First Contact

The tractor putted down the dirt road, driving slow enough that the bumps and the uneven road was more a rocking than a jolting. The tractor was pulling a cart full of bags, boxes, and two refrigeration units powered by the tractor's alternator. The red sun was bright to the driver, the breeze was sweet and warm despite the lateness of the year, and the day was a good one.

On either side of the tractor were burnt and replowed fields, seeded with small plants that would grow and hold down the dirt. Large patches of tiny green plants were scattered around the fields despite the recent planting, gleaming in the sunlight.

The tractor was driven by a massive preying mantis with arms in addition to the sword-like bladearms. It had on a leather vest, a floppy hat, and a comfortable wool abdomen wrap. The mantis had on a gunbelt with a single pistol, with a power-rifle jammed in a holster beside the seat. In the trailer was a bunch of smaller mantids, most green, over a dozen black mantids, two gold, and a single russet. All were wearing clothing and hats. They were singing songs as the tractor putted down the road, songs made up to allow them to vocalize the joy they felt.

The driver enjoyed such songs.

We lived in a world of near silence because we smothered the smaller voices, Cordexen though to himself, reaching down to pet Corey the Turkey in his basket. Now the world is full of song, and while the road I traveled to get here was painful and long... I would not have it any other way.

He steered around a large puddle, driving along the rutted detour. A pair of amphibians resembling frogs stared at him from a hump of dirt in the middle of the puddle, blinking their eyes. It was almost time to burrow in the mud and go to sleep, but they goggled at the tractor and its long trailer.

A foot tall green mantid waved at them and they blinked in response before jumping into the water.

Cordexen wasn't aware of any of it, driving with one hand, petting Corey the Turkey with one bladearm, using the other blade-arm to make sure his pistol stayed in the holster, and holding a juice box he was sipping out of with the other.

The harvest and butchering had been fruitful. He had a drying barn full of everything from tobacco to wheat to rye. His smokehouses were processing the last of the meat, and he'd personally salted over a hundred hams with his little ones.

I am from a society that had robots and slaves to work the fields, who lived in high tech warrens, who traveled the stars and fought on a hundred worlds, Cordexen mused, sipping at the blackberry-lime juice box. Yet I am, after spending eternity imprisoned beneath the earth, satisfied to work that earth like a primitive. More satisfied than I have ever been.

He sipped his juice box and steered around a large rock. The greenies rushed to one side to look at the rock, which had a complex mixture of iron, iron pyrite, hematite, geothite, limonite, and magnetite, with some quartz crystals thrown in. The thin traces of ore in the chert were interwoven, hair thin, with the quartz crystal being pinpricks, but the whole thing interacted with the planet's magnetic field, throwing a dizzying show for the telemechanically gifted greenies.

Cordexen could sense their excitement and gave the equivalent of a smile. Klakeka, a warrior caste like Cordexen who, like Cordexen, had been imprisoned for eternity, had suggested dragging the big rock to the road as a landmark and for the greenies to see after he pulled it out of his grain field.

Would my ancestors hate me, approve of my actions, or be envious of my luxury? Cordexen wondered briefly.

The breeze had no answer.

Abriketa, a fellow warrior that had been entombed, had suggested that after the harvest, after the slaughtering and butchering, after the bulk of the work was done, everyone get together for a harvest festival.

Years ago, before our entombing, I would have scoffed at such a ritual and either challenged Abriketa to a duel or reported him to the Queens or Speakers, Cordexen mused, petting Corey the Turkey. Now, it is a fine idea. We bring our former servitors, the little ones, to a great feast, so that we can see and interact with one another for a short while.

Cordexen knew that any time longer than a few hours and the warriors began to get glum, depressed, reminded that only they survived, only six of them, from the Empire's endless hordes of warriors.

But we are alive, after our endless imprisonment, and it is a good life, Cordexen thought. He finished his juice box and handed it back. A gold mantid took it, putting it in the bag of refuse, and handed him another after poking the straw into the box. There is food. There is peace. There is contentment. We must work hard, but our larders overflow with abundance.

For a brief moment he remembered chasing food species, remembered their horror and resignation when he grabbed them.

No longer did the memories bring hunger or pleasure.

He had felt that resignation, been submerged in it, and found just how deep it could be during his long imprisonment.

Lately he had been having dreams of chasing the food species. Only, when he caught it, instead of beginning to eat its head, he had put the food-species member on his back, waved sparklers in his hands, turned on music, and pranced through the grain while the food species held on and cried out in pleasure and joy in the companionship.

Part of it put it up to watching too much Charlie the Moo Moo Power Hour, but a larger part of him knew what it was.

He felt joy in running again. With greenies on his back, or even the black servitors. He enjoyed flailing through the paths through the grain, his limbs propelling him forward, those who were with him urging him to run faster, to jump higher.

He had discovered that he was capable of something that prior he had only seen on the Charlie the Moo Moo Power Hour or the Neighborhood Puppet Show or the Afternoon with the Kind One show.

Laughter. Laughter of joy and pleasure.

He had even taken up painting, making happy little trees and snowy mountains. Several of the black war servitors and the russet medical specialist had joined him. They did not draw from their memories. There were no burning cities or blasted worlds. Just happy little trees.

His house had paintings hung on many walls.

His neighbor's farm, much more expansive than his, came into view. Abriketa had spent the endless summer days while the crops grew tall and the cattle grew large expanding his home. It was three stories, wider and longer than Cordexen's house.

Where Cordexens house had been built before he had ever seen it, by other Mantid Hive workers, Abriketa had completely replaced the original structure with one of his own design. Not out of ungratefulness, not because the other house had not been good enough, but because he had wanted to.

Because we want to, Cordexen mused as he downshifted slightly. Not because the Queen wants us to. Not because the Hive-Mind ordered us to. Not because if we did not a world would die, but because we want to.

Freedom. Horrible horrible freedom.

Cordexen remembered that several times he had visited the other warrior to find him holding a hammer in his hand, extra nails in his mouth, affixing a carefully smoothed and leveled board into place to form the walls.

While Abriketa found pleasure in working with the local woods, even carving them into pleasing shapes or pleasing bas-relief scenes, Cordexen found pleasure in raising his cattle and fowl, tending his fields, and watching the grain wave back and forth endlessly in the breeze.

While he was musing he had approached the gate in the wooden post fence. He beeped his horn twice. He could hear a slight thumping, hear water boiling, and the gate swung open, clattering open on engraved and shining brass gears and the hiss of steam. When it was all the way opened it gave a whistle, releasing steam.

Cordexen drove in.

There were four other tractors with trailers parked. Two were painted in bright colors, one was painted with cartoon lemur females making faces, and one had spikes all over it, a plow with fanged jaws painted on it, and big giant useless metal wheels with huge smokestacks. It had two engines, all of them oversized and covered in chrome and various doodads, there were baskets all over it for the little ones to ride in, complete with fixed squirt-guns for the little ones to squirt water at each other or anything they saw on the side of the road.

There were now chrome cow skulls on top of the six exhaust pipes with red LEDs in the eyes and fixed so the exhaust blew out the jaws.

Cordexen made the equivalent of a laugh at seeing Klaketa's "Grain War Wag of Harvesting Doom" tractor sitting there.

Klaketa and his green servitors liked to work on the tractors and harvesters, making them more and more outlandish and less and less effective.

Which was funny, as Klaketa had been an infantry Warrior Caste who had hated riding on vehicles.

Pulling into a spot, Cordexen shut down the tractor as the front door opened and the occupants of the house came outside.

"Greetings to you on this Harvest Festival Date!" Klaketa said, raising his bladearms in greeting. The warrior was dressed in black leather with 'tire' pads on his shoulders and knees and on top of his abdomen. His little ones were wearing leather with spikes and daubs of paint.

"Greetings, Cordexen," Taklektoknik stated, his voice low and careful. "We have been playing harvest games while awaiting your arrival."

On his abdomen a half dozen green servitors were sleeping.

"My apologies for my tardiness," Cordexen said, signaling chagrin. "A cooking method I was attempting took longer than I had estimated," he signaled pleasure. "But I think all will be pleased by it. Taste testing by the little ones proved extremely positive."

"Excellent," Abriketa said. "My domicile is at your disposal, old friend."

"I thank you," Cordexen said. He grabbed the big warming pod, grunting slightly at the weight. "Let us begin the festival."

-----

The greenie mechbashes and mech races were over. The gold servitors had told stories and sang songs. The russet servitors had made sure everyone was not poisoned or had eaten too much. The black servitors had run races and jumped through hoops as well as ran through the corn stalk maze.

The majority of the servitors were asleep on comfortable couches when Cordexen met his fellow warrior caste on the front porch. Teklektoknik was taking long, slow hits off of a 'power smoker' that made the air around him smell of ripe cherries. Abriketa was smoking a pipe and sharing it with Krekiknakpek. Klaketa and Niktixen were using their bladearms to eat gourd pie from the plates they held in their hands.

The sun had set, the indigo sky was full of stars. The night was full of the sounds of the last insects that had not died off or hibernated for the winter.

"It was a good harvest," Abriketa said as Cordexen sat down. He looked at Cordexen. "I am gratified of the paintings your servitors gifted me with. My primary domicile hallway is now decorated with happy little trees and that fills both me and my servitors with pleasure."

"You are welcome, old friend," Cordexen said. He took out a pouch and rummaged in it, removing tobacco he had grown himself and delicate papers. As the others just nodded, all thinking about the paintings they had been gifted with, Cordexen rolled a smoke, lighting it and puffing smoke out of the rings of his feet.

"Have any of you had russets who laid small clutches of eggs in hidden and secretive locations?" Klaketa asked.

They all glanced at one another, then, slowly, each of them nodded.

"We are the last of our kind, brothers," Abriketa said. He took a draw from his hand carved pipe and exhaled smoke. "Is it wrong that I feel it is a good thing? That perhaps the future should belong to the servitors?"

The others sat for a long time.

"No," Cordexen said. "I do not know what transpired for each of you, but I promised a hateful universe anything it demanded should I be allowed to once again roam free," he took a drag off of his smoke. "The hateful universe granted my wish. That I be one of the last of my kind may be the price I pay, but I pay it willingly."

There was more silence.

"Do any of you feel the need for procreation? To nurture young warriors of our lineage?" Niktixen asked. "I know I feel nothing for the idea of larvae and pupae of my linage."

The rest signified the same sentiment.

There was a long silence.

"The breaded turkeys you brought, Cordexen, were delicious," Kekiknakpek said softly.

"I coated them in butter, bread crumbs, and spices, then lowered them into pots of boiling grease," Cordexen said. He made a sound of amusement. "I remembered it from the memes the lemurs sent us to urge us to surrender."

"It was quite good. I might have surrendered even at the height of the Empire should have a lemur offered me such a delicious bounty," Klaketa said.

"Surrender, for we have deep fried breaded turkey," Teklektoknik imitated the lemur speech.

They all laughed.

Cordexen sighed and slowly got up. "I have far to drive. This was enjoyable and I agree that we should do this each year."

"I put forth we should also have a planting festival. Once the planting and shearing is done, we get together and once again celebrate," Kekinakpek said. He looked at the black mantid sleeping between his feet. "Give them something to remember us by."

Cordexen nodded. "I agree."

The vote passed quietly, six to zero.

The others helped him reload his cart as he helped them.

He lifted Corey the Turkey up into his basket, petting the fat fowl, then climbed up on his tractor. He waved at the others before he drove off, his tractor putting along under the indigo star filled sky.

When he got home he made sure the overfed servitors were all in bed then went in and settled himself on the couch. He made another smoke, rolling the paper by hand, then turned on the radio.

The music was slow and almost melancholy. Russet mantids rubbing their wings together as they sang with their soft sweet voices. He put the cigarette out, made himself comfortable, and stared out the window.

A sleepy green servitor came into the room and climbed up next to him, huddling up next to Cordexen for warmth. Cordexen shifted his abdominal wrap to cover the little guy and went back to staring out the window.

As he dozed off, he hoped he'd dream a happy dream.

The Empire is dead. Long live its survivors, he thought.

He dreamed of running and dancing with the little ones.