Page 7 of Stripped By the Alien

The Mirex studies the indicators still flashing across the suit. Its tendrils brush lightly against the surface while information passes into the biological systems embedded in the chamber walls. "The enclosure is maintaining atmosphere," it says.

"I assumed as much."

"It is also maintaining consciousness suppression, circulatory support, and several functions I don't recognize."

I look down at the motionless figure. The suit appears to be fighting a desperate battle on behalf of its occupant. "Can we remove it?"

The healer hesitates. "We can. We should proceed carefully."

A flick of irritation passes through my wings. Careful procedures are rarely efficient, but killing the pilot after retrieving it from a minefield would be wasteful. I step aside and allow the Mirex to work.

Living tools emerge from recesses in the surrounding walls. Tendrils connect themselves to ports on the suit. Information begins flowing through the chamber's systems. As the diagnosis progresses, the extent of the damage becomes increasingly clear: Internal injuries. Radiation exposure. Chemical compounds moving through the bloodstream. Several biological systems appear to be approaching failure simultaneously.

The pilot should already be dead.

I find myself studying the unconscious figure more closely. The realization surprises me less than the feeling that accompanies it. I do not merely want answers from this alien. I want it to survive.

The Mirex finally reaches for the seals around the helmet.

"Atmosphere stabilized," it says.

"Remove it," I order.

The locking mechanisms release one after another. A faint hiss escapes the suit. The healer lifts the helmet away, exposing the pilot's face for the first time.

I go still.

The features are unlike those of any species I have encountered. Smooth skin covers the face where I would expect armor, sensory structures, or protective ridges. The mouth is small. The jaw appears delicate and devoid of mandibles. Every part of the creature looks vulnerable in a way that seems almost impractical.

Yet the longer I study the face, the more difficult it becomes to look away.

There is a balance to the features that appeals to me. The proportions are harmonious. The structure is elegant. I have encountered beautiful worlds, beautiful creatures, and beautiful architecture. This is different. The appeal feels strangely personal.

Sris climbs onto the edge of the platform and waves both claws excitedly. "It’s tiny."

"It is,” I agree absentmindedly.

The servant crab leans closer. "It is also female."

That observation draws my attention toward the healer. The Mirex is examining biological indicators now visible beneath the opened sections of the suit.

"Female? Are you certain?"

"There is little room for doubt. Sir, despite her alien-ness, she may be compatible for life-saving treatment."

I look back at the unconscious pilot. A female pilot.

That fact feels important. Perhaps it's because females are rare among explorers. Perhaps it's because she crossed the minefield alone. Or perhaps it' simply because every answer I uncover creates two new questions.

Whatever the reason, the female who crossed the minefield has become the most interesting thing I have encountered in many cycles.

I watch as the Mirex continue removing damaged equipment from the female's body. Living tools emerge from the walls and work with careful precision, separating scorched components from functioning ones and placing them in neat piles beside the platform.

"Don't remove her carapace," I instruct. "She's certain to need it."

Several tendrils pause in midair. "There is no carapace, Chief Harrower."

I study the healer for a moment, convinced I have misunderstood. The statement makes no sense. Every spacefaring species I have encountered has some form of natural protection. Those that do not usually compensate with artificial structures. "What do you mean, there is no carapace?"