moleon shook the last of the barax from his head and backed away from the edge of the hive.

  “No, they only eat roots. I don’t understand why they
are doing this.” Paal watched the barax crawl away from him and Moleon and back into their underground hive. Seeing the wounds they had inflicted on the hunter and feeling the bites on his own pelt made him want to purge. “They have never harmed us or any other living thing. Not since the time my species emerged from their dens to build the first village.”

  “I might have frightened them.” The hunter examined his legs. “Or they do not care for my species.”

  “None of our other insects have harmed your kind. Why would the barax do such a horrible thing?” Paal, who had never been bitten by an insect in his life, felt stricken to the depths of his soul. “We must not let them harm anyone else.”

  “I will not kill them.” Moleon eyed the hive. “Whatever the reason for their change in behavior, I think they were only defending what was theirs.”

  “No, they cannot be killed, but others who come here may not be as understanding as you.” Paal thought for a moment and removed a net from his pack. “Help me cast this over the open hole.”

  “Why do you wish to?”

  “To keep the barax in there, and to mark this place so that no one else steps on it.”

  With a little difficulty, the two males spread the net over the open portion of the underground nest. Just as they had finished, the barax climbed up the sides and began using their body’s secretions to seal the small holes in the netting.

  “What are they doing?”

  Paal watched closely. “They are sealing themselves back in.”

  Within thirty minutes, the net had been turned into a solid, silvery-white surface. Most of the barax had sealed themselves in, but a handful remained outside the hive. They spaced themselves around the edge of the hive at regular internals.

  “These should join the others,” the Hlagg said, studying them. “Why do they remain outside?”

  The Skartesh hunter studied them. “They are posted. Like sentries.”

  Moleon used arrows from his quiver as posts and encircled the area. Following his idea, Paal brought thin vines and tied them like cord to the arrow shafts until a visible barricade had been established.

  “That should keep others from stepping on it until more permanent markers can be erected, and the hive can be safely removed,” Paal said. He sat down by one of the arrows and pressed his ear to the soil to listen. The sounds he heard told him that the barax were busy repairing the damage to their hive’s structures.