Stranded on a Tiny Planet

It took several sun cycles and countless meetings of the Ansheetan Council and the Rogashay to finally establish an agreement that was both beneficial and agreeable to both sides. The Accord stipulated that the Rogashay tribes would be given a swath of forest that would be deemed their ‘territory’ where they could farm and make the land productive. In return they would agree never to raid, pillage, or attack any Ansheetans or their settlements. Understandably there still appeared to be tensions between the species as the agreement was made.

Wishing to be sovereign and not overruled by the Ansheetans, the Rogashay stipulated that the Ansheetans would not be allowed to land and enter their territory unless given permission. The Ansheetans agreed but retained the right to monitor activities from the air, but in short intervals. No permanent establishment of flying sentinels would be allowed. The land was established so there was plenty of territory between them and the borders would not be tense. Trade and commerce would be established at a later time once the Rogashay had a grasp of their new land. It would definitely take time to mend old wounds and sate deep grudges.

As promised, once the Accord was signed, Merco went out to assist in the mammoth task of removing the trees from the territory. Before, the idea of deforesting a patch for farming had been brushed aside as the task was too large and strenuous to be deemed viable. However, that was before Merco arrived. For him the trees were saplings at their biggest and weeds beneath that. His great size and strength reduced the labor to mere sun cycles instead of a full rotation and more.

The Accord, as requested strongly by the Rogashay, also forbade the Ansheetans from using Merco as an entity of destruction against them. Though the giant alien made it clear that he was his own entity and would do no such action, the Rogashay didn’t completely trust the Ansheetans not to use his considerable might against them. That “might” was made even clearer as the Rogashay watched how he was able to rip massive trees, long rooted in the ancient soil, from their seats and toss them aside. It was a sobering marvel to them. Such strength and power harnessed for a noble task could prove devastating should it be wheeled against them.

...

During the proceedings, Merco would sometimes be called to make assurances to Emissary Kriees and the other Rogashay Tribal Leaders as they deliberated with the Anashee Council. He felt like a mediator and was almost treated as one but he felt a bit awkward in the position. He felt as if he were intruding in a literal cultural revolution and had no idea what the future ramifications would be. There was probably some intergalactic law against what he was doing...but he wasn’t sure.

He was shocked to realize that Boroxle, the Rog Bandit he had captured, was actually the leader of the entire tribe and Emissary Kriees was his mate. They’d somehow kept that fact a secret until much later in the proceedings; most likely a tactic to keep their weaknesses hidden. Boroxle, Merco came to realize, still held a grudge against him but was equally eager to enter into negotiations for land. It was after the second day he had gotten to work clearing the trees that he actually spoke one on one with the Rogashay leader.

Wiping honest sweat from his brow and brushing his hands together after about an hour of work, Merco went out toward a small extension of Anashee Lake to cool his head and get a drink. He drank deeply, wiping water up over his hair and around his neck. Definitely was feeling his age. His prosthetic certainly made the task easier since it was more powerful and didn’t get fatigued but the familiar start of an ache in his back and through his shoulders reminded him.

“I don’t understand you.” Boroxle’s gravelly voice announced off to his left.

Merco glanced down at him, standing with his spear staff in the ground like a walking stick. His rough, broad shoulders were raised back and his chest was jutted. It seemed to Merco any time he conversed or came into contact with one of the Rogashay they postured themselves that way as if to make themselves look bigger and more confident; like a cat arching its back in front of a big dog.

Merco slowly sat down with a groan of relief, stretching his legs out in front of him, “Oh? How is that?”

Boroxle’s bony crest tipped slightly as he frowned, “I’ve heard you say you were a warrior on your world?”

“A long time ago I was.”

Boroxle gestured to the area Merco had cleared of trees, “I’m the greatest warrior in my tribe and you defeated me with no effort at all. I’m told you did the same to the Ansheetan’s EFP without casualty. You’re the most powerful thing on our planet. You could conquer anything and everything before you and live as a god. Yet you resign yourself to that of a passive servant. Why?”

Merco surveyed the area he had cleared a moment and then focused on the Rogashay leader. Though he’d emphasized many times that he wasn’t under the Ansheetan’s command nor was he out to destroy anything, it still seemed Boroxle doubted his assertion.

“You know, just because I’m big doesn’t mean I have some overwhelming to desire to destroy and conquer everything before me.” Merco explained with a slight bit of annoyance in his tone, “I help because I want to help...not because I’m commanded. But I feel morally obligated to help those who helped me in any way I can.”

“But we’ve never helped you.” Boroxle pointed out. “Why would you help us?”

Merco smiled lightly, “I’d much rather make friends than enemies. And if my help can build a bridge between your people and the Ansheetans then my efforts are not wasted.”

Boroxle mulled over his statement a moment.

A smirk lifted Merco’s mouth, “Oh...and uh...sorry about burying you. I have the feeling you haven’t forgiven me for that.”

“I haven’t.”

“Right...well...I apologize for that.” Merco extended a finger to the Rogashay.

Boroxle stared at the massive digit uncomprehending. His hand tightened against his spear.

“In my culture when two people make an agreement or reach an understanding they gasp hands and shake them.” Merco explained.

“Why?”

“Uh...I don’t know. It’s just what we humans do to show we’re not enemies anymore.”

Boroxle squared up at Merco’s hand and then stared hard at him, “When the Rogashay have a grudge it must be resolved before such a pact can be made.”

“And...how is that accomplished?”

Quite suddenly, Boroxle activated his blue energy spear and with a fast arcing swipe slashed a cut across Merco’s extended finger.

“Ow!” Merco retracted his hand quickly to see the red slice open up. “The Hell?”

Boroxle deactivated his spear and returned it to its resting pose, ”Now I can accept your offer.”

He extended his hand to Merco as if nothing had happened. Merco tipped his head in a manner that was bewildered by the abrupt violent action. The Rogashay were indeed a different culture than the more peaceful Ansheetans; fear didn’t seem to register too deeply with them. It was almost admirable to Merco that Boroxle would have the gumption to attack him when he clearly knew he was outmatched.But...his mate Kriees seemed to possess the same boldness.

“Ok...friends?” Gently he extended his uncut pinkie finger to the Rogashay leader and they “shook hands”.

Boroxle nodded.

From that moment on, the Rogashay regarded Merco as a welcome visitor to their new settlement. Once he had cleared the trees and helped aerate the soil for their new territory, the once semi-nomadic bandits began their new farming and hunting culture; growing crops and raising their sand dragons. Though tension was still evident between the Ansheetans and the Rogashay they maintained a tolerance for each other through laissez-faire. It was indeed a milestone in their history.

...

One and a half rotations later...

By Ansheetan time Merco had been on the planet Anshai-tee for one and a half rotations or almost an Earth year. In that time, he had become much beloved by the tiny alien races that resided there. Even though they started out frightened and mistrustful of him he had gradually won them over with his gentle nature and helpful size and strength. Helping the farmers with their crop harvest, transporting the Trit vimvim catches to Anashee, and aiding the miners of Pela Canyon in their mineral harvests were just some of the tasks.

In that time, some of the scientifically technological minds of Anashee had developed a device that could send out a communique outside of their planet. It was a simple message translated to Merco’s language, “Stranded...need transport off planet.” They knew it was sent out beyond their planet but how far they were uncertain. Thus far there had been no reply or ship. Every day Merco would pass by the station situated on the top of the mountains that surrounded Anashee. And every day the controllers monitoring the station would give him the signal of “No Message”. It was disheartening for the man but he faithfully checked anyway.

As the light grew dim and the day drew to a close, Merco and his almost constant companion, Pixie, had ended up in Pela Canyon since the following day he was slated to transport a shipment of ores from the settlement to Anashee. He descended into the canyon and his shirt began to glow as it always did around dark.

“Are we going to the Pela Settlement?” Pixie asked him as she floated over his head.

Merco yawned deeply shaking his head, “I think I’m going to get some sleep early Pixie. I’ll meet with them in the morning.”

In the rotation after she had Emerged, Pixie had faithfully practiced her flying under the tutelage of her mentor Anu. Being Merco’s ambassador and following him whenever he traveled afforded her many opportunities to push her flying skills and she had become a pretty strong flier. In fact this trip she hadn’t had to ride on Merco’s shoulder at all. But she had to admit when they arrived at Pela Canyon, she too was tired.

Merco could see her bobbing in the air which he knew was her signal that she was growing tired. He smiled at her and held out his hand for her. The little Ansheetan landed gratefully on the sturdy platform of his huge hand.

“Atta girl, Pixie! You made it without riding on my shoulder once this time.” He congratulated her as he brought her close to his chest.

She flopped over in his palm, clearly exhausted but happy, “Yay, me!”

He smiled down at her, “You think you’ll join the EFP? Anu and Traynar keep asking me if you will.”

“I don’t know.” Pixie admitted, rolling over onto her back in his hand, “I mean, I’m not a fighter like Traynar. But the scout patrol maybe...?”

“You’d be good at it.”

Her blue eyes directed up at him, “But I like being your ambassador. If I was in the EFP we wouldn’t get to see each other as much.”

Merco smiled good-naturedly, “Well maybe they could have an Elite Walking Patrol for me and we could scout together? We kind of already do.”

Pixie laughed, “Yeah, but now that the Rogashay aren’t raiding anymore we’d be bored.”

“Nothing wrong with boring peace.”

“Yeah. I guess you’re right.”

Merco found his usual spot in the canyon where he’d slept a few times before. The Pela citizens had provided him with a mat and a pillow roll to sleep on there as well but the canyon sand was a natural soft cushion. He sat down, placed Pixie on his chest, and laid out on his back. Pixie slipped into his shirt pocket as was her custom and looked up at the sky with Merco for a time. Merco had stared at the alien stars above many times in his “year” on Anshai-tee. The white dots were similar to the ones back on Earth but several larger planets loomed like bright marbles overhead reminding him it wasn’t his home world. He didn’t know them. He doubted he’d ever know them. The Ansheetans had names for them but none that he recognized from his interstellar travels.

He sighed deeply wondering if he’d ever see Earth’s stars again. Despite the fact that the Ansheetans had made attempts at communication outside their world, the silence had been discouraging. Though he was comfortable and cherished his little friends the homesickness grew sourer in his heart. He often wondered if his family was ok without him.

Had they given up searching and accepted the idea he had died or was forever lost? Or were they still searching, torturing themselves because they didn’t know what happened to him and had to know? His granddaughter would be born by now...how old was she? What did she look like? What did they name her?

“Are you ok?” Pixie asked.

“Hmm?”

She patted his chest, “Your heart was beating different just now.”

Merco sighed gently, “Just...homesick, I guess.”

Pixie was familiar with Merco’s common feeling of missing his family and she always tried her best to make him feel at home and not miss his home so much. But it was a battle she knew she couldn’t win.

Flipping onto her stomach she spanned her arms out in a big hug for him. He noticed her gesture, gave a soft smile, and gently laid his hand over her to return the affection.

“Good night, little one.”

“Good night.”

As they both fell asleep the canyon muffled the sound from the sky that hissed across the Wasteland.

...

Beyond the forest at the edge of the Wasteland...

The purplish gray sands of the Wasteland were blown powerfully, cast aside from the backwash of the descending ship at high speed. Thrusters blue with heat, the sleek, dark-colored ship landed on a surface that was flatter and harder than the surrounding sands. The scathing shrieking hiss of the engines died away to a dull whine as the ship powered down and cooled. A few minutes passed before the exit ramp lowered itself, hydraulics hissing as it settled to the ground.

A large, bulky figure covered in gray green scales descended the ramp, scanning the area with yellow reptilian eyes.

“Cresh...haven’t we been here before?” Gurt asked in his guttural voice, surveying the darkening terrain that looked to be a mauve purple-sanded desert bordering a vast swath of trees.

The white-skinned alien pilot with the distinct dark blue Mohawk removed his harness and rose from his pilot chair, “Yeah. Remember about a year ago we dumped that human here?”

Gurt flicked his reptilian tongue and growled, “Oh yeah...only got paid half for that job.”

“Which we would’ve got in full had the authorities not raided our guy’s compound.” the young alien reminded his surly partner. His four lensed goggles scanned the area, “Wonder how long he lasted?”

Gurt stalked down the ramp of their ship his dinosaur-like visage making slow passes at the alien terrain, “Probably died in a week. Humans ain’t very sturdy.”

The younger alien snorted, “Oh, I don’t know. They can be pretty resilient given the right motivations.”

“Whatever. Think those ILE (Interstellar Law Enforcers) goons will find us here?”

“You doubt my ability to avoid the law? You wound me Gurt.” Cresh replied dramatically. “This place is so far off the beaten path...I don’t think anyone knows it exists. And besides, that new signature scrambler we picked up should keep us hidden until things quiet down.”

“Shoulda fought ’em.” Gurt grumbled, always itching to fight.

“Now I know even your pea brain doesn’t believe that would’ve ended well.” Cresh replied, grabbing a few energy pistols from their bulkhead mounts and holstering them.

Gurt hissed, “Better than hiding on this dirt ball. How long are we gonna stay here?”

Cresh made sure the energy pistols were charged properly and adjusted the belt around his lithe frame, “Oh a few days I suppose. Then we can get out of here and be on our merry way.”

The lizard-faced Gret’nal bristled his head spikes and stretched his toothy mouth, “I’m hungry. What have we got left since we hit that space port?”

“Some of the usual dehydrated meal packs but we’re good on water. We’ll be fine for a few days.”

Gurt snarled lightly, exposing his small sharp teeth, “Maybe for you. I want something...fresher.”

“Figured you might say that.” Cresh shook his head with a mild grimace.

Though having a Gret’nal was excellent for mercenary muscle, they were notorious for their primitive cravings for raw, living meat. Basically, if it moved or bled Gurt would eat it and the fake products wouldn’t cut it. Cresh honestly didn’t care, as long as his partner didn’t start eyeing him as a potential meal. With a Gret’nal it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility.

“Probably shouldn’t go wandering around yet. It’s dark...might be something worse than you out there.” Cresh pondered.

“Yeah...right.” Gurt flicked his forked tongue in a scenting gesture, “Think I smell somethin’ that way. I’ll be back.”

The white skinned alien rolled his four eyes synchronously, “Whatever, Gurt. Go nuts.”