Through the Kisandra Prism

by Jack Challis

  ‘Yes lieutenant,’ answers captain Daak, becoming impatient.

  ‘Then why don’t we let the Terasils keep Tarrea-two?’ says the lieutenant.

  ‘Simply because lieutenant, Terasil females share enough of our chromosomes to produce hybrid warriors. Now lieutenant, if you have no more questions… can we continue the Symator hunt?’

  ‘From what you say about female Terasils captain,’ continues the young lieutenant, ‘I think I will remain a bachelor!

  Blodwyn – who is listening from above, thinks to herself: “Bloody cheek, we Terasil females are also ladylike and have good manners in public…and are hard working too.” This conversation also meant the Cold-bloods still intended to invade Earth – it was still vital to find the Alter Dom. It was possible that the Cold-bloods might still claim Earth was theirs by right: they had after all evolved on that planet well before humans! Many of the aggressive Advanced Alien races would agree.

  To the hunting party’s left and on higher ground behind a tall rock, un-blinking yellow eyes watch the hunters below.

  The Symator was aware that it was the Cold-blood’s quarry and that they had picked up its scent trail. These large intelligent cats hated the Cold-bloods and the Na Idriss even though the later were their close relatives; like a gorilla hating man for similar reasons. The Malis Afar had hunted his tribe for thousands of years and the Symator was now few in number. On the last Malis Afar hunt they had killed his mate who was then in milk; now it was alone. The spotted Symator watches the hunting party; thin, dark lips pulled back in silent snarl: for the moment, the cat that walked on two legs forgot the strange pale humanoid with red hair that had climbed the hill.

  Below, the Malis Afar hunting party reaches the head of a valley and gazes up at the very steep towering granite masts flanking it. The Na Idriss tracker on all fours stops and holds up his hand.

  ‘Captain…. Fresh scent….a Symator has just passed this way….it must have spotted, or heard us as we rounded the corner. It has taken cover above us… behind that large bolder Sir.’

  ‘Always reach the right fighting temperature lieutenant Malak,’ advises Captain Daak, discarding his tunic.

  Blodwyn watched as the Cold-blood’s pale muscular body became striped with dark green bands to help absorb the heat of the sun. She could see the ripple of small scales under his pale skin.

  While the rest of the hunting party waited, captain Daak – now having reached the correct fighting temperature, removes his tunic and moves forward, silently to do battle with the Symator.

  Three thousand feet above this scene, hanging by their hind legs on the tall, dark granite masts of Tarus Tarm are a large group of naked, Bat-winged Yarbies; the sun’s warming rays had just reached these bold scavengers and warmed their leathery bodies. Their pale opaque eyes fixed on the hunting party below. It was the Yarbies’ mating season. Unlike most species it was the bigger, stronger females that preformed the mating act. The smaller, weak, runt-like male Yarbies did not look forward to the mating season; for the testosterone driven She-males were extremely rough and vicious partners!

  Three of largest she-male Yarbies detach themselves from their rocky roosts, swooping down with loud shrilling cries to ascertain the armed strength and physical condition of the group of Malis Afar and Na Idriss below. Looking up, Blodwyn thanked her lucky stars the Yarbies must have been asleep earlier and had not spotted her.

  Shrill and piercing shrieks shatter the hot alien afternoon. Captain Daak, mid-stalk, looks up and hisses his annoyance, showing a double row of sharp teeth.

  ‘Bal-a-docks!’ swears the Cold-blood, ‘Bat-winged Yarbies have spoiled my stalk….damabug!’

  ‘Shall I signal the ship to use proton cannon Sir?’ asks lieutenant Malak.

  ‘No,’ answers Daak, ‘let us have sport of a different nature – my immediate stalk having been jeopardized.’

  The three She-male Yarbies flap above the heads of the hunting party, shrieking and making demands; for that is the nature of the Bat-winged creatures. The fact that the group contained two of the most aggressive, armed and feared members of the Advanced Races was of little consequence to the single-minded, testosterone drunk females – always extra bold at this time of year. Bat-winged Yarbies were never known for their tact.

  Seeing the diversion caused by the Bat-winged Yarbies below, the watching spotted Symator slunk away; the big cat had not forgotten the strange female with red hair: it had not eaten red meat for a whole week!

  “If you don’t demand aggressively – you don’t receive” was the motto of the matriarchic Yarbies.

  ‘Give us your meat and drink, Cold-bloods. Give us your weapons and clothes,’ demands the biggest She-male Yarbie, without a single qualm.

  Captain Daak smiles a cold-blooded, thin smile and whispers to lieutenant Malak,

  ‘The unrealistic demands of She-male Yarbies never cease to amaze me. One has to admire their Bol-a-docks.

  The Malis Afar captain looks up.

  ‘Do I presume you also demand my treasured blade?’

  ‘Yes – yes your blade,’ scream all the Yarbies.

  ‘Your compelling negotiating skills, charm, personality and diplomacy leave me no option,’ says captain Daak.

  ‘Yes – we want everything – everything!’ Scream the She-male Yarbies.

  ‘Why do you demand our clothes…are Yarbies becoming fashion conscious?’ asks the Cold-blood.

  ‘Our useless males will have fat bellies soon – they need to nest-build before they lay eggs – clothes make good nests – fool.’ The She-males cry out in unison.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ announces captain Daak, ‘I am left with no option but to comply with their demands.’

  The Cold-blood turns to his servant the Na Idriss Simma,

  ‘Place the picnic hamper down… there’s a good chap Simma.’

  ‘But Sir, our fresh meat and Tarish is in there…I am hungry.’ (Tarish is the favorite drink of the carnivorous, Feline Na Idriss, consisting of congealed blood with an alcoholic anti-coagulant).

  ‘Simma, you have been my faithful servant for a hundred Malis years (ten thousand Earth years)…but do not try my patience…all you ever think of is food lately.’

  Mumbling, Simma reluctantly places the food hamper on the ground. ‘Now lieutenant, you heard the Yarbies – place your sword and laser on top.’ Although confused, the lieutenant obeys.

  ‘Would you be gracious enough to allow us to keep our uniforms ‘till last… in the interests of decency?’ asks captain Daak.

  ‘Yes! Yes fool – hurry!’ scream the three She-male Yarbies.

  ‘Now my fine Samurai sword,’ says captain Daak, holding his prized weapon across his open palms. The Tellium blade dazzles in the hot alien sunlight.

  The Yarbies first try out the modern laser, snatching the powerful weapon from each other. But a Yarbies clawed hands are made for clinging to high cliff faces, snatching booty and tearing carrion, not operating sophisticated weaponry.

  ‘Shivering-tits – damn-a-twittering tit!’ swear the Yarbies at their every failed attempt to shoot each other with the laser. Finally the laser is thrown to the ground in disgust.

  ‘Pis-e-rocs – rub-ish-tits!’ scream the Yarbies – your weapons are useless rub-ish-tits.’

  ‘Now my fine Samurai sword,’ says captain Daak proudly, holding his prized weapon across his open palms and offering up to the three She-males. ‘Made by a master craftsman from the cherry blossom Islands of Nippon,’ he boasts.

  The three Yarbies immediately begin to squabble among themselves as to who will acquire the fine sword; the Cold-blood’s most treasured possession. The dominant She-male of the biting and scratching Yarbies tries to reach the sword but cannot, whilst still in flight. The Yarbie is forced to land. It walks awkwardly towards the Cold-blood; bat-wings outstretched ready for instant flight; its clawed hand cautiously stretches out.

  The Yarbie grabs for the fine sword which is snatched away with incredible
speed by captain Daak – who grabs the Yarbie with his other hand. Than with the flat of his blade he knocks the Yarbie to the ground and places a shinny boot on the struggling creature’s bat-wing as it tries to take flight. All of the hunting party hold their noses at the stink of the bat-wings’ stench of foul urea.

  ‘Flab-e-tits! Droopy-tited Liar! Shivering-tits - Damabug! You promised everything.’ screeches the defiant, pinned down, She-male Yarbie.’

  ‘Captain Daak smiles, a thin cold smile,

  ‘It is clear your species is not as yet familiar with sarcasm.’ Hisses the Cold-blood. The Na Idriss Simma quickly repossesses the picnic hamper and the Malis Afar lieutenant retrieves his laser and sword.

  ‘Cold-bloods,’ informs captain Daak, ‘not only have cold blood but also a cold heart – we do not give - we take.’

  ‘Then take this, sodd-a-bugg!’ screeches the bat-wing as it bites through the Cold-blood’s black, shiny leather boot. The Malis Afar grimaces, but remains silent; pinning the Yarbie’s neck down with his other boot.

  ‘Now I am curious… why do Yarbies allow those spineless jelly-fish, the Galla Qualls, to visit Tarsaeus Megnas to mine crystals of x-nine without hindrance, irrational demands etc… and dare I venture… without using foul language?’

  ‘Fool,’ answers the still struggling Yarbie, ‘it is the wish of our Mistresses.’

  ‘You Vermin take orders? – do tell.’ says Captain Daak.

  ‘Ora-Pellas fool,’ answers the struggling Yarbie, ‘they in turn answer to a beautiful Mar-Lissa – who lives in the nearby Dolpus Nebular.’

  ‘And who does this beautiful Mar-Lissa take commands from?’ asks the Cold-blood.

  ‘The Alter Dom idiot – don’t you know anything,’ screeches the She-male Yarbie.

  ‘I see,’ answers the Cold-blood, ‘big fleas have little fleas etc…etc. I have yet to see one of these so called ‘higher beings’ – perhaps they are just a fallacy – made up by primitives who need to worship something.’

  ‘Then visit the Third Quadrent, dimm-tited-twwit – the two Ora-Pella’s that dwell in the Canares Nebular will teach you respect – fool!’

  ‘Imbecile! Nothing can live in a Nebular – and don’t call me fool again you foul mouthed droopy-tited, navel inspecter,’ hisses captain Daak.

  The infuriated Yarbie shows no fear; it bears its yellow teeth and begins to hurl insults and obscenities at the Malis Afar, who only smiles – until the Yarbie goes a step too far by saying:

  ‘I know the secret the Malis Afar are ashamed of …I have seen your ugly mother reptile Queen with raised tail laying eggs in a nest of sticks, then sitting on them like some clucking Tarcian hen!’ The Cold-blood raises his glinting blade.

  ‘Tell me you flying flea sanctuary… what are you most afraid of at this very moment?’

  The She-male Yarbie glances up at the sharp blade.

  ‘…Now let me think,’ the Yarbie answers, knowing what the Cold-blood wanted to hear. ‘Ahh I know…the sky falling and crushing me!’

  Without warning the swish of a glinting blade decapitates the Yarbie’s ugly head.

  But to the surprise of the watching Blodwyn, the creature’s decapitated head still shrieks insults at the Cold-blood; its body still struggles violently – as if still trying to take flight. Captain Daak smiles. He drives his blade into the decapitated body: all struggles and insults stop.

  The watching Yarbies, hanging upside down from the towering dark perpendicular cliffs above, scream in anger.

  The Na Idriss scout sniffs at the dead Yarbie.

  ‘Even a scavenger would not touch this putrid flesh.’

  ‘There is one creature which relishes Yarbie flesh,’ says Captain Daak. ‘Gentlemen, now we will have some sport – switch your lasers to automatic fire. You will have two targets – the attacking Yarbies and the rocks they will drop on us… Seat Simma,’ orders Captain Daak.

  Simma gets down on all fours. Captain Daak then sits on the back of his Na Idriss servant, like some African chief; wiping his bloody blade on Simma’s dark robes.

  The Malis Afar and the Na Idriss hold their lasers ready for the coming onslaught.

  All the other Yarbies launch themselves into the air from their lofty perches with high pitch shrieks; each Yarbie carries a rock with its hind legs.

  Yarbies think nothing of sustaining a high casualty rate. First they swarm into a revolving dark circle, planning their attack. The circle then breaks into four large groups; they plan to attack from every direction of the Stellar compass.

  One group of Yarbies circles over Blodwyn’s head: she has been spotted! Two Yarbies drop from the group and hover above her, gazing at this strange life-form with red hair, with inquisitive sneers. She could smell their aura of disgusting urea.

  ‘Look!’ exclaims one She-male Yarbie, ‘a Terasil Bitch…I have tasted one before on Rilla…thin skinned and tender.’

  The rallying cries from their leaders to begin the attack, force the two She-males back to their group; but they would not forget her location.

  The assault begins on the hunting party. The rocks dropped by each Yarbie are smashed by a devastating salvo of fire from the hunting party’s lasers. Bat-winged Yarbies soon begin to fall, spinning like the propeller shaped seeds of a Ciletian sycamore, spiraling to the rocky ground. When around a hundred Yarbies lay still or squirming on the floor of the valley, the attack stops.

  ‘Hold your fire Gentlemen.’ Orders captain Daak.

  The hunting party watch as the Yarbie circle their dead and dying kin on the ground. Then they dive like hungry gannets and clasp a dead or dying comrade in the hooked talons of their hind legs before flying back to their roosts in the high jagged cliffs surrounding the valley; it was feeding time!

  ‘Excellent sport Simma,’ announces captain Daak, addressing his Na Idriss servant whom he was still sitting on, ‘what say you Simma?’

  ‘Sir,’ replies Simma, ‘can you please get off my back…you are becoming heavy.’

  Regaining his feet and rubbing his bask Simma continues,

  ‘Sir… can we eat now…? This food hamper is heavy to carry.’

  Captain Daak the Cold-blood stares coldly at his servant; the Na Idriss looks nervous. A thin smile appears on the Cold-blood’s face.

  ‘My dear old servant Simma – who has served me well both on the battlefield and at the table – is always thinking of his stomach….very well… we will eat now…my first meal in a month.’ (Like all cold blooded life-forms the Malis Afar need only eat once a month.)

  ‘Thank you Sir,’ says Simma who begins to lay a white table cloth over a convenient flat rock.

  Captain Daak then announces, ‘After lunch, I am calling off the hunt – the Symator would have left the area by now – besides the evenings and nights are too cold on Tarus Tarm. (Cold-bloods could not tolerate the cold it made them lethargic and slow; freezing temperatures kill them).

  The hunting party settled down to their picnic, out of Blodwyn’s sight. The Yarbies high on the dark crag meanwhile were occupied, feasting on their dead and dying kin. She quietly entered the chariot and silently took off. She knew the intelligent Symator would remember her first position. She chose a higher hill further back from where she could overlook her enemies and watch out for the dangerous big cat that walked on two legs and also keep her eye on the Cold-bloods.

  Landing on a higher hill Blodwyn placed the chariot in between some bushes so it was hidden form sight. She climbed out.

  The new hill she had chosen gave her a panoramic view of her entire surroundings. She could now see the Cold-bloods in the far distance. Blodwyn spotted some more lovely blue berries and still out of their sight began to pick and eat the fruit. This time she made sure she carried the small Galla Quall laser for protection.

  The angry sun of Sagittarius Minor was now three hand breadths from the peeks of the purple mountains of the Tarus Tarm mountain range. An eerie white mist was forming over the tall reed beds of the warm slimy
swamp below: alien night was slowly creeping in on velvet slippers.

  While she was admiring the approaching sunset she heard a noise behind her. It was actually two sounds: subtle noises. It was the kind of sound that had to be worked out, analyzed. The kind of noise that country folk are more adept at analyzing. Then it came to her – some living thing had put a foot on an unstable rock – when the rock tilted and made a slight noise, whatever it was took its foot off – the second noise was the rock falling back into place: she was being stalked!

  Blodwyn’s sharp hearing pin-pointed the disturbance at the base of some berry bushes about thirty feet away. The red ball of sun was now kissing the Tarus Tarm Mountains and the bushes were casting eerie shadows. One shadow seemed darker than the rest, her eyes traced and outline: it was the Symator! Her heart skipped a beat.

  The big cat had caught her out again. Its dirty grey and dark spots blended perfectly into the shadows. The predator was laying down, belly to ground and its back legs were well positioned to spring; yellow unblinking eyes held her paralyzed.

  For several fast heart beats Blodwyn stood frozen; her pulse rate racing, her mind numb. She was only two paces from the safety of the chariot: two paces too far. The cat was in springing distance. Their eyes were locked. She knew fleeing would trigger an attack – yet she had to do something – she could not stand holding the feline’s penetrating stare any longer. Blodwyn remembered the small laser.

  Very slowly she raised it and aimed it at the big cat’s head at eye level; she pressed the button. A pale blue ray caught the predator in the face. The cat shook its great head and looked around as if confused by its surroundings. The cat’s unblinking yellow eyes lost their intensity – the spell was broken. Nevertheless by the time Blodwyn had entered and closed the telium canopy of her chariot, the Symator was staring at her through the clear telium hood, in that sleepy, gentle, deceiving, look cats sometimes adopt.

  It then stood up on its hind legs and placed its huge clawed paws on the telium canopy of the space chariot: testing it. Only then she noticed that evolution had been turning the Symator paw’s into clawed hands! The feline growled softly in different tones punctuated by the odd hiss and purr in a gentle friendly manner.