The first clear look at something that was in my cargo hold, and every assumption I had about "biological specimens" evaporates.
It moves through the canyon with a fluid, rolling gait, and the first thing that registers isbear. The proportions are there: massive shoulders, thick limbs, a bulk that suggests power built for endurance rather than speed. Eight feet tall when it straightens to its full height, wider across the chest than Horgox.
But the wrongness starts in the arms. There's an extra joint between the elbow and the wrist, a secondary articulation that lets the forearm rotate in a way that makes my engineering brain itch. When it drops to all fours to move faster, the limbs fold differently than any Earth animal; the legs are digitigrade, walking on elongated toe-joints like a dog rather than flat-footed. The combination of bearlike bulk and wrong-angled movement is deeply, fundamentally unsettling.
The fur was white once. Maybe silver. Now it's stained with the planet's purple vegetation residue and streaked with rust-red smears that could be old blood or mud or both. Matted and neglected, months without whatever grooming this species' biology requires. Underneath the filth, faint lines of silver-blue run along the spine and shoulders, bioluminescent veins pulsing slowly, irregularly, like a heartbeat that keeps skipping.
The face turns in profile, and I stop breathing.
The eyes arewrongfor an animal. Large, reflective green, glowing faintly with their own light, and the pupils are horizontal slits that scan the canyon with an awareness that is unmistakably, uncomfortably intelligent. When its gaze sweeps our direction, I see recognition in those eyes. Assessment. Decision-making.
And its hands. Six fingers, articulated, with retractable claws currently extended to full length as it marks the canyon wall. Opposable thumbs. Hands that could hold tools. Hands that ApexCorp put in a temperature-regulated crate and shipped as cargo.
Horgox's arm tightens around my waist. His other hand settles gently over my mouth, and the déjà vu from the root cave is disorienting: same gesture, same careful pressure, same trust that I'll stay quiet.
Except this time his body is pressed the full length of mine, and my traitorous brain registers the specific geometry of hiships against my lower back, the hard planes of his stomach through his shirt, the way one of his thighs has slotted between mine to brace us both against the rock. The sense-memory of last night crashes through me and I bite the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste copper. Not the time. Absolutely, catastrophically not the time.
The creature pauses mid-stride. Its massive head swings toward our alcove, nostrils flaring. Those green eyes scan the rock formation.
Horgox goes absolutely still behind me. His hand on my mouth tightens fractionally, and his fingers are trembling. He's as aware of the position as I am.
A canyon dweller shrieks somewhere above, and the creature's attention snaps upward. It launches at the cliff face with horrifying speed, those wrong-jointed arms finding purchase in sheer stone, and disappears over the rim in a blur of matted fur and muscle.
Thirty seconds of frozen silence. Then Horgox's hand falls from my mouth. His arm stays around my waist.
Neither of us moves.
"That was one of yours," he says against my ear. Low. Rough. "From the cargo."
"Yes." My voice doesn't work properly. Partly the creature. Partly the fact that his thigh is still between mine and his breath is on my neck. "It's intelligent."
"Very. Tool-capable hands, structured territorial communication, problem-solving behaviour." His analytical brain running parallel to whatever else is happening in his body. "ApexCorp didn't ship six mindless animals in temperature-regulated crates."
"No." My hand finds his forearm where it's locked across my stomach. Not pulling it away. Holding on. "They shipped six people."
He's quiet for a moment. His thumb moves against my ribcage, once, and the gesture is so small and so deliberate that it hits harder than a full embrace.
"We need to keep moving," he says. Doesn't move.
"We do." Don't move either.
Three more seconds. Then we separate with the mutual reluctance that has become our operating rhythm, and continue into the canyon.
The deeper passages are tight enough that I have to turn sideways, which means Horgox goes first and I follow in his wake. The jade markings on his forearms hold a steady alertness that I've been learning to read like instrument displays: lighter jade for thinking, darker jade for threat, and the warm shift toward gold that he controls with visible effort whenever our eyes meet.
"These tunnels connect to a secondary canyon system," he says, voice echoing strangely in the confined space. "I've mapped them over three months. Most are dead ends, but one passage opens to a separate bowl with its own water source."
The passage widens into a chamber, and the smell hits first. Musky, sharp, animal-den mixed with something metallic.
"Something lives here," I say.
"Yes." Horgox is already positioning himself between me and the far side. "We should—"
The specimen enters from a passage on the opposite side.
Same species as the one in the canyon, but smaller. Seven feet, with the same bearlike bulk, the same wrongly-jointed arms. The fur is darker, more thoroughly stained, and the silver-blue bioluminescent veins along the spine are barely pulsing. Dim. Irregular. Like a system running on backup power.
Its green eyes find us, and they are exhausted. Not predatory, not calculating. Tired, in a way that transcends species barriers. The kind of exhaustion that comes from months of pain with no relief.
