First Impressions

First impressions are profound and unavoidable. Sometimes they are up to circumstance – a situation happening to involve an allergy or fear. Sometimes they are up to chance – a lucky roll of the dice in a first gambling game, or a lucky card in an initial hand of poker. And, sometimes, they are up to the first impressions of others – namely a first mate, whose first words off of the ship entailed the poetic “I think this planet stepped in something…”

From that moment on, for Captain Mark, it could no longer be a quaint, tranquil planet nestled on the far edge of the Lamix galaxy: it was a swamp with obscenely spongy ground and a pungent population of anaerobic bacteria.

Needless to say it was a mission that warranted a lengthy stay in the ship with a mug of hot coco and a game of cards. For the three man crew of Mark’s freighter, The Levan, deliveries were the life’s blood of their profession – and, in the case of their company, they were its life blood. Without them the ship could not navigate; and without them, no business could be transacted.

But when it came to the process of unloading? They had well over a hundred robots for that: durable contraptions comprised of steam and gears stitched together beneath a metallic frame. Their lower halves were like those of tanks, supported by powerful treads capable of rolling across virtually any terrain; their upper halves were like those of bodybuilders, capable of carrying nearly a ton.

They didn’t mind the work and they didn’t mind the smell – and so they got the privilege of going outside, traipsing back and forth between the shoreline of the nearby lake and the cargo hold. They never left The Levan empty-handed: each machine hefted two large crates, one over each shoulder, that weighed a combined total of nearly half a ton. These, filled to the brim with cryogenically frozen fish, were dumped in the shallows.

“Is there any particular reason,” the First mate, David, continued “that we’re giving sushi to a bunch of mosquitoes?”

Hayden, the ship’s engineer, was less than amused by the question. He delayed his answer, taking the chance to deal hands to all three men at the table – two cards face-up, as was courtesy of Twenty-One – before finally drawing both the patience and resolve to reply.

“They’re genetically modified trout.” He explained – his voice making it clear that it was likely for the third or fourth time. “This planet has been deemed habitable by the Alliance; but that wonderful smell is keeping respective real-estate agents on the opposite side of the cosmos. This ‘sushi’ does a great job of taking methane out of the atmosphere, clearing up our little problem – and it is a good thing, too, since it is a multi-trillion dollar investment.”

“Who would have thought fish would be air-fresheners?” David mused, tapping the tabletop to take a hit. Hayden took more than a small amount of pleasure in laying a King on top of his associate’s stack, giving him one over twenty-one and causing him to bust.

Just before the complaints of cheating could ensue, a tiny red light started blinking along the cockpit’s dashboard. Hayden swiveled his chair away from the card table, scanning the flashing array of buttons and dials in an attempt to discern the problem. Slowly, he turned from the control center to the window; and, loudly, he sighed.

“It’s Drone 4.” He explained, jabbing his index finger through the pressurized glass and out towards one of the robots. Unlike its ninety-nine fellows Drone 4 wasn’t moving, locked in place at the water’s edge. It didn’t seem to be stuck: it seemed to be malfunctioning.

“It is a hardware problem – I can’t fix it from here.” The engineer went on, tugging at his collar and clearing his throat pointedly. David, his area of expertise being on the ship’s upkeep, likewise cleared his throat and slid back from the table.

Mark rose, hardly needing further explanation. He had always been good with robotic hardware; and, on an unfamiliar planet, he was also the only one trained with a weapon.

Hayden took the opportunity to sift about the nearby crates, shuffling through what were seemingly scraps. At length his hands emerged from the wiry depths of the drawers with three items: a wrench, a gear, and a radio headset.

“I’ll help talk you through the repair process once you’re down there.” The engineer assured him. “But it looks like there’s a jam in one of the treads. It is easy enough to fix.”

Mark nodded, pinned the microphone and earpiece in place, and turned to the rear of the vessel. The door between the cockpit and the cargo bay opened with an electrical hiss, filling the interior of The Levan with the putrid, unfiltered air. With a grimace the Captain slid through the opening, doing his best not to breathe through his nose as he made for the downed drone. He took only the opportunity to grab a laser rifle from the wall on his way out – for his own sake, it was the only delay he would allow.

Drone 4 had done an excellent job of straying off course – and not in a good way. It had gone further into the shallows than was necessary, forcing its repairman to wade into the lake to reach it. With frigid water up to his ankles and the shouts of a renewed argument in his headset, it was a leg of the journey he wished he could skip.

Setting his gun on the bank, the captain turned to Drone 4 and gave it a scolding wrap on the head casket. The wrench then shifted towards its midsection, popping one of the external panels loose to reveal the kinking array of gears and cogs within. He had gone through the repairs process many times before, and hardly needed guidance – which was good, since Hayden was far more engrossed in arguing his victory in the card game than playing mechanic.

The culprit was a misshapen spoke in one of the drone’s components: a gear tooth that had snapped under pressure. For safety Mark first flipped the switch on its shoulder, temporarily deactivating its power supply; and, from there, shifted his hand and wrench into the wiry interior of the clockwork. The malformed cog was among the first he encountered and easily removed – then, just as easily, replaced.

He closed the panel and flipped the activation switch, immediately spurring Drone 4 to life. Almost in a panic, as if it were running from something, the robot gave a whirring noise and charged back onto the shore. A spray of water shot up in its wake, drench the already miserable captain – the mechanical version of a “Thank you!”

Mark made to return to the shore himself, but something held him back. He paused, turning to peer out into the lake’s night fog – and, there, saw something move. The shape was humanoid and several dozen yards away, but beyond that distance and haze obscured it completely. Nevertheless the captain squinted into the dim light, a hand waving invitingly towards the figure.

His first thought was that someone had mistakenly been stranded, lost during one of the scouting missions to the planet and abandoned by his or her crew. Sympathy and revulsion kept his hand waving the silhouette towards him until it was within arm’s reach; yet, as it stepped from the shadows, it was more than clear it was not human.

Yet what exactly it was, Mark didn’t have the time to find out. He caught only a brief glimpse of the creature, and gleamed only what he did through his natural skills in perception and observation.

All in all she resembled a fox back on Earth… albeit a fox that walked like a person. She – and the alien’s anatomy made it more than clear the she was indeed a she – was covered in a layer of silky, flowing red fur, which broke only around two thin lines on her neck. These, in the infinitesimally small moment of reflection Mark had, were likely gills.

But it was more than evident that the creature, in all her splendor, wasn’t just an attraction for the local populace: she was a huntress. The same anatomy that drew attention to her offered proof enough: along each finger was a small claw, through the slight gap in her lips were pointed teeth, and regarding the world from just above her muzzle were a pair of large, cunning brown eyes. But her place on the foodchain was confirmed by one single, undeniable attribute: her size.

The fox was a good twenty feet tall, over three times Mark’s height. Each hand was large enough to wrap completely around his body – and one of those hands was lunging his way.

Immediately the captain turned, desperately groping for his weapon. His fingers never quite reached it before the fingers of his pursuer reached him, wrapping him tighter than any rope or shackle onboard The Levan could.

The chatter in his headset grew to staggering levels as he was lifted from the ground. The words became a jumbled mess of unintelligible rambling to his panicked mind – but he did catch the gist that the men in the cockpit had finally recognized he was in danger, and yet were seemingly unable to help.

Almost mercifully the fox paused a moment, her free hand rising to tug the device from his ear. Almost casually the vulpine flicked it into the water – grimacing as she did so, as though she were as tired of the one-sided conversation as Mark himself.

The question of what she would do from there, however, was not one that took long to answer. The captain got an excellent view of the formerly elusive sharp teeth as the fox’s lips fully parted, revealing the maw and throat beyond. Ironically for what seemed a ruthless predator, it was clean: the teeth were pearly white and free of mold or spores, and the lips and gums themselves were healthy and full.

Yet the intentions were clear, all the same, from those few specks of truth hidden in the fangs and molars: small bones from fish, tiny scraps of meat, and the occasional speckled scale lay tucked away here and there. They seemed to make a trail, a line that ran from her lips to the back of her throat – like the subtle trail of breadcrumbs from Hansel and Gretel.

And that trail led to the witch’s house – the place where men were made into meals.

Mark didn’t expect to get that far: the fangs were sufficient enough to ensure a meal. Yet he passed through them unharmed, left without a single scratch or scrape on the behalf of the predator. But that was not to say she planned to spare him: the tongue was like a carpet, saliva and spittle pushing him like a current first to her molars, then to her gullet, and finally beyond.

True darkness – far blacker than the night outside – enveloped Mark as he was pressed into the fox’s throat. There was a pressure on every part of him as his head, neck, shoulder, arms, legs, and chest seemed to be contorted and confined to fit the limitations of the huntress’s body.

Then, suddenly, the force shoving down on him lessened. There was no sudden fall, no gut-wrenching drop as he slipped from jugular to stomach: it was a smooth slide, like getting into his reclining chair back on The Levan.

And it was no longer dark, either. All around him tiny sparks of light bubbled to life, as if the organ in which he sat was itself fluorescent. At first the bursts were sporadic and widely dispersed; but, quickly, they began to center on him, favoring places where his body made contact with the organic walls.

There was no pain where they appeared but, instead, a vague tingling. The sensation spread, traveling up the points of contact to reach his spine; and, from there, they slowly ascended towards his brain.

His contemplations on the matter were interrupted as his carrier moved. It was not the suave motions he had grown accustomed to aboard his ship: instead it was a sharp twist, a diving wrench as the fox dove beneath the waves.

But, as the water surrounded both prey and predator, the journey again became a comfortable, casual limbo for the human. He found himself drawn back to the tingling in his mind, suddenly lost in the recollection of seemingly random memories. He found himself first fascinated with the concept of names, then was drawn to hazy instances from his childhood and early adult life, and finally was reminded of his profession and mission on Haroo.

“Mark?”

The use of his name was not a memory. It was spoken word, filtering down around him as if through some organic loudspeaker. The voice was melodic, kind, gentle, feminine – and it was undoubtedly that of the fox.

He didn’t need to ask to know. Somehow, within the belly of the vulpine, his body was not only subjected to hers: his mind was, too. Yet he found the concept not to be a gruesome or vulgar one – in fact it seemed to link them somehow, to offer a sense of companionship despite the situation.

“Names are…”

She seemed to search for a word and, frantically, the tingling moved from place to place within the human’s mind. At length she found a satisfactory continuation and, clearing her throat, began again.

“Names are interesting.” She decided. “My people are addressed by our… profession. You may call me Scout.”

He nodded, and she seemed to sense the action.

“I like you.” She purred. “You’re quiet. Your friends are loud. The… radio is easy for me to hear. They like to use it.”

She seemed to need a moment to continue, pouring her consciousness through his memories of language and vocabulary. At length she seemed to pull away from his mind – and, in doing so, somehow managed to show Mark a bit of her own. She was excited and curious, but in the same instance was also embarrassed and flustered. And, for a fleeting moment at the end, he gleamed she had made the connection between the ideals of “like” and “cute.”

“But I don’t like that you don’t use words. You are… wise for choosing them carefully. But I want to hear you, Mark. I feel your mind and your memory, but I don’t know what you think right now.”

“I think I’m scared.” He admitted. They were the first words he had spoken since his arrival on the planet – and they were nothing short of the truth.

Her presence returned to his mind, frantic this time. Memories from science classes flashed into his psyche and, as biology and the digestive system became chief among them, Scout’s mental presence seemed to sink – suddenly apologetic, embarrassed, and fearful all at once.

“I’m not killing you!” she promised. “I did not put you in my stomach. You are in a different…”

It was more than clear “stomach” was not the word she wanted to use. Yet, at the same time, it seemed as though there wasn’t another option – that there was no word in the English vocabulary that could do the concept justice.

“You are in storage.” She eventually decided. “So we can… talk.”

“Talk” was not the word she wanted to use, but the inflection in her voice made it evident that the term would suffice. More accurately, “talking” seemed to refer to their linked minds; and, for obvious reasons, humans did not have a term for what Mark and Scout were experiencing.

“So I’m safe here?”

“Very,” she promised. “Anything that wants you has to… how you say… go through me first. Your race has peculiar sayings.”

“Thank you.” He laughed. Perhaps it was the way their consciousnesses were linked – perhaps it was Scout herself – that brought the captain a sense of calm, a sense of peace, and an inclination to trust the fox.

“Then where are we going?” he asked.

The lights around him changed again. Formerly they had been dim, soft colors – blues, greens, and whites that shone faintly. All at once they were stark, pronounced shades – reds, oranges, and yellows that pulsed and raced tirelessly across the organ’s walls. And, just as the hues were reversed, so too was the sensation in Mark’s mind: where once there was a tingling, like a second form of sentience in his own body, there was instead emptiness – as if there were none at all.

But instead he was a part of another mind. He felt what Scout felt, smelled what she smelled, heard what she heard, tasted what she tasted: the cool water through her fur, the faint aromas of fish further along the current, the distant chatter of his ship far away, and the lingering presence of something sweet on her tongue.

But most profoundly, he saw what she saw. And what Scout saw wasn’t the inky blackness of the lake’s depths: her vulpine eyes gazed down upon a sprawling city anchored to the floor of the swamp. Its structures were comprised of a seaweed-like plant and billowing, membranous bubbles that stretched towards the surface – each shining brightly, like suspended lanterns.

First impressions are profound and unavoidable. Scout was taking him to her home: a city of her kind undiscovered beneath the waves of a distant world. There he would be the outsider, he would be judged, and he would be subject to the societal customs of a world he had sought to claim for his own kind.

But Mark got the impression that, with someone like Scout at his side, it wouldn’t be so bad.