Scorched Earth, Alien Wonders
Chapter 1: Singed on Arrival

Singed on Arrival

My designated Earth name was Captain Stanley Memphis. I was the first to materialize in the field that night, and I was not expecting to be plopped onto a baked and barren countryside, withering under the harshest environment I could’ve imagined.

The first deep inhale I took resulted in choking and coughing spasms.

Dammit...a rather undignified beginning.

With every breath, my artificial prairie dog lungs filled with stinging-hot air, even though it was the middle of the night during the planet’s late-winter season.

I looked around to survey the scant dead foliage, rocks and compact dirt that seemed to stretch out for miles in every direction under the pale light. In the far distance, I could make out jagged crags of what appeared to be ancient infrastructure and relics from a civilization long departed.

The air was stagnant. Nothing moved on the dormant world. Not even a typically bothersome bug.

As my disguised body acclimated somewhat to the conditions, I started thinking about the mission ahead, because it was unlike anything we had done before. I had the dubious distinction of being the leader of this unusual adventure, and I would be posing as the head of my PD family of little giants, once we settled into the community of Suburbia.

My long, dark whiskers were pretty cool, since inhabitants of my planet didn’t have any facial hair at all...male, female, or gender neutral.

“Ahem...me, me, me, yo, yo, gotta, lotta, yadda!”

I was trying out my vocalizations, when I heard the unmistakable roiling-hum of a descending traveler, and my veteran second officer, Earth name Gerry Moore, appeared a few feet away.

“Man, somebody needs to turn off the heat!” complained Moore in a decidedly edgy, impatient voice as he wearily examined the furry body he inhabited. He coughed a few times then chose to take shallower breaths to get used to the super-heated air.

Moore‘s ears looked bigger than most prairie dog’s by comparison...probably because he was a big-eared Rosenian.

This was our first time inhabiting such small bodies on a job, and it would take some getting used to. It was a major change from our 5-foot-tall, pale-skinned, rosy-cheeked, indigo-eyed, two-legged, Rosenian bodies, that evolved through millions of years on a planet with slightly less gravity than Earth.

Suddenly, another prairie dog landed in the dirt a few feet from Moore. She was Communications Officer, Shasta Brown.

Brown was the best interpreter, telepath and communicator on Rosen. She had studied ancient Earth languages, Earth history, art, music, culture and astrobiology, in depth for this mission.

Which was fantastic, because it meant that I didn’t have to.

“Holy match-heads, why is it so hot? Intel didn’t warn us about this or I would not have been so happy about being a cute, little creature with fur on my body,” Brown said in a soft voice as she looked around with dark eyes, under long lashes.

“Take shallower breaths and it won’t shock the lungs of your ‘cute, little-creature’ body as much,” I suggested, after she coughed a few times.

Back on Rosen, Brown was nick-named the equivalent of the Earth word “gabby”, which is a compliment for any communications expert.

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“I’m hungry, when do we get to eat?” was the only comment from my TO as he joined us. He had chosen the fitting name of Fats Davis. He talked fast, loved food and was always joking around.

Davis, like his Rosenian body, carried a few extra pounds as a prairie dog.

“What? No complaints about the scorching heat?” I teased Davis, who didn’t seem as bothered by the hot air, which had to be 125 degrees that night.

“I complain better about all things thermal on a full stomach,” replied Davis, then he coughed a few times and grabbed his chest.

Seconds later, newbie medical officer on his first mission, Dr. Jason Jenkins, was the last to materialize a few yards away. Doc was visually impaired as a Rosenian, which almost kept him from the mission, but he was cleverly made a bespectacled prairie dog instead. I was still working on how I would explain his unusual face ornament if curiosity got the best of our Earth-bound relatives.

It was the funniest looking thing, though, because Doc’s eyes were wide open behind those glasses, and his tiny, front teeth and jaw-mandible, were clicking like crazy. He was so distracted that he didn’t notice the sweltering conditions as much as everyone else...at first.

“So that’s what 6.8 trillion light years of hyper-travel feels like,” mumbled the young doctor.

“Ah, you’re exaggerating again, Doc,” I said, taking a shallow breath, and trying not to cough. “It was only 6.1 trillion light years.”

After Doc gathered his senses, and leveled out his breathing, we huddled in a circle standing on our hind legs like the South African meerkats I had seen in pictures. It was a position we would use a lot during our stay, because of our own upright forms.

We made sure all body parts were accounted for after the unusually long, hyper-transport through a system of interconnected wormholes that started from a space station just above the outer atmosphere of Rosen.

It was rare, but on occasion, animal-disguised Special Forces would arrive at their destination with missing digits, whiskers or tails. We were all okay, so it was time to rock-and-roll.

“We need to get down to business,” I told my dynamic team of kickass critters. “I have a bet on the rollerball tournament, so I want to wrap this thing up fast and get back to Rosen.”

“First things, first,” interjected Davis. “We always get to eat before the mission.”

“Okay, Davis,” I responded, feeling a bit hungry myself.

“What do you have for us, Doc?”

“It’s in Torie’s case,” he replied, adjusting his glasses.

Ah, yes...how could I have overlooked the most important part of our team?

The last time I worked with this crusty, old bot-shifter, he made me want to throw him into a black hole.

Off to the side, a small gray case the size of a boot box sat on the ground with particles of silver dust still settling around it after being plopped from the transporter onto the ground while we were busy doing our body-parts inspection.

Doc opened the case and took out a small bottle filled with Rosenian, vitamin and mineral capsules.

“Ah, c’mon, doc, that isn’t food,” complained Davis.

“The research said that prairie dogs have adapted to eating what scant weeds they can find along with an occasional root grub,” explained the doc. “The only moisture they get on this planet is contained in their food. So, these nutrition capsules are the best cuisine you will get until we are home again, my friend...unless you want to saunter over there and eat a dead bush.”

Everyone grumbled and groaned, including me, but we had no idea at the time how long we would be deprived of our favorite Rosenian edibles.

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