CAVE ALIEN

by Renard, Loki

  A cry ahead of me snaps my thoughts away from Tres. There is real anguish in that sound, and it comes from both the warboys. They are howling, a sound which seems to make the trees rustle with sympathy.

  I approach them slowly. They are crouched over the body of a slain creature in the middle of a clearing. At first I am confused as to the reason they seem upset, then I realized that the butchered figure on the ground is not an animal. It is one of them.

  A dead warboy. I have not seen many of those in my time, and never butchered like this one.

  The humans must have hunted it down and slain it. Tres tried to warn me that such a thing was possible, but I would never have believed it if not for the fact that I am seeing it first hand.

  The two warboys circle around the body of their third. He is not merely dead. He has been decapitated. The hands and feet have been taken as well. The legs and arms are tied down to stakes, suggesting that the humans tied the warboy down while he was still alive and butchered him.

  It is a deeply unsettling sight. This is the dark side of humanity, the side which is so easy to forget about or ignore when I focus only on the sweetness that is Tres. This is a cruel little species, soft and weak, but capable of nastiness unlike any other.

  I have never once considered humans to be dangerous. I still don’t truly consider them a threat, but I admit I am now forced to consider them with more respect. They are savages with nothing but stone chipped tools to bring down their prey. Scythkin have failed to prevail in battle against warboys before, so the fact that a small tribe of human males managed to bring one down is almost unthinkable.

  “Flenders,” one of the warboys says. “They took his head. They carved out his chest. They have butchered him like an animal.”

  “How could they have bested him? They are so weak and so primitive.”

  The other warboy voices the same question I have. This is a scene of brutality a scythkin would be proud to lay claim to. Somewhere, the humans have trophies taken from the warboy. They have head, hands, and feet. I have noticed that humans have a penchant for imbuing objects with magical significance, pieces of power. I have no doubt that those parts are already being celebrated in some village somewhere. Perhaps even the very same one I took watch over.

  “Savages,” one growls to the other. “We will kill them. Every one of them. We will take them apart, and we will make the others watch as we destroy them one by one by o…. ARGH!”

  The scream is the sound he makes when the blade on the back of my forearm makes contact with his throat, slicing at the sinewy material which keeps his head attached to the rest of his body. I understand their desire to destroy humans, but that cannot happen. The timeline is already polluted. They must be destroyed as swiftly and mercifully as possible.

  The first one is easy to wound, but the second one sees me coming, and is ready to defend himself.

  “NO!” He cries the word at me with desperate rage. “NO!”

  The word hits me in the gut. I stop.

  The warboy and I stare at one another, and I feel something like guilt. The one I attacked is now lying on the ground with blood seeping from his neck. I haven’t killed him, but he is not long for this world if he does not receive aid.

  “Scythkin!” The warboy on the ground gasps as his friend kneels beside him, putting pressure on the wound which should have been fatal but for the fact that I did not put enough aggression into it. I know how to kill. Why did I not kill? In this moment, there should be three warboy corpses and no witnesses.

  I have felt, over time, as if I am not always in control of myself. Sometimes I am as confused by my actions as Krave is. I came all the way out to the battle zone against his orders, because I felt compelled to be there. I didn’t have a choice to refuse. Now I have let two enemies live, at least for another moment or two, and I do not know why.

  “Truce,” the last warboy says. “Let me tend my man. I have lost one brother today. I do not want to lose another. Nor do I want to slay you.”

  I say nothing, but I do not stop him as he does his best to tend to his brother’s wound. The warboy clotting factors are powerful, and the furred pelt of their bodies creates a thick matting of natural bandage. I watch as the unharmed warboy bends down and licks at the slash, and more swiftly than I could imagine being possible, the bleeding slows.

  “Thank you,” he says, looking up at me with those deep eyes.

  I remain silent, ashamed of myself. They should be dead. I should not be suffering them to live.

  “My name is Zell,” the unharmed warboy says. “Were you stranded on this planet too?”

  I’m not ready to converse with what should be my prey.

  I would never have given quarter in any other time, or any other place, but something inside me has been in the process of changing. I felt it from the moment I met Tres, but it never manifested until this moment, where I find myself standing back and letting the warboy save his brother’s life. What is happening to me? Is it the effect of the planet? Or is it the woman who has changed me… did mating with her destroy some fundamental part of me? I am confused, and I do not like being confused. It usually makes me angry, and therefore aggressive.

  “You are my enemies.”

  “We were deployed by Galactor,” Zell says. “That’s true, but we are not your enemies, Scythkin. Not now. We’re trying to survive this planet. And you can see, that is not easy. Flenders was a strong warrior, and look what these humans have done to him. Join with us. Defeat the humans…”

  “Stop,” I growl. “We may be stranded here, but that is not the fault of the humans. They kill because it is their nature to kill. You are intruders here, as am I. If we die at their hands, it is because we are weak and we deserve it.”

  Zell’s eyes flash with rage. I know he wants to attack me for having said that. I am calling the honor of his fallen brother into question. But it is also the truth. We are the ones who do not belong, and the consequences of our presence cannot be borne by the humans.

  “I will not kill you if you agree to leave the planet with me when the time comes, and if you agree to stay clear of the humans, even the ones who did this terrible thing. I will allow you to live if you agree to follow my command. You will do what I say, and only what I say.”

  “We outnumber you,” Zell says.

  “You wish to give me a reason to kill you both? Or are you suggesting that I finish your brother off and enlist you under my command?”

  Zell’s lips part. It is not laughter which emerges. He cannot laugh next to the corpse of his fallen brother, but I sense that I have his respect. I may have some use for these Galactor peons. They are used to following orders, and I do not sense that Zell or the fallen one have any real leadership capabilities. That is why they were bickering. Much like the human warriors, they were waiting for a stronger figure to take control.

  “Very well,” Zell says. “I accept your offer.”

  I nod, knowing that this truce is foolish. As soon as the wounded warboy is well, they will outnumber me, just as Zell says. I have little leverage other than the respect which comes from having others fear me. To that end, having almost fatally slitted the other one’s throat is an advantage. They know I will kill if they cross me. But I have lost the element of surprise, and that could be a costly risk in the long run.

  Still, for some reason I do not fully understand, I am trying to do what a human might call the right thing, knowing it is the wrong thing in practical terms. It is not what Krave asked me to do. It is not what will make this planet safe. It’s not even what will make me safe. But it preserves life. I snort in disgust, aware that my inner monologue is starting to sound disturbingly human.

  “These humans will hunt us,” Zell says. “All of us.”

  “They can only hunt where we leave trails, and you left a stinking one that even a blind, toothless old man could follow.” I hear the lecturing note in my tone. Now I don’t sound human. Now I sound like something worse… I sound like
Krave.

  I am no longer the hot-headed rebel. I am the leader, and I must keep order. I hope I do a better job than Krave did, because if I don’t, then trillions of lives are at stake.

  “Bring your wounded man with you. I will take the body of the other. We will dispose of it in the volcanic mountain.”

  “No,” Zell says. “We must return it to the home world.”

  “We cannot risk the skeletal remains of your kind being found on this planet thousands of years from now, confusing the humans, making them think that there were big-footed hairy animals roaming the planet at some point in the past. If you don’t like it, you’re free to stay here and wait for the next hunting party.”

  “Very well,” Zell says, his tone heavy with resignation. I am impressed, I have to admit, with how rational he is being in the face of great loss. He has lost everything I have lost and more, but even now, when he should be trying to choke the life out of me with his massive hairy hands, he is bowing to my will. Perhaps being a leader isn’t as hard as I thought.

  “But I want to find what the humans took,” he says. “I will not allow them to keep Flenders’ head.”

  “Assuming they haven’t already eaten it and scattered the bones, then yes. The skull will be more easily retrieved.”

  This is a gruesome subject, but both Zell and I are handling it in stride. This is not the first death either of us have seen. I would wager that Zell has lost many, many brothers in war before now. But it is different to lose a brother in battle than it is to lose him in a forest clearing in an area where he should have been safe.

  “Can he walk?” I gesture to the warboy who is still on the ground. He lost consciousness at first, but now he is awake, listening in silence to the conversation we are having.

  “Get up, Wencel,” Zell orders.

  The other warboy rises to his feet. He does not want to look at me. It may be the shame from near defeat, or it could be something more duplicitous which makes his gaze slide away from me every time it comes close.

  “Do you agree to these terms?” I ask him the question. I want to hear him respond. Zell may have agreed, but Zell did not feel the blade of my body against the reservoir of his life.

  Wencel looks at Zell and immediately, I know that he is no danger. He does not act without orders. He is looking to be told what to do. He does not have the bravery or the boldness to attack me on his own terms.

  “Pick up your dead, and let’s go.”

  “We need to track the humans down. To retrieve Flendel’s head.”

  “Not carrying a corpse, we can’t. We take the body to the mountain. You give your brother the farewell he deserves, and then we will find the pieces the humans took….” And then I will somehow try to convince my broodkin to rescue you instead of butchering you, I don’t speak that part out loud. Krave will not be pleased with me, but I am isolated on this planet as much as they are, and killing potential allies, even if they are Galactor affiliated, is pointless.

  We make a somber parade of aliens as we walk through the forest and back across the plains, scanning for any signs of humans as we go. It would be thoroughly disastrous if we were to be seen.

  Tres

  Where has he gone? The day has turned to night and still I am alone. I know he said to wait longer if he was not back by nightfall, but the coming of the dark brings out the dark thoughts in my mind and in my heart. I can still feel tenderness in the places where his body joined with mine. I was ravaged, overcome, conquered, and then set free.

  I have not worried about anybody since I was born. I never cared what happened to Trelok. Even the other women of the tribe failed to interest me. I was the outcast. I never knew that position had any benefits. I was so consumed with loneliness, but now I am filled with something else: desperate worry.

  I have something to lose. I have something to lose that I might never actually have truly had. Mating with Vulcan was intense. I felt the bond between us form, I felt the basic note of the universe wrap around the both of us, a clear sound which I know I could never sing. At the peak of ecstasy, I heard the beauty of eternity and I knew that everything would always be okay. But now that orgasm has abandoned me, that experience feels remote. The real world has closed in around me, become solid under my feet - and I am worried that I might actually lose him.

  Waiting is the worst, but I am too afraid to venture out on my own. Even with the benefit of clothing, everything out there is dangerous - not to mention Vulcan if he discovers that I disobeyed him.

  I sit next to the fire and I stare into the flames, humming to myself.

  Visions rise before my eyes. I blink them away. This is one of the reasons I was beaten. The songs I sing are more than pretty tunes. There is power in them. Sometimes they bring visions. The tune I am singing now is one of searching and connection. I think I drew Vulcan to me. I may even have… and this is almost too much to think, but I think I may have manifested him somehow.

  I stare and I sing, and what I see in the flames is so strange I know it cannot be real. There is a volcano mouth, burning with molten rock and spewing the gases which would choke me out of existence. But Vulcan is standing there, above two cowering animals, and he is carrying a body.

  I watch through the song, enchanted and confused. The view is not entirely clear. I cannot see what or who he is holding, but there is no doubt that it is dead. And either wearing heavy furs or heavily furred itself.

  While I watch, he hefts the body up, then hurls it into the volcano below. The lava swallows it instantly, leaving me to wonder what it was and why he wanted to destroy it…

  “NO!” I scream into the fire.

  The other two figures are rushing up behind him, and I can feel their intent through the flames. They are going to push him in, just like he threw the body in.

  He looks up, his eyes meeting mine through the flames. He hears me, somehow. But it feels too late. They are already almost upon him, and their intent is as clear as it can be. They will throw him into the same lake of lava, and he will be destroyed.

  “NOO!”

  I scream as four hands shove at him, pushing him over the ledge.

  I watch as he falls, his eyes locked on mine as his clawed hands reach for me. I am already watching the death of my lover, just hours after being mine, he is going to become nothing at all.

  And then something impossible happens.

  Wings sweep from behind his shoulders. They burst from his back, ripping out to form two broad sails which enable him to glide on the hot currents from the lava. He flies up from the lava and turns on the two figures who tried to destroy him. What he does to them is unspeakable and brutal, and swift.

  He flies up through the flames, knocks me backwards and…

  Vulcan

  I crash to ash and earth, one foot and one knee encountering the ground, my bloody wings curving up over my head, sheltering and astounding me at one and the same time. I am out of breath, drained of energy. I am in the deepest agony I have ever experienced. These wings did not simply unfold from my flesh, they were ripped from it.

  Behind me the lava continues to boil, containing the corpses of three aliens, each of which were too foolish to recognize the danger they were in. Those two, Wencel and Whatshisname, Zell, they could have survived this planet. I showed them mercy and they tried to slay me at the first chance they got. I should not be surprised by that, it is precisely what I would have predicted would happen, but I am still befuddled. I gave them an unfettered path to survival, and instead they chose to snatch defeat from the jaws of surrender.

  My wings throb, feeling sore and powerful all at the same time. I had heard that scythkin could fly under extreme circumstances, but like most legends, I thought they were lies designed to amuse broodkin as they waited to molt.

  But they are not the strangest thing I have encountered in the last few minutes. Betrayal and triumph are natural to my experience, even if flight is not. What is not usual is to hear the voice of my beloved, and
for it to be of use in the heat of battle.

  Tres was here with me. I heard her voice over the roaring of the bubbling lava. I felt her love, her care, and I heeded her warning as the treacherous Galactor scum made their ill-fated attack on me. The expression on their animal faces as I appeared over the lip of the volcano only to hurl them to their doom.

  Now I crouch on the mountainside, knowing that my mission is over. The Galactor peons are dead, and that means Krave should be contacting me soon with a pick up. I get up, aching from the effort of self-preservation. I did not think I had wings, but they are part of every scythkin, vestigial and yet powerful.

  There are legends around how the wings are found. Most scythkin will never experience the pain or the glory of spreading them. Krave, first born of our clan, does not have wings. Nor do any of the other ninety-eight. I have mine because they were loved into existence.

  It was Tres. My wings are mine, but the strength to make them unfold was hers.

  I think of her soft weakness, the obvious vulnerability of her soft little human form, and I wonder if she is not far more powerful than she seems. That song of hers, I heard it as if she were singing it right next to my ear. That is not possible. But she has made it possible.

  I spread my wings again, prepare to fly, but then think better of it. The last thing we need is humans telling stories of leather winged creatures complete with claws and sharp ridged backblades flying from tall mountains.

  Instead of flying to my love, I walk, every step accompanied by a flurry of thoughts and theories, partial explanations which sound more fantastical than the simple events of the evening themselves.

  That, is a mistake.

  The biggest mistake I will ever make.

  One I will regret, literally until the end of time.

  When I reach the cave, I call for Tres. She doesn't come to greet me.

  “Tres?”

  “TRES!”

  She is lying next to the fire, blood seeping from the back of her head. Her face is pale and for several sickening moments, I am sure she is as dead as she looks. The softest flutter of a pulse in her wrist proves that there is some life left in her yet, but who knows for how long. If I know anything about human physiology, it is almost certain that she has swelling inside her skull. That will compress her brain and kill her.