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“You have not always been obedient,” the elders say. Usually they only speak to the one being presented. Most of my kind never approach the elders. They scuttle below, deeper, contained closer to the core. They would no sooner approach the surface than they would fling themselves into deep space.
The elders know me by many titles. The rebel. The warrior. The one who saved the burrow. The one who lied. The one who killed. The one who survived. My presence is still tolerated here because I am one of the few who will not hide when the end comes—and we know that the end will come. It lurks above us in bright cosmic trails every day, reminding us that the isolation of our planet is coming to an end.
I stay silent. To speak would be to waste words when they can already see what is in my heart. They turn their attention to the human in my arms.
“Put her down.”
I do so reluctantly. As I suspect, she reaches for me as soon as I try to disengage from her. She is alone in the dark, surrounded by strangers. Her fingers try to curl around my arm. I have to brush them away and hear her whimper of disconnection.
* * *
Aspel
I am alone. And I am being surrounded. Everything is dark, a kind of dark my eyes cannot adjust to. But I can feel a deeper darkness surrounding me.
The farm was always bright and clean. We could always see, even at night. They kept the lights on low so we could see and be seen. This place is precisely the opposite. There is dirt and grit and dark all around me.
I can’t see him. Can’t feel him. It is cold in here without him. I begin to shiver as the darkness closes in, a soft scream escaping me when something hard touches my leg.
It’s a rock. There were no rocks on the farm. There was nothing but clean surfaces sprayed down daily. I am used to a bright, smooth, clean world, one where the routine is followed from the moment of waking to the moment of sleep. Even the end, when it came for me, felt familiar.
Now nothing does. Now I have a clawing craving to return to the farm, to the place I know, to be the thing I know how to be. But there is no going back. Not now that I know what was in store for me.
I am overwhelmed. Frightened. I call out for the hot beast who pulled me from the sand. I do not know his name, but I know how to cry.
“Please! Help me!”
“Shhhh,” his voice comes from the deep dark. “Do not fear, little one, you are safe.”
He tells me that I am safe, and I believe him because I have to. In this world of pain and darkness, I have to believe in something.
* * *
Isu
“You speak the language of the humans,” the elder says to me. I find myself mentally translating his words to the standard tongue, as I know I will have to use it with my girl for a long time. Humans seem to have problems with our speech, because it is more than sound. It exists in an extra dimension they have no access to.
“What is this one’s name?”
“She has no name. She must be from the farm.”
“A true calamity,” the elder says. “The Vargons must be stopped.”
There we all agree, but this planet, our technologies, they are not advanced enough to do anything but slay the Vargons who land upon our surfaces. We inhabit the world, we do not sail the stars. So we must watch as untold travesties unfold around us, opportunistic species pillaging innocent planets, building fragile empires that collapse every time a star dies.
We are held closer to the heart of our world. We know the core of things. We experience time differently. We experience everything differently.
She is small and she is young and she is exquisite and I want her. I want her more than any jewel in these cavernous halls. She is something precious to protect. I hold my breath, waiting to hear what they have to say about my fire-haired angel.
“Am I free to take her into my burrow?” I do not want to sound too eager, but the human’s lust has excited me. I want to take her somewhere private and unleash that desire for our mutual pleasure.
“Be careful,” the eldest elder intones. “This one carries death with her.”
His words confuse me. I see no signs of sickness on her, and she carries no physical materials capable of causing death. She is entirely naked aside from the remnants of her bonds.
“Disease?”
“Not disease,” another says. “She is powerful.”
I look down at her, knowing what I know about her kind, where she comes from, her confusion at her own lustful responses, and more. How could something this weak and, bluntly, pathetic be powerful? I feel the urge to protect her because she is delicate.
