Chapter 9: Echoes of The Past

Xipa stopped at the base of one of the trees, leaning against its rough bark, her chest heaving as she caught her breath. The damnable aliens were outpacing her once again. It wasn’t only that she had shorter legs than they did, but that they seemed to outmatch her in stamina. She was always behind, trailing after them like an infant clinging to its father’s tail, rather than leading the flock as she had imagined.

Fletcher paused and turned to look back at her, the rest of the team following suit.

“Taking another breather, Ensi?”

“I will be fine,” she panted, her feathers flushing red with irritation. “I just ... need a moment.”

“Yeah, this isn’t gonna work,” the Earth’nay replied. “If you can’t keep up with us at walking speed, then you’re gonna have to go back to your ship.”

“I can keep up,” she snarled, glaring back at him with her one good eye.

“Maybe there’s another solution,” he mused, scratching his furry chin as he glanced over at Gustave. He strode over to Xipa, crunching through the fallen leaves that coated the forest floor, extending his prosthetic hands towards her. She recoiled, snapping her teeth at him reflexively. “Bite me if you want,” he chuckled. “My fingers are made of polymer.”

Her feathers flushed pink with embarrassment as he slid his hands beneath her arms, lifting her sixty-pound frame off the ground with ease. Holding her at arm’s length as though afraid that she was going to bite his nose off, he brought her over to Gustave, the Krell’nay huffing to himself in amusement as he crouched to let Fletcher deposit her on his back. She perched atop one of his broad shoulders like a bird on a branch, just above the ammunition drum that he carried, his leathery poncho providing a surprising amount of purchase for her clawed toes. She lurched as her new steed rose to his full nine-foot height, extending her tail for balance as he began to lumber along.

“There you go,” Fletcher said, patting the Krell’nay’s scaly thigh. “Now you can keep up.”

She wanted to bite back at the impudent Earth’nay, but he was probably right. If she had to ride Gustave to stay on the team, then she would tolerate it for the sake of her people. Maybe for the sake of her calves, too...

She heard the fluttering of wings somewhere above, suppressing the impulse to raise her weapon as their insect companion landed in the leaves ahead of them. His gossamer wings retracted back into their protective coverings, the creature turning to face them.

“All clear,” he announced, reaching up to brush his antennae back like a Valbara’nay might rearrange her feathers. “No Bugs in sight, and I’m not picking up any scents on the wind.”

“I thought this planet would be crawling,” Fletcher muttered, seeming almost disappointed. He tossed the insect’s pack to him, Bluejay using all four of his arms to catch it.

“Moon,” Ruza said, his voice as coarse as sandpaper.

“What?” Fletcher asked, glancing over his shoulder at him.

“Kerguela is a moon, not a planet.”

Fletcher shrugged, continuing on. It had been an uneventful walk so far, and Xipa wasn’t sure exactly how much ground they had covered. She should be relieved that they hadn’t encountered any resistance, but it just put her on edge, the likelihood of some kind of ambush growing with every minute that ticked by.

They walked for a while longer, Xipa clinging to Gustave’s shoulder, surveying the forest from her high perch. It hadn’t changed, not in all the rotations that she had been away. She could almost imagine that she was standing just out of view of her city’s walls, her flock waiting for her on the other side.

“Let’s take a break,” Fletcher said. “I need to get some food in me.”

“I’m surprised that you still need to eat,” Xipa said. “Did you not replace your stomach, too?”

“Some parts of me are still made of meat,” he replied, turning to look up at her. “The parts that count.”

They stopped in the shade of one of the giant trees, using its protruding roots as impromptu benches. After spending so much time on Valbara, Xipa had almost forgotten how tall the plants here could grow in the diminished gravity. Even ten percent made a notable difference in their height.

Fletcher and Ruza sat down, as their kind often did, the insect doing the same. They lacked the ability to lock their joints as the Valbara’nay could. Xipa didn’t wait for Gustave to lower himself down, leaping off his back, landing gracefully on the forest floor. The giant reptile set down his oversized weapon, then splayed out on the ground, lying on his belly with his ammunition drum rising into the air. He buried his snout in the leaves, each breath sending some of them fluttering into the air. He looked like a Teth’rak basking in the sun on a warm day.

“I hope you all packed your own lunches,” Fletcher said, setting down his heavy pack by his boots. He fished out a plastic packet in Navy blue that was marked with Earth’nay text, presumably some kind of ration kit. “I didn’t bring enough PB&J sandwiches for everybody.”

The rest of the team followed suit, shrugging off their packs and rummaging inside for their respective rations. Ruza withdrew a similar, albeit far larger package, while Bluejay held up a small case made from hard resin that was about the size of a tablet computer. Holding the object in his lower pair of arms, he opened the lid with the upper pair, revealing the contents. Inside was a row of transparent vials that contained a golden fluid, Bluejay snapping the resin that held one of them securely in place. The Bug noticed that she was watching, raising the little vial, the liquid inside seeming to glow as it caught the light that filtered in through the canopy.

“It’s honey,” he explained. “It’s basically just concentrated nutrients derived from raw materials that our Repletes break down into their base components. We can process other foods if necessary, but we can stay active and healthy on a diet of just this.”

“Was that the fate of my fallen friends?” Xipa asked, not missing a beat. “To be devoured – processed into nutrients to feed their killers?”

Bluejay shrugged, then turned back to his meal, unwilling to give her the reaction that she wanted. She grimaced as she watched the small plates that made up the lower half of his face split open horizontally like a beak, revealing the off-green flesh beneath the chitin, shattering the illusion that he had a mouth anything like that of an Earth’nay. There were no teeth, there was no throat. Instead, a long, fleshy tube slowly extended, reaching out towards the vial as Bluejay twisted off the cap. It was a proboscis, the insect starting to drink, Xipa able to see it bulge like a straw as the fluid traveled up its length.

Disgusting...

“How many of those do you have to eat a day?” Fletcher asked.

“Usually two,” the insect replied.

“Damn, you’re efficient, I’ll give you that. And here I was thinking I was saving the Navy money on my diet. Humans usually need about two thousand calories a day, but half of me’s gone,” he chuckled as he wiggled his prosthetic fingers. “One twenty-four-hour MRE usually lasts me two days. The rest of me is powered by good old electricity. The batteries don’t have an infinite charge, but enough energy is recycled through kinetic recapture that they can last for months, and they shut down completely when I sleep.”

“An MRE is balanced to give you all of the necessary nutrients as well as pure calories,” Ruza chided, tearing open his own packet with one of his hooked claws. “You should try to eat as much of it as you can.”

“Don’t worry, mom,” Fletcher replied sarcastically. “I promise I’ll eat all my greens.”

Xipa set her pack down at her feet, opening up the zipper and reaching for one of her ration packs. Most of what she was carrying was just food, as they had no idea how long they’d be on the surface. There was enough for several days, at least. Longer, if she was willing to ration it. Fortunately, one of the few Earth’nay inventions that she truly appreciated let her refill her canteen from the moisture in the air, giving her a functionally limitless supply of fresh water.

She tore open the Navy-camouflaged packaging with her sharp teeth, examining the contents. She found a protein bar, peeling open the silver wrapper and biting off a piece.

“What’s the Valbaran Navy feeding its troops these days?” Fletcher asked.

“This is insect protein and grains,” she replied.

“You guys eat bugs?” Fletcher said, sticking out his tongue in an expression of disgust. “Watch out, Bluejay,” he added as he reached over to give the nearby insect a playful shove. “Looks like you’re on the menu if we end up stranded down here. The Ensi’s gonna give you a taste of your own medicine.”

“We don’t eat people,” he sighed, the fact that he could still talk with his proboscis extended making Xipa feel even more uncomfortable. “This honey is made from livestock, grains, and fruits that we cultivate on Jarilo. We do a lot of farming on the colony.”

“Let’s see what the Navy packed for me today,” Fletcher continued, sifting through the contents of his package. “A beef taco, fuck me. Tax money well-spent right there. Rice and beans, cheese spread, fruit and nut mix. I’d ask you guys if you wanted to trade, but frankly, it all sounds fucking disgusting.”

“You’ve probably eaten our honey before,” Bluejay added. “It’s one of our primary exports.”

“I don’t know where half the shit I eat comes from,” he replied, starting to shake one of his self-heating meal packets. “I’d rather it stayed that way, thanks.”

As the scents of cooking food carried over to her, Xipa was suddenly less satisfied with eating all of her rations in bar form. Ruza even had a tiny, collapsible stove with flammable gel that he was using to cook one of his massive food packets.

“Are you not going to join us, Gustave?” Bluejay asked as it glanced over at the prone reptile. The Krell’nay huffed in reply, a series of low rumbles translated into English by the bulky device on his wrist.

“Tiny warm-bloods always feeding, always scurrying. Gustave already fed this month.”

“I guess he doesn’t need to eat every day,” Fletcher added with a shrug.

“Krell are cold-blooded,” Ruza explained, tending to his little stove. “They have very slow metabolisms, which means that they only need to feed once every few months. Some suspect it is the secret to their longevity. The Humans have a similar creature on Earth, the corkodile.”

“Crocodile,” Fletcher corrected with a wave of his plastic fork. “Suddenly, I’m a whole lot less confident about letting you do surgery on people.”

“Can you name any Rask animals in their native language?” Ruza shot back, giving him a humorless stare. “Can you even speak a word of Rask?”

“No, but I’m pretty sure UNN phrase books now include the Rask words for I surrender and please don’t run me over with your tank.”

“Were you there?” Ruza asked, narrowing his yellow eyes. They were reflective, seeming to glow as they caught the sunlight, his pupils shrunken down to thin slits. “Did you fight against the Matriarch?”

“No,” Fletcher admitted, pausing to take a bite of his meal. It looked like minced meat and vegetables that had been wrapped in some kind of flatbread. “I left SWAR before that whole mess went down. I have friends who did, though.”

“And what did they tell you?”

“That a single armored battalion put down your rebellion and then conquered your territory.”

“A simplistic assessment of the situation,” Ruza continued, seeming to cool off a little. He turned his attention back to his meal, reaching a fork into his packet to prod the contents as they cooked. “Your friends must not think very highly of you if they explain things in such childish terms.”

“Oh, kitty has claws,” Fletcher chuckled. “Why don’t you give me the rundown? It’s not like we have anything else to do down here. It sounds like you have a lot of opinions.”

Ruza ignored him, lifting his packet from the collapsible stove. He fished out a chunk of meat with his fork, spearing the steaming flesh on its prongs. It was massive, some kind of animal steak, dripping with oil. The size of the packet suggested that the alien could each as much meat as an entire Valbara’nay flock during Gue’tra season in one sitting.

“What rebellion was this?” Xipa asked.

“You didn’t hear about it?” Fletcher replied, raising an incredulous eyebrow.

“Forgive me if the minutia of Earth’nay life is not my most pressing preoccupation.”

“Borealis is split into territories,” he explained. “They don’t have anything like the United Nations or the Council of Ensis on their planet. These jokers decided to start a fight with every other territory and the entire Coalition at the same time. Needless to say, they got their arses handed to them.”

“Why?” Xipa asked, turning to Ruza.

The feline paused his chewing, seeming more willing to engage with her than with Fletcher.

“It was a matter of sovereignty, of culture, of honor,” he explained. “The Matriarch tried to return our people to the old ways, to restore control of our ancestral hunting grounds. It was a miscalculation.”

“Understatement of the century,” Fletcher snickered.

“If it had not occurred to you already, I no longer serve the Matriarchy,” Ruza snarled as he turned back to the smirking Earth’nay. “I have seen enough death and hardship caused by those who wish to live out their self-aggrandizing fantasies at the expense of others.”

“That’s why you don’t roll with a pack?” Fletcher asked, seeing an opportunity to press the issue further. “I’ve seen a lot of shit in my time, but never a Borealan who goes it alone by choice. Most cats would call you insane for doing that.”

Again, Ruza chose not to answer, seeming to take pleasure in frustrating Fletcher. Bluejay was already done with its meal, sitting on a root quietly as it watched its companions eat. Xipa finished off the first of her ration bars, feeling a pang of jealousy as she watched Ruza and Fletcher produce yet more packets. Ruza had finished a banquet’s worth of meat and was now plucking dried fish from a can with his claws, while the Earth’nay was eating some kind of baked dessert.

“You want some?” he asked, noticing that she was watching him. “You’ve probably never tasted human food, right?”

“No,” she replied, unwrapping another protein bar. “I have what I need.”

“I guess, but it doesn’t look very exciting,” he muttered.

“Rations are not supposed to be exciting,” she chided, taking a bite to punctuate her point. “They are supposed to provide soldiers with the food they need to survive.”

“It seems like the Valbarans are pretty new to the whole war thing, so I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt,” the Earth’nay replied. “An army marches on its stomach, kid. Getting good food to your men isn’t just a matter of nutrition, but morale. Let me tell you – when you’re sitting waist-deep in mud on some blasted hellscape fifty light-years from home, a belly full of warm food is gonna keep you from deepthroating the barrel of an XMH.”

“Kid?” she snapped, a flush of red passing through her headdress. “I’d wager I have been fighting since before you were born, whelp.”

“Sorry, it’s the height,” he chuckled as he resumed eating his cake.

Xipa watched the sunbeams bleed through the leaves above as Gustave lumbered along. She was perched on his shoulder – voluntarily this time – her claws digging into his poncho for purchase. It was a little embarrassing to have to be carried, but at least she wasn’t a burden on the creature. If one were to pry off one of the bony scutes that ran down his armored back, she suspected that it might weigh nearly as much as she did.

The buzzing of Bluejay’s wings rose above the crunching leaves, and she looked up to see the creature land just ahead of them. He spent most of his time flying ahead of the team, acting as a living reconnaissance drone, which was fine by her. As much as she hated being in the company of the insect, his usefulness was hard to deny. Perhaps if she started thinking of him more as military hardware, she might be less offended by his presence.

“There’s a road ahead,” Bluejay said, Fletcher raising a fist to signal the team to stop. “It’s all cracked and overgrown. Doesn’t look like it’s been used since the invasion.”

“Those highways linked the cities together,” Xipa explained. “We used to use them to deliver cargo, mostly.”

“I suppose that means we’re on the right track,” Fletcher added, resting his rifle over his shoulder. “We should stay off the roads, though. I don’t fancy being out in the open like that. Let’s cross it quickly and keep moving.”

Bluejay nodded, then jetted off into the air again. They continued on, the trees eventually opening up ahead of them. Fletcher led the way, his rifle raised as he moved out of cover, stepping onto the cracked asphalt.

“Shit, this isn’t a road,” Xipa heard him mutter as he swung his weapon around. “This is a fucking graveyard.”

As Gustave followed, stepping out into the sunlight, Xipa saw what Fletcher was referring to. It was a straight, two-lane highway that ran at a thirty-degree angle relative to the direction they were walking in, the forest slowly reclaiming it. Plants grew through the cracks, spreading roots breaking apart its edges, decades of weathering creating potholes that had filled in with water. It was not empty, however. There was a convoy of vehicles occupying one of the lanes.

Just as on Valbara, few people on Kerguela had owned personal vehicles. There was rarely a need to leave the walls of one’s city, and even then, taking a maglev or an aircraft was a much faster way to travel. Most of these looked like the twelve-wheeled trucks that had been used for transporting cargo, as well as smaller buggies that she recognized from her time with the city guard. They were four-wheeled conveyances with enclosed cockpits that could seat a flock of six, not dissimilar to the buggies used for transport by the military today. They had mostly been used to hasten response times to incidents in the city, and to cover more ground in the forests when necessary.

She hopped down from Gustave’s shoulder, taking a closer look. Time had stripped their paint, eaten away the polymer, and rusted the metal almost all the way through in places. The forest had begun colonizing even these sterile husks, mushrooms taking root in the padded seats, vines and mosses covering them in a red and orange carpet.

“Plasma burns,” she muttered, noting that almost all of the vehicles had been warped and melted by intense heat. There was evidence of fires, slagged metal that had cooled into pools, blackened paint. Even the road beneath them hadn’t been spared. It was pocked with craters, some larger than others, the wheels of the vehicles sinking into it like quicksand where it had melted and resolidified.

“Looks like the roaches strafed them,” Fletcher mused, leaning into the cab of a nearby truck.

“My guess is that they attempted to flee the city during the invasion,” Xipa replied, a shiver of dismayed purple passing through her feathers. “They didn’t get more than a few kilometers before the Bugs noticed them. They had fighters strafing everything that moved that day, like they didn’t even know what they were shooting at. If it looked like a vehicle – if it was outputting electrical or radio signals – they’d attack it.”

“I don’t see any bodies,” he added. “I guess...”

“Food for the hive,” she sneered. “These people just wanted to escape, and they were culled like a flock of Gue’tra.”

“Hey, Bluejay,” Fletcher said, putting a finger to his ear. “Do me a favor and stay up there for a little while. We’re having a bit of an ... incident down here.”

“This means that the insects have traveled through here,” Xipa continued, ignoring the implied insult. How dare he talk about her like that, as if she was some overly emotional male ready to fly off the handle at any moment. “We must keep moving.”

Gustave plodded over to her, lowering his shoulders so that she could leap up, Xipa returning to her high perch.

“Suns are getting low,” Fletcher said, shielding his eyes as he glanced up at the sky. “We should find somewhere to sleep before nightfall. How does night even work on this moon?” he added, turning to glance up at Xipa. “Does it ever actually get dark?”

“Not really,” she replied, turning her eyes to the raging auroras that trailed across the sky above them. Te’tat’zin dominated the heavens, so bright that it might as well have been a third star. “There are eclipses when the gas giant comes between Kerguela and the suns, but those are the only periods of relative darkness. Even then, the auroras provide enough light to see by. I could never get used to the nights on Valbara. It was like being blind...”

“How did you count days and months here?” Fletcher continued, leading them towards the treeline on the far side of the road.

“A year is one rotation around the suns,” she explained, wobbling a little on Gustave’s shoulder as he lumbered along. “A day here is about forty-six of your hours, the time it takes for Kerguela to orbit Te’tat’zin. The moon is tidally locked. There are no months here, no dramatic seasonal changes, as there is no tilt relative to the stars.”

“Well, I guess if there’s no real night anyway, we’ll try to operate on a twenty-four-hour clock. Any objections?”

Gustave shook his massive head, as did Ruza.

“Doesn’t matter to me,” Xipa replied, Fletcher shrugging.

“Come on, then. I hope you don’t mind slumming it. My guess is that we’ll have a hard time finding a five-star hotel that’s open during the apocalypse.”

A crack of thunder sent a flush of alarmed yellow through Xipa’s headdress, and she turned her snout skyward, watching the dark clouds roil through the breaks in the canopy. The first droplets of rain began to fall, pattering on the leaves above, splashing on her scales. What began as a pleasant shower soon became torrential, and she had to reach for her helmet to prevent her feathers from being soaked through. Fletcher and Ruza did the same, the Earth’nay grumbling to himself as he retrieved his helmet from the clip on his belt, slotting it over his head. Gustave seemed not to mind, lifting his long snout as he let the fat raindrops trickle between his scales, opening his jaws wide as though trying to drink.

Xipa snapped her visor shut, watching the droplets splash against it, heavy enough that she could hear the impacts inside her helmet.

“Fucking monsoon is brewing,” Fletcher said, using the local ad-hoc network rather than trying to talk over the noise. “Just our luck.”

Bluejay burst through the canopy, jogging to a stop as he landed in the leaves. He buzzed his gossamer wings before stowing them, the rapid motion shaking off the droplets of water, then waved to the squad with one of his upper arms.

“I spotted a structure a short walk to the North,” the insect said, raising his voice over the rain. He had elected not to wear his helmet, perhaps so as not to give up the use of his antennae. “We should be able to take cover there until this storm passes.”

“What kind of structure?” Fletcher asked, his voice coming through the speakers on his helmet.

“Looks like some old Valbaran building,” he replied, shrugging his lower pair of arms as he held his XMR in the upper. “Abandoned, of course. Roaches wouldn’t have any use for it.”

“Lead the way,” Fletcher said, Bluejay gesturing for them to follow with a curt nod.

They made their way through the undergrowth, cracks of thunder echoing across the forest, wind starting to tear at the branches above. After a few more minutes of walking, they arrived at the building, Xipa spotting it between the trees ahead. It was a structure made up of three interconnected domes that looked like soap bubbles, the white construction material weathered and stained, red weeds covering it in a carpet. The area around it had been cleared prior to its construction, the remnants of a small generator building and an outhouse at the forest’s edge now being overtaken by new growth, saplings reclaiming the area.

“What was this place?” Fletcher wondered, shouldering his rifle cautiously as he approached the main structure. “Looks like a bunch of igloos. Some kind of hunter’s cabin, maybe?”

“It looks like a research station,” Xipa explained. “Naturalists would have come here to study the local flora and fauna.”

“Let’s clear the place before we get too comfortable,” Fletcher added. “Can’t be too careful.”

Xipa hopped down from Gustave’s shoulder, moving over to join Fletcher and Bluejay where they were stacking up beside the entrance. It was a small, tunnel-like vestibule, low enough that the Earth’nay would have to duck. It didn’t look as though Ruza or Gustave would even fit inside.

“On my mark,” Fletcher began. “Thee, two, one.” He reached for the door handle and pulled it, then tried pushing when it didn’t budge. The hinges were probably rusted, and the buildup of soil and plants was blocking it. He drove his shoulder into it, grumbling to himself when it did little more than shake in its frame. Xipa watched curiously as he rapped at the material with his knuckles, testing it, then he drew back his hand as though preparing to strike it. He splayed his polymer fingers like claws, then drove them through the door with surprising force, punching straight through the metal. She heard it creak as he gripped it, Fletcher tearing it from its hinges, tossing it aside as though it weighed nothing.

He waved them forward, the three of them proceeding down the short passageway, emerging into the main dome. The interior was in the same state of disrepair as the exterior, the floor cracked where plants had sprouted up from the soil beneath, clusters of mushrooms growing under the tables that encircled the room. The damp had made its way in through cracks in the ceiling, leaving dark streaks on the white walls. She was right – this had been a laboratory. The tables were strewn with old scientific equipment that was caked in decades of dust.

The trio cleared the other two rooms – a bedroom whose pillows and floor-spanning mattress now played host to mushrooms, and a storeroom full of supplies and old servers.

“Clear,” Fletcher announced. “It’s a bit of a shithole, but it’ll keep the rain off us.”

“It’s as good a place as any to rest,” Bluejay added, waving his feathery antennae. “No trace of any Betelgeusian pheromones, just some spores from mold and fungi.”

Xipa made her way into the adjoining storeroom, a smaller dome with shelves lining the walls. She sifted through some of the old food containers, recognizing a few brands from her youth, picking up an empty glass jar to examine the writing on the label.

“Look at this,” she said, Fletcher and Bluejay poking their heads through the narrow doorway. “There are food containers in here, but every one of them is empty. Someone must have held out here for a while after the invasion.”

“They probably holed up until they ran out of food, then moved on,” Fletcher mused as he examined the shelves. “Didn’t see any bodies.”

“I always imagined that the world ended the day the Bugs arrived,” Xipa said, setting the jar back down on its shelf. It had left a dark circle that was free of dust, and it almost felt disrespectful not to put it back in its rightful place, like she was disturbing a tomb. “Inside the city walls, they wiped out everything and everyone in the space of a few hours. I suppose pockets of survivors could have persisted for days, maybe weeks, as long as they could evade the Bugs.”

“Long enough to keep that beacon running?” Fletcher asked, Xipa turning to look back at him. She couldn’t tell if he was being sincere or not.

“I have to hope,” she replied.

There was a sudden crashing sound, a cloud of dust pouring into the main dome, the sound of the rain growing louder. Fletcher and Bluejay spun around, quickly lowering their weapons, Fletcher spreading his arms in a gesture of exasperation.

“What the fuck, Gustave?”

Xipa peeked out to see that the reptile, unable to fit through the door, had simply shouldered his way through the wall. He shook himself, sending pieces of broken masonry bouncing across the floor, plodding his way inside. Ruza followed behind him, pausing to glance at the Gustave-sized breach.

“You could have brought the whole building down on our heads,” Bluejay complained, but the Krell’nay seemed indifferent. He flopped down onto his chubby belly, the impact sending several of the rusty old research tools toppling off their tables.

Ruza took off his helmet and shook out his golden hair, glancing around the room, his nose wrinkling.

“I suppose it is better than being out in the rain,” he grumbled, shrugging off his pack.

“Right, get settled in,” Fletcher said as he tapped at the touch panel on his wrist. “I’m setting a timer for six hours, then we’re moving again whether you got enough shut-eye or not. Grab something to eat while you can, too.”

The team spread out into the building, seeming to want to get as far away from one another as possible. Gustave lay in the middle of the lab, indifferent to what everyone else was doing, his tail trailing out of the hole that he had made in the wall. Fletcher went into the bedroom, testing the old mattress with his boot, disturbing a few of the brown mushrooms that now called it home. He produced a sleeping bag from his pack, then lay it down on top, using it to shield himself from the damp and rot. Ruza did the same, albeit on the opposite side of the room. Bluejay cleared one of the tables, then lay down on it, using his rucksack as a pillow. Was comfort even a concern for someone whose entire body was covered in hard chitin?