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Because it’s hard to get promoted when you spend fifteen years of your service pushing out child after child.
The thought still fills me with a visceral revulsion - my body used by someone else to produce new life, like I’m a factory part, a machine. Pumped full of recovery drugs as soon as the baby’s out to jump start the next fertility cycle. Rinse and repeat.
It’s why I’m here. It must be. I must have volunteered for this mission - this dangerous, risky mission - in order to delay my entry into the breeding program. That’s why I was in front of that board I can only just remember. They must have been deciding my fate.
My stomach growls, cutting through everything else that’s spinning round in my head, and I recall my decision to eat something before trying to source fresh food. Given that I don’t know how far I’ll have to follow the stream to find a river - or something deep enough for bigger fish, at least - I figure it’s still the most sensible plan.
Eat, find a source of ongoing sustenance, then…
Figure everything else out, I guess.
The forest around me is eerily quiet as I root one of my MREs out of my pack, then find a comfortable patch of ground to sit down and eat it. I look up at the trees looming overhead, their branches stretching up to the sky. I’m not used to nature being so large. In Mercenia’s world, nature is carefully controlled - small, contained trees lining the streets for shade and beauty. Biomes like rainforests have been tamed, the land cleared and utilised for industry, while small nature reserves stand as museums to the landscapes of the past. Safe, sterile environments for the upper tiers to enjoy.
There’s nothing safe or sterile about this place, but there’s a raw sort of beauty to it that affects me more than I thought it would. By night, I saw very little but the few steps ahead of me, focused only on getting away. Now that I’m gone, I take the time to survey my surroundings. The gnarled, twisting trunks of the older trees, the many different shades of brown and green all around me. Dark brown trunks, lighter brown branches. The reddish brown of fallen leaves, the bright green of the canopy overhead. The stream babbles as it flows past, accompanied by the rustling of the leaves in the gentle breeze. Occasionally, a sharp animal cry will punctuate this otherwise peaceful soundscape, reminding me that there are creatures out there other than me. Things I can hunt. Things that might hunt me.
I probe at the edges of my memory again as I finish my meal, wondering if remembering about the breeding program has knocked anything else loose. Nothing is immediately forthcoming, but things feel a little less blank, a little more blurry. Hardly a huge step forward, but it still feels like one, which lifts my spirits a little.
I pack my rubbish back into my bag, not wanting to leave any hint for the alien hostiles that I was here, then carefully scuff out any footprints I’ve left near the banks of the stream. A good tracker could probably follow my steps, but I’m hopeful the water covered my trail well enough that they won’t have followed me this far. Still, it pays to be cautious in a volatile situation, so I do an extra thorough double check of the clearing before I head off further down the stream.
The terrain here is rockier than it was closer to the base, the banks of the stream rising and falling, forcing me to scramble in places. It’s tough going, and I’m grateful for the food in my stomach, and for how deep and restful my sleep felt, despite the bizarre dreams. It’s not long before I’m sweating through my t-shirt, my underarms, neckline and the small of my back all stained dark. I wish I had a razor to cut my hair down to the scalp, because the longer strands of it stick to my face and the back of my neck, irritating me. When I pause to catch my breath and drink from the blissfully cool stream, I splash my face again before soaking my whole head. It brings my temperature down for a little while.
But the longer the day goes on, the warmer it gets. It’s a long way from the hottest conditions I’ve ever toiled in, but the humidity is relentless, and my Mercenia issue fatigues are really not designed for it. My t-shirt is thick and coarse, my trousers great for protecting my knees from scuffs and scratches as I scramble, but terrible for letting heat out. My feet feel like hot coals in my boots, and my heels soon start chafing.
I keep going, but my eyes are less ahead of me, more on the banks of the stream, looking for another of those berry bushes. If getting it on my hands healed up my scuffed palms, then there’s no reason why it wouldn’t work for a few blisters. I could try adding the juice to water as well, see if it really would make the taste more tolerable.
The thought unsettles me a little. Even now, firmly in the real world, it doesn’t feel like an idea that came from me.
It must have been in a briefing. Some forgotten conversation with one of the research team. When my memories fully return, I’ll feel better. I won’t feel like a stranger inside my own head anymore.
I spot one of the bushes a short while later, and not a moment too soon. Every step I take towards it feels like something sharp is jabbing into my Achilles tendon, my skin there obviously shredded. I flop down to the floor beside the bush, pulling off my boots and socks, inspecting the damage briefly before sinking my feet into the cold stream. The water provides instant relief, and rinses away the blood so I can get a proper look.
Yup. Ankles and heels destroyed by my shoes. I pick away the loose bits of skin, everything raw and tender to the touch. There are even blisters forming between my toes where the heat and swelling have made them chafe against each other. Definitely not dressed for this climate. I can only hope my skin will toughen up over time.
I grab a handful of the berries and squish them in my palm before patting the juice over my feet. I hiss at the sharp, stabbing pain that flares wherever the juice touches broken skin, but a moment later, the pain recedes, taking the dull ache with it. When I rinse my feet again, they’re good as new. I run my thumb along the back of my heel, testing for tenderness and finding none, grinning to myself.
I’m so absorbed in what I’m doing, I don’t notice I’m no longer alone by the stream until a low, rumbling growl sounds right in front of me.
I snap my head up, registering the large creature padding towards me. Powerful front legs move silently over the terrain, four lashes about its face gliding through the air, bristling and ready to strike. Its fangs are so large they burst out of its mouth, and I scramble to my feet, grabbing my knife from my pocket - my tiny, pathetic knife - trying to assess the best means of defending myself.
The fact that the creature didn’t just pounce tells me something. It’s nervous, maybe, my unfamiliar appearance and scent making it wary. The growl is a warning to back off. I try taking a step backwards, to see if it will stop advancing, let me slip away, but the growl only increases in volume. I wonder if it can see I’m inadequately equipped to take it on, or if it can smell the fear that must be pouring off me right now.
I raise the knife ahead of me. You don’t face down a predator without confidence, or it will just kill you. Appearing the bigger, badder target is the way to go. So I stretch as tall as I can, spread my arms and legs to make myself appear larger. The creature hesitates, and I think for a second my little display might be working.
But then I sense another presence behind me, a warmth that licks over my skin, different to the heat of the sun. I freeze in place, unable to decide in the moment whether this new threat deserves my attention more than the big cat, my brain spinning with unhelpful thoughts about my complete failure to recognise either before it was too late.
Then something enters my peripheral vision - a long wooden pole. I glance sideways at it, see it is held out by a big, green hand, a strong, muscled forearm. The pole itself is carved, sharpened to a point at the end. A spear. But it’s not pointing at me, rather held out to my side. I glance round at the alien holding it - unsurprised to see that it’s my alien, the one I escaped yesterday, only to be followed by him in my dreams. His eyes are focused on the creature in front of us, but he cuts a quick glance at me, inclining his head towards the spear and raising it a little closer to me.
An offering.
I pocket my tiny knife, then close my hand around the shaft of the spear. He releases it, drawing a knife of his own before coming to stand beside me, the two of us now facing down the creature together. My mind races with questions about why, whether it means the big cat is even more of a threat than I first thought, but I push everything aside. Silence the noise and distraction. Focus.
The spear is smooth beneath my fingers, and my sweating palm doesn’t make it easy to grip. I take it in both hands, shifting it until it feels more comfortable, more balanced, then angle it out towards the creature. The big cat is pacing back and forth on the opposite side of the stream, and I can only hope it’s second guessing taking us on now that there are two of us.
Next to me, the alien makes his own growling sound, baring his fangs as he raises his knife. I heft the spear a little higher, matching his posture, and for a moment, I think the creature is going to back off, leave the clearing with its tail between its legs.
But at the last moment, it changes its mind. Pounces.
I pivot, the lashes on the one side of the creature’s face slashing across my chest, tearing my t-shirt and the skin underneath. I don’t let the shock of pain stop me, though, immediately jabbing at the creature’s flank with my spear. The sharpened end of it cuts through the fur and flesh, striking bone. The creature roars, but I bear all my weight down on the spear, stopping it from moving too far, allowing my alien companion to bring his blade down hard on the creature’s neck.
