by Amanda Milo
She seems highly pleased, and I find myself responding to her happiness. The corners of my mouth even lift.
She eyes this change in my countenance for a long time, but then she leans forward, hand outstretched, and she accepts the fresh piece of hagnot.
But she doesn’t eat it.
Trying not to overtly watch her in case being observed is the cause of her hesitation, I begin to consume my meal.
After a moment, she sniffs her portion. Her first bite is tentative, but her second is starved, and by her third, the hagnot is gone.
Wordlessly, barely sparing her a direct glance, I offer her another.
No hesitation this time, she accepts it. Her fingers are thick, with bright color on the backs, and dark bars of texture on the insides. Her arms have generous gatherings of flesh, so much excess that it bunches from just above her elbow to just behind her wrist. She’s colorful all over, not just in hue but in pattern, with bold shapes slashing down and across her limbs and torso and legs, serving as interesting ornamentation.
In comparison, my ‘skin’ is made of a complex organic compound, known as chitin. It is rigid in structure, and largely matte in dark colors. I do have markings, but I’ve never seen them. The conditions in which they’d luminesce aren’t likely to ever occur for me.
By the third shared piece, she begins the process of peeling off her skin like she did before she collected the Morsuflos head, tugging at her fingers and beginning to pull them off of her hand.
The moment I see this, I decide I’ve observed enough for one day. I rocket to my feet and back away from her. “I hate to be abrupt: I need to get back to work.” With that, I flee her enclosure.
Before I close the door that will separate us though, I turn back to break open the nanoplast cover from the sweetened half of a rhona luncheon bar. I keep the treat inside the package so that I can set it on the floor and edge it in her direction, avoiding the dangling skin of her hand. I even avoid looking at it, afraid it will be so gruesome that it will ruin what food I’ve consumed. Instead, I meet her eyes, and indicate the rhona bar with a wave. “Yours to finish in case you want dessert.”
I exit. From the safety of the other side of the glass, I unobtrusively observe her creeping to my meal. I abandon all pretense of other work when she finishes examining the luncheon bar covering, peels it back, and takes the rhona treat up in both her puffed hand and her skinned hand, and brings it to her mouth.
I note everything about her mandible that I can, watching how it articulates as she chews, and I observe the sleek lines of her throat working as she swallows. I’m pleased that, with her first bits of the rhona bar, her eyes snap closed in something akin to bliss.
A chuckle is shocked out of me when she turns the nanoplast cover inside out and begins to lick at the crumbs. If I had another luncheon bar in my possession, I would toss it into her enclosure just to watch her enjoyment a second time. Unfortunately, I do not have another and won’t be able to afford it until my next extravagance stipend is afforded to me. Thankfully, the alien is satisfied enough that when she curls up on her side in her bedding, she looks much less unhappy, and almost immediately falls into a fitful sort of sleep.
CHAPTER 5
The majority of our research is dry work, and I’ve caught my chin on my desk twice already as I struggle to stay awake. More than once, I’ve gotten to my feet with the intent to march out of the office door and retreat to my dorm for the darkcycle—but each and every time I’ve fastened my hand around the handle with all resolve to leave, my alien companion wakes and calls out pitifully.
It’s not a loud cry—in fact, it’s not much more than a whimper. But her broken “Plees dohnt leev me…” does me in each time.
However, I can’t put off sleep for much longer. It’s time for me to retire to my resting pad. I tell myself firmly that the alien will have to adapt to the conditions here and the schedule, and the sooner she experiences the routine, the sooner she can adjust. I put away my notes and charts, and it’s at the last moment that I remember she urinated in the enclosure’s corner. Ugh. As weary as I feel, I don’t want her having to spend all darkcycle with that pooling on her floor. Getting to my feet, I take up the cleaning supplies and enter her habitat.
Before I get five steps in towards her mess, she surprises me by yanking the supplies out of my hands. I watch as she takes over and cleans up the mess herself—proving she’s a cleanly species despite what Simmi feared.
Tired beyond belief, but strangely unwilling to leave her (and it is quite strange, because I’ve never felt this level of attention for laboratory lodents, or any of the creatures set aside for research, for example), I pause at the doorway.
She’s watching me, her formerly smooth brow now deeply furrowed, and she keeps setting her teeth on her bottom lip, as if she’s gnawing on her own mouth. It should be repulsive, but it makes her look somehow more fragile—and worried.
Sighing, I wave goodnight and make myself turn away.
“Wayyt!” she cries. “Plees…”
I cringe, trying to force myself out the door—but I can’t make myself go. I can’t leave her behind.
What if I take her with me?
The thought is insane. What happens if we’re caught? Long before my time, there used to be strict quarantine laws for the importation of animals and plants. There were stiff penalties for breaking them.
Those laws haven’t been enforced in parsecs though, simply due to the fact that nothing new has been introduced to our environment. Let word get out about your planet’s killing disease, and watch all of your quadrant’s solar system close their doors to you as if what plagues your citizens is virulent rather than genetic.
The alien’s eyes are pleading, mesmerizing me to let her follow me out of containment. My brain feels too overtaxed to think deeply on the ramifications of bringing her dormside, and because I don’t want to look too deeply on it, I close my eyes and swiftly unlatch her door by feel. If I don’t watch what I’m about to do, perhaps it’s not as serious a crime.
Keeping my eyes squeezed tightly shut, firmly facing the exit, I crook my finger at the specimen.
She rushes to me—but I hear her stop an arm’s length away—her length, not mine.
“I need you to be very quiet,” I warn her, finally looking at her, and putting my fingers to her lips. Without her face shield, she is directly touchable—and I should never have breached inside her facial no-bubble. The feeling of her malleable skin squishing against the hard chitin of my fingers is oddly intriguing. I know immediately this sensation will haunt my headspace.
She nods her head vigorously, as if she understands what I’m saying. Her eyes are bright with intelligence, and I wonder if she really can follow my meaning.
It’s my sincerest hope that she can, or I’m likely about to be arrested for letting a wild alien on the loose.
But if she can understand me, why can’t she speak my language back? Not for the first time, I wonder how she arrived here. Simmi and I bandied about many theories. It’s doubtful that our woods have a heretofore undiscovered lifeform. It’s more likely that she landed here by way of airship—but if so, if a ship touched down here, surely our planet still monitors skyspace? We should be in a fervor of activity. Officials should have descended upon our lab and woods, searching for the first visitor we’ve had in well over an age.
However, no one’s burst into the lab. No officials are combing the treeline. No one seems the wiser.
Although I obviously haven’t studied the alien for long, she doesn’t seem harmful. Despite this, officiates will treat her arrival as alarming, surely. They’ll treat her as if she is alarming, a threat. In our early civilization, history time and again proved that the appearance of visitors spelled initial disruption, if not outright war.
This is just one small being though.
Then again, Lʊʊnjaɠ is just a small crossing of genes. Simply a tiny, mutated disorder. Look how dangerous small things can be.
Especially when they have a chance to hide among a population.
It’s the height of foolishness to hide this alien. But for reasons I can’t articulate, I’m loathe to share word of her presence.
“I’m going to have to restrain you,” I warn her, and as if she can understand what I’ve just said, she starts to take a step back. But it’s too late—with my greater reach, I’ve caught her by the wrist.
Without giving her a chance to panic, I ignore her initial struggle, and tug her out the door, adjusting my stride so she can keep easy pace with me.
Once we’re out of the building and heading through the cantilever walkway that joins the hive of dorms to the study sectors, she’s quiet and docious, following at my side. Her head turns this way and that, taking in the utilitarian walls, windows, doors, and walkway. Still, I keep a hold on her. The only thing worse than holding my tongue about an alien presence would be to loose her on the unsuspecting. Perhaps she’d only race back to whatever transportation device brought her here—but maybe she’d wreak havoc. Perhaps she feeds on the elderly. Or feasts on infants. Or destroys books!
ErreckMXL7, you’re being ridiculous.
Until I can think rationally, I’ll simply hold her fast, take us to my dorm, and get some much-needed sleep. Everything can be sorted in the daycycle.
I’m well on my way to a walking-comatose state right up until we enter the stairwell, and the uppermost door two mere flights above us clangs open. My cardiac muscle clatters against my thoracic structures and my grip on the alien tightens.
She looks up at me sharply and grips me back, as if my nerves have become hers.
But the shuffling clatter of the person’s feet sets me at immediate ease. Unfortunately for them, but very telling for us, their erratic gait means the person who’s joined us is an Affected. Likely young, perhaps a family member to a dormer here, and they stopped by the units to visit. Affecteds usually stay in ground-level dwellings for their ease of mobility, but Affected visitors are common enough sights when they’ve been participating in a study trial with a nearby department. Whatever the reason, if my companion and I hurry, we’ll cross the floor and be out the lower door before whoever’s in the stairwell with us sees who (or is she a ‘what?’) shouldn’t be here.
My hand is outstretched and almost on the door to safety when the person on the stairs noticeably misses a step; there’s a painfully long pause, as if they're struggling to make their foot move where they need it to go. Instead, as is common when an Affected’s motor skills experience a hitch—they crash down the stairs.
The alien I have by the wrist gasps as a half-grown Genneӝt bangs down every stair and collides with the wall of the landing, sinking into a heap.
Pressing the alien to the wall slightly behind the waste receptacle, I use my eyes to silently urge her to please, please stay. I also use my shushing-finger against her lips again, and I’m very relieved when she nods with apparent agreement. She could be nodding to show her comprehension and instead of agreeing to stay, simply intends to slip away while I’m distracted—but I hope not.
I help the young man to his feet, dust him off, and ask him if he’d like me to Comm anyone. He rejects my offer—kindly, but all the same, it leaves me feeling distressingly impotent to his plight.
I’m stoically staring after him, not forcing my assistance on him, allowing him to have his pride as much as he’s able—so my breath catches when I see the female peeking out from her hiding spot, watching him pass by. She can plainly see his struggle, and she’s soon wearing a frown that reeks of sadness and confusion at the male’s difficulty-fraught progress.
He selects the door that will take him outside to the skylot. I call out a parting well-wish, and when he’s gone, I make all haste to return to my secret’s side.
She accepts my offered hand immediately, and we hurry to my dorm.
I’m not proud to say that I all but shove her inside. Not that she’s fighting me; I’m simply a slight bit more panicked than the situation calls for. I hope. Because although I’m in no way to blame for an alien life form slinking about our planet’s surface, I will be due some sort of reprimand for hiding her, won’t I?
It’s just for the darkcycle and GET INSIDE BEFORE SOMEONE SEES YOUR ALIEN!
I slam the door shut behind us and fall against it, breathing heavily and insisting to myself that I can’t hear sirens or alarms or the sounds of officials’ feet marching down the corridor, bearing down on us and ready to rip me and the alien out from where we’re hiding.
Shakily, I straighten, and I turn to arm the alarm. It’s set with my palm print, and doesn’t permit entry or exit without it so unless she reveals a propensity for vicious attack and removes my limb and takes my hand as a trophy, she’s safe enough to leave loose in the entirety of my dorm.
...Which isn’t really large enough for the both of us to keep a comfortable separation of space. I end up unintentionally urging her to move further into my living area simply because I step away from the door.
I stop, letting her get her bearings and retreat as far from me as she’s able. I revive a little, just by watching her take measure of my quarters. She’s so interesting.
While she investigates her new surroundings, I slip past her and I avail myself of the facilities. I also take the planet’s quickest rinse in the mizzling stall, and barely pause between the forced-air panels to dry myself off before I return to her.
When I exit, it’s to find her looking nervous. I peer at her, wondering what could have upset her in the short time I was away. I don’t have much in my dorm for her to grow upset over. Yet, she gnaws on her lower lip again, before she glances at my resting pad.
I glance at it too.
It looks like a normal bed to me. Raised on a platform, sunk into the wall, forming a bedpod. There’s nothing very remarkable about it. The foam layer was sanitized just two days ago on my usual cleaning and sanitation day.
Locking my right leg, I bring my left leg behind it, hooking it with my ankle and scratching it, producing a whirring sound that catches her interest.
My brain feels like sleep-deprived sludge, but I try to make it operate for a little longer. “Do you need to relieve yourself before bed?” I ask, and there’s only a small delay before understanding plays over her features. Somehow, she is taking in the meaning of my words. I grasp her arm, and walk her to the facilities. “Not that you used it properly, but I don’t have a litter tray here,” I explain. “Is there any chance you would find marking in a voiding canister an acceptable option for elimination? Are you familiar with using one? That would be ideal. Otherwise, I suppose you could mark in the mizzling stall, and it’ll drain.”
I glance down to see she’s pursing her lips, setting them ruefully against each other. She gives me a single nictation, notable due to its length, before she nods.
“All right,” I say, and back out of the room, leaving her in case she will take the opportunity to void if offered privacy. She didn’t seem to appreciate Simmi barging in while she was marking before, though that could be because he was shouting at her while he did it.
While I’m giving her time to do whatever she’d like to (although marking is really her only option; everything in the bathroom save for the voiding canister and sink is keyed to function at my palm’s touch because who else would need to operate the mizzling stall in a single’s dorm?) I strip my only chair of its foam cushion seat, and when she returns to my side, I’ve laid it out in a resting pad fashion on the floor just outside of my room.
“There,” I say to myself. “What else… hmm.” Though the lodent enclosure has a gravity-fed water bottle, she never licked from it that I saw of. “Let’s get you watered.”
Straightening, I retrieve the single drinking glass that I was issued the daycycle I moved in, and run the tap until it’s filled halfway with water. I set this near the head of her bed.
When I back away and gesture down at my efforts, I command, “Lie down he
re,” as brightly as one exhausted Genneӝt can manage.
“Noh blenkets? Noh peelows? Seereeosslee?” she sputters a laughing sound that is quite pleasant. Almost trilling. I wonder if she’s some distant relation to an exotic species of bird. Some of our native birds can understand phrases and are musical like she’s just displayed.
“I should call you something,” I murmur to her. “Of course I’m certain you have a name, but since we can’t communicate in a way you could inform me of it…” And, if I’m capable of being honest with myself on this little rest and at this late hour, I’m excited to take possession, even small possession, of her this way. I’ve never had the pleasure of naming a thing. Not even for work. Many projects come to us pre-identified; numbered, or perhaps with an abbreviation if the project has been designated with one. They’re referred to simply by what they’re given.
Excitement crawls up my throat. Is this what creativity feels like? I wouldn’t know; I wouldn’t recognize it. I run through the names I’ve heard in my lifespan that I’ve found interesting or attractive for one reason or another. “How about Skytobrachion? Or Cisthene? Sarpedon?”
She raises her brows at Skytobrachion, but frowns at the other two suggestions.
“Skytobrachion it is!” I declare happily.
I’m pleased when she looks up at me and gives me a smile, even if it does appear a bit baffled.
CHAPTER 6
When I exit my room in the morning, it’s to find a large, metallic maggot-like shape on my floor.
“What in the vecktorian hells?” I whisper to myself. “Skytobrachion, you can cocoon?”
The cocoonous sheathing slaps down and I leap backward, my back crashing into the wall, my tail whipping in front of me like some untrained defense mechanism.
Skytobrachion gives me a long, dry look. “Eets ah blayngket.” She gathers her long filament strands and shoves them away from her eyes. “Ehnd ghood mourneeng too yoo too,” she finishes on a mutter.