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We’re the Weird Aliens

“FTL’d” copyright © 2015 Manuel Royal (The Infinite Spectacle)
“Can You Tell Me…?” copyright © 2018 Charles D Perry (Reddit.com)
“Human Altered” copyright © 2020 Dara Brophy (Reddit.com)
“The Language of Emotion” copyright © 2007 Bill Rogers (Anthrozine.com #15)

ISBN 978-1-09833-146-7 (softcover)
ISBN 978-1-09833-147-4 (eBook)

Cover art and book design by BookBaby
Published by Reality Collision Publishing

Printed in the USA

Acknowledgements

With thanks to Vivian Caethe, editor of Humans Wanted, a similar anthology that I highly recommend. Thanks also to the many, many writers online who have explored this idea with such imagination and glee. You make me proud to be human.

The Many Ways
of Being Weird

Did you know that humans are exceptional, even on our own planet? I don’t mean the large brains that we’re so proud of. Our endurance puts other animals to shame; only dogs and horses can keep up with us. We used to hunt by “pursuit predation,” which is basically just following a deer until it drops of exhaustion. We were the Terminators of this planet, back when pointy sticks were the height of technology.

We can also throw better than even our closest relatives. A gorilla is roughly four times stronger than a human, but the human can throw a rock four times faster, and with devastating accuracy. We’re omnivorous to an impressive degree, eating foods that would poison many other animals (chocolate, grapes, onions), and even foods that actively poison ourselves. Our eyesight is sharper than that of many creatures, and our color vision better than some. It’s not just the brains that make us the oddballs of Earth.

If you’ve frequented writer space online in the last few years, you may have heard some of this before. If not, welcome to the concept that has been such a joy to explore: that humanity is profoundly strange in ways we never considered.

When put into a science fiction setting, the possibilities are endless. Humans are space orcs with shocking endurance; denizens of a deathworld where creatures breathe oxygen, of all things; daredevils and inventors and unending surprises. Humans are weird.

With so much of science fiction portraying humanity as the standard race that all the interesting aliens are compared to, this new slant is deeply satisfying. As someone who would always choose an inhuman character in my speculative fiction games — an elf, a robot, a talking cat, anything but a boring ol’ human — I have been delighted beyond words to find a way to see my own species as the interesting one. And I’m glad that so many other writers are right there with me.

This is new. This is different. This is fun. Let’s show the universe what we have to offer.

The Machine

Jules Blymoor

Day 1

When Edgar Roberts Reed found the Machine, it was a hot summer night. The kind of summer night that refuses to let you stay indoors by turning the house into a furnace, beckoning you into the relief of cool dusk. It was fine by him, since his tiny house was practically just a lean-to with some semblance of wallpaper and a big chair to make it feel like a home fit for human habitation. The cool air that came from the nearby ocean whisked the heat farther inland — directly towards Reed’s little shack.

If it was sweaty and unbearable inside the house, it was even more miserable in the kitchen. Edgar Roberts Reed was a cook by trade, and it wasn’t uncommon for tradesfolk to live in accommodations far, far below what any human being should be subjected to. Reed was one of the luckier ones. Most of his colleagues lived in hastily erected tenements somewhere in the labyrinthine streets of the city some fool had optimistically decided deserved the moniker “Los Angeles.”

Reed had inherited this lean-to in the hills north of the city through his uncle, who swore that he’d find some last traces of gold if it killed him. Arriving decades too late, he didn’t, and it did. But Reed was grateful for the house. Though the commute to the city was a painful and exhausting walk, and though his nearest neighbor was a mile away and an aged rancher who got on better with cows than people, it was home. In 1901, one took what one could get.

After a long shift like the one he’d just been on, the wisps of consciousness in his head were less “thoughts” and more “sporadic flashes of coherency.” The chief thought in his head, though, was something he could hold onto.

That star looks awfully big.

The light from the city lamps didn’t penetrate this far, and the night sky was a sight to behold. One of the pinpricks in the tapestry above was growing, and at a shocking pace too.

What was a curiosity seconds before was rapidly becoming a safety concern.

Reed shot to his feet. The object was small, but it was burning fiercely, a large cone of angry flames bristling around it as it plummeted through the air. But there were other flames too — blue-white ones, pushing in the opposite direction?

The little object was locked in battle, the red flames driving it toward Earth while the blue ones sought to keep it aloft.

Before Reed could really understand the battle, it was over. The object pulverized a nearby hilltop, and the flames died.

Reed was running before any thoughts entered his head. His shoes scratched against the rocks and dirt, but he didn’t heed the developing scuffs. He stopped at the edge of the crater, peering down into the haze of smoke.

The crashed object looked like a crescent, but it was the size of a horse. It was crafted from some type of white stone; or was it metal? Reed didn’t dare get closer. It was hissing and smoking in a most disconcerting way.

It was smooth and geometric, all clean lines and sharp angles. There was no roughness or irregularity, the way a natural rock might have.

Then, one of the smooth angles began to split open, in the middle of the crescent. Reed slid down onto his stomach to peek over the edge of the crater. The edge widened more; two panels, which had met and fit perfectly together, were splitting apart.

This was too much. If a glowing meteor was momentous, a machine from the sky was terrifying. Reed mentally ticked off a list of people who would be more equipped than him to deal with this that he could go find.

The fire brigade? No, they would laugh him out of the room before they’d follow him into the hills behind the city.

The United States military? They’d shoot him, and even if they wouldn’t — where would he even find them?

The Police? Worse than the military.

Reed was running out of authorities, but he didn’t get the chance to think of any more because the Machine was now fully open. A small groan emanated from inside.

Reed froze. “Hello?”

A string of rapid gibberish came from the Machine, a high-pitched voice rattling off something at incomprehensible speed.

“Sorry, a little slower?” Reed replied.

“Maxxis. U’uni. Sneeeeeep. Noxodor. Q’l’kim.” The voice spat out each word in a staccato rhythm. “Hurn’is. Martian. Tuum. Español.”

Reed’s eyes widened. “No, English! English!”

“Eng-lish. Searching Database.”

Now those were words.

The voice returned, this time spitting out only one word. “Hello.”

Reed breathed a sigh of relief. At least he could talk to it. “Hello! What are you?”

“My designation is Probe EG-17. My name is Lieutenant J’Gar.”

The panel now open, Reed shifted around so he could see in. The inside of this bean was a series of instruments and arrays, glowing readouts in a language Reed couldn’t comprehend. In the center was a small cupped chair, and an even smaller figure sitting in it.

The figure was shaped in vaguely the same way Reed was, although there were four arms and the creature stood about a foot tall. The skin was a pale and mottled green, and the eyes, which took up most of the face, were a deep black. Lastly, the creature wore a shimmering red coverall. Reed was almost horrified, but the creature really just seemed endearing.

“And … you’re from space?” Reed prompted.

When the creature spoke, its words were barely a hiss of air. The voice Reed had heard echoed from inside the spaceship.

“Yes.”

The creature drew breath to say more, then something blue spilled out of it and splashed on the ground. The creature collapsed.

* * * * *

Day 2

The sunrise annoyed Reed. Usually, he found the warm rays comforting. Today, they were just a reminder of how long he’d been awake. Reed blinked the sleep from his eyes and set down his screwdriver, sitting back on the stony ground. Scattered around him were parts of readouts with wires sticking out, their screens dull and lifeless.

He had tried to take things out as gingerly as he could, but it felt like trying to assemble a porcelain vase with a sledgehammer. Reed reasoned that anything with a living creature inside would have some sort of medical supplies, but he could hardly tell what was steering mechanism, what was navigation, and what was hull.

Of course, he was assuming this little ship had any of those things. But it was a machine built to traverse long distances, clearly, and living things surely must have the same basic needs. And the machine didn’t seem to have drawers.

The air was still cold, and dew had collected on the low grasses and scattered machinery, but it would heat up soon. Reed groaned and stood up, bringing his screwdriver to attack the machine one more time.

Next to many of the panels were small ovals of black glass. Reed tried pushing them, tapping them, even attempting to pull them — though they were flush with the rest of the panels — but nothing worked. He was left with hand tools.

Straining with exertion, Reed pried off a panel that was affixed directly above the chair. Now, this was something! Tucked into the panel were two smooth canisters with lids.

Inside the first was a wad of dull red leaves. Reed held one up to the sun, scrutinizing it. The leaf was shaped like a spade, and had veins running through it. It smelled like lavender.

The second contained a dark blue hunk of something slightly squishy. Ribbons of white ran through it, and it oozed juice when pressed. It smelled of salt and metal. It had once been alive.

Reed jammed the lids back on the canisters, and headed back to the house.

Lieutenant J’Gar was curled up in Reed’s bed. Reed hadn’t been sure whether to put them under the covers or not, but they crawled into the untidy heap of blankets almost as soon as Reed set them down. They hadn’t moved much, though they shifted around occasionally. Reed considered that to be a good sign. The creature was cool to the touch, but Reed realized they might just have a different normal temperature.

He’d dragged the part of the machine that emitted the voice into the house with them, careful to cut out enough wire that it continued to glow when he brought it in. Even still, Lieutenant J’Gar hadn’t spoken since the crash.

He gingerly placed a leaf on the bed next to the Lieutenant. Almost instantly, they sat up and began to eat. Something unfolded at the base of their neck, and they fed the leaf in.

“Feeling better?” Reed asked.

The Lieutenant looked over, their eyes wide and unblinking. “What has happened? Where am I?”

“You crashed. Seems like you know the place, though, since you speak the language. We call it Earth, but I guess you might call it something else. Looked like you were hurt, so I brought you inside.”

“Yes. English. Planet Q4-Y67-3. First visited Basic Year 98. Contact As-Yet Unrevealed. I am on a scientific mission as part of the Alliance Research Group, and I am operating under the protection of the Quadrant Alliance. I must be treated with the respect my position dictates, as per Galactic Kindness Code 127-B.”

“Well, your ship crashed. I’ll treat you as good as I can, but it looks like you’re pretty banged up. Can we fix your ship?”

“My spacecraft will automatically repair itself over a period of seven Galactic Rotations. I agree with your assessment of my physical state. My concern is remaining in good enough condition to pilot. How long is a rotation here?”

“Um … how long is a day?”

“Difference in parlance. How long is a day?”

Reed scratched his head. “Twenty-four hours.”

“How long is an hour?”

“Sixty minutes.”

“Unhelpful. How long is a minute?”

“Sixty seconds.”

“Confusing. How long is a second?”

“Um, one steamboat?”

“Absurd. How long is a steamboat?”

Reed hesitated. “No, a steamboat isn’t a length of time. It’s a way of counting time. A second is as long as it takes to say ‘one steamboat.’”

“I see. This means a day is eight hundred and sixty-four thousand steamboats. Seven Galactic Rotations is five point two eight days. In your parlance.”

Reed nodded. “So, five days. Then your ship is repaired.”

“Correct. I need only to remain functioning to pilot it back to my cluster.”

The little alien’s green skin looked pale and sickly. Reed realized he had little context for how a healthy creature might look, but he was willing to bet it wasn’t this dull greenish-gray. Five days, that was all he needed.

“Right … and how are you feeling?”

“Negative. I was injured in the crash.”

“Negative?”

“Bad. Sub-optimal. Loss-case scenario.”

“I see. Did the food help?”

“Nutrients assist in healing, yes. Why did you dismantle my ship? My readouts indicate this has increased repair time by three Galactic Rotations.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I was looking for medical supplies. Just found the food. It is raw, though.”

“Raw?”

“Uncooked.”

“Uncooked?”

“You know … hasn’t been turned into an actual meal? Something that’s enjoyable to eat?”

“I do not understand to what you are referring.”

“You’ve never cooked your food?”

“We harvest nutrients and consume them. I do not understand what is so complex about a simple biological need. Surely your species does the same.”

Reed frowned. “Well, sure, but you make it sound so unappetizing. Food’s an art.”

“Incorrect. Art is an application of creative skill to induce emotion and appreciation, and occasionally social commentary. Sustenance continues life.” The creature took a bite of the raw, blue meat, shuddering slightly as it chewed.

“Doesn’t look like you’re enjoying it too much.”

“Nowhere in the Quadrant Alliance is nutrition a matter of ‘art’ or ‘enjoyment.’ Either my translation database is incomplete, or our biological functions are different enough as to be incomparable. Do you consume emotion as sustenance?”

“No.”

“Do you consume social commentary or appreciation as sustenance?”

“No!”

“Then I refer to my previous statement. There are many avenues of progress, exploration, and development, and the Alliance Research Group has advanced them all to the very bounds of collected knowledge. Nutrient consumption is a basic component of life, worth studying for physical health reasons only. It is not an art.”

Reed reached over to pick up the meat canister. “Tell you what. A good meal always cheers me up when I’m feeling ‘sub-optimal.’ Let me cook a little bit of this, and you can see what you think. Sound fair?”

The lieutenant crawled back underneath the covers. “This is acceptable.”

* * * * *

Day 3

Reed returned from work with more energy than he’d had in a long time. The shift had been a blur of hastily combined ingredients, surly customers, and mediocre conversation. He hadn’t paid it much mind, especially not when compared with the excitement at home.

Cooking at work was, well, working. This was going to be art.

Chronology willing, Reed would have been a cook aboard an exploratory vessel. He could have seen new waters, explored new regions of the world. When he tossed pasta, he imagined the steamy restaurant kitchen was the cabin of a research ship. Perhaps this meal would be served to someone like the great Charles Darwin, returning hungry after a day of studying the species of the Galapagos; or maybe the pasta would be made from a new kind of wheat, experimentally milled into uncharted flour. But that time had passed. The world was explored. All that was left now was for a few very powerful old men to decide who owned what.

Perhaps that was why Reed had found his way out to the cottage of a dead uncle he’d barely even spoken to, let alone loved or formed a connection with. It was the edge of known space. Land and land and land, filling up the borders of the American maps that hung in most tiny classrooms. At home, a pinprick in the center of that great landmass, you could see for what felt like forever. The ground was a simple horizontal line, and just by looking at a map you could tell what was in the parts you could no longer see.

But here, in California, it was the edge of the known world. Of course, if you went long enough, you’d come right around to the known world again and hit Japan. But before that were waves, and whatever lay below them. A man named Jules Verne painted a world of submarines and buried treasure. That sounded promising to Reed, though of course it was only fiction.

This was real. This creature, from above, was new. Whatever was up there, worlds upon worlds of Galactic Rotations and Quadrant Alliances, was interesting. Far more interesting than the map Reed lived on, which was quickly being colored in by various angry people who told legions of less angry but more scared people with guns what to do.

The familiar crackling of flame helped Reed focus. He had placed his cast-iron skillet over the low heat of his stove, and butter was melting. This, he knew what to do with.

“You perform a plasma reaction in your own living space?” J’Gar called over from the bed.

“I don’t know about that. I know I use fire to cook.”

“This is extremely hazardous.”

“Not if you’re safe about it.”

Reed set the hunk of blue meat on a cutting board and sliced it into thin strips, then cut off an infinitesimal sliver to taste. Staring at the ribbon of blue on the cutting board, it looked so innocuous. Of course, it might be poisonous and kill him instantly. It might merely taste vile. But it was definitely of another world.

Reed ate it.

It was good meat, dissolving in his mouth quickly. Extremely salty — he’d have to watch out for that. The flavor was rich; it reminded him of beef. It certainly cut like beef. Reed found himself wondering what the animal it once was looked like.

Thin slivers would certainly be best, then. It was tough to get the knife through, so it would be tough to chew.

The butter in the pan was sizzling properly, so he laid the strips of meat in the skillet. They hissed with the heat, releasing a delicious and surprisingly familiar aroma. Meat was meat, it seemed, regardless of planet. He salted it. Less than usual, but a lot of the salt was going to vanish in the cooking process.

It needed a sauce. He wasn’t sure about his guest’s interest in spice, or sweetness, or saltiness. Better to stick close to natural flavors, he thought. You wouldn’t want to overwhelm someone.

A simple peppercorn sauce, perhaps. Not too bold, but not boring either. He readied the ingredients.

“What are you doing in there?” The artificial voice of the translator was now familiar.

“Cooking.”

“I am detecting increased positive olfactory indicators.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“Smells. Good.”

Reed grinned. This was his element.

He flipped the meat over. Best to leave it rare. If you were used to raw, anything well-cooked would be a shock. The peppercorn sauce would be augmented by juices left in the pan when the meat was done.

Reed bit into one of the leaves. It was a perfunctory action — he needed to get the taste, so he could make a decent dressing. Salad was the obvious choice.

He froze.

The leaf was delicate, with a light flavor that leaned more toward herbal than he would have expected. It would be like trying to make a salad of mint leaves, albeit not quite as strong. It didn’t need much, perhaps just a simple vinaigrette to draw the flavors out. Again, something light.

The meat was done. He scooped it out of the pan, setting it down neatly on one of his scratched plates. He poured some sauce over it, added a small mound of salad. It was done.

The kitchen was filled with the smells of cooking. Familiar, but completely foreign at the same time.

Reed brought the plate over to the bed, and set it down. “Go ahead.”

Lieutenant J’Gar glanced from him to the plate, then back to him. “What have you done to it?”

“Prepared it. Cooked it. Made it into art.”

“It is sustenance.”

“Just try it.”

The alien took a small bite from one of the strips of meat, perfectly darkened at the edges. To Reed’s eye, at least.

The realization hit him like a freight train. This was to be J’Gar’s first meal. Ever. What if it wasn’t good? What if they hated it? Reed was an order cook at a restaurant, not a spectacular chef. What if he had made the food poisonous somehow? What was a plasma reaction?

“Oh.”

J’Gar was staring at Reed. Their eyes, still dark and blank, seemed a little lighter.

“Oh, this is good. This is better than good. Excellent? Surpassed expectations? Your language database has a shocking variety of words for enjoyment of sustenance. Is this why? This must be why.”

Reed beamed. “Like it?”

“How did you DO this? It is still the same matter, is it not? You have simply edited it somehow? Added enjoyment? How is this possible?”

“You cook it. Put it over fire, or add different flavors that complement it. Just have to know how to pull the flavors from food.”

“I believe I am having an emotional reaction.” J’Gar took a large bite of salad, and collapsed on the bed. “Sorcerer refers to someone who uses unknowable means to produce spectacles, yes? You are a sorcerer.”

Reed laughed. “I don’t know about all that.”

J’Gar sat up again, to more easily continue eating. “Surely the processes through which you have transformed these nutrients are arcane?”

Reed shook his head. “You can pick it up pretty quick, I bet. Especially with more arms than me.”

J’Gar stared at him quizzically. “Are the elements of matter you combine with the base nutrients extraordinarily rare?”

“I got the butter and the vinegar for cheap. Depends on what’s in season, really.”

“Do I understand correctly that this is a simple process that can be done with reasonably common ingredients?”

“You do indeed.”

“EUREKA.” The flat tone of the translator’s voice didn’t change, but the volume increased immensely.

Reed leaned back, his ears ringing. “Beg your pardon?”

“Is ‘eureka’ not a common exclamation of positive emotion upon making a momentous discovery?”

“No, no, it is. Fair enough. I just … wasn’t expecting it. Is this a momentous discovery?”

“It is indeed! Imagine the possibilities! This is a groundbreaking new avenue of exploration in both research and art!”

“I suppose so,” Reed said. “You can try out all sorts of new combinations.”

“You can do multiple things with the same ingredients?”

“Oh, of course.”

J’Gar sagged back, dazed. Their skin looked a bit more lively and green. “The magnitude of this discovery has increased exponentially! Imagine the optimally-calculated flavors! Imagine the cultural cuisines!”

Reed grinned. “Well, I can write down a few recipes if you want. You know, to take with you.”

It was hard to read expressions on J’Gar’s face, but the little alien radiated confusion. “For … for your own reference?”

“No, for you to use.”

“But you must come with me! You must bring this art back to the Quadrant Alliance!”

Reed paused. An actual unexplored region. Endless things to see. The absence of a map filled with ownership below beneath his feet. The chance to explore it, to learn from it, not to claim it for his own but to become part of it. It was too much.

“I — you don’t want me. I’m an order-cook. There are thousands of better cooks than me, chefs even, people who are real artists. You want someone like that. Someone with skill, or flair, or, I don’t know, someone French. An artist.”

“Art is an application of creative skill to induce emotion and appreciation, and occasionally social commentary. Is this not correct?”

Reed sighed. “Yes, it’s correct.”

“You applied your creative skill to this. It induced emotion and appreciation in me. It made a comment on my society. It is art. I was mistaken. You have created it. You are the artist.”

“Well, I suppose—”

“I do not recall anyone else providing kindness to me when I crashed. This art is inspired not by prestige, but by kindness and honesty. That is the best kind of art. This research would not be the same without you. There might be other cooks, but there is only one you. Assuming you are not cloned.”

This was it. Reed’s eyes sparkled.

“I accept.”

Bite Back

Lauren Glover

It was three ship’s cycles after the battle that Ttrr Wanek found the time to address the strange complaint that had been submitted by the brig guards. The feathers on his shoulders were half mantled at the inconvenience as he stalked down to the brig.

The mesh of the cell containing the Artorian and the Human was the only one active. There was, as his crew complained, a discordant noise echoing through the space which seemed to vibrate directly into Wanek’s nasal cavity. He approached the cell nonetheless.

The Human was seated with its limbs folded at odd angles, in the direct center of the cell. It bared bright white teeth in dark skin when it saw him and the discordant noise stopped. Wanek seemed to recall vaguely, from some long ago educational file, that Humans sometimes bared their teeth in pleasure, but found it absurd to think that was the case at the moment.

“Ah! You must be the TttsssArrrrr!” It got up with a surprising speed and approached the security mesh. Wanek reminded himself he was a senior Ttrr and not intimidated by the smaller, featherless being no matter how fast it was. He did not take a step back.

“The equivalent title in Standard is Captain. Use that,” he commanded, unwilling to hear his title butchered.

The Human bobbed its head. “Sure, Captain. Got a name after that?”

“Wanek.” It had been known at his fledgling naming that he was going into space, so his parents chose a name that would be easy for most species to pronounce.

Once again it bobbed its head. “Captain Wanek. I’m Mari. Thanks for coming to see me. I wasn’t sure if the guards spoke Standard.” Its teeth once again appeared.

Wanek was sure the Human was lying. The guards at least knew how to say the word “stop” in Standard and had specifically told the Human that several times.

“What is it you want, Human?”

“Well. I’m pretty sure this bear guy is sick and needs some medical attention asap. I could use some too.” It gestured with one of its limbs at the torn off leg of its flight suit which was tied around another limb and stained with a brown color which might be Human blood. “But it’s not as urgent for me, I think. Unless he really is a bear and is hibernating for some reason?” The Human tilted its head quizzically. It was disconcerting to see such a familiar gesture in amongst all the mixed signals of its other mannerisms.

Wanek turned his attention on the Artorian. Their species were built of muscles, tall enough that its head would brush the ceiling if it stood up and it had thick, bristling brown fur. It was also curled in a ball in the corner and hadn’t moved at all in the time Wanek stood there. Usually, such a prisoner – the captain of a ship they had fought and won against – would be railing at his captivity and promising retribution.

After the battle, Wanek had had a bit of a conundrum. He was ordered to keep the Artorian alive and bring it back to Kyaeria for interrogation. With the damage to their ship, it was going to be several cycles more before they reached Kyaeria. Artorian metabolism was very fast, and his ship did not carry food fit for carnivores like the Artorians. (Technically, he did since this war was being fought over the Artorians’ terrifying habit of eating their preferred food – Kkavians i.e. Wanek’s species. However, he would see the creature starve to death before feeding his own crew to the Artorian!)

It was also against galactic spacefaring rules to shoot down a civilian ship in the midst of battle. But shoot down the small Human ship his crew had. He had hoped when they towed the ship in that the Human would be dead, thus solving both his accidental war crime and his food supply problem for the Artorian. Unfortunately, the Human hadn’t even seemed to be injured other than being low on oxygen.

Wanek was a pragmatic creature. So he had wiped all records of the Human ship and the Human from the battle, melted the Human’s ship into slag with the ship’s weapons, and put the Human in the same cell as the stunned Artorian captain in the hopes that both his problems would solve themselves over the next several cycles.

Instead, the Artorian huddled in a corner, faint tremors racking its frame.

The Human had no claws or talons to defend itself. Those teeth it kept baring were flat things, coming only to faint points. Wanek was pretty sure his fledgling’s beaks were sharper. Artorians had both claws and razor sharp teeth for tearing meat. It was Wanek’s turn to tilt his head in puzzlement gazing at the clearly incapacitated Artorian.

He let out a trill in annoyance and walked back to the nearest guard. “Did we do a health scan of the Atorian when he came on board?” They should have, but Wanek had been busy destroying another Artorian ship at the time.

“Yes, Ttrr. Did you want to see it?”

Wanek gave a sharp whistle of assent. The guard took a moment to pull it up on his pad, then hand it to his Ttrr. The Artorian had been brought in stunned, since it was the only safe way to handle them. It should have shaken that off in a few cycle marks. Impatiently, he flicked through the rest of the report. Radiation levels normal. None of the few known poisons in the blood. It had been healthy when it came on board.

“Summon a medic and a medic’s shield,” Wanek commanded quietly. He stalked back to the Human.

“If we examine you and the Artorian, you will cease your discordant warbling?”

“Discord – Hey! I have a perfectly nice singing voice!”

Maybe to other Humans. There was probably a file on Humans somewhere that Wanek could add the notation “capable of continuously producing noises which were exceedingly irritating to some species” if he were admitting to having a Human on his ship at all.

The Human thrust its lips out in some sort of baffling gesture. “Okay, so ‘We Will Rock You’ is a bit repetitive and like, insanely old fashioned, but I really like the rhythm!”

Wanek really had no idea what the Human was talking about. “You will cease?”

“Yeah. In return for medical treatment for me and the other guy, I’ll stop singing.” The Human cocked its head sideways. “You know, we could use some food in here too. Isn’t it against the Galactic Standards to starve your prisoners? You’ve been providing water packs, but we do need food so we don’t eat each other.”

Since that had been exactly what he intended, Wanek refused to feel guilty about not wanting to waste food on the soon-to-be-dead Human. “We are not sure of your dietary requirements,” he prevaricated. Humans were much more ubiquitous across the galaxy than they should be considering their soft bodies and lack of defenses. This far away from their own system though, Wanek had only seen a few during his lifetime.

“We’re omnivores,” it said with a quick baring of the teeth. “Fruits, grains, meat, vegetables, insects. You name it, we eat it.”

“I shall see what we have.” If the Artorian was sick then he was going to have to deal with this Human.

The medic arrived. They wore a heavy, but necessary energy shield around their waist. It would allow them to reach through and touch their patients, but any attempt by the Artorian and Human to touch them would be blocked.

“Retreat to the opposite corner!” Medic Lantta demanded of the Human. There was a fine tremble to his feathers which indicated he was scared, but Wanek doubted the Human would notice. It was the Artorian that Lantta was scared of anyway.

“You should look at them first,” suggested the Human, pointing to the Artorian. Lantta looked at his Ttrr, and Wanek whistled his agreement.

For all his fear, Lantta was professional and thorough in his examination. Wanek was pretty sure he performed his scans twice just to be sure before backing away to make some notes. When Lantta finished, he looked at the Human for a long moment. His feathers were still quivering in fear, so much so that the Human might even notice soon. He started backing out of the cell.

“You had better check the Human too,” reminded Wanek. Lantta’s trembling increased, but he did as he was told. Scans and samples taken, the medic hurried out of the cell and down the hallway. Wanek reactivated the mesh before following.

“Report, medic!”

“The Artorian is dying, Ttrr. Its blood is poisoned.”

“How?” asked Wanek. “Are Humans poisonous?” He didn’t remember that from any educational files.

Lantta trilled a negative. “The Artorian didn’t pick up the poison from biting the Human. If I had known of this cycles ago when it happened, maybe we could have prevented it, but as it is…” He trailed off. “I need to go get supplies, Ttrr. I will be back soon.”

Lantta hurried off. Wanek was baffled so he borrowed the guard’s pad again to look up Humans on the Infosys. They were neither venomous nor poisonous for that matter. There were several foods they shared in common, so Wanek reluctantly ordered a guard to get some for the Human. There was nothing in the file indicating how a Human could be killing the Artorian. He was relieved when Lantta returned.

Lantta almost ignored the Human when it returned to the cell, but his feathers ruffled in determination before settling. It seemed he had found his courage when he went to get supplies. Lantta tossed a water pack and a medical patch to the Human. “Clean your wound, then cover it with the patch and stay in that corner!”

Lantta turned to the Artorian, though never quite turned his back on the Human. He injected what was probably a sedative. Then he produced a knife and proceeded to shave off the hair on one of the Artorian’s limbs. The skin was black and sickly under it. Lantta gestured him closer, after a quick check that the Human was staying still. There was a small, half crescent of marks puncturing the skin, with a gray pus oozing out of them. Kkavians did not have a good sense of smell, but this close even Wanek could smell the decay.

“What did you do?” he asked the Human, though he was eyeing it warily, knowing how fast it could move when it wished.

“It defended itself,” said Lantta.

“Well, yeah,” said the Human. “When it bit me, I bit back. What else was I supposed to do? And it’s ‘she’ by the way.”

Wanek turned to Lantta for an explanation. “I will have to search the Infosys for proof, but I believe that Human mouths are much … dirtier than most sentient species. Their teeth aren’t sharp like our beaks or the Artorian’s incisors. They barely pierced the Artorian’s skin, but all it needed was broken skin and one deadly bacteria to get through. My scans show there were several of those deadly bacteria to choose from. We will need to take the Artorian for surgery. If I remove the limb, it might survive. Assuming you want it to, Ttrr.”

Wanek trilled that he did. Medic Lantta whistled for the guards and the extra medics he had brought. One kept an eye on the Human while the rest loaded the Artorian on a hoverpad. They headed out. The final guard on the Human activated the mesh as she left.

Wanek stayed back. He did not want this Human on his ship any longer. “I will give you one of our shuttles, food and as many credits as you can carry if you will leave now and not mention this incident to anyone ever again.”

It was the Human’s turn to study him. “Throw in a packet of these patches and one of your med scanners, and you have a deal.”

Kkavian medicine was no doubt very advanced compared to the Human’s, but that was someone else’s problem. “Deal.”

The Human bobbed its head. “It’s been a pleasure then, Captain.” It bared its teeth at him.

Wanek suppressed his quivering until he was out of sight.