by Amanda Milo
It’s clearly a gesture of affection. I’m therefore unprepared when it makes a high pitched moan and lunges forward, hooking it’s clawed paws around the fake Gryfala’s delicate neck.
Shocked, I lurch to my feet, yanking the mock-Gryfala right up with me and holding her close. I check her over, running my fingers over her forehead, her short nose, her cheek, trying to see if any of her skin was snagged by the alien beast’s short talons. Her skin is wet; from the creature’s saliva and from her tears—though they’ve momentarily shut off. She’s even stopped that heartbreaking hiccuping she’d been struggling to breathe through.
She’s gone very, very still under my touch.
I’ve fallen still too: it’s different touching her—very, very different than touching an animal.
After a moment, she catches my fingers. “Eyym fyyne,” she says softly.
My eyes trace over her features. Nothing felt or seems amiss, and a glance down shows me her friend is staring up at us, anxious but no longer hyperaggressive.
Meesahrah wuffles a breath and lowers her head to examine the other four-footed being in the room. The small beast’s dark hair stands straight up in response, making it look twice its true size and four times as fierce.
Meesahrah rears back and moos.
This causes the smaller beast to pull up short. Its tail, which had arched over its back aggressively as if it was preparing to lob a stinger with the end of it, slowly lowers until it rests between its hocks.
I peer down, trying to locate the stinger. Finding none, I’m relieved. I don’t want it to hurt Meesahrah; she means no harm. She’s simply curious—and who could blame her? It’s not every day she encounters an alien.
I look down at the alien I’m holding.
“Kahn eyye tahch yoo bahk?” she asks.
Unsure of what she’s asking, I direct my words to Meesahrah who is pawing at the floor and stamping in place. “Patience. I’ll untack you soon, but you’ll need to wait.”
The mock-Gryfala’s hand tentatively lifts up, and before I can process what she’s doing, she places her fingers on my cheek.
CHAPTER 4
SANNA
My fingers land under his eye, on the sharp jut of his cheekbone. ‘His’ because the alien holding me is huge—HUGE. He has to be male. He’s hard everywhere, from the wide slab of chest he’s keeping me squeezed over, to the ribbed muscles of his warm stomach that’s pressed to my lower belly, to the rock hard thighs that I was sitting on. His upper half is covered with only a thin, soft-materialed shirt, but his pants are made of some sort of rugged, supple covering with rivets that were digging into my skin when I was sitting on him. Guy clothes. He also smells good. Like tortilla chips fresh from the oven and pineapple rinds.
Another factor to add to my hypothesizing: he’s carrying me like I weigh nothing.
My fingers ghost over his face, and when he doesn’t move, not even to pull back, I touch him in earnest, trying to learn who—or rather what—I’m dealing with. His skin isn’t wet or cold or gross. It’s a bit abrasive, sort of like dragging your palm across freshly shaved stubble. It isn’t unpleasant. The… surface of his face, I guess—it’s pliable like skin—but weathered like leather, with deep grooves that interest my fingers because they don’t feel soft enough to be wrinkles. Wrinkles roll, and move, and shift and this is not that. What else would the grooves be? Anything. They could be anything, he’s alien—or so said the women I woke up in an auction pen with.
Kind of an incredible claim.
Per the evidence under my hands, I gotta believe them. But with no frame of reference, I’m struggling to understand what’s under my fingers.
I wonder if I should stop. It occurs to me that these might be scars. He seems to be acting a little… I don’t know, maybe nervous, though this might have less to do with the texture of his face and more like he’s experiencing a bit of discomfort at having a stranger feel up his features.
To him, an alien stranger. When he touched me, at first I was scared. Then I was confused; my body was going all loose and relieved because the way he was touching me was confident but careful, taking charge of me but being kind about it—it was empathy in alien form. It sounds crazy, but that’s absolutely how it felt. So even as my mind was screaming, AH, AN ALIEN’S TOUCHING ME! my body was like, Whew, compassion: we can relax now.
I wonder if his body and mind are going through a similar kind of struggle.
When my fingers trace the outsides of his eye sockets and venture in the direction of where tapered ends of brows ought to be, they bump instead against something jutting down from his temples, and he nearly drops me.
Just like that, I’m on my feet and he’s holding my elbow to make sure I’m steady.
Okay… I try to pat him reassuringly, but he steps away.
Having him finally release me should be a relief, right? Like two minutes ago, I very desperately wanted him to let me go, and he wouldn’t. But suddenly he’s not touching me, and somehow... it’s disconcerting.
Losing contact with him is actually making me want to call out for him.
I almost do—but that’s when I hear the distinct sound of a belt whisking out from multiple loops and this light jingle of metal has me immediately tensing everywhere.
Is he going to belt me?
If he didn’t want me to touch his face, he should have said something! Grabbed my hand, something! Anything! I didn’t know!
I’m braced, my heart’s racing, I’m panicking like crazy inside—so it takes me a second to realize I’m hearing another belt buckle coming undone. And... another. How many belts is this cruel bastard wearing?
By the fourth one, I only flinch a little. By the fifth one, I don’t twitch and I’m totally confused. There’s nothing coming at me, and by Kota’s stillness beside me, I take it to mean nothing looks like it’s about to harm us. So far.
A heavy thud tells me something just hit the ground. As long as it’s not his pants—I’m good.
Something moves on what sounds like four feet. I sincerely hope it’s just four. Six legs would creep me out. Anything more than six legs reaches the horror stage of my emotional state and I don’t think I can handle more than terror, uncertainty, and disbelief right now. My emotional plate state feels plenty full.
By the sound of the thing walking, it reminds me of a horse—that would explain the leather leads that were briefly handed to me while I was being carried. And if it is an alien horse, there is a strong possibility that all the jingling and rustling belonged to this creature’s gear being taken off and not the alienman’s clothes.
I’m fervently hoping this is the case.
With much, much caution, I start to ease into a crouch, and when I don’t feel the snap of lots of leather belts, I drop and hug the heck out of Kota’s neck.
In true German shepherd fashion, she proceeds to tell me in great whining, yipping, yodel-groaning, growling detail about how she feels in regards to all these developments. I’m pretty sure she also launches into a retelling of events up until this point because she leans more heavily on me, almost knocking me over as she switches to an amped up conversational set of canine mumbles.
I thump her furry sides, hug her tighter, and finally, when that doesn’t calm her down I take her cheeks between my hands, bump my nose to hers and tell her, “YOU’RE OKAY.”
The alien snorts.
Kota and I both pull back and I feel her head turn in his direction.
“Is something funny?” I ask him, wondering if he can understand me.
Instead of answering, I hear his steps approach as he crunches over what smells and sounds like wood shavings.
Kota moves in front of me, blocking him.
He steps right past her, lowering himself to my level—I can tell this because his breath fans across my forehead.
I’m uncomfortably aware that I’m not wearing glasses. I never used to wear them, and for the most part, I still don’t particularly care to—but they ha
ve their uses. Such as me needing to visit a store or restaurant that otherwise might stop me and demand proof (although they’re not supposed to, some still do) that I’m really blind and not just sneaking in my pet.
Another handy use for dark shades? It helps shield where my stare falls. I sort of have an inability to know where I’m aiming it, a tendency to that can make sighted people uncomfortable. More concerning: I’ve been told a direct stare can be seen as a challenge to both humans and animals and I don’t want to find out how aliens take it.
Fingers gently wrap over my chin.
I tense.
Kota growls.
The alien’s touch on me flinches and he grunts.
I can guess what’s just happened. “Kota! No bite,” I warn, but it comes out without the firmness that accompanies a normal command. She never bites—never—but she’s scared and extremely confused and boy do I get why. A giant has carried off with me and now he’s trying to take my face prisoner. She’s got to be thinking, This was NOT covered in training: time to improvise! She has to know that normally I’d thank her. On Earth, if some guy carried off with me and caught my chin, heck yeah, I’d be all, GET HIM, KOTA, GET ‘IM!
But we’re not on Earth. This alien hasn’t hurt me yet, and I’m hopeful that he’s still wearing pants. This situation could be much worse. His grip on my face isn’t hard or mean, and even though he just took a dogbite, the pressure of his fingers hasn’t changed. He doesn’t seem to be demanding anything, and it’s the weirdest thing—with him touching me like this I feel like I could sit here all day.
Maybe aliens subdue through touch. That would explain the hugging thing he did to me.
It felt really nice.
He’s an alien, but he held me, rubbed my back, encouraged me to cry it out on him—or so it seemed like—and here I am, leaning into his hold on my chin like he’s a human-whisperer.
For all I know, he is.
Kota forces her way between us, her fur bristled stiff. It reminds me of the time I got to pet an African porcupine and its handler showed my tour group what it felt like when the quills rise up defensively. It was cool then. Not so much when your dog does it in response to an alien taking control of your head. “Poor Kota,” I murmur as she crawls up on me like she hasn’t since she was a puppy, causing my neck to stretch thanks to the grip that still holds my chin hostage.
With a dry huff, the alien releases my face from captivity.
“Thanks,” I tell him, and despite her harness digging into my chest, I hug Kota to me until she calms down.
CHAPTER 5
BRESLIN
Meesahrah’s head rises over my shoulder as she stares down—just as I am—at the pair of aliens on the floor clutching each other.
I’m contemplating what action to take next when Ekan Comms me. “Ready for you in Medbay,” he says jocosely, and behind his voice his not-Gryfala can be heard still speaking alien. This means he hasn’t yet fitted her with a translator, but this also means my mock-Gryfala still understands one of her own kind just fine, and whatever Ekan’s female is saying to him has this female sitting up ramrod stiff.
I move to pick her up.
Mere moments ago, she’d spoken to her companion in a way that I thought meant she might be ordering it not to bite me. But as my arms encircle the mock-Gryfala, her companion looks me right in the eye, and clear as if we could communicate mind-to-mind, I read its thoughts: What she can’t see won’t hurt her—but it can hurt you.
It sinks its teeth into my arm.
Meesahrah gives an impressed cough. I curse.
The imitation Gryfala feels around for her companion’s head, follows to where the gaping jaws are fitted around my limb, and she emits a sharp, horrified, “Kohtah!”
The creature hunches, triangular ears flattening. Penitently, it opens its mouth, and almost comically spits my arm out.
I check the saliva-covered area over with a gimlet eye. Thankfully, the not-Gryfala halted the beast before it could snap through my limb but by Creator, it’s tried its kritted level best.
“Soh sahree,” the mock-Gryfala says, patting my hand apologetically.
Her companion expresses no such regret, and in fact its eyes strongly assure me that if I attempt to reach for the imitation Gryfala again, I do it at risk of my limb and life.
I narrow my eyes, trying to discern what species this creature even belongs to. It isn’t recognizable. It’s colored in a warning pattern—dark black highlighted with gold around the danger areas: feet that end in claws, ears that cut sharply in the direction of my every movement, eyes that dare me to escalate our confrontation, and ambered yellow streaks that would call to mind late sunshine if they didn’t bracket a long black muzzle full of teeth. Instead of having silky soft skin like the not-Gryfala, it has glossy black, stiff-looking hairs. It’s covered in hairs.
Mistrust is clear in its gaze, which is extra expressive with the addition of alert golden brows painted above its eyes.
Despite the warning in its posture, it doesn’t growl as I approach the mock-Gryfala it’s blocking me from, and I hear the imitation Gryfala whispering alien words to it that sound placting in tone.
I squat down next to them. “We’re hoping we have a solution for the language problem. May I carry you to the Medbay to be fitted for a translator?”
After only a few tense moments in which the haired alien does its best to glare a hole into the side of my skull, the not-Gryfala reaches out, bumping into my arm before taking careful, hesitant hold of me. I give her fingers a squeeze.
She exhales a small breath that sounds like a relieved one.
Her companion swallows a rumbling sound of disapproval, or warning—perhaps both.
“See? We’re figuring it out, aren’t we?” I tell the not-Gryfala with a smile before I move in and pick her up.
I’m pleased that her friend doesn’t grab me this time, but the pleasure lasts only as long as it takes to arrive at Medbay. The moment the translator gun is pressed to the mock-Gryfala’s ear, her companion takes hold of my thigh with violent ferocity.
“Crite, that looks like it hurts,” Ekan says distractedly as he shoots the implant into the not-Gryfala.
“It does,” I confirm through gritted teeth.
“I’ve never seen anything like it. Wonder what it’s called.”
“Don’t know, but if it crushes me one handspan higher it’ll earn the title of Destroyer of Future Offspring. Hurry up.”
Ekan grins, pulling the gun back and loading another translator chip into the nozzle, “Gladdened to hear it hasn’t earned that title—yet. Keep it busy for this part, all right?” and he aims and fires on the creature that’s embedded in my leg.
The hairy beast’s teeth abruptly tear out of my skin as it whirls on him, and Ekan isn’t wearing chaps. He winces and braces to take the bite.
Before it can reach him, I catch it by the odd harness rig it’s got fitted to its shoulders, and for the first time, I get a chance to really look at it.
I glance at the mock-Gryfala then back to the harness. Is this contraption for riding? The creature isn’t very tall but maybe it’s tall enough for her, and—I flex my arm and the animal slides towards me by only a handspan before it leaps forward with a powerful lunge—it’s impressively strong.
The hairy creature’s translator doesn’t alter its vocalizations into understandable words, but the creature proves it has no end to what it has to say to us as it expresses its opinion loudly in spit-frothed snarls.
“Kota,” the not-Gryfala calls, rubbing at the implant spot behind her ear. “I think it’s okay. Come here.”
The animal I’m holding immediately turns from its rant on Ekan, proving that it’s well trained. I let it go. “Can you understand us, female?” I ask the mock-Gryfala.
She swallows hard, but she looks much calmer. “Yes.”
“I consider this a kritted success,” Ekan declares, and his female, who had been inching her way towards mine, startl
es when he grabs her arm. “Now we’ve got a job to do. Quest luck, as the hobs say.” He pauses. “Or is that Rakhii? Tevek, if we had one of those...”
“Goodbye,” I tell him, shaking my head at his grin. It spells he’s up to no good. His female has no idea what she’s in for with him, but she’ll never be bored.
As if to prove this, he slaps his female’s rumpcheek. “After you, my beautiful slave-bride.”
His female snatches up his slapping hand—and bites him.
Ekan stares down at her in shocked silence. Then he guffaws. “Have fun with your new wife!” he calls over his shoulder, and my not-Gryfala goes stiff.
I start to reach for her, but think to warn her first. “I’m going to take you to the place we’ll be staying on this ship.” Carefully, I begin to lift her, and her friend gives an aggravated huff as if it can’t believe my audacity. Or my stupidity. Before it can latch onto me again though, the not-Gryfala warns, “Enough, Kota. Follow us.”
Kota’s jaws close on the air with a snap and my skin tightens in reaction.
“Thanks,” I breathe to the not-Gryfala, and she laughs. It’s a small thing, but it has me staring down at her until her brow creases.
“Is something wrong?”
“No,” I say quickly, “And you’ve done well shoring yourself up; you’re calmer.” I begin walking, relieved when her friend falls into step with me—no teeth involved.
“Thank you, I think. And I’ll try to stay calm. It’ll be safer for you,” she says, sardonic.
“For me?”
“If I panic, she panics.” She tips her head towards her friend. The movement must bother the not-Gryfala’s injection site because she grimaces and presses her fingers behind her ear.
I wince. “Sorry it pained you. It was necessary.”
She graces me with a rueful smile. “I figured that out when the two of you weren’t speaking alien anymore. Thanks for that.”
I grin. “Oh, we’re still speaking ‘alien.’ And now, so are you.”
