With one hand resting resolutely on the butt of his shotgun, Rick Weston barreled up the hill, knocking aside hanging moss and vines in a blur of determination.

It was the first day after the storms, having started out with a bright dawn and a promising crimson sky. The colonists loved walking around outside again. For seven days, everyone had been crowded into cramped living quarters while the hot rains of Earth Alt X pummeled the domes and kept everyone isolated in their separate habitats. At last, the bulk of the fifty settlers were released, breathing open, if humid, air and sorting the basecamp back into shape.

Then, the call came. Rick stopped shoveling broken foliage onto the compost pile long enough to answer the device on his wrist. The coms were working again.

“Sergeant Wanjari here, Captain. The count’s wrong.”

Rick walked away from the work gang, out of listening distance. Who was missing? He’d seen Melody; she was inside the main dome, tending to a few minor injuries from the storm. Wanjari didn’t want to tell him something.

“Spill it, sergeant.”

“Yes, sir. We’re outside Beezle’s lab. I mean, Lieutenant Blunt. Anyway, his com-badge is offline. The door is locked. Looks like a body on the surgical table.”

“Sergeant.” Rick held a short breath and then released it explosively. “Break the fucking door and get my wife… get Melody Weston over there immediately! I’ll be with you in five.” Even as he tapped the wrist circuit closed, Rick heard the pounding begin, an echo coming over the hills, about half a mile distant.

In a rainforest many light years away, but rather like this one, Rick had gone hunting with his best friend Beezle, aka Barry— nobody but his dear mother had called the weaselly dude Barry.

Rick had saved Beezle from being killed by a snake bite back then.

But this time, Rick had shown up too late. They’d broken into the lab only to find Beezle sprawled dead across his own stainless steel table. Blood everywhere. The smell of the aliens was thick on the air.

He’d warned Beezle not to trust the molters.

With a crack of snapping tree limbs, Rick wrenched aside the last obstacles of this planet’s overgrown environment and burst out of the tangled underbrush. The special weapons team at his heels huddled in close for orders.

“Listen up, squad. No kills. We’re the civilized ones.” Rick motioned his team into position around the vine-covered treescape that served as a molter gathering hall. “We secure the antechamber, then I’ll nab that molter shaman, Manytides.”

Their boots clattered across the porphyry patio under the blazing hot afternoon sun. A gang of molters wheeling carts of mangled foliage from the storm scattered at their approach.

Rick knew they would have to move fast before more molters arrived.

Cracked slabs of igneous rock lay sprawled before the entrance like unearthed bones. Green-and-copper foliage dribbled down the exterior of what they had come to think of as the local molter city hall.

Roots dangled over the pockmarked entrance. A bestial den, as far as Rick was concerned. Not a monument to civil service.

His squad streamed into the lobby. Rick’s guards, Coons and Wanjari, took point.

Twenty molter office clerks shuffled info-slabs and engaged in small discussions at rough, circular desks. They wore loose, sleeveless robes. Some had two arms covered in veins, while others had four or six. They tied their coarse hair up in business topknots.

A pair of molter door staff, eyes glittering, chirped a greeting in unison. They reminded Rick of drunk clowns in a shooting gallery. The translator strapped to the gear on his belt repeated their words in bumbling, off-the-mark English. “Welcome windy days and be happy, foreigners. We wish much profit for—”

Coons and Wanjari tackled them to the ground, cuffed their hands, and dragged them to the center of the room. Rick fired at the ceiling to get everyone’s attention. Several windows shattered. The clerks cowered.

Rick wanted it clear that if they tried any murderous funny business like they had with Beezle, they would be put down.

Wielding his weapon like a judge’s gavel, Rick pounded the butt of his shotgun against the top of the nearest desk. “Arrest them all!”

Soldiers squeezed the door staff and office clerks into a side room jam-packed with locked canisters, sealed packets, and dried plant husks hanging from hooks in the ceiling.

“Pack yourselves in like sardines, beasties,” Coons said.

Wanjari nudged a skinnier, whimpering straggler. “Get cozy, everyone.” Sweat dripped from her chin and neck, the rainforest décor drenching them with stifling heat. “Squat down and keep those arms where I can see them.” She shifted her shoulders, obviously easing an awkward itch in the center of her back. 

Rick heard the translator at his belt deliver their squeaks and screeches as “Death swims closer,” and “Sing the earth our prayers!”

Coons swiveled his pistol at the line of molters. With his other hand, he scratched the back of his neck. “You. Little one. Get up and show us where Manytides is.”

Wanjari addressed the rest of the squad. “Remember. Captain doesn’t want them dead. We’re bringing them to trial. But keep it tight.”

While the soldiers secured the clerks, Rick set his shotgun on the nearest desk and loaded a few more shells. The thought of losing his best friend blinded him with rage. Of all the stupid stunts Beezle pulled over the years, this one was for the record books. And he had paid for it with his life.

Beezle was deep into experimenting with their medicines, the squirming vines and pulsing mud sacks they brought and traded for ceramics and glass. Rick had told the older man it was a trick. These things weren’t human. No way you could trust molters.

The scrawny molter Coons had singled out wriggled and murmured.

Coons touched the black box secured to his belt. “Speak up, you degenerate beast. For the translator.”

The alien creature spoke louder. The translator repeated in English. “You should be polite to our leader.”

Wanjari checked a mesh of vines in a back corner. The alien said their leader was in there. “That governor, priest… whatever. It’s in here, somewhere. Entry looks clear.”

“Coons, keep watch. Wanjari, inside with me. Weapons ready.”

Rick plopped through the slimy, enshrouded entrance.

The office air was heavy with droplets clinging to the walls. A tepid pool filled the center of the chamber. After commanding Wanjari to position herself beside their only exit, Rick circled around the gray water. The pungent stench, as sour as pickles, gave Rick pause.

 Wrinkling his nose, he aimed his shotgun at Manytides, who waddled naked amongst the waist-high ferns to the rear of the chamber. As the figure turned to confront Rick, a pair of mismatched glowing mounds —hearts— pulsed an unnatural, arrhythmic beat on its chest. The loose membrane of skin covering them seemed insufficient.

Ferns obscured the lower body, hiding the hermaphroditic reproductive parts Rick’s wife had shown him in slides. The rubbery, vein-rich skin glistened with moisture.

Manytides grinned, its triangular jaws daring Rick to fire. The eyes formed glistening blackberry craters beside six tiny nostrils.

As he moved, Rick’s elbow grazed a niche of stone with a handful of old-style paperbacks inside, vines entwining them like living bookends.

“Those,” he canted his head without looking. “They belong to Beezle! Do you know how much he loved those? How much it cost to ship those interstellar?”

“Liquidation? Retainer…” Manytides seemed to be searching for words. “Payment. Cost much to translate.”

“Saw what you monsters did” —Rick shoved the barrel close— “to my friend. Blood everywhere.”

“Your friend, sir? Blood?” The voice buzzed and thrummed like a puttering motor. Or a terrified alien faking politeness. “Your officer Blunt, do you mean, sir? The Beezle? A misunderstanding. The operation—”

“No misunderstanding. It was murder.”

“A killing?” The alien eyes focused on the shotgun in Rick’s hands. “There is no killing.”

“Quit lying.” Rick nudged the barrel harder, the monster’s skin bowing against the pressure. “We already recovered Beezle, and guess what? He ain’t breathing.”

“That is part… part of the process,” Manytides seemed to stutter. “The inhalations are nearly impossible to observe when—”

“We found Beezle stripped and covered in blood when we broke in!”

“Broke in? Entered the lab-den? Oh, my. This should not have been done, sir. The reverberations!”

“Reverb…What the hell!” Rick poked Manytides with the barrel of the shotgun, his finger on the trigger. Suddenly, he realized just how itchy his trigger finger was.

“I apologize. Consequences. Shedding a heart requires high atmospheric admixture. You must have breathed in…” Manytides paused. “We must find Forked Lightbeam to assist us.”

“Keep talking, you snake.” Rick bared his teeth like he was ready to start chewing Manytides apart. “Your Forked friend was the last one seen with Beezle.”

The slippery plop of the door distracted Manytides. “Sir, please. Doctor Weston has arrived. Speak with the female.”

Rick kept the shotgun barrel close against its purple skin. As if the weapon could still save Beezle somehow.

Melody Weston entered the space in a white cloak and white mask. Walking with a measured gait, she took everything in at a glance. Raising a cylinder in one hand, she took an air sample which fed into a small device strapped over her shoulder. Looking first to the reading, she removed her mask and spoke with a calm, even voice.

“Yeah, Rick, put the guns away. We need to get you under Forked Lightbeam’s care, immediately.” She raised her voice to the rest of Rick’s team. “Everyone, stand down! You could go into shock if you don’t…calm down.”

Coons grimaced, cradling his weapon while he scratched the back of his neck raw. The other members of the squad looked equally discomfited. Wanjari was searching for a sharp wall angle to rub her back against, to no avail.

Rick found himself caught between wanting to understand his wife’s words and the desire to blow a sizeable hole in Manytides’ middle. He gave the molter three pokes with the barrel of his shotgun, the last time hard. Manytides backpedaled.

“These snakes killed Beezle!” Rick growled.

Melody stepped forward, checking the rash that had been growing on Rick’s cheek and using the moment to make and hold eye contact.

“No. They did not. Look at me. Listen.”

“They want us dead,” Rick interrupted. “Stop the colony while it’s small!”

“If they had any common sense, they would,” Melody countered drily. “I’ll use small words. You’ve been poisoned.”

Dressed in medical gowns and masks, Rick and Manytides stared through the windowpane at Beezle’s body on the operating table. Against Rick’s better judgment, Forked Lightbeam was in there, assisting Melody and the clinic’s staff.

Rick had the urge to tear through Manytides, kick open the door, and break his friend out, but he knew that was crazy. Recognizing it was crazy was the benefit of Melody’s ministrations. A fat needle to the shoulder and a handful of pills and he knew it was crazy.

Rick paced away from the windowpane, nearly bumping into a passing nurse.

Manytides thrummed and the translator stated, “Breathe, sir. Calm, sir.”

“Me? You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?”

Manytides seemed to consider his words, giving the translator time. “Our kind… are more alike than you think. We can help you evolve.”

Rick slapped the wall. “No way am I letting you continue to abuse my people for your own sadistic schemes.” He breathed deep. Yes, he had heard himself.

Manytides gazed calmly back. “Joining our medical and scientific knowledge can help both our kinds.” A darker undertone crept into the thrumming voice. “Please know— I do not appreciate your violence. Your Doctor Weston has assured me you shall settle down, but that time cannot come soon enough.”

The door to the operating room airlock opened. Melody poked her head out.

“Rick. Beezle wants to talk to you.”

“Is he still… human?”

“He’s groggy,” Melody answered matter-of-factly. “Won’t be able to talk long.”

Rick rubbed his sweaty brow. The urge to harm molters still burned through him.

Forked Lightbeam massaged Beezle’s forehead as a nurse pulled a blanket over his chest. 

With his smile no more than a weak tugging of the lips, Beezle’s words spilled out in a murmur. “You jerk. You really attacked them?”

Rick squeezed Beezle’s hand. “I thought you died.”

“I told you. You always knew I was going to test new grounds.”

Rick clenched his teeth, grunted, then cleared his throat to explain. “When I found you, there was blood everywhere.” A teardrop hung on his eyelash. He could feel it trembling. “You weren’t breathing. What should I have done? Thank the molters for gutting you?”

“Why did you have to overreact? They aren’t snakes.”

“Yeah.” Rick’s mind whipped back in time to Beezle crumpled amongst the ferns, his leg swollen and festered with venom. A snake caged and ready for research beside him. Rick had thrown his shotgun aside, yanked Beezle to his feet, and charged to the hospital. History repeats in strange ways. “Man, you are always trying to kill yourself.”

Beezle grinned. “Cut me some slack. And you never truly gave this species a chance.”

“They’re slimy monsters!”

Beezle, face drained of color, jerked a hand at Rick, despite the catheter in his arm. “They could push us off this world anytime —with their spores and mycelial remedies— if they turned them against us.”

“Jesus!” Rick reached to his hip, but the gun was gone. “I hadn’t thought…”

“Seriously, dude. You need to ally yourself with Manytides. What Forked Lightbeam and I did—” Beezle started coughing and went silent.

Forked Lightbeam brought a glass of water to Beezle’s lips.

Melody patted Rick’s shoulder. Sharp pain sizzled through his upper body. More sweat dripped down his face. Why weren’t Melody’s treatments working?

“Beezle needs more rest to recover,” Melody said. “He’s still adjusting to his new state.”

“He’s going to be okay, right?”

“Appears to have stabilized, and I think he’ll be fine.”

“Huh.” Rick let Melody lead him out of the operating room. “New state?”

“Oh, just growing a new heart. His old one’s always been weak since that snake bite way back when. A pile of years in space hasn’t done it any favors. The new one is growing out of the tissues of the old, and the old one is kind of, well… molting.”

“Two hearts in there?”

“For now.” Melody took a breath, and patted Rick’s chest. “He doesn’t need to worry about his old one clogging up or shutting down on him. The new one will completely replace the old one soon enough. He won’t have to worry about the disease taking him before his time. And he’ll easily outpace you next time you take him running.”

Rick’s shoulders sagged. He unclenched his teeth. A shudder went through him as he thought about what he had almost done. The insane orders he had nearly given to his soldiers. “So, I was wrong.”

“You were wrong.”

Rick kissed her cheek. “I’ll let you handle this while I apologize to Manytides.”

“Get your squad assembled. Forked Lightbeam needs to see them next.”

Rick crossed his arms and studied the monstrous being before him. Nodded to himself. He was so damned itchy. “I guess I owe you an apology. I screwed up.”

Manytides extended the molters’ version of a hand. “Let us shake on it. And now, let us prepare you for the anti-serum.”

Rick shook the hand but narrowed his eyes. “You can really attack us with spores?”

Manytides burst into a coughing fit.

Not coughing. That was laughter.

“Your guns are very loud,” Manytides said. “Our strength lives on the air, and in the Earth.”

“Unbelievable.” He itched miserably. “We’ve been at your mercy all along?”

“The quality of mercy is not strained.”

“Shakespeare!” Rick flung the word out in disgust, seething at the theft of human words, words from one of Beezle’s ancient books, but he knew he was under the influence. He heaved a long sigh, body shaking with internal strife.

“Got to give you credit.” Rick broke the silence with a shrug. He retreated a couple steps then pointed at Manytides, nodding with a slow respect. “You’re more human than I thought. Whatever these spores are we breathed in… do you have enough antidote for my squad?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Give it to them first,” Rick said, tilting his head toward the window and the squad waiting outside. Blood welled on the back of his hand where he had scraped it open. “Before they scratch themselves raw. They don’t deserve this.”

“Give to you credit, sir,” said Manytides. “You’re more (untranslatable sound) than I thought.”

They returned to Beezle and the operating table. The first human healed by molters was breathing easy, his heart beating more soundly than before.

“C’mon, you’re not… are you?” Rick leaned close to Manytides, almost pleading. “Going to let us scratch ourselves to death?”

The molter laughed, patting the human’s sweaty head of hair; the human lightly poked the molter in the moist skin of its arm. As they distributed the antiserum, they decided on a celebration for that very night and promised to continue discussions on future collaboration between their kinds.