10. Thivoll

10

Thivoll

When I see the ship hit the atmosphere and break apart I know right away it's a genali cruiser.

Genali technology, or any technology, doesn't work well on this planet. Anything that relies on external power inputs doesn't function. Some power sources react explosively to the atmosphere, which might explain the damage done to the ship.

I don't feel any sympathy for them.

Just like I haven't been able to dredge up any for the ones I killed, regardless of how ambivalent I feel about it in relation to everything I was taught as a kit.

When you wake up and realize you've been abducted, it's hard to stamp down the instinct to rip out something's throat, even if most of your time in life has been spent cleaning vent systems.

I wonder how much the genali hunting me for sport would appreciate knowing that the prey they spent millions of credits to be allowed on this planet to track is essentially a janitor. I tip my head back and let out a chuff at the thought.

My mane shifts against my ears and I flick them forward, then back to ensure I'm still carefully listening to my surroundings.

I'll likely have numerous hunters hoping to add me to their trophy wall.

A quick image of my ugly face, purple lips pulled back in a snarl, black teeth bared, some poor semblance of my golden eyes flashing and mounted to a wall makes me chuff again.

Let them come.

They will quickly realize they are outmatched.

I look down, realizing those thoughts made my claws extend. I carefully sharpened them on a fallen log this morning, then flipped it over to hide the evidence. They are naturally sharp, but I never had any reason or motivation to remove the outer claw layers to make them into deadly razors—aside from keeping my index claws honed to help clean vent edges.

The two claws that extend from the thumbs on each side of my hands I have only used a few times in my adult life, and those times just out of curiosity. They are designed for latching on. My ancestors used these to keep an enemy stationary long enough to violently whip their tails around and deliver a load of venom.

From all accounts, the process floods a manticorid with a sense of euphoria, which explains why it took us so long to move past that stage in our social evolution.

I suppose as a species we'll soon be finding out how we can reconcile battle euphoria with our peaceful social mores. I avoid thinking about how I'll react.

I wonder how many of us the genali will move to their hunting grounds before whatever method they used stops working.

Not that they would place me anywhere near any of my fellow manticorids, so I suppose it doesn't matter.

I twitch my tail in irritation even thinking about the genali having a momentary advantage over us, since their sheer numbers are already enough of a menace.

My tail spikes respond to my emotional state by extending. I don't bother to look, since I'm certain they're dripping venom. Too bad—for them at least—the disgusting things never developed an antidote, let alone any immunity to it.

If they come for me, I will be prepared.