“Somebody is headed this way,” Shadow said.
“Put the feed on the main view screen.” Tigre motioned.
The Castaway had landed in a small secluded clearing among the trees, but because the matter-energy converter had been damaged, they’d been unable to activate the cloaking device, leaving the craft visible to anyone who might happen by. Fortunately, they had been able to release a surveillance drone.
On the screen, a human steered a wheeled vehicle through the trees.
“What the herian is she riding?” Wingman gawked.
“That must be one of their fossil-fueled vehicles,” Chameleon surmised. He’d heard about them; he’d never seen one. It was astounding humans ever made it into space.
“Do you think she saw the Castaway land?” Wingman asked.
“I would say the timing is too much of a coincidence for it to be otherwise,” Tigre said. “She’s coming to investigate.”
“We can’t have that,” Chameleon said. “Until we can evaluate the natives and determine how receptive they are, it’s best if we remain out of sight.”
“You said because of the Intergalactic Dating Agency, humans would be receptive to aliens,” Wingman said.
“Yes, but we’re not with the IDA. Humans aren’t expecting us. Furthermore, my understanding is Earth is divided into different political and cultural provinces. It’s possible not everyone has been exposed to extraterrestrials, so we can’t assume they will all be welcoming. They could be dangerous.”
“Agreed.” Tigre stroked one of his facial stripes. “Caution should always be the first priority when introducing oneself to new and primitive life-forms. How far away is he?”
“I believe the human is a she.” Chameleon studied the rider. The bright-yellow garment she wore had a hood, but it had fallen back to reveal a mass of curly brown hair.
Shadow peered at his console. “About one kreptac. At her present rate of speed, she’ll reach us in three minutes.”
“Get Psy,” Tigre said. “Have him intercept the female, do a mind wipe, and relocate her—”
“Before we do anything drastic, let me try to get rid of her,” Chameleon interjected. They had no way of knowing how a human would react to a mind-cleansing. Would the last few minutes be erased? Or would she lose days or years? How far back would the amnesia go? He had dedicated his life to saving others; he hated to rob this human of her identity unless there was no other choice.
“What can you do?” Wingman asked.
“I can personify an Earth life-form and convince her to leave.”
“Okay. Try that first, but bring Psy with you as backup,” Tigre said. “If you can’t get her to leave, then Psy needs to do a mind wipe.”
“Better hurry,” Shadow said. “She’ll have us in sight in two minutes.”
Psy met him at the hatch. “We need to split up,” Chameleon said. “I’ll approach her. You should remain out of sight, unless I call for you.”
They exited the craft. The rumble of a primitive engine indicated they didn’t have long. Psy veered left, ducking into the thicker flora, and Chameleon trotted off to intercept the human. He had to see a life-form to be able to personify it. He couldn’t mimic the female herself because she would think it strange if she came face-to-face with a doppelgänger. Fortunately, as the Castaway had descended into the field, he’d caught sight of an indigenous life-form.
* * * *
Kevanne idled on the quad considering whether to proceed or go home. Recent storms had knocked down a large fir, which lay across the service road. Too much fallen timber lay in the dense woods to allow the quad to pass through easily. She sniffed the air, but smelled only fresh, rain-drenched evergreen and a tinge of exhaust from the four-wheeler. If there’d been a fire, there should have been signs of smoke by now.
Maybe the meteorite hadn’t struck out here. Distances could be deceptive. It could have hit the next county over—or burned itself out before landing.
Except a fireball that big wouldn’t burn out. So, maybe it was a UFO. Which would be really cool! She’d never met an alien.
As a kid, she’d seen every episode of every Star Trek and all the Star Wars movies. The sci-fi channel was her favorite as an adult. Dayton who’d watched auto racing and football had mocked her favorite shows. He’d pulled the plug in the middle of one episode. She’d yelled at him, and—
It’s over. It’s over. She cut the engine to the quad. In the silence, she inhaled the scent of damp earth and evergreen and released the bad memories on the exhale. They ought to bottle this smell, she thought then chuckled. They did bottle it. You could buy pine-scented everything.
What she didn’t smell was smoke. She didn’t hear any crackling. She should return to the house, make a honey-do list, go to town, and hire somebody. Maybe she’d treat herself to a burger at Millie’s and drop in at the antique store and see if they had anything “new.” She couldn’t afford to buy much—she had to save the insurance money for the business—but occasionally she’d find a bargain on a treasure. Like her patchwork quilt. The fabric squares reminded her of the kind of patterns used for men’s boxer shorts, but she imagined some grandma lovingly sewing it from bits and pieces of clothing that had belonged to the family. Sometimes she pretended her grandma—the one who died when Kevanne was a baby—had sewn it.
I’d better go back. I have a lot to do today.
But instead of firing up and reversing the four-wheeler, she swung her leg over and slid off. She loved hiking in the woods, but with the bad weather, she hadn’t been out in days. She checked the sky. Still gray—and the forecast had predicted at least two more days and two more inches of precipitation. The light spot where the meteorite-fireball-not-UFO had broken through had filled
