Cave Alien (Ancient Earth Aliens 1)

The most terrifying thing about humans is the way they can die from almost nothing at almost any time. Tres is casual about losing her life. Maybe it’s not because she’s madly brave, but instead, because she knows that even if she cares about it, it won’t make a difference. The end is always near for these animals.

Up close, I am able to divine that these villagers are quite different in many ways to Trelok’s little cult. They are louder, more boisterous. Their group is made up of males and females of many different ages and abilities. I see that the injured and ill are tended to by the others. I like what I am seeing. This is a much better place for a human to live than Trelok’s group, which only suffers the female and fertile to survive.

Also encouraging is the way these tribespeople look different, even from one another. There are some dark, some light. Some with pale hair, some with coal hair. I do not see any with the flash of red which adorns Tres, but that is likely because the gene is recessive and in these small populations, it has only rare opportunities to express itself.

I cannot get too close, but over the course of the day, several males make their way over to my position. I let them come, interested to see if they might bear any resemblance to Tres. There are many mating males and many mating females, unlike in Trelok’s group where all the females are his wives and daughters, and he mates with both with no sense of shame.

The men coming closer to me are hunters, talking about a beast they intend to bring down. Very large animals roam these plains, as well as the smaller prey like that I have already taken. They seem excited, as though they are planning to hunt something large.

“It will be dangerous,” one tall, bearded man says. They are all rather hairy. Closer to animal than the smooth skinned humans of the distant future, but also so very similar.

“I hope so,” his slightly younger compatriot says. “The last hunt was so boring.”

“We don’t hunt for glory. We hunt for meat. There are mouths to feed.” The tall, bearded man reminds me of Krave. Focused on responsibility, reminding the younger people that they have responsibilities as well.

“Let’s kill things!” A third hunter joins the group. A young one, younger than the one already present. He has bright hair the color of the sun, and eyes the shade of the sky. His smile is broad and he has the excitable energy of a young pup. I find myself smiling. These people are fully alive.

“Did you bring the brew?”

“Of course I did, Ulf.”

So Ulf is the name of the tall bearded man. He’s not a chief, I don’t think, but he has the bearing of one. I like this. Strong men mean a strong tribe. The more strong men, the more strength the group has. Scythkin warriors are all fearsome in their own right. Any who are not do not survive infancy.

Ulf takes the vessel from the younger man. His eyes narrow as he feels the weight of it, swishing it from side to side. “Why is it half empty, Og?”

“I may have had a little. Just to taste. To be careful. Don’t want you to drink the mushroom juice and become ill,” Og says.

“You’ve had half the brew, you little toad.”

“Og! You promised you wouldn’t do that,” the as yet unnamed young hunter complains.

I am not sure exactly what they are drinking, but I would put money on it being an intoxicant of some kind. Humans love their psychedelics. They were the first to originate consciousness - and the first to utterly obliterate it as well.

“This is potent!” Ulf declares. “You are not going to be good for anything besides talking to the dirt.”

“I know how to use the brew,” Og says, clearly offended by the insinuation he cannot hold his drink.

“The brew uses us, fool,” Ulf growls. “It helps us see what the world tries to hide from us, animals included. But you are going to be spirit speaking before the hour is out. I’d send you back to your hut if we didn’t need you.”

There is something familiar about the way they are bickering. It is similar to the way my broodkin and I spoke to one another before time ripped us apart. We were always at one another’s throats, complaining, whining, growling, fighting. I once, not that long ago, saw the first hatched of our clutch rip the very arms off the last hatched for an impudence. It seems to me the leader of this clan would be well served to do the same.

“Where is Trug? We said we would hunt when the sun reached the peak,” the first hunter says.