Gone Native
John Coffren

"No, no, no. This simply won't do."

The creature deftly shuffled his papers with hook-clawed appendages in a swirl of activity as the multitasking arms wrote, turned papers over, absently scratched behind his blowhole, brought a drink up to his beak, and restlessly tapped the wooden table we both sat at.

My own hands were rough; callused and worn from the winter harvest and appeared quite fragile compared with his rubbery tentacles. I turned my attention to the golden rows of quadrotriticale whipping in the afternoon breeze.

"I don't want the report on seedless, waterless crops, the reclamation of plasma-polluted soil and other such wastes of my valuable time. Where is your forward command center? Why has the Klingon Empire been left intact? What happened to establishing a military presence beyond this meaningless speck of dust with zero tactical importance? You should have pushed clear across to the Delta Quadrant by now. You've had more than sufficient time to accomplish your mission. In short, what have you and your agents been doing for the past three hundred years?"

I decide to answer his question with another question.

"You received the Federation's proposal welcoming us to this region of space?"

"Oh, they sued for peace. Excellent, we'll set up interim camps and disposal facilities in central locations: Alpha Proxima Two, Arvada Three and Ivor Prime."

"You mistake their meaning," I said.

"Did you say something, Rojan?"

The language barrier was twice as thick as deuterium. I remained silent for a time. My gaze drifted back to the upper fields where a curl of smoke wafted from the wreckage of Prefect Tamar's ship. His vessel, like mine before, sustained critical damage after crossing the galactic divide. He put down not fifty meters from the original landing site.

"I believe the Romulans are best suited of the locals to help us process the Federation worlds and races," he said.

I laughed. I could barely understand half of what he was saying. It had been a long time since I heard so much of the mother tongue spoken to me at once.

What I could gather from this alienspeak pointed to questions of a military nature. This centipod before me knew nothing of combat. I could tell just by looking at him.

He had all one hundred of his tentacles intact. Any soldier worth his monthly stipend is missing five, ten, arms at least.

I used to be like him. So full of pomp and ceremony that I couldn't see past my own uniform. I stood up and dusted off my coveralls.

"My fields need tending," I said. "We can talk after supper. My wife sets a fine table if you care to join us."

I turned and walked away before our guest could issue protests in any language. I can't be sure, but I think he shouted out a long string of obscenities at me. I turned to face him again and tossed the spare belt atop the picnic table.

"Put this on for dinner," I said. "You'll starve inside of a month without it. Our world can't sustain you in your current condition."

I returned home late, as was my custom, after putting in a full day's work. The welcome sight of our modest adobe hut and the enticing smells of rich spices from our kitchen greeted me as I entered.

"Where's our dinner guest?" I asked.

"Waiting for you outside," Kelinda said. "He keeps pinching and pulling his flesh like it's some ill-fitting, tailored suit that he can just return and get his old skin back."

Copyright © 2006 by CBS Studios Inc.