There was an [[alien]] on the [[battlefield]]
None of us knew how [[he’d]] gotten there, or [[where]] he’d come from, only that he was not of [[Earth]]. I couldn't tell you why we were fighting. Or why we weren't fighting. Only that we had guns, and enemies, and connecting the dots between the two didn't take much effort.
We called him he- well, [[Sergeant]] called him a he, and the rest of us went along with it. We were all men, and it felt improper to have a lady amoung us. Sergeant named him [[Ace]].He was wicked with that gun of his, and the name seemed appropriate. Human-like. Ace was a [[better shot]] than any of us, that's for sure. One night we convinced him to let us [[try it]]. It didn't have any ammo. and he kept it close to him, nestled in his lap when he slept. He cleaned it while we all played [[cards]].There wasn't much to entertain us, out here, but we'd line up cans and rocks and see how many shots it'd take to knock 'em down. Ace only ever took one. But even a crackshot on the battlefield only got you so far. We might've been able to use him better, or win, if only he could [[speak->language]].His guns were a lot like ours. Or at least, similarly shaped. A barrel, a grip, a trigger adjusted for his [[hands]]. It didn't have a scope, so we lined ourselves up as best we could. He stood behind us, hands over ours, like a man trying to teach his girl how to shoot a combo over the pool table.
Something about his gun... it didn't recoil the same as ours. Hummed, rather than banged. We missed every shot, and he'd give us a [[look]]. He had to be an alien. I can't conceive of how he could've come from [[Earth]]. But then, where's his ship? His [[comrades in arms]]? Why had he been abandoned? War leads to a lonely life, but at least I have my countrymen. He had no one but us.I don't know what you want me to say about this. Presumably, you come from here too. If not, you probably know more about aliens than I do.He was undeniably a soldier. He cleaned his gun like a soldier, slept in shifts like a soldier. Was [[uncomplaining]]. Could recognize when we needed to retreat or push forward. He had a good head for it.
He was purposefully asymmetrical, one hand five fingers, one hand three. It didn't look like a growth defect or an injury. It made learning [[hand signals]] a bit tricky.The General had wanted to kill him, or gut him, or send him away. Sergeant said, //You want to take away a weapon in the middle of a war//? The general said no, or course not, but some things went against God, and [[good sense]]. Sergeant said that good sense left three years ago, and God had never showed up.
Ace had good sense. Probably the reason he's not dead yet. It's hard to survive in a world where you can't speak the [[language]].We didn’t share a language; we hardly shared vocal cords. When he talked it was like fine gravel underneath your feet, a cat purring, a bird chirping. At first, he spoke often, trying to communicate with us. Then, when it was clear there would be no understanding, he spoke mostly to himself. Now he’s quiet much of the time. When he does speak it gets missed so easily. His words could just be an engine in the background, rocks falling off a ledge.
He got better with facial expressions over time. I don't know what I expected- I don't know why I thought an alien would be able to understand what a smile meant, or the many reasons we raise our eyebrows.
We tried to meet halfway. Ace learned how we laughed, when we were angry, or upset. These were essential emotions to understand in a warzone. I suspect he had been a [[soldier->comrades in arms]]. He understood when the [[General->Sergeant]] was upset, or when the Sergeant was frustrated.
There was less pressure to learn the way he worked, the emotions he had. He never snapped or got angry. He was cautious, watchfull. He kept very still unless he had to. Maybe that's how his species worked, or maybe he knew how scared humans were of his otherness. Some he understood very quickly. Like I said, he was a [[soldier->comrades in arms]]. //Stop, Go, Hold Position, Left, Right, Two Enemies, Begin Fire//. He fought with us, he moved with us, and he did it well.
But these were simple things, not meant for conveying emotion or complex ideas. For that, we taught him //[[Same]]// and //[[Different]]//.
We ate //same//. He ate with us, because [[he had saved our lives]], because [[we had saved his]]. He never complained about the food, despite the fact it was shit. He didn't have teeth. I used to wonder how he got through the tough jerky, but one of the men saw him tear it apart with his foot long tongue- he won the award for giving the worst french kiss known to man. We slept //different//. We crawled into our tents every night and he’d be asleep already, sitting against a barricade, knees pulled up and arms braced against them. He would still be asleep when we got up, but everyone knew he took midnight strolls, patrolling in the dead of night. A bedroll had been offered to him but he simply looked confused.
The General came again todayHow could he complain when he couldn't [[speak->language]]?I can't count the amount of times he got between us and a [[grenade]], or took out an enemy with his strange [[gun->Ace]]. He was [[tougher]] than a human. That's why the General let him stay. That's why the Sergeant looked at him with begrudging fondness. On the battlefield, everything had to be useful, functional, and Ace was all that and more. This is purely speculation. Who knows what would've happened to him without us. Maybe he would've joined ranks with the [[enemy->battlefield]]. Could he tell the difference between the two of us, without the dividing line that guns made? I don't know. I like to think we took him in, but perhaps we're merely a convenient place to rest before moving on. It wasn't like a crab's shell- it was mottled blue and green, matte in texture. Thick and robust. Divided into plates, like armour made of carapace. His joints were softer, more flexible. If we wanted to [[kill him]], I think a knife to the vulnerable skin between the plating on his throat. Or maybe you'd go for his [[fronds]].Not everyone was as partial to having such a strange thing on the battlefield.
Our squad was fine with him. Like I said- he was cautious. No sudden movements unless he had to.
After he showed up, it happened within a week, in the middle of the night. They tried to kill him while he was off on one of his midnight patrols. I only know about it because they reported to the medical tent all sullen. No broken bones, just bruises.
Ace didn't make anything of it. I suppose, when you're on [[Earth]], that you get used to people trying to kill you. The rest of us were certainly accustomed to it. They were beautiful.
There weren't many beautiful things on the [[battlefield]]. Sergeant kept saying that you had to find the beauty in it, but that felt like forcing it. Trying to make the ugly beautiful just made the ugly more apparent.
Ace's fronds, or crest, or appendages: they were beautiful. The rest of him was thick and rough and built like armour. He was [[scarred]], too. But on the back of his head was a crest, almost like a bird, with gentle fronds that floated like hair in water. After sundown they glowed fluorescent blue, the same color his eyes were during the day.One on the back of his [[five-fingered hand->hands]] that looked like a crater from a blast. Another on his neck, an ugly line that was lighter than the rest of his plating. Maybe that one wasn't a scar, but a tattoo. That's too complicated a concept to try to sign to him. Both involve a knife in the skin, no?We didn't ask him to. We didn't train him to. Ace simply did it- got in front of it before we could all react. Turned to us, with what I could imagine [[disappointment->look]] looked like on his odd face.
I didn't notice he'd been hurt until we got back to camp. He looked disjointed and off balance. When the sun set, his [[fronds]] were dimmed out in sections.
He moved out of sight. I was reminded of my old cat, who would hide whenever she was sick. I grabbed a med kit and [[followed him]].Ace was leaning against a wall, facing me. I wasn't scared of him. After all, he'd never tried to kill me, or break my heart, or insult me. He'd only ever been just like me: a silent soldier on a battlefield.
I reached up to touch his fronds (I had to stretch). He flinched back. Had he learned flinching from us, or was it instinct? How long before he'd be able to laugh and cry just like a human?
I showed him my medical kit. He was hesitant. I was hesitant. I felt like a man about to undress his lover only to realize that we were both afraid of what was underneath. Ace gave a purr of warning. I held out my hands in front of me: //I'm unarmed, [[I mean you well]]//.
Ace reached down and took my wrist. I did not flinch. He brought my hand close to his fronds- so close I could tell they gave off a faint heat- and held it there for a brief moment before letting go.
His hand came up to my face. I did not flinch. He places his three-fingered hand on my throat as if feeling for a pulse. It layed there for a moment as he looked me in the eye. He was very gentle, despite his rough carapace.
He stepped back and motioned //same// with the signs we taught him. I hoped I understood.
[[His fronds. My throat.]]I sat down and Ace sat between my legs. When I had longer hair, my sister used to braid it while she watched the morning news. I used to sit in the position Ace had now.
I tried my best to be gentle. I'm not used to being gentle, but in the soft warmth of Ace's crest I did my best. I cleaned up the glowing tendrils as best I could. Unlike the rest of his body, they were gentle, waving like seaweed.
He was very still as I worked. I felt like an under-trained heart surgeon. I applied the bandages to the best of my ability and thought about my throat and made them a bit looser.
[[He was gone the next day]].
Maybe his visit to earth was a punishment. A sabbatical. A vacation from his own space war above all us, with sharper knives and bigger guns and more species than sense.
Maybe the moment his safety was not assured was the moment his people called him up, and he went to his own squad that spoke his own language and he told them stories of soft, soil-covered creatures that were perfectly symmetrical, with short crests and fillament-thin fronds.
I like to imagine, despite the violence we went through, despite the fear of most of the humans around him, that Ace was taking a break. Every squad has their own version of "cards": a gambling game, a winner's game, a loser's game. Ace had what I could only describe as [[eagerness]] when we showed it to him. He tried playing it with us a few nights, but he got too frustrated with the rules.
We used to play this game as a kid called Mute. And like the name suggested, you couldn't talk during the game. It only had one spoken rule: you couldn't tell anyone the rules. It consisted of a small few who played the game, and the rest of us, typically [[younger kids]], who tried to figure out the rules, all without speaking.
I hated that game. I suspect anyone, no matter the species, hates it when they're playing a game they don't know the rules to. [[General->Sergeant]] had been suspicious of Ace, largely because he might be a spy- for the other side or for aliens (he never clarified). But Ace was content to be one of us. He never was found in places he shouldn't be, never did anything underhand or backstabbed any of us. He was the perfect soldier.
Too perfect, some thought. He was too good at blending in. But hey, when in Rome...There weren't any kids around here. But I wonder how old Ace is. He looks battle-weary and stands over six foot, but there are plenty of animals out there that develop at different rates. What if he's a teenager? What if he's only a child?