So, this fic is a different take on the Taxxon rebellion on Earth. Could there have been more motivation for the Taxxon to turn on their Yeerk masters? That kind of dealio. This will probably drift off a bit from the main series, especially near the events in Book 53. Also, some parts may not be politically correct in terms of dialogue.
That aside, please read and enjoy. Alert me if you spot any leftover typos.
Better get back to reading The Awakening now for English...
XxXxX
Chapter One
Hi, my name is Amara Calnicky. Rolls off the tongue, does it not?
If I managed to survive and get this manuscript published, awesome. If not, at least someone stumbled over this text and decided to take time out of their day to skim over the lines a bit. Either way, at least the only memories of me won't consist of an infested family, a birth certificate, and an obituary that probably doesn't even state the real cause of my death. Saying I was eaten by cannibalistic alien worms or shot down with laser beams would only pass in the Weekly World News.
Anyway, if someone actually is reading this, they might not notice that encircling their eyes peering down at these words are microscopic pests, called follicle mites, feasting on the sebaceous glands located around the eyelashes. One of the little buggers might even be screwing its offspring silly, producing more parasites to dig their needle-like mouths into the reader's flesh just as that person starts to turn a shade of green right now.
Not to be too obvious, but the world is swarming with parasites, great and small, ready to feast upon humans and other prey. Share hats or toilet seats with someone and you might find lice cultivating among your top or bottom hairs, gorging themselves on your blood. Get too close to your kitty's litter box and you'll find Toxoplasma taking up house in your brain, possibly giving your personality a remodeling job. Take a leak in a river in the Amazon and you might want to worry about that pesky, spiny candiru swimming up your...
I think I made my point.
As I said, parasites are everywhere. In the forests, in water, in your urethra. Who's to say there aren't any in outer space?
Well, Yeerks are one of them. They're parasitic worms that burrow through a host's ear and seize control of body and mind, like trematodes do to snails. Don't worry. They don't eat your left eye and lay eggs in your socket. Oh, no, Mother Nature got a little more creative with these creepy crawlers. They seize power over your limbs and mouth and eyes, flick through your memories with the ease of an Internet hacker, while you wander aimlessly in the corners of your mind, observing the Yeerk's work.
To think I actually used to like movies like Dreamcatcher and The Exorcist.
They use an organization called the Sharing, which presents itself as a boy/girl scout kind of thing for people of all ages, sexes, religious backgrounds, races, etc. A help clinic to those in need. Do people tease you because you're attracted to the girls in your gym class and call you "carpet muncher"? Sign up! Have trouble making friends and living up to your parents' expectations? Here's a pen! Want to make a difference in your community? Join us!
After joining this, for lack of a better word, cult, they give you a few weeks to decide to become a full member or not. Choose no and, well, too bad, nice knowing ya. Choose yes and have your head dunked into a slate-gray, sludgy pool, with a Yeerk squirming into your ear canal. At least now you won't have to waste money on Q-tips in your house.
Still, it can get depressing.
Which was the exact mood to coincide with tonight's proceedings and scenery. Grassy, rolling hills dotted with cracked, eroded stones with names and dates slowly fading. A few scraggly, leaf-bare oaks and maples, rattling their branches in the chill autumn air. With clouds blanketing the sky above and concealing the moon, shadows constantly spasmed in the flickering beam of my flashlight.
A midnight stroll in the county graveyard, I mumbled. I feel a little like Buffy. Maybe we should've brought a stake, huh, Ira?
Ira 737, my Yeerk, groaned at my mild superstition. She wasn't the talkative type, even to her own host except for the occasional shut up and stupid human. The only condolence was that she mostly let me chatter on, providing a good, if uninterested, audience for my dwindling sanity. She kept her attention on our surroundings, eyes twitching, turning my head to pick up any stray noises.
Over the past few days, the local news and police department had received reports of vandalism in the graveyard. Some sick bastards were getting their jollies from digging up graves, smashing apart coffins and removing the corpses. So far, none of the bodies had been located, except for the occasional scrap of clothing or strands of hair or a few fingers in one case.
Why did the Yeerks even give a shit about a case of goons having some freaky frat fun? Because apparently the evidence found thanks to perpetrator's carelessness didn't add up. To the humans, anyway.
The broken coffins had what appeared to be the bite marks of a shark on them, as well as sections that had been clamped and crushed in a vise-like device. If the mourners had left any valuables with the cadaver, the vandals hadn't touched them. Just the corpse. Speaking of which, on the confiscated fingers, the cops had found traces of saliva belonging to an animal not on file. If the Yeerks hadn't fudged the evidence and kept the story focused on "vandals", the police would've by now probably found their very first aliens: Taxxons.
It made sense, in a way. The place was practically a buffet to any eternally starving alien, with its endless selection of dead humans buried under some feet of soft, loose soil and locked in breakable wooden containers. Thanks to embalming fluid and modern burial conditions, it can take a couple decades for a body to fully decompose. If the Taxxon isn't picky—and no one has any evidence to the contrary—he'll be in Heaven (or the place closest to it, anyway).
But for God's sake, don't even Taxxons have any kind of conscious? Have respect for the dead? Considering the fact that they eat their wounded, that was a dumb question, but I couldn't help feeling my stomach rise in disgust.
The Yeerks didn't care either way what happened to humans after death, since their own forms disintegrated when their lives expired. No, they worried that a morning jogger or grounds keeper would spot the Taxxon at work, which would mean a lot of explaining to do. An alien invasion can't be kept secret if one of the buggers is gorging himself on rotting Homo sapien.
The mere scuff of my shoes against the pavement of the concrete path crisscrossing throughout the cemetery seemed incredibly loud in the silence. While one hand held the flashlight, the other carried a lump of bloody, chopped beef taken straight out of my fridge. Hopefully the Taxxon would be dawn by the lure, since it wasn't exactly fun holding a wad of cold and slick meat.
Ira stopped near the edge of the road, pulled my lips back, swung my mandible to the side, and screeched a piercing, sharp cry that hurt my own ears. After being a Controller for a year, I'd learned enough dialects like Galard and Hork-Bajir from Ira to make my French teacher proud. Even without a serpentine tongue or tube like maw, Ira managed to shriek the basic Taxxon message of Food! I found food!
Calm quietude answered.
Ira repeated the phrase. Nothing.
Hmm, maybe he just doesn't like my voice. Not reaching the right octave or something, I said. That's what the drama director said last year when I tried out for Grease. Or maybe our friend isn't out tonight. Too cold. I mean, even with this damn hoodie, I'm freezing. You could treat your host—
Shut up, human. He's here. He was here six nights in a row, so he doesn't care about the temperature or search parties, Ira said. Disappointing, really. He has a bit of celebrity status with this stunt of his. He's pestering the sub-visser for sure.
I decided to bite my tongue (mentally, of course) and keep quiet, despite the sense of alarm rising in me. Some fervent instinct insisted that we hasten my bony butt out of this place. Something really was off. Taxxons were ravenous, merciless, even borderline moonbat crazy, but they weren't stupid. He should have known his nightly feasting would be noticeable. So, why hadn't he burrowed his way from the nearby woods and gorged himself content privately? Or, if seclusion wasn't the goal, why hadn't he chosen a fresher, fleshier banquet at a local bar or restaurant closed for the evening?
As intelligent as the worms were, they usually weren't unpredictable. What could this bugger be thinking? Unless he wanted to be tracked and caught, which would be his execution in short time at the mouths of his own brethren. Unless...
You over think things, Ira mumbled. Very distracting.
Good old human instincts and paranoia, I said.
Just a worm, Amara, Ira said.
Says a worm that is slowly colonizing the planet through quiet imperialism, I said.
The Yeerk mulled that over, ready to toss more comments, but the toe of my shoe tapped against a stiff, bristly sphere that rolled forward at the touch. I wanted so badly to control my eyelids, to close them against the sight that would surely follow. That skull had a tongue in it and could sing once.
Not bothering to check where I'd pulled that quote from, Ira lowered the flashlight, following the object's revolving and revolting progress. Whew. Not a decapitated head, much to my relief. Instead, a gray and black, curled up raccoon carcass with a couple bites taken out of it. Fresh carrion, too, from looking at the swath of red it left in its wake.
Huh, maybe he is picky, I said, disbelieving. A Taxxon abandoning his meal? What the hell?
Ira searched the surrounding area for the telltale signs of our friend. Dew laden grass and damp earth had easily kept track of our steps from the concrete path. The needle-legs of a Taxxon should've left clear pit holes but nothing besides a couple tombstones and stretches of bare earth could be seen within five feet of us.
Wonderful. Our pal is a ghost, I said. Maybe he phased through a tree and is laughing his toothy maw at our expense. I groaned. Fuck, it's cold. Can we go? He left. Had to.
Or not. A sticky, wet whip wrapped itself around the wrist carrying the bait. Ira yelped and spun on my heel, staring at the red tongue that had penetrated though the soil of the graves, possibly two-and-a-half feet in length.
Now, despite constant volunteer activities at the Sharing, Ira had kept my wiry butt in shape though daily jogs in my neighborhood and joining my school's swim team (possibly a connection to her own liquid environment). I wasn't exactly a champ, but Ira liked to keep her hosts ready for a possible quarrel.
And I couldn't win a tug-of-war match with a tongue.
Kinda pitiful.
The Taxxon's appendage yanked us off my feet, pulling us toward it at an astonishing speed, and bashed my shoulder against the grave marking. Ira gasped as the tongue uncoiled and disappeared, the token of meat with it.
Grimacing, Ira reached for the Dracon beam she'd tied to the belt loop of my jeans. Grasping the weapon, my peripheral vision caught the movement of the Taxxon emerging from the earth like one of those beasts from Tremors. He shook a cascade of dirt from his reeking form, pelting us with flying clods. He lapped at the rim of his mouth, cocking two of the four faceted, gleaming eyes at us.
Grinding my teeth, Ira raised the Dracon beam and aimed it at his bulbous head. "I think I've had enough fun playing Hide-and-Peek," she said.
Seek, I muttered.
Quiet, she snapped. She rubbed my now throbbing shoulder. "Any harder and you might have broken my host's clavicle."
The Taxxon simply regarded us with his expressionless gaze. I didn't like it.
Ira snorted. "Don't hear an apology, but can't expect one from a Taxxon. Are you empty or infested? What's your rank, if you have one besides that smell?"
The Taxxon tapped his head and mumbled a few shrill syllables. Free. No rank. Merely a technician, he added, twisting some pincers in emphasis. Taxxons spoke through not only the pitch and pattern of their voices, but gestures as well if that wasn't clear.
"What was the point of this?" Ira asked, indicating the grave diggings with a wave of my hand at the cemetery. "I had a Taxxon host before and he usually preferred fresh meat to corpses. Not much appeal in the smell for one."
Instead of answering, the Taxxon scrambled further out of his hole and reached forward with a dozen crustacean arms. Ira tread backwards, only to catch my heel on the very rodent that had revealed his spot. She pulled the trigger of the Dracon beam, but the Taxxon, nimble for its number of limbs, ducked to the side. The red lance of light and energy burned a patch of flesh on his back. Nothing mortal.
Before Ira could regain her footing, a pincer clamped down on my gun-slinging arm, crushing it until I could practically feel my ulna and radius ready to snap, and Ira dropped the Dracon beam. Another grabbed my other arm at the wrist and she deposited the flashlight as well. It clattered against the gravestone and bounced down the hilly plain of grass.
More and more arms grasped my legs, abdomen, and hips, pressing my back against his chest? belly? stomach? and he tentatively wrapped his fang-bedazzled mouth over the right side of my face. Ira and I squirmed and flailed in equal measure, ignoring the pressure of his claws that could have cracked and pulverized every bone in my body, but to no avail. Did he want to savor animated meal? Something that could struggle while he nibbled on muscle and ripped apart tendons?
"What in the Kandrona's light are you doing? Release me or the sub-visser will have you tossed into a vat of sulfuric acid! Or burn your intestines in—ah!" Ira's threats melted into a panic stricken scream. I could practically feel the slug slithering across my cerebrum.
The Taxxon's prehensile tongue flitted against the shell of my ear, over the curve of my cheek, and returned to the back of its throat with a loud slurp. Metallic, malodorous waves of the mixed smells of blood and decayed meat breezed past my nose. I choked back bile and closed watering eyes. What would be left of me? The hood of my sweatshirt? The zipper of my jeans? My shoelaces?
When I though my skull would implode from the increasing pressure of the Taxxon's mouth closing over my head, he started...sucking? The teeth sank deeper into my hair and brow and cheek and neck as he tilted his head from side-to-side. I didn't have any idea what he wanted to accomplish, but Ira apparently did, gyrating in the Taxxon's grasp and trying to bite at the slimy lip encircling my face.
"I'll kill you! Destroy you! Let me go! Let me go!" she snapped, spittle flecking my lower lip. "I'll kill you, I'll kill you, I'll kill..." Her words became slightly repetitive.
And then... Pain ricocheted in my cranium as the Taxxon sped up his efforts, flicking his tongue at my ear's pinna, lapping at the fleshy dish. My mind flickered and slowly panned out, filtering images at a ridiculously laggard pace. Loosening. More pain. Slimy, wet. Screams and wails. Not mine. Maybe a bit. Eyes rolling, jaw trembling. Emptiness.
My knees and forearms smashed against the grassy turf. I gritted my molars against each other and arched my back up, my limbs clumsily following. My sight continued to waver and juggle objects against one another. Oh God. I crouched back down and vomited, retching more at the scent of my own stomach acids splashing back at me. Coughing, I swiped a hand over my mouth and turned my head.
Of my own volition.
My captor, a mere gray grub, dangled at the tip of the Taxxon's tongue, writhing in the open air and probably drenched with terror. I watched horrified, disgusted, smugly as the Taxxon pulled the Yeerk past his ever-hungry jaws and into one of several stomachs.
Jittery, I crawled away, reaching for the Dracon beam. This time the bloated centipede paid me no heed. Given the choice, I would have collapsed then and there, but a kick of adrenaline and selfish survival instincts forced me to my feet and I kept the weapon firmly placed on the Taxxon. He stared at me, but blankly this time, no hidden intent, as if to ask, What now?
"How should I know? You're the one who set this all up. Whatever this is," I said, answering the unasked question. I thumbed at the laser's setting. "Just so you know, I have Ebola. And tuberculosis. And MRSA. And maybe even avian flu. I'm a walking health hazard, so you'll at least get indigestion."
The Taxxon cocked his head to the side. Probably wondering how much more BS I could spew in five minutes.
I sized him up, wondering whether he'd snatch me again and try to devour me. He was actually kind of puny for a Taxxon, now that I took the time to notice it. Eight feet long, not the usual ten footer. Still too large to wrap your arms around, not that the usual sane person would. Still able to overpower your average sixteen-year-old smart ass. "What do you want? A thank you doesn't sound like the sort of thing you guys go for."
The Taxxon clicked his pincers and hissed. I stared, clueless. He repeated the movements and noise, and the subconscious part of my mind that had picked up on conversations between Ira and other Yeerks translated for my clueless conscious half. Can you understand me? Know what I say?
"Yes," I said. "Mostly." Either way, the current situation told me I had better know or else. "What would have happened if I hadn't known?"
He licked his teeth. Eat you. I would eat you and wait for another host to appear until I found one that understood my tongue.
"If I'd disappeared, an entire Yeerk force would've searched for you then," I said.
He grinned. Or at least that's how I perceived it. Very glad you know then.
"Yep, well, if you ever need someone for a game of I Spy or Charades, I'm up for it," I said. "Again, thanks." I started inching away from the Taxxon, back toward the pavement path Ira had taken down here. "Hope your crypt feasting goes well. Write a recipe book. Back Fat Cracklin', Ginger Kid Snaps, Cajun Man Cuisine, all the possibilities."
I don't care for conversation, the Taxxon shrieked. I need a bilingual host for a... He growled and scratched the ground with his lobster-like legs in thought. Discussion between allies. Of a sort.
"Sounds wonderful, Tax—what's your name?" I asked. "You guys don't have individual names. Forgot. Worm, then. Worm, what do you need?"
The Taxxon, or Worm, since he didn't seem offended by the title, narrowed his eyes. The Yeerks want to eliminate my species.
"Oh," I said, my foot touching the smooth, cracked surface of the road.
Worm started to say something else, but I squeezed the trigger of the Dracon beam, blasting a good section of dirt and plant life into scattered atoms before the Taxxon. "Ssshhrriiyaa!" He skittered backwards, waving his dozens of arms at the flying debris.
Me? I ran like hell for home.