by Amanda Milo
I choke.
Bash’s ears swing forward suddenly and his frown intensifies as he cranes his neck to peer down at me. “Your face looks… Are you afraid?” He sniffs me. “You don’t smell of fear, but your expression is practically the picture of surprised rictus. What’s wrong with you?”
Voice shaky with suppressed laughter, I ask, “Besides being human, you mean?”
“Besides that.”
I start snorking.
Pulling back a little, in a surprisingly soft but very dangerous voice Bash asks, “Are you… are you laughing at me?”
“Yes,” I admit.
“Why?”
“You just claimed that you were a patient man.”
“I am.”
“‘Patient? You? Seriously?”
“Yes,” Bash says, absolutely impassive. A little grave. Totally sincere. “All of you humans are still alive. I’ve controlled myself admirably. Would you stop laughing?”
I can’t stop, not right away, but Bash’s—ahem—‘patience’ wears thin fast, surprise, surprise, and he offers to whack me on the back until I stop snorking, and that does the trick. I get the mental picture of this behemoth wailing on me, and I manage to pull it together. I wipe my eyes and sniff past the tickle that persists in my throat. It badly wants to burst out into a giggle, and I know if it does, I’m dead. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t claim this unless you mean it, female. I can easily taste your lie.”
Eyes wide, I ask, “For real?”
His horns tip, sort of like an ‘eh’ shrug. “Tasting lies, tasting liars… I have no qualms about eating liars.” His eyes assess me, and I’m not sure he doesn’t eat people on a regular basis. “Perceive my meaning?”
I hold up my hands. “Like crystal!”
He frowns, clearly not familiar with the phrase. Or, I should say, he frowns deeper.
I wave my hand quickly. “You know, I wasn’t sorry a second ago, but you’re actually getting me there.”
“Laughter cured?” he inquires in a deceptively easy tone.
“So cured. Your threat worked like a charm,” I start to say with a laugh—but I suck it back, which results in a tiny fit of coughing.
Bash’s tail sweeps past me; I see it out of the corner of my eye. Afraid he’s going to whack me with it, I wave him off.
He murmurs to himself, repeating my words. “‘Threats work like charms.’ Good.” He’s saying this like it reaffirms something he already believed. He hums, his tail tick-tocking like a deadly tiger’s as he returns to work, the hard set of his jaw and pointed look at my empty hand warning me I’d best get to the part where I do the same.
All in all, spending time directly with Bubashuu is a good thing and it comes with a perk: no more googly eyes. At least, I hope I’m not still making googly eyes at him.
At first it was pretty constant, but it’s easier to stop seeing him as a hot body and start seeing him as a person (an alien person, but still) once he starts talking. I still do a whole lot of Bash-ogling though, because who would miss this opportunity to ogle his acres of muscle? I know for a fact a whole slew of women do it with me when Bash raises the hem of his shirt to wipe a speck of dust from the corner of his eye.
Rocks clatter to the quarry floor, and there is this giant collective sigh. It sounds like fifty women just had a polite orgasm.
Bash seems to have a sensor set for our excitement levels; he drops his shirt, scowling fiercely. “Did you all lose your brains?”
“Yes,” I pip. If I had a dollar, I’d be waving it at his belt. Take off the shirt!
Bash pins me—the closest human to him—with a glare. “Get moving.” Then he pans the same glare on everybody else, which makes me sad, because for a second there, I was hoping he was offering me a special invitation with his order and his glare. I’d totally have taken him up on it. I’d get moving on him any way he wants me to.
But it’s all work and no play for Bubashuu as he turns back around, his tail twitching in irritation, his spines raising up a notch or two with every deep breath he forces himself to take.
For the moment, I ignore the tense alien in favor of scanning everybody else in the vicinity. I watch avidly as hobs and even some of the Rakhii silently go about nudging women back to work. I can’t miss that everybody seems super deferential to the big boss. Everybody seems more or less terrified of him, and it’s the most amazing thing, because just being this close to Bash means I’m imbued with his power. It’s like being able to sit in the path of a laser beam and be the only one not singed.
It’s awesome.
I know the feeling will fade whenever we split up for the day, but for now, with everyone tiptoeing around our area, I get to feel all-powerful by association. It’s a little addictive and a lot awesome.
Fortunately for everyone, it seems like Bash tries to pretend that humans don’t exist. He’s an alien who has a lot to do and not enough daylight to get it all done. Dogging his heels like I am, I find out he’s got quite a few projects that he personally oversees. I guess he would; he’s the boss. Everything he needs to check on is spread out over a pretty considerable distance. This crater is buzunga sized, maybe a good twenty football fields in length. And then at least five fields’ worth widthwise. It’s a hand-dug basin cut out of the alien earth, and it’s the biggest cavity I’ve ever seen. Like you can barely see the end of it size. There’s a big round building at the far end, sitting where it looks like the land ends and water begins. What’s the building? What happens down there? Why do some of the wagons (ones carrying loads other than rocks, surprisingly) go that direction? What’s the water? A lake? A river? Someday, when I feel like a stroll, I’m going to have to hoof it down to the other end simply to satisfy my curiosity.
Eventually, Bash clarion calls for lunch—a thing that gives me a total thrill, because he stalks up to me and cups his hot hands (as in temperature—but they’re rugged enough to be pretty good-looking too) over my ears before he lets loose with a deep roaring shout, “BREAK YOURSELVES!”
Yep. I want to know the story behind this order too, believe me.
My mini power trip continues unchecked as I walk beside him to the food station. Because at his side, even in this busy place full of milling bodies and carts of this or that constantly going back and forth and creating traffic flow, I don’t have to stop for anybody or anything. When Bash walks across the canyon, a path clears for him. (Us.) Everybody moves out of his (our) way—even other Rakhii.
It’s heady. It makes me grin, which makes Bash give me a suspicious look.
Most of the humans freeze in their tracks as we pass, prey animals hoping the ever-angry alien predator won’t see them. Won’t be moved to attack. Yet, they still ogle him the entire time. I can’t judge. When he’s not adjusting his stride and he ends up getting ahead of me, I’m totally checking out his tight ass in his perfectly broken-in pants. I’m almost positive that you could bounce quarters off that tush all day, and I’m also willing and volunteering to test this and confirm if anybody doubts.
Once Bash and I arrive at two long tables where food and dessert and water packets are laid out for lunch, rather than grabbing food with me, Bash spears me with a look… and leaves.
Oh. I guess the alien boss does not deign to eat with the humans.
I shrug and take advantage of open space at the table. It was nice of him to walk me here. The moment Bash stalked up, everyone who’d been waiting in line had backed away from the food and goods, like zebras edging away from a beaching crocodile. At me diving in, it jump-starts the crush of lunch-gathering again, and bodies start bumping and nudging me as women move around me, getting food and drinks and sweets.
Once I’ve filled my plate and tucked a drink packet under my arm, I wander for a lunch spot.
I take a seat on a rock that’s situated in the shade cast by the high canyon wall. To my back is a stationary wagon, the rock conveniently dropped closely enough that I can lean up against the side of the
wagon as a backrest while I eat.
I polish off my lunch and come to the fruit serving I grabbed, which happens to include an Earth apple. It’s one of the few precious treats we have available to us here care of the visit to Earth for supplies. I say ‘few,’ but really, there were loads of things brought over. As far as apples go, apparently all the varieties that can handle long term storage are here along with their trees for future harvesting once they get established. I still use ‘few, precious’ to describe our supply because what we have is all we have until the trees produce more.
I’m down to the apple core, nibbling at it, when something nudges my shoulder.
I turn my head to find one of the very big, very dangerous-looking alien horses hitched to the wagon has twisted around to get as close as it’s able while in harness. As I’m gaping at it, it snuffs my fingers.
It seems nice enough. It’s one of three animals hitched to this cart (which, surprisingly, is filled with something straw-like, not rocks), all of them standing more or less patiently. The Narwari seem like quite the loyal beasts of burden, doing all sorts of hauling (with many of their loads being the stones everyone here collects each day). This troika arrived in the quarry via a wide ramp carved out of the side of the canyon, and their destination seems to be the big building at the far end, the place I haven’t yet visited. The cart is paused here because the hob driving it stopped to flirt with one of the women. Apparently they know each other, and it’s obvious he’d like to keep knowing her, because he invites her to climb up on the wagon seat with him.
She does, and while she’s getting up, I happily satisfy the strange horse’s curiosity, letting it smell the fruit core in my hand. The animal’s slit-pupiled eyes brighten and that’s all the warning I get. Although, maybe I missed other cues. It’s possible. I’m busy eyeing the equine-shaped creature’s pair of dainty little antlers, its inward-curving ears, and its weird rough skin the color of a poisonous golden dart frog’s. It’s got a short tail with a brush of hair on the end of it, and the animal’s legs end on four cloven hooves. All in all, it has an odd, exotic sort of beauty. The way a frogfish is a bit creepy but also disturbingly pretty. I’m thinking it’s impossible for anyone not to admire this alien member of the genus Equus.
Right up until the horse swallows my hand.
Not the fruit—it takes my freaking hand.
That’s when I feel sharp, pointed teeth graze my skin.
WHAT KIND OF HORSE IS THIS!!! This isn’t Hi Ho Silver—this is Rin Tin Tin with snake eyes!
“Get the My Little Alligator-pony off of me!” I screech as pressure is applied to my palm and my knuckles by way of many glinting teefies—the animal is testing my appendage.
The hob-driver shouts what I can only presume is the animal’s name. But the horse doesn’t let me go. The hob stands from the wagon seat, his wings snapping open.
Right at my eye-level, the horse’s already thin pupils shrink to scarier slashes.
Suddenly, a giant hand claps around the animal’s right antler—and the alien pony’s eyes go wide.
Bash’s growl vibrates down my spine. “Bite her, and I’ll turn your hide into harness straps. Then I will find the unfortunate creature responsible for birthing you. I’ll fit her in the tanned leather pieces left of you and every time she feels the britchen strap at her hind she’ll curse what a pain in the rear end you’ve become to her. She will rue the day your sire cov—”
The creature spits my arm out of its mouth like it's ejecting a high-velocity missile.
Bash snatches my slimy-ended limb by my elbow and meticulously checks my hand for damage. “Are you hurt?”
“N-no,” I exclaim shakily, “but I am so reporting this place to OSHA. My boss should have warned us about the dangerous Mr. Eds. Your live equipment tries to eat people! What kind of workplace is this?” I finish on a squeaking wheeze.
Bash wipes my hand off on the side of his shirt, basically forcing me to drag my touch across his ribs. The feel of his hard muscle under my fingers causes the temperature of my brain (and just about everything south) to ding the dinner bell.
(‘To ding the dinner bell’: that would be piping hot and READY.)
When I’m wiped off to his satisfaction, Bash spits on me and replies to my statement in a controlled voice that still manages to drip menace. “I don’t know who Osha is, but you can tell her to come find me. I’ll kick her carcass across the canyon and I’ll still whip your backside—”
“ME!” I shout, four seconds away from being outraged. (It would be half a second, but I can still feel his hard-packed serratus anterior. His muscles might as well be giving phantom licks to my fingers.)
“Yes, you,” Bash’s gaze flicks down to my face. “What were you doing, sticking your fingers too close to a Narwari’s mouth?”
“Well I didn’t know it was going to bite!”
Bash’s eyes flare. “Everything bites.”
My eyes drop from meeting his gaze to eyeing his big fangs. “Everything?”
His lips curl up and back—and not in a smile. “Everything, Isla.”
Is it wrong that I’m instantly turned on just because he’s saying my name? “Promise?” I ask hopefully.
Bash frowns. “What?”
A new voice calls, “Female, I’m a medic—are you injured?”
I turn to find a hob.
“You will NOT handle her.” This order is barked out by Bash, who, when I glance back at him, is baring those big, big teeth. His arm shoots out and blocks the hob from coming closer to me.
The hob does not back down. “I’m trained as a human medic,” he explains in a calm, strong voice. Only thing is, his eyes waver. Like maybe he’s not too confident that he makes a good human medic.
If he had plans to perform surgery on me, this would be concerning. But the killer horse never even broke my skin, so there’s no need for a competent doctor. There’s no need for a doctor at all. “It’s fine,” I say to the hob. “I didn’t get hurt. Bash even spit on me, so I’m all good.” Weirdly though, my voice shakes just a tiny bit. I swear, I’m fine—it’s got to be adrenaline leaks or something because I’m honestly not worried.
But at the noticeable sound of the wobble, the guys are really worried.
Bash’s clear concern for my well being seems to bolster the hob’s courage enough to risk incurring the boss’s wrath. “Allow me to verify that,” he says briskly and ducks under Bash’s arm, which is still outstretched to block him but only half-heartedly now.
Immediately, the hob shoves a chocolate bar in my face.
“Uh—wow, chocolate?” I laugh. “This is your answer to my problems?” When the hob stares back at me looking ten kinds of concerned but serious, I can’t help the incredulous look that comes over my face. “Um, no offense, but where exactly did you learn human medicine—”
“SHHHH, tut, tut, tut!” shouts Gracie, striding over. She claps a hand over my mouth. “Eat up, sweetheart. You know how it makes us feel better.”
“Mmkaaay...” I start, but think, Hang on. This explains something. Earlier, I absolutely noticed that there were two lunch tables, one of which was devoted entirely to shallow coolers filled with chocolate products. I just thought these aliens loved providing us with happy confections. Now I’m getting the impression there’s a lot more to it.
Thus, under Gracie’s hawk-like stare of warning, the moment she frees my face I dutifully shove a piece of medically-dispensed chocolate in my mouth. There’s a moment of expectant silence while I chew and where everyone watches me with concern, giving the chocolate a moment to work its magic, I guess. Then Gracie takes the remainder of my chocolate bar so my hand is free, and the hob examines my arm even more meticulously than Bash did—but he doesn’t spit on me. Gracie walks off with my chocolate while he works, and it’s decent chocolate, not the cheap stuff, so I’m keeping an eye on her to make sure she doesn’t snack off of it while I’m laid up in the field hospital. Bash paces impatiently beside me.
When the medic hob is done, he presses my arm gently back to my side to signal that I’m all good. Yet the hob is eyeing me, hesitating about something. His lips part, like he’s about to speak—but then he flinches, gaze dropping.
Huh. Although he’s tall with athletic, timeless good looks and a charming face—my first impression that told me he was suffering a confidence issue over his medical skills is readjusting its assessment. This guy isn’t just worried about his mastery and suitability as an (alien)man of (human) medicine. From his behavior and the way his body keeps a deliberate distance from my body like he’d hate to encroach my personal space, I see he overall seems to lack a normal amount of self-awareness. Here he is, a truly handsome male specimen—he should be strutting. He should be stunning my wits with strong eye contact and a million-dollar smile. Instead, he shows no assertiveness as he braces himself to talk to me. I think he might even be hunching.
He whispers, “Can I…” before seeming to think better of it, biting off any other words as he glances away and gives his wings a slight shaking out rather than finishing his question.
I’m curious. “Can you what?”
The hob’s eyes dart to me, then strangely, to Gracie’s back. She’s talking to some of the women who came with me today. All new girls here. Gracie looks to be threatening them. She’s waving my chocolate bar in their faces like it’s a machete, not the block-form of an easter bunny.
When I sloowwly turn back to the hob, his face is easy to read: he’s conflicted.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
He looks surprised that I’ve asked. “I’m Jonohkada.”
“Nice to meet you. And just spill it,” I tell him. “You have me all kinds of interested.”
His gaze snaps back to me, his eyes wide. “I do?”
Strangely, Bash—who’d just started to stalk over to the wagon driver—stops dead in his tracks, his back going ramrod straight.
My eyes bounce between the two aliens. “Yeah, you’ve got me interested. I want to know what you were going to say. Otherwise it’ll nag at me, keep me wondering.”