Relapse by Robertson Edward W

Author:Robertson, Edward W. [Robertson, Edward W.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Science Fiction, thriller, Fantasy, Adult
Amazon: B00OY64SFO
Goodreads: 23854315
Published: 2014-12-10T08:00:00+00:00

17

The alien stood across from him within the deep shadows of the valley and the trees. Its eyes blazed, tentacles splayed to increase its size. It held a laser in one tentacle. A claw had an awkward grip on a long human knife.

Lowell went very still. Very early in their relationship with the aliens, Anson had worked out a few key signs to defuse situations exactly like this one. Lowell forked the pinky and index fingers of his left hand and pointed them toward the ground. This vaguely resembled an A, and stood for Anson, or more generally the People of the Stars.

Problem was, Lowell had no idea if all of the aliens were trained in this language.

The alien extended a claw. It swiveled to align both points of the claw toward the ground. Acknowledgement. It pointed a tentacle at him and made a flipping gesture—Who are you?

Signing the answer to that was beyond Lowell's knowledge. He repeated the gesture for the People of the Stars, then pointed to his chest. The alien stared so intently he wanted to laugh—their eyes were so big and angry he couldn't help thinking of that Warner Bros. cartoon. Marvin the Martian under his Roman legionary helmet.

The alien holstered its laser and produced a notebook-sized tablet from the pouches of its bandolier. Holding the tablet horizontal, it gestured above it, then held it up for Lowell to read: "WHO ARE YOU"

It flicked a tentacle over the screen, erasing it, and passed it to Lowell. Using his finger for a stylus, he wrote, "Lowell. I work directly for Anson."

The being snatched up the tablet. "WHY ARE YOU HERE"

"Business for Anson," he wrote. "Why are you here?"

"BUSINESS FOR ME AND MINE"

"Doing what? Are you working for Anson?"

It spun a claw and wrote, "ME AND MINE"

"Funny," Lowell inscribed back. "You're here for the same reason I am: you're hunting Raina."

The alien swung its head back six inches. Its expression remained fixed in cartoon outrage. A claw drove toward Lowell's face, the long knife glinting in its grip.

He ducked and bowled forward. There were no good strategies to this fight—the enemy was stronger, better armed, with surprise on its side—so all he could do was come at it as hard as he could and hope one of his first swings took it down. It shuffled its pointed feet, withdrawing its body. Limbs snapped forward. A claw pinched his elbow, raking through his skin.

A tentacle poked at his face. He slapped it away. As soon as his arm was engaged, another tentacle whipped forward—and rather than ending in a tapered, soft tip, this one was as hard and solid as a flail. He tightened his body and turned into it before it could finish its lash. The flail clubbed into his ribs.

Reeling from the pain, he grabbed its nearest tentacle and yanked toward him. It might have been an alien, but it reacted like all people and animals did: it resisted.

Now that he had a lever, he threw all his weight against it.

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