Page 20 of Stripped By the Alien

Several minutes later I've apparently received a guided tour of a giant skull, a massive spear, a section of armored hide, and what I sincerely hope wasn't once part of an intelligent lifeform. By the end of it, I'm fairly certain I've attended the alien equivalent of somebody forcing guests to sit through vacation photos.

The strange part is that the experience changes my impression of him. The trophies are frightening. The creatures they came from must have been terrifying. Yet the locust doesn't behave like somebody trying to intimidate me. If anything, he seems eager to share something he genuinely enjoys.

That realization leaves me unexpectedly conflicted. The stories we heard about Space Locusts never included this version of them. Nobody described giant alien predators proudly explaining their hobbies to stranded pilots. They described planets stripped bare, entire species gone, colonies reduced to rubble.

My gaze drifts toward the transparent wall where stars slide silently past in the darkness. Then I look back at the locust standing beside a weapon taller than I am, surrounded by trophies taken from creatures he personally defeated. Whatever else he may be, he's still a Space Locust.

I don't get much time to recover from the trophy presentation.

A membrane opens near the far side of the chamber and several smaller Space Locusts enter carrying trays. The smell reaches me before the food does, and my stomach immediately betrays me. Apparently nearly dying in a minefield hasn't cured hunger.

"Wonderful," I mutter. "Either dinner's arrived or they're finally getting around to the ritual sacrifice."

6

- Nora -

The crewmembers place the trays onto a low table and withdraw with remarkable speed. Watching them, I get the impression that nobody aboard this ship enjoys lingering around my captor longer than necessary. The feeling reminds me of the way people behave around powerful executives or military commanders. They show respect, complete their task, and get out of the way. But here, there's an element of fear, too.

The Space Locust approaches the table and begins arranging the dishes.

For a moment I simply watch him. It's a strange thing to witness. A giant alien predator surrounded by hunting trophies should look threatening every second of every day. Instead he's organizing dinner. The contradiction has been bothering me ever since I woke up. Every time I convince myself he's a monster, he does something unexpectedly normal.

He picks up a bowl containing something pale and steaming and gestures toward me.

I study the contents suspiciously. The substance resembles a cross between soup, mashed potatoes, and industrial lubricant. "I appreciate the offer. But I've already had one near-death experience today."

He answers in his own language and nudges the bowl closer. The gesture is patient enough that I find myself reconsidering my first assumption. If he wanted me dead, there are probably easier methods than poisoning dinner.

I glance toward the debris pile where Lucius is pretending to be dead. "Official status report," I say conversationally. "The giant locust is trying to feed me.”

The alien's antennae move as he watches me speak. He clearly recognizes that I'm communicating something, even if he has no idea what. The problem is that I don't know what he's trying to communicate either.

For several seconds we stare at one another across the table. Then he appears to arrive at some conclusion. He reaches into the bowl, takes a portion for himself, and eats it. Afterward he waits.

I study him carefully. No signs of distress. No sudden collapse. No indication that he's just swallowed something dangerous in order to trick me. Whatever the substance is, he seems perfectly comfortable eating it.

"That's a compelling argument," I admit. “And it would have been even better if you hadn’t been so clearly an alien. Because they have other needs than humans, you know?”

Slowly, I reach for the bowl. Every survival course I've ever taken would strongly disapprove of accepting food from an unknown alien species. Then again, every survival course I've ever taken assumed I wouldn't be trapped aboard a living spaceship owned by giant Space Locusts.

I take a cautious bite. The flavor catches me off guard. It's warm and rich, with hints of spices I don't recognize. There's something faintly similar to roasted nuts underneath it all. Before I realize what I'm doing, I've taken another bite.

Then another. Apparently my body has decided that starvation is a more immediate concern than paranoia.

Across the table the locust settles into a seat and begins eating as well. Every now and then I catch him watching me. It's a look of curiosity, not of anger.

That somehow makes me more self-conscious. I lower my bowl. A moment later he lowers his.

I take another bite. A few seconds later he does the same.

The pattern repeats often enough that I begin wondering whether he's doing it deliberately. I can't decide whether the possibility is reassuring or unsettling. Probably both.

"Current situation update," I announce, again for Lucius's benefit. I point around the chamber with my spoon while the locust watches attentively. "I'm trapped aboard a living spaceship. My host decorates with skulls. Said host appears to be some kind of giant alien locust. He’s doing some kind of mirroring thing where he repeats what I’m doing a second later."

The locust says something. He has a remarkably deep voice, and it doesn’t sound that insect-like. Apparently he believes we're participating in a conversation.

"Don't get excited," I tell him. "You're contributing very little."