Survival of the Fittest

In That Haze — No14 (Micro)

Photo by Azamat Zhanisov on Unsplash

Allye wei kora song.

I try to decipher what the words mean, but they seem like gibberish when they come up on my radar. Beside me, Tamlin lets out a harsh huff of a sigh.

“Are you still getting those messages from the spaceship?” he asked, eyeing me with something like accusation. “When will you realize those words aren’t for you? They’re meant for someone else. You know that.”

I close out the message on the scanner. “They come up, and I read them. It’s part of my job.”

“I don’t like it,” Tamlin says. “You get so wrapped up in these things. Do you realize you could go mad, Aretha?

“I won’t go mad,” I say. “You know they never come down. It’s forbidden.”

“Doesn’t mean it won’t happen one day. You know how it goes. They’re looking for their next home. They won’t care if they exterminate us in the process. The treaty is the only thing keeping them from invading.”

I frown, but I don’t protest. It’s no use arguing with Tamlin. He always thinks he knows best.

That night, as I’m getting into my bedclothes in camp, the scanner lights up on my bed.

Then the message comes up again.