I, Alien

watik—not large enough to hide prey or predator, understand, but large enough for a child to creep into. It was beyond the territory permitted to me. But I would not have been true Gratarik-kin if I did not test boundaries.

I quickly found as I crept along the ground under the tangled green cover of prickly leaves that another had the same idea. Yes, it was another young one, and yes, it was another male.

We did not instantly state challenge at each other, too startled, I think, at coming face-to-face with each other to do more than stare. His face was just a touch stronger than mine, a little closer to the fierce lines of adulthood. He still bore a child’s knife, though, just like me.

“You do not belong here,” he said, not quite in a snarl.

“Neither do you,” I retorted, and saw from his involuntary blink that I was right.

Now what should we do? A challenge seemed foolish, since we were both trespassing. No, do not interrupt! That concept you just stated, “retreat”— surely you see that is not our way. No, we knew even then that we must resolve this encounter in a way of mutual honor.

The problem was suddenly altered by the sound of grown Gratarikai. Finding us here where we knew we should not be would mean punishment. Neither of us wished that.

We fled together along the line of green, under the bushes, pricked by leaves but soundless as two determined young of our kind could be. At last we came out in a little pocket of greenery where the bushes hadn’t quite grown together. It was just wide enough for us both to sit back on our haunches and study each other. Now I saw a faint likeness to myself in him. And his gyag-hide tunic was just as supple—and thereby costly—as my own.

We knew, I think, even at that moment. We should have instantly attacked each other. But we both hesitated, and the hesitation grew just a moment too long for action. Now neither of us really wished to attack. Curiosity was too strong, yes, and with it a certain child-rebelliousness against the way things must be.

“I am Erekel.” He said it almost defiantly.

“I am Krahelk.”

The names sent their trained thrill of enemy through us both. We accepted that: We were brothers and therefore enemies. Yet at the same moment—

This is why heirs are not meant to meet so young, before the lessons of enemy and kill are firmly implanted. Before a youngling’s rebellious nature can be tamed by adult needs and honor.

Akkkh, but there we were, not quite enemies. It seemed too strange, I think, after we had both escaped together. We parted without fighting.

After that, the name “Erekel” had a face to it. That bothered me. I could not hate, not when I remembered a face that looked something like my own—a face that had borne the same confusion as my own.

We met again. Of course we did. How could such a situation be left unfinished? But again we could not fight. There seemed no honor to it. And sweet, sweet, too, the taste of rebellion. Sweet to say, / am not bound by every rule adults have commanded.

We talked together, Erekal and I, comparing our lives and experiences. We even, when no one else could see, play-hunted together, stalking and catching an aldu—a small thing like what you name a lizard, inedible but swift as a flash of light. We let it go, of course, since there is no honor in killing for no reason. But the hunt gave us laughter, quickly cut off so no adult would hear.

Yes, my formal training continued, warning over and over again, Erekal is the enemy, Erekal wants your life.

But I found it increasingly easy to disbelieve. So it was with Erekal as well.

We should have outgrown this. After all, the years were passing and we were no longer truly younglings. It was nigh impossible for two nearly-grown Gratarikai to meet in secret. Those meetings grew more and more rare, more and more brief. But despite that brevity, I realized that the unthinkable had already happened: Two brother Gratarikai, two heirs, had become friends.

“Why do we need to fight?” I asked my brother.

“Ekh, yes. Why should I kill you?”

“Or me, you!”

He waved that possibility away. “But it is so: We are the only two brothers in history who do not hate each other.”

“Then we do not need to kill.”

Erekal hesitated. “There can be only one heir.”

“Why?” I asked bluntly.

“Why… because… you know why!”

“I know the schooling, yes: We are Gratarikai, we are fierce, we cannot share a throne. But we are both heirs and yet we both live.”

“What are you saying?”

“If we are friends, if we do not fight… why not build two thrones?”

He stared. And then Erekal grinned. “Why not, indeed?”

But what might have happened then never was completed. We were interrupted by the outside world. The war against the K’ritqa had begun. Our people are, of course, sworn members of what you call the Alliance, our loose-spun gathering of trading worlds. The K’ritqa threatened us all.

I went to war. Erekal did not. He had no choice: It was forbidden, with guards and locked doors to see. It stayed that way. Unspoken on many lips was that if I died in battle, there would be mourning—but there would also be relief that the two-heir problem had been so easily resolved.

I had no intention of obliging them. And Erekal smuggled me a message, one word only:

LIVE!

Of the war itself I need not speak. You know as well as I how fierce it was, in space and on world after world, how short but brutal, how many died, and how the K’ritqa, never really understanding the concept of different species in alliance, were beaten back. They are, so we all believe—and hope—no more a threat.

As for me… I had gone into war a youngling yet. I had fought before, of course, but never slain sentient beings. Now… one does what one must. I came back from the war a seasoned warrior with the taste of enemy deaths sharp in my mouth and the memory of Gratarikai deaths dark in my mind.

I had scarcely thought of home in all that while. But now, as the homeworld filled the warship’s screens, I felt the same surge of joy as every other returning Gratarik. But in my mind, the joy was mixed with thoughts of what must come.

Had Erekal changed? Was he still friend to me? Was he still sworn as I was to change the way of things? We were both adults now. It could not be long until the day when we must fight or dare defy our people’s ways.

First, though, came the requisite ceremony of return. I went before my father—he whom I so seldom saw. Picture one my height but more burly. Gray streaks his warrior knot of hair, but there is nothing of weakness or age in the cold yellow fire of his eyes.

That fire did not warm for me. Even as he honored me for deeds done in war, I could all but read on that grim face a calculating, Which of my sons should be the one to live?

No, you misunderstand. I agree, it was not what one of your species would call a “charming welcome home.” But it was no more, no less than could be expected from a Gratarik ruler with two living heirs.

Upon the spot, my father set the date for the Day of Destiny, when he would learn the answer to his question.

That simply made me all the more determined that Erekal would not slay me, nor I him. I will not deny feeling a thrill of relief when I finally heard from Erekal. He managed to send me a wary message: / have not forgotten.

My message to him contained only one word in return: Friend.

We would do this, then. We would refuse to fight. We would rule our people together, and show how strong two wills united could be.

The Day of Destiny came. We do not fuss or add undue fanfares to such serious events. I was left to make my own way to the Courtyard of Ritual. I bore no weapons, of course. You have seen that we do not enter death- duels with other than our own strong arms and jaws. There is no honor, after all, in injuring bystanders. And of