Alien Worlds by Roxanne Smolen Page B

down. They adhered to his faceplate when he brushed against them.
    He looked up. The ceiling danced with gold-green lights that scuttled over one another. The lights were alive.
    “Spiders.” He nudged Impani. “Look. They have phosphorescent patterns on their backs.”
    She didn’t reply. Why wasn’t she intrigued? What kind of Scout hated bugs?
    Kkrick stepped behind them. He plucked a spider from the wall with two prehensile fingers. Holding the wriggling arachnid, he bit into its body. It sounded like he was eating a crisp apple.
    He held the spider toward Trace. “Much kkgood.”
    “No. Thank you.” Perhaps he’d been wrong to hope for food from their hosts.
    Kkrick shrugged, which was an odd sight on a creature with four arms. Still munching his snack, he led them through another entrance into a larger cave. The room was well lit and warmed by torches blazing from the walls. It looked like a chamber in a medieval castle.
    Five ant-beings lounged around a stone table in the center. They wore ill-fitting togas woven of knobby thread, which Trace assumed was spider silk. Their chattering clicks sounded remarkably like laughter. They drank and sloshed about large, metal goblets and took no notice of Impani and Trace.
    “Has the feast already started?” Trace asked in a hushed tone
    “Always they are here,” said Kkrick. “Always eatingkk. They feed the kkqueen.”
    He swallowed a jab of unease. Who was fed to the queen? He puzzled through Kkrick’s words, then said, “They fill their stomachs then regurgitate for her?”
    “Unless she hungerskk more and takes them whole.” Kkrick laughed at his own joke. “Come. Feast.”
    He clicked and waved at the group around the table. They stopped their revelry and moved to the end to make room.
    Kkrick bowed to Trace. “I tell them you are handlers of the otherskk.”
    Impani stepped forward. “And who exactly are these—”
    Trace squeezed her arm. “Kkrick, where are the others?”
    “They come. We choose kkcommanders to feast and pay homage to you.”
    “And it was through these commanders that you learned to speak our language?”
    Kkrick stared. “Of course.”
    Impani wrenched her arm away. “I’m going to be sick.”
    “Relax. If there are others here who speak our language, they might be able to help us get home.” He guided her to the table.
    They sat cross-legged upon the floor. A sour smell filtered into his mask. Probably mead. He grinned and glanced around. A platter held a tangled pile of spiders, apparently roasted, their legs curled over one another. Bones the size of human finger bones littered the stone tabletop.
    The other creatures glared as if they’d ruined the party. Their black eyes were large and reflective. Trace shied from their gaze then jumped as Kkrick set down two goblets of green liquid. It looked more like bile than mead.
    “I’m not drinking that drel,” Impani rasped.
    Trace smiled and nodded as if she’d said something complimentary. He held a goblet toward her. “Look at this workmanship.”
    Impani gave him a blank stare.
    “I’m not joking. Such metalwork is thought to be impossible for creatures without opposable thumbs.”
    “Maybe the others made it for them,” she muttered.
    Trace scowled. Her attitude was not befitting a Scout. He was just about to tell her so when another creature came into the room.
    This one was smaller and had a reddish sheen to its shell-encased body. He carried what appeared to be a water-filled bladder. The newcomer sat on the edge of the table. With the bladder between his knees, he began to knead and stroke it rhythmically. The bloated organ let out an eerie sound, like a sheep’s bleat echoing from a deep well.
    It took several moments before Trace realized it was music. He glanced about the table. The ant creatures sat with their heads inclined, mesmerized by the throbbing tones. All conversation stopped.
    Then a parade of creatures entered, each with a platter of meat. The