"And now, stepping out of the yellow Hummer is Marco, bestselling author of The Gorilla Speaks!" The announcer didn't need to say more than the name. Marco, one of the six youths who helped save the world from the Yeerk invasion. Marco the hero, Marco the star. Marco the Animorph.
A gorilla strode out onto the boulevard, beating his chest to a storm of applause. There must have been thousands of people there; not to see the new film Animorph, for not a tenth part of the crowd could even fit into the cinema; not to see any of the other stars, the famous director, not to see the Andalite ambassador or the rumoured world-beating special effects. They were there simply for him, Marco, one of the original six.
He demorphed from his trademark body and gave the crowd a series of exaggerated bows and roguish winks, to ever greater cheers. Marco grinned wildly, loving every minute, and walked slowly up the spotless red carpet.
Another vehicle slid effortlessly through the air, stopping silently behind the canary-yellow SUV. Its hull was a pale tan in colour, mottled with an odd red-and-brown camouflage pattern. It hovered about half a metre off the ground, and had the dark blue logo of the Andalite Combined Fleet painted on its side. The shredder turret had been left off in an attempt at diplomacy, but the vehicle's sleek, deadly lines and armour plate belied the diplomatic markings across its prow. Only bolting on heavy weaponry and daubing kill markings on the side could make the hovering APC seem any more like an engine of war.
The crowd weren't sure whether to be fascinated or scared by such an overtly military presence at a film premiere. Either way, they crowded around the newcomer, the Hummer ignored as it drove away into the evening.
The announcer rallied gamely, talking into the microphone as fast as she could. "We have been told that a member of the Andalite military will be with us today, on leave from the fighting on Leera… who is this mystery warrior? Is it Prince Aximili, another of the original six? War-Prince Asculan, the mastermind of the Anati victory? Stepping out of the tan APC is…" called the commentator, squinting as a blue figure stepped almost daintily from the vehicle's forward hatch,
"…War-Prince Alloran-Semitur-Corrass."
Perfect silence fell as the tall, scarred Andalite walked imperiously up the red carpet. A pair of warriors with holstered shredders dismounted from the APC and flanked the war-prince, their hands on their weapons and their eyes everywhere. The crowd wasn't sure how to deal with Andalites. They'd all seen a few, trotting happily through public gardens or going wild over snack food, but Andalite warriors were a different breed. Aloof, hostile, even threatening.
Especially Alloran-Semitur-Corrass.
Alloran could feel the stares of the massed humans without even needing his stalk eyes to look around. He didn't care. He hadn't asked to be here, he hadn't wanted to have to put on a show for the benefit of Andalite-human relations.
And he didn't care dung about the opinions of a bunch of cretinous humans, imbeciles who associated his body as an old enemy, as if he was somehow responsible for what Esplin nine-four-double-six had done to their world. He was the face of the enemy now. It was so much easier for the humans to pin all their fear and hatred on him, an Andalite. One of the creatures that had almost turned their world back into stardust to stop the Yeerks. A faceless, aloof enemy.
Much easier to hate than a human face, or that of a dumb Hork-Bajir. Fearsome in appearance though they were, the bladed primitives had earned a special spot in the collective human heart for their sacrifices in the final battle with the Yeerks.
As though the numberless damned Hork-Bajir that died in the rubble of the Pool were worth a single Andalite life.
Alloran didn't care for human sentiment. He had always been a dark, moody creature, shunning companionship. Decades of war and death and half a lifetime with a Yeerk in his head had hardened him still further. The death of Jahar in a Yeerk raid, scant weeks before he could visit their station as a free Andalite, had turned his hearts to stone and his mind to ice.
Worthless humans, he thought. They're fickle and stupid, ruled by their emotions and their silly little preconceptions about the world. If they didn't make halfway decent soldiers and if that showman Jake the Animorph hadn't made that little propaganda shot for the Electorate we should have blown their planet to dust anyway. Asculan had the right idea all along.
The human film was as tedious as he was expecting; an irritating mishmash of random emotional moments and unrealistically choreographed battle scenes. Historical accuracy and indeed any sense of realism were overwhelmed by the faux-morality drivel and "political correctness" that seems to pervade every human film. Alloran was glad when the monotonous 2D was finally over. Ignoring the self-congratulatory babble of the human actors, he stalked out into the moonlight followed by his guards.
-(Shall I call a shuttle?)- asked one of them.
-(It's a quiet night,)- murmured Alloran, though the cacophony of music and human chatter behind him was anything but quiet. -(We'll walk back to the Consulate.)-
They hadn't walked more than half a kilometre through the overlit human streets when Attamil, the younger of the two guards, tripped on something and stumbled with a curse. Alloran and Seerian helped the young warrior to his feet, and then stared as they saw the blood gushing from his gashed leg.
-(What the… what happened?)- asked Attamil, dazed. -(Ahh… my leg… what did I land on?)-
Alloran saw the telltale glint of glass in the moonlight, in the expanding pool of turquoise blood from the warrior's leg. They were still a long way from the Consulate, and they didn't have any medical kit. Attamil was losing blood fast; he would be unconscious before a ship could get down to help them, perhaps even dead.
-(Morph, Attamil.)-
-(Ugh…)-
-(Morph!)-
-(Yes, War-Prince.)-
-(Seerian, get him into that alley. If any humans see him morphing they're liable to think we're monsters, whether we saved their miserable species or not,)- said Alloran irritably, as Attamil's body started to ripple and twitch. -(I'll keep watch while you guard him.)-
Alloran scanned the street idly with his stalk eyes. His ears pricked up at the sound of a heavy, repetitive grunting. Where had he heard that sound before?
The harsh clatter of automatic gunfire shattered the night silence even as Alloran remembered the sound of Hork-Bajir breathing. He wheeled and cantered into the alley, now lit by the muzzle flare of a crude human weapon. Seerian's body crumpled to the ground with a series of messy holes punched into his chest. Attamil was still writhing on the ground, an amorphous blob of matter.
With practiced ease Alloran flicked the shredder from his warrior's dying grasp with his tail blade and snatched it out of the air. He fired into the alley towards where the gunfire had come from, spraying whatever scum dared murder Andalites with lancing beams of energy. No answering fire came back.
-(Consulate, this is Alloran. I am under attack by unknown forces. At least one of my bodyguards is dead. Requesting immediate aid,)- he called into his subcutaneous transceiver.
-(War-prince Alloran, this is Captain Echal of the Dome ship Dominance. An emergency shuttle to your coordinates is being prepared, clearing with human air control now, )- replied a competent Andalite voice a comfortingly short time later. And then, -(War-prince! We're detecting a group of armed humans and Hork-Bajir moving to encircle your position! Get into the open now!)-
Alloran looked down at Attamil's halfway-morphed body, and saw that he was already dead. Cursing, he galloped towards the open street, hooves clattering on the rough human surfacing, but it was too late.
A coil of smart-wire whipped around his legs, sending him tumbling painfully to the floor, his shredder clattering away. Hork-Bajir and humans gathered around him. At least eight of them, perhaps more hiding in cover.
"Hey, Andalite, what gets harder to catch the faster you run?" drawled a cold, hard human voice. "Your breath…"
"Be silent, Joseph," said a Hork-Bajir in deep, mellow tones. "We are not murdering barbarians like him."
-(Seer, eh?)- asked Alloran, detecting the strangeness in the Hork-Bajir's voice. -(What's your name?)-
"Seerow Hamee, Andalite," said the primitive, anger showing through his calmly modulated voice. "Son of Toby, grandson of Dak, great-grandson of Seerow, great-great-grandson of -"
-(Dak Hamee,)- said Alloran easily, pulling himself to his hooves. -(Well, well, well. Yet another generation of Dak's spawn leading his people to their deaths. I didn't like your namesake and I didn't like your ancestors, Seer. And I don't think I like you.)-
The human Joseph laughed raucously.
-(You killed two of my men back there. Explain yourself,)- Alloran continued, a dangerous glint in his almond-shaped eyes, -(and your bodies may be found.)-
Now it was the Hork-Bajir's turn to laugh. "You think you are in a position to threaten, Andalite? You are surrounded by my warriors. I will make you pay for what you did to my people, Andalite." He looked into Alloran's eyes, voice choked with hatred. "For what you did to my world."
-(Please,)- snarled Alloran. -(You think a few primitive reptiles and stupid humans are going to stop me? I've killed hundreds of your kind, Hork-Bajir. I've killed more of your people than there are leaves on a Stoola tree. I've fought the Yeerks for more than forty years. Don't make me laugh at your ridiculous attempt at an assassination. You should have killed me back then, rather than gloating over me, because now you're going to die.)-
He'd cut his bonds and stunned two humans with a quick double torf before Seerow even had a chance to move. Alloran moved with the fluid grace of an Andalite warrior who'd lived and breathed war all his life. He didn't even need to morph to stop these idiots. A Hork-Bajir tumbled to the ground unconscious, another dropped howling with blood spurting from the stumps of arms. Seerow raised his gun.
Too slow!
Alloran scythed the gun apart in Seerow's hands. Bits of metal clattered around the alley. Seerow seemed ready to cry as Alloran retrieved his shredder and stunned the seer's remaining associates.
Alloran had his tail blade at Seerow's throat before he knew it. Smiling gently at the terrified Hork-Bajir, the war-prince patted him on the head, his tone friendly. -(Next time, Seer. Next time bring an army.)-
"You failed when you released that virus, Alloran," said Seerow quietly. "You failed your people, and you failed mine, and you failed the galaxy. You failed your government, and you failed Jahar -"
Eight inches of tail blade stabbed into his chest and punctured both his hearts. Seerow coughed blood as Alloran's eyes narrowed.
-(I don't like to be reminded of the past, vermin,)- he spat, and turned to leave.
"Maybe not," hissed Seerow, son of Toby, with his dying breath. "But you'll never escape it."