First Contact

Chapter 164: (Nemta)

Nemta came out of his hut yawning. It was daylight, and he hated to admit it, but he had no idea how long a day lasted on the planet. Friend Terry was sitting by the big orb, one of the mantids, Nemta thought it was 821, standing behind Friend Terry with a bladearm stuck into the Terrans back. 821 was flashing icons that 303 was repeating.

"I know, I know. Can you fix it?" Friend Terry asked. 821 flashed more icons, which 303 repeated. "All right. You'll have to replace it. I get it. I can't use my onboard weaponry until you fix it."

More icons flashed.

"I know you know," Friend Terry sighed. "The interface is designed to make me anxious when my systems aren't sitting at at least 60% and with all my onboard weaponry down I'm only at 30% and I'm anxious. I talk when I'm anxious."

More icons.

"Thank you for understanding. I know, you're not infantry techs, you're assault shuttle engineers. Just do your best, guys," Friend Terry said. Nemta had the feeling the two green insect engineers were mollified by the icons they flashed.

As Nemta watched, eating his share of the daily rations, Friend Terry laid back and the mantids moved over to his chest. Nemta almost stood up when one of the mantids used their bladearm to slice open Friend Terry's chest. He could see the glimmer of wiring in the Terran's chest, embedded in the muscle, as they kept working.

"Feels weird. Kinda tickles," Friend Terry said. "Being in maintenance mode outside of a cradle is really weird."

303 flashed icons, petting Friend Terry's forehead with a bladearm.

The gathered survivors whispered to each other as 821 worked. Once through the muscle it removed a large hunk of durasteel with shiny wires coming off of it.

"Aaaaaand now I'm paralyzed," Friend Terry said. Icons and emoticons suddenly started flashing. Suddenly the Terran's arm raised and lowered. Then the other. Then one leg and the other. 303 handed 821 a piece of hardware that the little mantid pulled out of its backpack and 821 fitted it into the mount on the Terran's sternum. More icons.

"I can feel my limbs again," the Terran said. "I've got a lot of synaptic errors, lots of nerve fiber bundle errors, but my onboards are working again."

The other survivors, as Nemta watched, knelt down in front of the life-sized drawing of the red-haired female Terran warrior, making prayers. Mother stood, watching, leaning on her cane as the two mantids closed the Terran up. They used armor-bonding agent on the wound.

Friend Terry laid on the ground for a long time after the two Mantids went over to the orb and began consulting their computers again. It looked to Nemta like the Terran was speaking but he couldn't hear anything.

Mother came up and looked down at him. "Does the Mad Arch-Angel of TerraSol shine her light upon you?"

"Yeah. Just taking a while for everything to synch up. Most of my onboard systems were knocked out in the crash and when they shocked me back," Friend Terry gave a big sigh. "Still have a lot of damage, but I'll heal up now."

"That is good to know, Friend Terry," the Hamaroosa said. She sighed and sat down, sipping at her carafe of warm tea. "Will this help you in our quest to escape purgatory?"

"It should," the Terran said. As Nemta watched his fingers started twitching. Sometimes curling all the way, other times trembling.

"Does it pain you?" Mother asked.

"No. It's pins and needles until the part comes online, but it isn't really painful," Friend Terry said. "I'll test some of it once I'm fully back online."

He's helpless, went through Nemta's mind. For a second he was tempted to pick up the rock next to him and crush the Terran's skull. He even glanced at the rock twice and at Terry before he noticed something. There was a little red dot on his hand that slowly climbed up his arm and vanished toward his neck.

Looking around Nemta realized that 303 had a tiny rifle held loosely in his hands and was behind a piece of battlesteel up to almost his lower arms. Above his head flashed a red arrow pointing down at him then and arrow pointed at Nemta then an icon of a dark blue, almost black, berry. Right after that was an emoji of a smiley face in a brown hat with a cigar. A wisp of smoke or mist eeked out the barrel of the rifle.

Nemta turned around, deliberately looking away from the little green insect.

He wondered what 'I you berry' meant or what the emoji meant.

"Your skin is getting dark," Mother said.

"Melanin. Gives me better resistance to some things, increased production for other things. It's kind of complicated," Friend Terry said.

"Do Terrans often have skin that changes colors?" Mother asked.

"Yes and no. We have many different skin colors and exposure to solar radiation makes our skin darken," Friend Terry said.

"Terrans are strange creatures," Mother said.

"Survival of the most adaptable," Friend Terry said. "The fittest can't always adapt to changing environment so either you change or adapt to change your environment. It's the secret of our success."

Mother made a slow noise that Nemta knew was the Hamaroosa equivalent of thinking.

"Humans can adapt to almost anything," he gave a chuckle. "I made the Lunar Mile once."

"What is the Lunar Mile?" Mother asked.

"There's a base on our moon, Tycho Base. There's two airlocks exactly one mile apart, a straight line. You run from one airlock to the other with nothing but goggles, noseplugs, running clothes, running shoes, and a bite-guard," Friend Terry said. He gave an odd laugh. "You step out of the airlock into vacuum and run. Your average unmodified athletic human can run a mile in just under five minutes, can hold their breath for roughly six minutes, so you have an extra minute."

"Seriously?" Mother asked. "What about vacuum damage?"

"It's why you wear goggles. I mean, people die doing it, but it's fun to attempt. I'm a member of the Red Dot Club," Friend Terry laughed.

"What is that?" Mother asked.

"If I died, I couldn't be brought back," Friend Terry said. "I did it back before I went full conversion. I had a tattoo on my meat body that told anyone who saw the tattoo that I'd made the Lunar Mile."

"Oh," Mother sounded shocked. "But why?"

There was quiet for a moment. "To prove I could," Friend Terry finally said. "Not everyone can. I did. It earned me admiration and approval from people."

Nemta curled his lip slightly. He knew it was so Friend Terry could feel superior to other beings.

Can you run in vacuum, Nemta? floated up in his head. He tried to push it away but the thought continued. Could you do it? Even if you were able to do it, could you bring yourself to do it? The Terran thought it was worth risking death to gain the approval of other Terrans.

Nemta reached down and grabbed the jagged part of the metal he was sitting on, squeezing it, feeling it cut into his hand. I'm a fighter pilot. I risk death every time I get in the cockpit.

The voice in his mind had no answer.

After a bit he heard movement. Before he could look Mother spoke.

"You look much better," she said.

"Thanks," there was that cracking noise that Nemta immediately thought of Friend Terry moving his head like he was trying to touch his temples to his shoulders. "I'm feeling a lot better. Systems are at 60% and rising, which means my anxiety is dropping."

There was quiet for a moment. "Might I ask a question, Friend Terry?"

"Sure, Mother. You seem full of questions, but go ahead," Friend Terry said.

"Why did the Mad Arch-Angel TerraSol remake you like this? Did you displease her? Did you please her? Were you specially chosen or was it just at random?" Mother asked.

There was silence for a long moment.

"I wasn't really doing anything with my life. I was about thirty years old when the Mar-gite invaded, started stripping whole planets of protein. It was the day of the my thirty-second birthday when it was discovered that the Mar-gite were eating us. Slowly. Like a starfish does. That the human was alive the entire time the Mar-gite devoured them," there was an odd noise that Nemta almost turned to look at but he was still annoyed with the little green insect.

"A friend of mine, well, a StellarNet friend mostly but we visited each other and we lived together for a couple of years, he lived on one of the worlds that Mar-gite had invaded. I hadn't heard from him, then I find out that the Mar-gite, well, they eat humans," Friend Terry's voice didn't sound sad or distressed like Nemta thought it would.

He sounded angry.

"So I went down to the recruiting station. Took the tests. Signed up for the Marines," there was a bitter, angry laugh. "I could have signed up for anything, my test scores were that good. Instead I took Marine Rifleman. I wanted to avenge my friend on a hateful universe."

There was a crunching sound, the sound of heavy feet on the grass and twigs on the ground.

"After a while I volunteered for Full Conversion," Friend Terry said. "For an ugly reason, though. The Corps psychologists knew the reason though."

Mother's voice was soft. "What was the reason, Friend Terry. You may confide in me, your mother, beneath the eyes of the Lady of Bloody TerraSol."

"Armor and rifles, they're at a distance. Full conversion, we get up close and in the face," Terry said softly. "We were going to be landing on my friend's world. Liberate it."

There was silence for a moment, even the praying was silent.

"I wanted to feel the Mar-gite rip apart in my hands. Avenge my friend on a hateful universe," Terry said softly.

"Your friend. Were you lovers through VR?" Mother asked.

"Yeah. For about ten years."

"And did you?" Mother asked softly. The shadows were deepening.

"Did I what?" Friend Terry asked.

"Did you avenge him upon a hateful universe," Mother asked. "Did the Mad Arch-Angel TerraSol hold him so he could see you avenge him in wrath and fury?"

"I like to think so," Friend Terry said. The fire crackled, making the deepening shadows dance.

"And who do you avenge upon this hateful universe now, Friend Terry? In who's name do you wield your strength and power granted unto you by the Mad Arch-Angel TerraSol?" Mother asked.

There was no hesitation. "People like your children and family, Mother. Like Shevassti's clutchlings. Like Hilma'ata's podlings and broodcarriers and husband. Like Vela'apee's mother and father and siblings. People who could not defend themselves against the Precursors. People who should have been protected, defended, but were not."

There was only silence and the humming of the orb and the reactor, with the crackle of the fire adding punctuation.

Nemta's fur had risen up along his spine and his amputated tail tried to twitch as Friend Terry had been speaking. The combination of cold fury and hot wrath in his voice, mixed together, sounded crazed.

"My people have a saying," Friend Terry said softly.

"What is it, child of wrath?" Mother asked gently.

"The universe hates you and will take everything you love from you, slowly, painfully, and laugh while it is doing it," Friend Terry said in a crackling whisper.

There was silence for a long moment.

"Before the Evil Ones came, I would have scoffed at such words," Mother said.

Nemta finally turned to look and saw that Friend Terry was sitting on the ground. Mother was standing next to him, one hand holding her cane, the other hand gently caressing Friend Terry's head.

"Would have said that the universe was a gentle place, that with care and forethought, the universe holds few threats," Mother said gently. "Then the Precursors came, the Evil Ones came. With their screams, and their cruelty, and their hatred."

There was silence as two of the other survivors moved over and started rubbing Friend Terry's skin, obviously intending on calming him, keeping him calm.

The little green Mantid 303 was next to him, touching his leg.

"But you are here now, proof that even if the universe hates us, the Mad Arch-Angel loves us," Mother said gently, rubbing Friend Terry's tightly curled hair with one paw.

It was silent for a long time. Nemta sat and watched as they all touched the Terran, thanked him for saving them, reminded him of how he provided salvation in their darkest hour. How they'd known the minute they'd seen him that he would help them.

Part of Nemta wanted to scoff at their weakness, to deride them for their dependence upon a being who's very race brought down the Precursors on them all.

They were lemurs less than a million years ago. They didn't even have fire all that long ago. It's been less than twelve-thousand years since they developed space flight, there are ships in the Unified Military Fleet that are older then their entire civilization, Nemta thought.

The human embraced all of them and slowly stood up.

"It's night. Me and 303 need to check out that starport again. We've got a portable scanner, we'll be back before dawn," Friend Terry said. He looked at Nemta. "Don't go out. You're unarmed. There's Precursors lurking around."

Nemta surprised himself by nodding. "I won't," he said without thinking about it.

Nemta was startled when the Terran shivered and then looked like he was sweating glossy black liquid. It slowly coated him, then slowly shifted. He was coated in matte-black armor, bulging at the joints, a triangular looking head, smooth, angled, evil looking to Nemta. Holding a tiny rifle with a tiny missile launcher strapped across his thorax, 303 climbed up his back, nestled into a small divot, and closed it over him.

"Is that a thing that was repaired so that you could do?" Mother asked.

"Yes. Extrusion armor. Used when I don't have power armor," Friend Terry's voice was robotic, synthesized. "Good stuff though. Tough, flexible, easy to move in, minimal EM profile."

"Enjoy your hunt, Friend Terry," one of the survivors said. Nemta couldn't remember her name.

"Thank you, Watnabi'i," Friend Terry answered, and jogged out of the camp.

Nemta watched him go.

Everyone went back to small things, keeping the fire lit, picking up debris around the camp-site. Some went in and cleaned their huts. The Telkan female came over with some aerogel she'd pounded with metal against metal to soften it and make it flexible.

"For your nest," she said softly. She was wearing shiny foil around her head.

"Aren't you afraid of him? He gets stronger, more powerful every day. Aren't you frightened?" Nemta asked.

Hilma'ata shook her head. "No. Perhaps before the Evil Ones came. Although I doubt I would have seen him fight, seen the violence he can do, I would have only known his kindness, known his humor. Known him as person, probably without ever knowing of the weapon inside of him."

"He is a weapon. They built him into a weapon," Nemta said.

Hilma'ata laughed, tittered behind her hand. Her notched ears flicking and her whiskers trembling with humor. "You don't know anything about the Terrans, about the humans, do you?"

Nemta bridled up slightly. "I know more than you. I've attended briefings on them. Seen their biology, faced them on the battlefield. I know much about them."

Hilma'ata tittered again. "You know the Mad Arch-Angel TerraSol, the Lost Mother Goddess, nothing about humanity itself, Friend Nemta," she pointed at the painting. "Look at her. Wide hips to bear children, large full mammaries to feed many many podlings, strong muscles to carry the load, beautiful by Terran standards according to Friend Terry. But look what the loss of her Mother did to her. Look at how her face is contorted with wrath and all she knows is battle. No, you do not know Terrans, Friend Nemta."

"And you do?" Nemta sneered.

"Yes."

"How?" Nemta asked. "What makes you wiser and more informed than the Executors who prepared our briefing on the Terrans?"

Hilma'ata smiled slowly, a very Terran thing. "Because we've lived with one. We've gone mad, in our madness, we see him clearly. See how terrible he is in his wrath and how beautiful his love for life is."

"Pfft, he's a weapon, your leader said so himself," Nemta said.

"So is a knife, but a knife, as I have learned," Hilma'ata moved suddenly, coming up from her crouch, grabbing the front of his pilot's uniform, pulling him close, putting her left arm around his waist so their groins were pressed together.

And the knife lovingly fashioned from battlesteel and polished to a high shine against his throat.

"Has a beauty all its own," she whispered, the madness glittering in her eyes. She shifted the knife slightly and he could feel it slicing through his fur, feel it shave him close, feel its cold sharpness. "Love went into its crafting, care honed its edge whisper by whisper, prayers have been sung to it."

Nemta licked his lips, staring into her eyes. Normally Telkan were subservient, submissive.

This one was mad.

"It's a thing of beauty and love," she whispered. "If I had this knife in my paws when the Evil Ones came into my house, had I understood the Mad Arch-Angel's wrath, understood the Lost Mother's Love, understood the Song of Wrathful Mercury and the Hymns of Hateful Mars, then perhaps I would be dead and they would be alive, but I would have died with my teeth in its throat," she smiled.

She giggled and stepped back, the long straight bladed knife disappearing into her sleeve.

"You do not know yet, Friend Nemta, but you will," she said, turning away and moving back toward the fire. The light gleamed off of her shiny foil hat.

There was a twinge between his eyes and faintly heard the snake's voice.

There is only enough for one and you are not that one, the memory hissed.

Hilma'ata looked back at him.

"You will," she said.

The painting of the red haired Terran woman, spattered with blood, wielding a massive sword, stared at him with judging eyes.