Page 6 of Stripped By the Alien

I put the alien pilot under my arm, locate the Beast, fold out my wings and jump towards it. The alien ship has just enough mass to give me something to kick at, to give me some speed through the emptiness.

The Beast hangs against the stars exactly where I left her, a dark shape large enough to swallow the alien scout a hundred times over. She turns slowly, directing her horns towards the minefield. Even at this distance I can feel her awareness brush against my mind. She knows I am returning, and she knows I am carrying something unusual.

The alien hangs limp beneath my arm as I cross the gap. I study it while I travel. The suit appears absurdly elaborate for a species capable of spaceflight. Layers of fabric. Layers of metal. Layers of equipment whose purpose I can’t immediately determine.

I find myself returning to that fact repeatedly. The scout should never have reached this far. Even a Thyrr Junior Harrower would think carefully before attempting such a crossing in a ship of that size. Yet this alien did it alone.

“Perhaps it was merely lucky,” Sris signals from my shoulder.

I glance toward the servant crab while continuing toward the Beast. “Luck is a useful servant. A pilot who survives because of luck is still alive afterward.”

Sris flexes her claws thoughtfully. “You seem impressed.”

I consider the question for several moments. Among my people, acknowledging another hunter's skill is not a weakness. It is simply recognition of reality.

“I am impressed,” I signal at last. “If not, I wouldn’t have gone to this length to inspect the ship and pilot.”

Ahead of us, the Beast unfolds part of its body. A circular opening forms along its flank as layers of flesh peel apart like the petals of a night flower. Warm air pours from within. The scent reaches my scent senses even before I pass through the opening. Nutrients. Water. Living tissue. The familiar smells produce a subtle sense of comfort that I rarely notice until I have spent time away from them.

I carry the alien through the opening. The chamber seals behind us with a wet muscular contraction. Air returns. Gravity settles over my body. The transition feels so familiar that I barely think about it anymore.

The alien's body reacts differently.

As I walk, I feel a movement beneath my arm. I look down and study the transparent section of the head casing. The eyes remain closed, yet the breathing has changed. It is faster now. Less regular.

“Chief Harrower,” Sris signals as she scuttles along my shoulder. “The alien's condition is deteriorating.”

I examine the strange suit more carefully. Several indicators flash in the color red, signifying joy. One has already gone dark.

But this is not my first alien, and I know that red can mean different things to some of them. Showing joy during this apparent decline would be strange. Now I think the systems keeping the pilot alive are failing one after another, and the pace of that failure appears to be increasing.

That realization produces an unexpected reaction: I would prefer that this pilot survive.

The thought surprises me enough that I spend several moments examining it. Curiosity explains part of it. The alien crossed a minefield that should have destroyed it. It may know what lies beyond the barrier. More importantly, I dislike seeing competence wasted.

“Take us to the healing chamber,” I order.

“Yes, Chief Harrower.”

The Beast senses my intent before I begin moving. Membranes along the corridor withdraw, opening a direct route deeper into the vessel. I lengthen my stride and carry the alien toward the healing chambers while Sris scuttles ahead.

If the pilot survives, I may learn who built that ridiculous little ship. I may also learn what lies beyond the minefield. I find myself hoping the answer arrives before the pilot dies.

The healing chamber occupies a swollen cavity near the center of the Beast. Warm light filters through translucent membranes overhead, illuminating rows of living growths that serve as instruments, monitors, and storage organs.

The Mirex is already waiting when I enter. The Beast must have alerted it to the emergency.

I lower the alien onto the cushioned surface of the platform. The old Mirex approaches immediately, its pale tendrils rippling through the air as it studies the strange suit. "What have you harvested for us, Chief Harrower?"

"An alien pilot."

The Mirex pauses while examining the figure. "Respectfully, sir, a pilot is not a species."

"There are some who would disagree,” I reply. “But I know what you mean."

While the healer begins its work, I remove several pieces of damaged equipment from the alien's body and place them beside the platform. The amount of machinery attached to the suit continues to surprise me. Tubes, seals, regulators, monitoring devices, and protective layers cover nearly every part of the pilot.

Species that require this much assistance to survive are usually prey rather than predators. Yet this one crossed most of a living minefield in a vessel that should never have survived the attempt.