PART TWO OF FOUR

I felt my eyes narrow.

(You're going to kill me,) I said. It was somewhere between question and fact.

(Do it now, Jennor. Make it easy on both of us.)

(You're threatening the life of your aristh.)

(Jennor, please just go. This is what you want. This is what I need to do. This is better. Cleaner.)

(You're breaking the law.)

He cocked his weapon. I heard the momentary surge of energy that indicated the gun was going to fire.

I seized the weapon suddenly in my strong hand and pulled it from his. It misfired, blowing a large, molten hole up through the hull of the ship. I tried to gain control of the weapon. It slipped from my hands. It clattered on the ground. It slid out of the hatch. Trainer's eyes blazed. His tail struck quickly and often. He aimed at my holster. I could not retrieve my Shredder.

I could not fight as a Hork-Bajir. Every move I made was reverse-engineered from the studies of Hork-Bajir combat I had completed years ago. How would a Hork-Bajir warrior handle an Andalite similar in height and weight to Trainer? They'd try to cut down his legs. How could I do this? Violence was not instinctual to the Hork-Bajir. He smelled unharvested trees. He was hungry. He was afraid. He was not angry.

I kicked Trainer in the leg. I heard a snap. He cried out in frustration. His leg buckled. He stumbled. He struck at my head with his tail. I blocked with a wrist blade.

I was defending myself. I was not winning. I took small steps back all the time. Cuts opened all over my body. Little bits of flesh and blade littered the ground. Greasy blood slipped down my body in curling rivulets. I felt my heels slip out of the ship.

(You broke my heart, Jennor, and I smothered yours.) His tail blade was at my throat. He turned the flat side against my carotid. I felt a small push, pressure on my wind pipe. Without the use of my tail, I lost my balance.

He underestimated the reach of my arms.

A surge of fire, unprecedented, unexpected. Hate, trapped for so long, blazed up like a tsunami. I loathed those dark, amused eyes. The smug posture, crossed arms, lazy tail. The self-entitlement. The tempered guilt, unrelenting need. I was not enough like this. I was disposable like this. I had gone from frustrating puzzle to trash. He ruined me, and now he would kill me.

No.

My arm reached forward. His eyes widened. He tried to retreat inside the ship. His hooves could find no traction on the brittle, blood-soaked grass. I felt his cool, vulnerable skin on my hand. Grabbing his neck was no different than grabbing the branch of some tree. My fingers wrapped around the pulsing flesh. I squeezed. I wanted his neck to pop open like a ripe insect. Squirt sideways. Leak his venomous blood all over his stolen ship. But I was slipping. I dug my claws into the back of his neck from instinct. His eyes were open wide. Terrified. Unready. I began to fall.

I did not see what happened. I could feel it. My claws ripped uncleanly through the skin on his neck, leaving four horizontal openings like bloody gills. Desperately, I wrapped my hand around his jugular like a handle.

It popped out of his body with a crunch. Blood poured from the wound like rain. I felt it hit my eye when I careened out of the ship. I was still holding it when I hit the first branch.

There was nothing else after that.

I opened my eyes hours later. My body had entered some sort of trauma-induced hibernation. It was night now in the narrow sky above the valley. The stars were white, blue, and orange. Some error in fortune allowed me to see Andal. Small. Light from hundreds of years ago. A time I did not know.

I breathed in. Three ribs had burst through my side and into my foamy lung. I tried to move my toes. Nothing. Tail. Nothing. Arms. Nothing. Tongue. Yes. I could move my tongue.

I attempted to lean my head forward to survey the damage. I could not lift it very far. I then realized one of my eyes was blind. The other was clouded in deep green blood. It had been difficult to realize from the limited supply of light.

I was going to die.

It was unlike the last time. I felt no pleasure. I felt no comfort. I felt nothing. I hadn't been paralyzed the last time. Perhaps that was the difference. Perhaps it was something else. I did not know. I only knew my death was imminent. I would die in Hork-Bajir form. I would die as an Andalite should.

I began the Andalite death ritual. (I am the servant of the People,) I began, replaying the events that got me to this position. (I am the servant of my prince,) I continued. I wondered if I could say the words effectively without meaning them.

Hello, a far-away voice said. My time was short. The after-life was near. The greeter was audible.

(I am the servant of honor.)

(Is anyone there? Hello?)

Yes. Imagination alone was no longer culpable. He was coming for me. I felt the urge to flee. I quieted it. My death had come with honor. I would be a fool to refuse it.

(My life is not my own, when the People have need of it. My life is given for the People...) I sighed, unwilling to continue.

(I can hear you, please finish it. I have triangulated your position, but the life-form scanner is...oh, there you are.)

Life-form scanner?

I heard leaves crunching in the slanted ground. I turned my gaze in that direction. I could not move my head. The Hork-Bajir eyes worked poorly at night. Shadows and apparitions rolled through the darkness. A figure emerged. He crunched forward slowly, turned on a blinding searchlight that obscured his form. I blinked away the blindness. He turned it off. Two dirty, unkempt, flaking hooves stood directly in front of my eyes.

(You know, I haven't seen a Hork-Bajir in this valley in seventeen years. And I haven't heard real thought-speech in almost three decades. Either I'm dreaming or I'm dead. I wouldn't be particularly upset about either.)

He stood scanning me for a while. I stayed silent. What Andalite had decided to stay on the Hork-Bajir homeworld? Who would do such an abhorrent thing?

(You'll be in pulmonary arrest in less than ten minutes. I brought some tools with me, but I have to go get them, so stay here.)

(I assure you that I am going no where,) I replied.

This stopped him. He gazed down at me, curious, surprised.

(You really are real, aren't you?)

He left a little later. He returned soon with a small cube. An Escafil Device. It had been very long since I had seen one. This one seemed different.

(I am currently in morph. I have passed the two-hour limit. You know that I cannot reuse it,) I said.

(Maybe. Maybe not. It's an improved version. I haven't had an opportunity to test it. It will either work, it won't, or it will kill you.)

(It seems I have little choice,) I responded.

(I'll do it. Here,) he said, squatting down. He held the cube low, lifting my Hork-Bajir hand against it. It glowed bright for a moment. I did not feel the pleasurable spark like last time.

(Well, it didn't kill you. Go ahead and try to demorph,) he said.

I obeyed.

It should have been impossible. I should have been dead. I demorphed. I felt my ribs crawl back into my body. My spine realigned itself, lengthened, and bent in a 90-degree angle. My tail narrowed, blade elongated. Stalk eyes snaked from my head. My hands weakened. Spines everywhere disintegrated into supple, mammalian skin. Very soon, I was Andalite again.

I struggled to my hooves. I turned to the man. My vision was familiar, but it was still too dark to see him. He was Andalite. Elderly. Emaciated. Breathing shallow.

(You really are real,) he repeated. He stood very still. (What is your name, girl?)

I considered this for a moment.

Trainer was out of my life for good. I had killed him. I scanned the sky above me with my sensitive stalk eyes. No trace of his ship. This Andalite hadn't mentioned one yet. Perhaps it had been on autopilot, set to depart as soon as I disembarked. He was dead, aboard it, flying unchecked to his next destination.

I was alone.

I was without supervision.

I could tell him whatever version of the truth I wanted, without the threat of contradiction or even punishment.

(My name is Warrior Jennor-Elacable-Barees,) I said. It was not a lie. I had been offered a promotion, in a different form, to a different name. I was a Warrior. I felt like one. I had earned it. I wanted to be known as one.

(Female warriors? How desperate our princes have become,) he scoffed. I was not insulted.

(I am in need of a Prince, sir. Can you state your name and designation?) I asked, brushing dirt off my hand in a veiled attempt to warm them. He did not respond right away. I looked up at him.

(I will invite you to my scoop,) he said, (and I will not ask you what caused your compatriot to dump you out of a ship from a thousand feet up.)

We walked for hours. The sun finally cracked into the valley six hours later. It was then that I got a good look at my savior. He was old—very old—older than Father, even. Wisps of tan fur lined his flanks. Other than that, he was bald. Dirt and scum clogged every crack and pore of his sagging skin. It seemed he hadn't bathed in decades. Green grass stains reached up to the middle of his thighs. The mixture of the elements in his blue skin gave him the impression of a misshapen, watery planet. His hands were callused and dry. Veins bulged and coiled through his legs and forearms. His crystal eyes were alive, alert, wild. He seemed less than civilized.

It took us until mid-day to reach his scoop. We had to walk all the way down the increasingly steep valley. I fed on strange, but moist, grass. It rose into my body and strengthened me. We did not talk for many hours. At one point, we reached a makeshift staircase. It seemed constructed by Andalite hands.

Finally, my companion burst into conversation. (The funny part is I don't usually scan anymore.) He was bouncing in Form Beta. (But I don't know, I woke up yesterday morning and I thought I'd turn on my scanner. I just wanted to check that it still worked, I suppose. Keeping things working is one of the only things I've got left.)

(You were marooned here,) I guessed. It was clear he was trapped here after the battle for Hork-Bajir. I was trying to figure out who he was, to see if I could put a name to the face and demeanor.

(You could say that,) he answered. (But really! A ship! An Andalite ship! Almost thirty years later! I never thought I'd see one again. It wasn't a new model, was it? It seemed slightly different than the ones I knew, I suppose. But not too different. I thought they'd fix the balance issues in atmosphere by narrowing the engines, but that is such a difficult problem according to some engineers I know, and...)

He continued unchecked for some time. I was cautious about interrupting him. It was clear this was the first social contact he had had in decades.

We continued to descend deep within the valley. (This is where the mist would start,) he said as we crossed some obvious threshold. The moss had stopped crawling along the valley walls. The grass was long and tasteless. (The Arn were killed off decades ago. I've taken care of most of the monsters in this valley. Reprogrammed some, to ensure that I'm left alone, but rogues still migrate in from other valleys sometimes, so keep a lookout.)

(The Yeerks are not here,) I said.

(Oh, they're here. They just don't like this valley.)

(Why?)

(Well, let's just say that I know Yeerks well enough to know what scares them.)

About twenty minutes later, we reached a point where the ground had been artificially flattened. My companion fumbled with his tool belt. He pulled out some kind of remote control, pressed a button, and an inaudible humming lowered in frequency and dissipated. He stepped forward with his hand outreached. Satisfied, he clopped forward. Large, fan-like, green leaves covered something. He peeled them away, revealing a small Andalite ship.

(Isn't it beautiful?) He asked. (I've been building it for twenty years. Well, it's done, I guess, for the most part. It will fly. I've taken it up in orbit a couple of times. I just want to add more details. Make it prettier.)

(It is beautiful,) I replied. A genuine and proud smile came to his eyes.

(I don't even know that much about ship-building. I'm an anthropologist by trade. I got promoted within the military, for my diplomatic talents. Lot of good that did,) he muttered nearly inaudibly. I felt a wave of familiarity. I ignored it.

He hid the ship again with the leaves. He beckoned me behind it. In a small alcove within the valley walls were his living quarters. I could not tell if it was a natural cave or a small shelter he had carved from the rock. Blue tube lights outlined the edges of it. To my surprise, a woman came out of the cave, smiling brightly. Something was not quite right about her.

(It is good to see you home, Seerow,) she said. He ran past her, inside, fumbling with something on a desk. He pressed a button on the controls. She flickered and disappeared.