At 480 million years old, the majestic soft, rolling blue-green peaks and valleys of the Appalachian Mountains held many mysteries in the darkness below their dense canopies. Formed at the center of the great supercontinent Pangaea, these hills were among the great elders of Mother Earth. They had witnessed every major mass extinction, and saw their first human beings around an estimated 16,000 years ago. From that point on, the ancient lands would sustain indigenous populations until their forced removal in recent centuries.
The Southern Appalachians alone had seen their share of blood-soaked American history. 19th Century indigenous removals East of the Mississippi River in all cost the lives of hundreds of thousands of human beings, to say nothing of the centuries before. Numerous military battles and skirmishes had also been fought in Appalachia in the late 18th Century during the American Revolution, as well as the 1860s during the American Civil War. In the early 20th Century, the famous Coal Wars were fought in West Virginia between labor unions and coal companies, reaching a dark pitch in 1921 when the US government dropped gas and bombs against the miners during the Battle of Blair Mountain.
Yet, having seen such destruction, the Appalachians remained unmoved. Unchanged. They were the steadfast guardians of life and death on the land that birthed them. The rich resources of the ancient lands between the hills created self-sustaining communities by providing healthy soil for small farms, as well as rich deposits of natural resources, rocks, and minerals. Appalachia had forged sturdy, hard-working people through the years, and a rich history of art, music, and culture.
It was this blend of nature, culture, and history that had compelled Samra to lead Saara, Mireia, and Jez on a tour of Asheville, then due West the next day through a charming little town called Black Mountain. The plan was to eventually meet with Bernard and Loren, though there was no rush, since Loren had business of his own that morning.
It gave Falcon and Winter time to fly freely. Appalachia was among the wild places both had been itching to see again, since returning to Earth. Even though Earth was not their true mother, neither had any memory of their birthplace, and they regarded Earth as the surrogate who had raised them under her watchful skies. Something about these ancient lands had always drawn them in, inviting them to rest in the cool, dense shade, and they were more than happy to oblige.
The two Drorgs drifted Northeast amid the pillowy summer green hills, drinking the cool, damp, oxygen-rich breath of their mother through their skins, roughly following the Blue Ridge Parkway towards a set of coordinates that marked the team’s rendezvous point.
Had they transferred from their birthplace without acclimating, the deadly change in atmosphere would have killed them, but their bodies were adaptable. Their organs reformed, and the gills nestled behind their head crests helped filter any heavier toxins.
As six-limbed sub-adults, they no longer had need of the complete set of retractable toxic spines along their dorsal ridge which once protected them as four-limbed juveniles. A few less-toxic spines remained just below their hides, from the base of their tails to the backs of their rudder-shaped grippers, where the spines fanned out, boldly-colored like those of a sea urchin when exposed.
Where the upper spines had been, their dorsal ridges were now particularly sensitive to the sweet summer air. They had other organs here, which would further develop as they approached mating conditions, should they decide to take on mating roles.
Unlike Lightfire and Arlo, who had maintained their roles since they first became adolescents, Falcon and Winter chose to remain neutral; neither Giver nor Bearer, but simply to Be. Unlike humans, they had no need of gender constructs like male or female, mother or father. For the most part they tolerated the associated Terran pronouns because it made the humans comfortable, but they encouraged the distinction between cultural lexicons: a Giver was not a Father. A Giver was a Giver, and a Bearer was a Bearer. Both were nest-makers, and a Bearer was not a Mother. A partnership did not require the acceptance of a role. Neither Falcon nor Winter desired a role, nor were they required to take one. They simply desired to Be, and be together with their respective partners—their family.
Winter glanced around, realizing that their speedster companion had lagged behind. The watery cloaked image they recognized as Falcon was fading away into the misty clouds. Falcon’s body language had been drooping since that morning, but had become especially noticeable since Black Mountain.
Winter banked and turned about to find them, before all sight could be lost.
[Worry not,] they signed, dropping in front of Falcon’s face. [Partners are safe.]
Falcon steered around them, signing reluctantly. [Seems . . . happy without me.]
Winter loop a vertical arc around their friend reassuringly, [Overwhelmed. Give time. Too much, too fast. Give time.]
[You are not worried?]
[I . . . well . . . ,] Winter darted ahead. [Of course! Give time.]
Jez had been irritable all morning. It was off-putting, but the best thing to do was wait and let her walk it off.
[Will be fine,] Winter insisted, wings beating in a gesture of emphasis. [Humans need time to adjust or they will burn out. Except for Bernard. (he) Always seems fine.]
[No. Too private, that one.]
[Oh. I forgot. Never understood. Why hide?]
[So others not worry.]
Falcon darted ahead, leaving their friend straining to keep up.
As the clouds darkened and gathered around them, the pressure dropped and the humidity rose. A pop-up shower, typical of the region. It would obscure visibility, but thankfully they were already near their destination. They dove down into the trees, Falcon living up to their namesake until the branches finally slowed down them down, but Winter was agile enough to wind their own way through the branches and, at last, keep pace.
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The rain picked up. The two of them rested on the branch of a tree with broad, protective leaves. Winter leaned back against the trunk. Falcon sat further out.
[An hour,] Winter suggested, [(if) Still raining, (we) scout perimeter anyway.]
[(I’ll take) Far watch,] Falcon answered, by way of concession.
[Fine. (I’ll take) Near.]
As the rain pattered through the leaves, Falcon gestured into the woods. [Hope they(are) still same as before.]
Winter had had enough, and reached forward to lightly nip their friend’s tail gripper with a jawless maw full of tiny needle-like teeth. Falcon suppressed a sharp trill and whipped around.
Winter angrily incorporated a rude human gesture, [Trying not to think about it! (Fuck off!)]
Their friend shuffled uncomfortably, [So . . . you, too?]
[Of course. You have patient one. Mine has shit mood swings.]
Both fell still, keenly attending to any changes in the pattern of the rain as the storm rolled through the hills.
They’d been training hard for their reunion, flying with dummies and body sensors. Their partners hadn’t developed the muscles they’d need for full-powered flight, nor did they have all of the proper gear here on Earth. Aviation gear would offer elemental protection, but if the Drorgs were too enthusiastic, their actions could permanently injure the girls, ripping joints from sockets, causing untold spinal damage, or even killing them. And no one wanted that. Least of all the two Drorgs, or the Ryozae who would be held accountable for the loss.
The thrill of being reunited with their partners in the air was one that made the Drorgs vibrate to their very cores. They would need all the self-control they could muster.
[We’ve practiced so much,] Falcon went on. [but still . . . we haven’t tried it.]
Somewhere in the forest, Winter heard a different sound from the rain, and glanced around to confirm a squirrel springing through the trees, looking for shelter.
[Don’t know what I’ll do (if) something happens to her.]
Winter trilled low, losing their patience. [What is your problem? Happy thoughts! For the rest of the day! Happy thoughts for the rest of your life! Please!]
That appeared to amuse their friend. [You’re usually the pessimist.]
[Enough on my own. Don’t need your help. Happy thoughts, or sit still.]
Falcon’s wings folded tensely, and they went back to listening to the rain. The steady patter against the broad green canopy helped soothe Winter’s nerves. It dripped down through the branches in a constant rhythm, broken only by the occasional skitter and flutter of wildlife.
A bear in a distant tree posed no threat.
A deer passed slowly below them, sniffing the underbrush for food. It ate slowly and quietly, listening just as they did.
A light whistling was all the warning either of them had. Both reacted instantaneously as one, dropping onto the far side of the branch as something metallic shot past, moving forward to get away from the area while staying hidden. Even invisible, it was an instinctual habit they’d picked up from chasing reapers out of starships. Reaper lines were nothing to hang around for, and neither was razorwire—
Something bit into Winter’s tail, drawing a sharp trill. Trembling, they repressed the sound, and looked back.
Speaking of Zeronei razorwire.
[Sit still,] Falcon gestured, [Let me take care of it.]
Winter switched to an audible language, chirping and trilling rapidly, “Go! Find source!”
Falcon only hesitated for the briefest, most precious moment, and shot off into the trees. If one of them didn’t search now, they’d never find it.
It was a wonder that the wire hadn’t taken Winter’s tail off yet, or sliced right through the tree branch. It had caught them, just well enough to pin them painfully, but not enough to amputate them.
But it doesn’t fully amputate, does it? they thought, struggling to think through the bitter pain, It strips flesh off the bone . . . I don’t have those kinds of bones . . . so it would, wouldn’t it? Drorg bodies were denser at this size, so that could prove to be their saving grace! The best thing to do was remain absolutely still.
They dug their claws into the branch.
How had either of them been seen? Someone had to have been there, watching them long enough to see the rain disappear where they sat, dripping in odd patterns from the spot, off their tiny sinuous bodies. It would take a great deal of time and patience to see that, and to line up such an accurate shot. How had they not seen or heard anything?
Something landed against Winter’s head, talons crushing their jawless, boneless maw into the branch. A second set of talons pinned the nearest wing against their body. A large, sharp, vice-like beak tightened around their neck, attempting to tear through it. It dug into the sensitive doral ridge and complex system of vocal sacs, growling softly as serrations grew along the edges of the vice. Winter could do little more than scratch at the branch helplessly. Trying to strike with the other wing was too difficult without the use of their tail. It hurt too much. Unable to cry for help, they finally managed a series of ultrasonic squeals, loud enough to resonate through their neck.
As quickly as it had appeared, it flew off into the rain, leaving them gasping, squeaking weakly as they looked for the assailant.
A watery mass shot past—Falcon was on the animal’s tail, hunting it down through the storm. Winter remained quiet and alert, fresh throbbing now blooming along their neck and where their face mask had been pressed against their eyes.
The sights and sounds of the rainy mountain forest continued as before. The deer had bolted during the attack. Everything hurt. The tiny flames that leapt from the bleeding wound in their tail mixed with the rain and dripped harmlessly from the branch, dissipating quickly as the blood diluted. Winter started to dig their claws deeper into the branch, then realized that those hurt, as well.
Something fluttered onto the branch near Winter’s tail. They whipped around, terrified.
Falcon’s image hesitated. [It’s me. Going to see if I can undo this thing.]
Winter relaxed.
[Are you okay?]
From the other side of the branch, Falcon fiddled with the metal controller, expecting an audible response. So Winter managed to creak, “I’m in pain.”
Falcon darted around to inspect their face. The masks were only used for data reads and long distance communication, particularly with headquarters, so their friend took it off and stowed it away to get a better look at the injuries. Then it was back to figuring out the device.
Several minutes went by before Falcon issued a call through their harness system, using Morse Code. It was translated and sounded out through the speakers: “Samra. Something out here. Enemy. Can’t find. Need you for razorwire. . . . Yes. Different. Can’t leave. You fix?”
Then they came back to the front of the branch. [Samra will come. She will call HQ. They’ll send experts. 3 hours.]
“THREE HOURS?!”
Falcon touched their crests together gently, softly chirping, “Peace, friend. Have care.”
Winter let them rest there for a moment, comforted despite the pain. “Did you . . . see what it was?”
“Vulture or raven.”
The answer was baffling.
“Did you see it?” Falcon asked.
“No. Big talons. Sharp teeth. Growled . . . like a different animal.”
Falcon leaned back, cradling Winter’s head in their forefeet, gently re-inspecting each injury.
“Then it was Ryozae.”
They called Samra back, letting her know.
Winter shuddered, then drew their wings in against the cold rain.
Falcon wrapped Winter’s tail—branch and all—and then the rest of their body, using both available emergency blankets. Then they settled in with a wing extending over Winter’s head and neck. The fabric was breathable, but still uncomfortable. The head and neck were by far more important organs for respiration, but Winter still felt half-suffocated. It was better than being injured and cold, at this size.
Falcon grew pale and still with the cold, but remained in place, keeping a watchful, terrified eye on the woods around them.