Page 21 of Stripped By the Alien

The moment feels unexpectedly strange. Up until now my alien host has existed in my mind as a problem, a threat, a representative of every story I'd ever heard about Space Locusts. Looking at him across the table, it becomes harder to reduce him to any single category. He is still dangerous. The trophies on the walls are proof enough of that. Yet there is also intelligence there, curiosity, and a degree of patience I hadn't expected.

Then he reaches for another dish and the spell breaks. I lower my gaze to the bowl in my hands and focus on eating.

Whatever conclusions I eventually reach about the space locust, this is not the time to reach them. Especially when Lucius is hiding in a debris pile and warning me that we're in danger.

Dinner appears to be over.

At least, the locust seems to think so. He rises from the table and crosses the room toward a section of wall that looks no different from the rest. After resting a hand against the living surface, a fold opens beneath his touch. He reaches inside and withdraws something cradled carefully in both hands.

At first I assume it's an animal. A few seconds later I realize that assumption doesn't narrow things down very much aboard this ship.

The thing resembles a pale starfish wrapped around a cluster of translucent roots. Its body pulses with faint blue light while dozens of thin tendrils drift through the air as though floating underwater. Nothing restrains it. The creature simply clings to his hands while he carries it back to the table.

"Lucius," I murmur, keeping my eyes on it, "either that's a pet or I've completely lost the ability to identify lifeforms."

The locust places the creature on the table between us. The moment it touches the surface, the tendrils begin spreading outward. Several anchor themselves to the tabletop while others unfurl into the air. I find myself leaning forward despite every intention of remaining cautious.

Lights begin appearing throughout the creature's translucent body. One by one they ignite until hundreds of tiny points glow among the tendrils. For several seconds I can't make sense of the pattern.

Then my brain finally recognizes what I'm looking at: Stars.

The insight sends a chill through me. The creature isn't glowing randomly as some kind of pretty decoration; it's displaying information.

The tendrils continue extending until a three-dimensional star field hangs above the creature. Bright clusters form islands of light connected by faint streams, and the entire display changes with slow organic motion. Nothing about it resembles human technology. There are no screens, projectors, or interfaces. Yet the purpose is immediately obvious.

“It’s a star chart,” I realize. “A living one.”

He watches my reaction closely. Once he's satisfied that I understand what I'm seeing, he points toward the living constellation. His finger traces a path through several glowing clusters before stopping near the edge of the display. Then he points directly at me with his whole hand, palm out, and returns his hand to the stars.

I feel my stomach tighten. The question couldn't be much clearer: Where did you come from?

For a moment I simply study the map while my thoughts race ahead. Until now, the locust has been showing me things. His trophies. His quarters. His food. This is the first time he's obviously asking for something in return: Information.

Nothing moves in the debris heap where Lucius is hiding. No lights flash. He doesn't need to repeat the warning. Red means danger.

“No kidding,” I mutter. My attention returns to the living map. Maybe he’s is simply curious. Maybe discovering new civilizations is part of his job. Maybe he's an explorer. The problem is that every story I've ever heard about Space Locusts pushes my thoughts in a different direction.

The refugees who reached human space never described explorers. They described sentient locusts. Swarms of them.

I study the stars hanging above the creature and try to think through the possibilities. If I point toward Earth, what happens next? Does he tell his government? Does he contact somebody higher up the chain of command? Does a fleet suddenly become interested in humanity?

"Sorry," I tell him. "I'm going to need a lot more information before I start handing out directions."

Naturally he understands none of that. He simply repeats the gesture. His finger moves from the stars to me and back again while the living map glows between us. There is something almost earnest about the attempt, which only makes the situation more complicated.

I briefly consider pointing somewhere random. The idea survives perhaps two seconds before I discard it. If this creature truly functions as a navigation tool, the locust almost certainly knows the map better than I do. A poor lie would accomplish nothing. And I’ve pored over enough Space Force charts to be able to pinpoint pretty well where exactly Earth is on this map. Or at least the Sun.

So I settle on a different answer. I lift both hands and shrug. Then I make a face that I hope translates into confusion.

He studies me for several moments. The map continues pulsing softly between us while he evaluates my response. Finally he repeats the gesture once more.

Stars. Me. Stars.

This time I shake my head.

His expression changes. He looks thoughtful, as though he's trying to determine whether I genuinely can't answer or simply don't want to. Unfortunately for both of us, the second explanation is much closer to the truth.

Well, until I understand exactly why he wants Earth, he isn't getting a single coordinate.