The Chosen One

Chapter 9

Chapter 9

February - 3,390 BC

Earth: Crash site

Colonel Mikhail Mannuki’ili

MIKHAIL

The pleasant tingle of fingertips caressing his cheek sank deep into his subconscious, along with the hypnotic sound of Ninsianna's voice. Gods, it hurt to breathe! He couldn't remember what it felt like not to hurt. But so long as it hurt, he knew he was still alive.

Mikhail opened his eyes.

The harsh, golden sun had shifted to sit upon the western rim of the valley. Lengthy shadows indicated he'd been unconscious for quite some time. The scent of fresh-crushed leaves wafted up from the wound in his chest. Medicinal herbs? Yet more proof that this was the source race.

Source race. Source race?

The thought flitted through his mind and left before he could grab hold of it. What in Hades did that mean? He had the urgent feeling he was supposed to communicate that piece of information to somebody, but he couldn't remember who, or why it was so important!

He looked up into the face which stared at him upside down.

"Hello?" He searched her unusual tawny-beige eyes.

She murmured something which could be hello, or thank you, or I want to smash your skull in with a rock, but by her smile, it appeared to be gratitude.

"Who was that?" he asked, knowing she couldn't understand him.

"Who?" She pointed in the direction her assailant had run away. "Who? Jamin."

Her nose wrinkled up as she gave him a sheepish grin. A disgruntled former boyfriend, perhaps?

"Who—" he pointed in the direction the men had disappeared "—Jamin?"

Ninsianna nodded. "Jamin."

Mikhail studied the way her entire body became animated when she spoke. She appeared to share the same underlying non-verbal body language as his species. Not wanting to make any assumptions, he nodded and said "sua, and then shook his head side to side and said "aon." He did this several more times until she understood he meant yes and no.

"Yes, sua, Jamin!" She pinched her nose as if blocking out a bad smell, and then she laughed, a delightful, musical sound.

Pleasant warmth tingled throughout his body; wherever she touched him, he could feel a lessening of pain.

"Let’s get back to the ship?"

He attempted to sit up and groaned.

"Up," she said in her own language, pointing up.

She helped him to his feet, laughing with delight as she experimented with the unfamiliar words. He flared his good wing for balance. She propped herself beneath his armpit, a doll-like crutch, wrapping one arm around his waist to stabilize him as she turned him to face his ship.

A sick feeling settled into the pit of his stomach. Not that he could remember what his ship was supposed to look like, but it lay semi-buried against the valley wall, partially covered in rubble from a landslide. The nose cone disappeared completely into rocks, the back bent at a funny angle, causing the crack, and a long, dark weapons blast had burned off the name of his ship in the same shot which had taken out one of the engines.

"I suppose that belongs to me?"

He glanced down at Ninsianna, who viewed the wrecked ship with eager, child-like eyes.

"Who else would it belong to? The question is—" he looked up "—who shot me down?"