Cowboys and Aliens
(Earth Men Are Easy)
© by Catherine Spangler, 2004-2007

Here’s something you might find fun: the first few chapters of the first book in my “Silly Alien” series. Unfortunately, I was apparently the only one who found it humorous. It got turned down at most of the publishing houses, so it’s been delegated to the dust bunnies under the bed. I’ve dusted it off and am posting it here. Let me know what you think. ~ Catherine

Earth patrol! It was her worst nightmare, come true. Thoroughly disgruntled, Commander Melaronia Xio glared out at the blue expanse of water which Earthers called the Atlantic Ocean. She couldn’t decide if it was bad karma from a past life or a horrendous one-two knockout punch of coincidences which had brought her to this all-time career low.

First, Zaneax, the regular patroller, had to go and disappear, several standard lunar cycles (SLC) ago. He’d never been the brightest meteor in the sky to begin with, but he’d really done it this time, managing to lose both his sorry behind and his ship. Mela didn’t regard it as that great a loss, although the ship had been top of the line, with the latest crystal technology. Its retrieval would be a step towards her redemption.

The second event leading to her ignominious fall from glory was her own fault. The Light One only knew how hard she’d worked at controlling her temper. Okay, so she hadn’t been able to maintain a repentant fast longer than half a day, went stir crazy after only an hour of praying in the Light Temple, but she had tried. And Arack was a pompous, conceited jerk, only one step removed from the Dark One’s offspring. He’d deserved the vocal tirade she’d leveled at him after enduring his overbearing tactics for an entire lunar cycle. Unfortunately, she had confronted him in front of a group of officers, and he was her superior.

Then the Intergalactic Union of Enlightened Planets, (IUEP) had received word that the people of Earth were developing a manned spaceship flight to Mars. That had sent terror into the hearts of every peaceful Light-worshipping citizen in the sector. Earthers were considered primitive, non-enlightened, and highly unpredictable. There was no way they could be allowed to venture into the rest of the universe, tainting and corrupting it, as the Dark One’s followers had done thousands of sun cycles ago.

The High Council of the IUEP wasn’t willing to wait until Zaneax could be found, or a replacement trained to take his position. They felt it imperative that the status of the Mars mission be verified, and Earth’s activities be closely monitored immediately. Arack, the evil son-of-The-Dark-One (that was a slimy, second-stage Harb for you), had recommend that Mela be sent, pointing out her quick wits and warlike tendencies (that had hurt) made her the ideal candidate for assessing the volatile Earthers. It hadn’t helped matters any that she was humanoid, like the Earth habitants. The Council had agreed, and here she was.

Flaming moonbats! Her head still throbbed from the neural interface she’d been forced to endure in order to learn English, Earth’s international language. She’d also processed some cultural basics, but not nearly the amount a trained patroller would have. She’d managed to avoid the full-spectrum interface, thank the Light, because she wouldn’t need it. She planned on being back with the Galactic Guard, the most elite squad of the Intergalactic Union Military Police, before the three moons of her home planet Zaire could complete a full cycle.

Yep, she’d do her stint, then get the darkness out of this backwards, uncivilized world before Arack even had time to morph from a larva into an elder Harb. If she managed to discover what had happened to Zaneax, so much the better. She studied the navigation pod, noting that she was crossing over ‘Bermuda’ (what an odd name), on a course for ‘ Puerto Rico’ (Earthers had the strangest words in their language).

She had studied Zaneax’s observation reports, and knew he had a fascination for the United States of America, and usually skirted the lower boundaries of that country. So she adjusted her coordinates to steer her towards ‘ Florida’, certain she must be on his trail. Just wait until I get my hands on you, Zaneax. You’re going to regret the day you came out of your birthing pod.

The strident beeping of an alarm drew her from her reverie of placing an electro-halo on Zaneax and giving him a good jolt. What the— “Warning! Instrument reading failure,” the computer intoned.

It was probably just a sensor. Mela fiddled with the controls. Nothing. Then the red emergency lights began flashing. “Warning! All navigation functions are failing,” the computer said, its voice slurring. “Steering inoperable . . . engines shutting doooown . . .” The voice faded away entirely.

What? Mela pulled up on the yoke. Nothing. Then she realized how quiet the cockpit had become. No engines. Panic rising, she kicked the console. Stupid piece of Nurobian steel.

A lot of good that did. No response at all. Her heart leaped into even higher gear, pounding against her chest. It became difficult to breathe through her constricted throat. All she could do was watch helplessly as the ship hurtled over a dizzying blur of landscape, its decreased velocity dropping it lower and lower.

She didn’t even know if the loss of power would drop the decoy stealth shields, which would allow the primitive Earth tracking devices to observe her ship’s presence . . . or if she would survive the impact of crashing on Earth. Okay, so she hadn’t really meant that nasty thought about Nurobian steel. It was the strongest being-made material in the known universe and—

The ship lurched radically to starboard, knocking her out of her chair. By the Light! She was going down! Mela scrambled back into her seat and buckled her harness. She remembered her protective helmet and grabbed it, jamming it onto her head. Adrenaline rushed through her body, but her thoughts were too jumbled to do anything more than offer a quick prayer for redemption.

Please let me survive, Light One. I’ll do anything. Anything! I won’t break my fast early, I won’t talk back to my superiors. I’ll even kiss Arak’s fins. I promise! I’ll—

The ship impacted with a bone-jarring thud and the world went spinning. Blackness crashed over her.

She came to slowly, sprawled in crash foam and debris. Her head throbbing, Mel pushed herself to a sitting position. She was disoriented and dizzy, and she wished whatever idiot was groaning would desist immediately. Until she realized she was the one moaning—something she would never do. She was a Galactic Guardian, a member of an elite military squadron, and she was tough, impervious to pain . . . Ow! Light Being, her head felt like a giant Strunker had stepped on it.

She unhooked her helmet and yanked it off, wincing (she never winced, either), and tossed the helmet starboard. Except the starboard section of the cockpit was badly crumpled . . . was that starshine streaming in? What the . . .?

All groaning and wincing ceased, as she stared dumbly at the huge crack in the hull, then at the mess around her, trying to clear her muddled mind. She couldn’t seem to remember anything, except . . . she’d been on cursed Earth patrol, flying over part of the United . . . States of . . . something, and then— She bolted(actually, struggled) to her feet, forced to hold onto the main console—or what was left of it—to keep from falling over. Not that she ever fell over.

Now she remembered; the ship losing power, its uncontrolled descent and, obviously, a crash. Great, just great. “Computer, are you functioning?” she asked.

“I am . . . at partial power,” came a faint, tinny voice.

“Partial power? And that means what?” Mel tried to slog through the crash foam to the navigation pod. She was having trouble moving, before she realized part of her chair was still strapped to her back. Wow. She’d always heard Ronian-made harnesses were virtually failsafe. They apparently also jammed, she thought irritably as she struggled to get out of the stupid thing.

“I am using reserve power,” came the computer’s weak response.

Finally the chair back thudded to the floor, and Mela shook out her cramped muscles. Mistake. Her head pounded even worse. “Explain,” she gritted out.

“Main power is inoperable.”

“Well that’s obvious, since we’re using reserve power,” Mela snarled, her words snapping in perfect synchronicity with her throbbing head. “Explain what happened to the ship, and how we got wherever the Darkness we are.”

“Approaching the coordinates known as ‘ Florida’, we traversed through some sort of force field which voided our ship functions, causing the craft to lose all power and go down.”

A sick feeling settled in Mela’s stomach. “Where are we?”

“I am not certain. The navigation system is also currently inoperable. When we regain more power, I should able to plot velocity and thrust and wind currents and determine how far this craft glided before it went down.”

This was sounding worse and worse, except for the one positive comment. “When we regain power?” Mela asked hopefully.

The computer whirred before answering, “The external solar panels should collect enough energy to maintain the decoy stealth shields and the normalization chamber, and possibly do some navigation calculations.”

Normalization? Mela had never even considered the possibility that she’d actually step foot on Earth. She knew the air was breathable, but had no idea how she would function in differing gravity and atmosphere. Flaming moonbats!

“Once the ship is fully recharged, we can get out of here,” she said. “Correct?”

Whir! Whump! (Whump?) “I do not believe that is a correct assumption,” the computer intoned. “I cannot repair the structural damage, and should we locate a qualified mechanic who could do the repairs, replacement parts would be necessary. Earth is not at our technological level, so the odds of acquiring said parts would be miniscule.”

Miniscule. Oh, great. Mela hated that word. She didn’t like the odds of getting off this Light-Being-forsaken planet, either. “So what do you suggest we do?” she demanded.

The computer was silent a moment, an ominous indication of its sluggish operation. “As I have stated, there should be enough solar energy to maintain the shields and normalization chamber, as well as a homing beacon for a search-and-rescue mission ship.”

A rescue ship! Mela felt her spirits lift. Of course, she was far too valuable an asset to the High Council and the Galactic Guard to be left here on Earth.

“Although I calculate only a nine-point-two percent possibility of a rescue mission,” the computer intoned, bursting Mela’s rosy dream of rescue and heroic decoration.

“Why wouldn’t there be a rescue ship?”

“Zaneax was a highly-trained patrol scout and his ship was the latest in crystal technology. No mission was sent to locate him.”

“Zaneax was so dull, he didn’t have the intelligence of a meteor,” Mela hissed. “I am far more important.”

“Is that a rhetorical statement, or do you wish a response?”

“Oh, that hurts.” Actually it was her head that felt like it was going to explode. “I fully expect a rescue mission to be launched as soon as the High Council realizes communication has been lost.”

“Another rhetorical statement, I presume.”

“An accurate one,” Mela snapped, resisting the urge to kick the main computer housing. She really did need the stupid thing. “What do we do now?”

“You must leave the ship and find medical attention.”

“What???” The higher notes of Mela’s screech sent her pain soaring, and she pressed her hands against the side of her head.

“As well as shelter and provisions,” the computer continued, seemingly impervious to Mela’s escalating alarm. “There is not enough reserve power to treat your injuries, or to sustain proper environmental settings and replicate food, in addition to stealth shields and the normalization chamber, or maintain the homing beacon. External readings indicate the solar panels can absorb enough energy to provide power for only the most crucial functions.”

“And shelter and food are not among those functions,” Mela muttered.

“Not if you wish the ship to remain hidden, and for you to have access to the normalization chamber.”

Mela’s apprehension coalesced into all-out panic. “I can’t go out there! I don’t know enough about the culture to survive.”

“And who refused to undergo the full-spectrum neural interface?”

“That was uncalled for,” Mela huffed. “I didn’t need the stupid thing. I was never supposed to set foot on this Dark planet.”

“You are here now, so you will have to avail yourself of the assistance of the Earthers.”

Facing a pit of highly-poisonous Varuvian vipers had more appeal. “I don’t think so.”

“It is mandatory for your survival.”

“Why can’t I do sleep stasis?”

“It would require too much energy. I sense that you are afraid to leave the ship.”

Afraid? Her, Commander Melaronia Xio of the Intergalactic Military Police, afraid?

“You stupid piece of MicroHard junk! I am not afraid of anything.” Maybe just a little bit apprehensive. “Since you insist, I’m outta here.” Mela stormed (sloshed) to what was left of the weapons cabinet and pulled out her blaster.

“You cannot take that weapon with you.”

“Says who?” Experiencing a wave of dizziness, Mela braced herself against the port hulk, felt a disconcerting give.

The Non-Intergalactic and Alien Life Forms Exploratory Manual states quite clearly that no new form of technology or weaponry will be introduced to non-members or any races unaware of the existence of the Intergalactic Coalition. Nor are you allowed to tell anyone you are not from Earth. The penalty for violating these regulations is a life sentence on the Mercan Penal Colony.

Ewww. Maybe she should have paid more attention to the manual. She threw down the blaster in disgust. “What else?”

You cannot wear your uniform or boots outside this ship, because they are made from materials not known on Earth.”

Mela’s stomach was beginning to roil. “Then what the Darkness am I supposed to wear?”

“The Manual recommends that all patrollers carry apparel similar to that found on the non-member planets they patrol, in case of situations like the one we are now experiencing.”

“I don’t suppose we have any Earth apparel on this ship?”

“It was covered in the full-spectrum interface, and was your responsibility.”

Damn, damn, and triple damn! (New Earth expression she had managed to remember.) “Then what am I supposed to wear?”

“Your best probability would be to wear no apparel of any sort. You can acquire the proper apparel once you are in Earth society.”

Better and better. “Fine.” Mela jerked open her flight suit seam and began wiggling out of it. She wanted to scream in frustration when she realized her boots were impeding the process. She sank to the debris-covered floor and began tugging them off. “What form of credits do I use to purchase clothing? Or do they have a barter system?” With her pounding head, she could barely remember her own name right now, much less anything she’d learned from the (unfortunately minimal) interface.

“They have a monetary system, and you did not pack any Earth currency—as covered on FS interface, so you will have to find some way to earn Earth credits to provide for your needs.”

If Mela ever found Zaneax, she was going to dismember him on the spot. And when she got back home, Arak was going to be minus a few fins as well. “I’ll handle it.” She could handle anything, right? Her boots off, she stood shakily and stripped out of her flight suit. “There? Satisfied? No weapons, no apparel, no credits. No problem.” Yeah, right. “Anything else, oh mighty piece of Morovian Mudflinger excretion?”

“Verbal abuse is uncalled for. Yes, there are a few more issues for discussion.”

She didn’t know how much more she could take, and her head now felt like it was fracturing into a thousand pieces. “Well spit them out, will you? The air is getting stale in here.”

“Your first priority upon leaving the ship should be to seek medical attention. My sensors are picking up indications that you might have a concussion. Are you experiencing head pain and nausea?”

Was Arak slimy? How exciting—she had a concussion, whatever the Darkness that was. “I might be a little indisposed. A regulation pain med would be nice.”

“In view of a probable concussion, that would not be wise. It would be better to get a firm diagnosis first, then obtain appropriate medical treatment.”

She was a warrior, Mela reminded herself, trained to endure pain—even if it felt like hundreds of lasers were detonating inside her head. “How about half a pain med?” she whined (except she never whined).

“No narcotics until you have received medical treatment,” the computer said sternly. “Another thing: Until your body acclimates to Earth, you will need to return to the ship every seventy standard hours to use the normalization chamber. Otherwise you will become very ill. It could even prove fatal.”

Fatal? There was an appealing thought. “Since I can’t take any sort of equipment with me, how will I be able to find the shielded ship again?”

“Just note the general area when you leave, and when you return, toss some rocks where you think the ship is. They will bounce off the stealth shields. I will scan the perimeter outside the ship on a regular basis, so that I will be aware of your approach.”

Throwing rocks—very high tech. “So noted. Anything else?”

“It will be necessary for me to shut down my information files on Earth. They require too much energy to run and access. Therefore, I will be unable to assist you with Earth matters. You will be on your own in that regard. Since your knowledge of Earth matters is limited and you have no credits, it might be best if you pretend to have a memory loss, and don’t remember who you are, or where you are from. That would give you an opportunity to learn what you need to survive.”

Surviving—just a minor detail. Could this cycle get any worse? “Is that all?” Mela gritted through clenched teeth. The way she was feeling, maybe she’d just lie down outside the ship and wait for the Light Being to claim her battered body and frayed soul.

“I believe we have covered the essential points for your foray on Earth. Good luck, Commander.”

Sure. Just wish her luck and cast her out like jettisoned debris. Mela marched to the hatch and pounded the release. When it wouldn’t open, she kicked it, forgetting she was barefooted. Yeow! Furious, she started pounding on the stubborn hatch, but stopped when her head tried to explode. Spinning around, she grabbed the blaster she’d thrown down, set it at maximum, and disintegrated most of the hatch.

“That was an impressive display of military discipline and mature judgment,” the computer said (who had programmed it for sarcasm?).

“Ask me if I care—and that’s definitely a rhetorical question.” Mela stomped from the ship, stopping short as viciously bright starshine nearly blinded her.

It certainly didn’t help her head any. She paused a moment, squinting her eyes against the glare, until they adjusted somewhat.Hearing a faint humming noise behind her, she turned and saw that the ship was no longer visible. At least the stealth shields were functioning. But it was oddly disconcerting for the only link to her reality to vanish.

She tried to make a mental note of the landmarks, so she could locate her ship again, because she wasn’t sure she could count on her internal navigational implant to guide her back. The sharp light was still painful, but now she could see she was in some sort of wilderness area, the terrain flat and sprawling, meeting up with some type of barricade about fifteen meters ahead.

The barricade apparently framed the entire area, circling in a huge arc behind where the craft sat. Large plant growth (trees, she recalled from her interface) rose up beyond the barricade. The terrain itself was covered with a sweep of green growth. Large, yellowish cylinder-shaped objects and huge brown boulders were scattered across the area like rocks on a meteor.

She leaned down, ignoring the pressure in her head, and touched the green stuff beneath her feet. It appeared to be some sort of grass. Green grass? She’d never heard of such a thing. Better get used to strange things, she told herself. Straightening carefully, she took a deep breath and grimaced. What was that awful odor? No one had warned her that Earth air was rank.

Breathing through her mouth, she took a step forward, noting the odd grass beneath her bare feet was only slightly cool, probably because of the close proximity and brightness of Earth’s star (the Sun, she believed it was called).

In fact, the atmosphere around her wasn’t too cold, which was good, considering she wasn’t wearing anything. Since recreational nudity was considered natural and acceptable in her society, her naked state didn’t bother her, but one never knew what strange, indigenous customs Earthers might have.

She certainly didn’t know, having scorned that cursed FS interface. Her main droid caregiver had always droned on about the importance of doing a job as completely as possible, but Mela was a big proponent of expediency and preferred shortcuts whenever possible (okay, so she was impatient, but she did complete her tasks quickly). This time, however, her shortcutting the system might backfire on her.

Nothing to be done about it now. It was time to find a colony or settlement. She started to take another step, but then she realized one of the large boulders was moving. What the—

An odd, plaintiff bellow sent her spinning to her left (not a good move, her head informed her) and coming face to face with a huge creature. More beasts, too many to count, were crowded together behind it. She automatically reached for her weapon before realizing it wasn’t there. Light Being, Darkness, flaming moonbats, and . . . damn (that did have a cool cadence to it)!

The creature moved towards her. It was a huge, four-legged, brown-and-white beast, and bore some similarity to a miniature quad-horned Grog, with a few less horns (thank the Light Being it wasn’t a full-sized version). Mela took a careful, non-threatening step back, steeling herself for the beast to charge her.

But it merely looked at her, then lifted its white head and let out another bellow. It didn’t radiate the aggression that a Grog would. Mela reached out mentally, hoping to control the animal’s mind. She found a jumble of confusion, a sign the creature wasn’t very intelligent, probably just a step above the mentality of the missing Zaneax. So she concentrated on transmitting images instead of thoughts, and sent a picture of a yellowish cylinder about five meters away.

The beast immediately turned and ambled to the odd cylinder and bit into it, then munched contentedly. Amazing! Not only had the creature responded to her mental images, but the yellow thing shredded easily and was apparently edible.

Emboldened by the knowledge she had some control over the Grog look-alike, and it didn’t appear very aggressive, Mela looked around, noting there quite a few of the creatures (all of which she had first thought were boulders). Fortunately, they didn’t appear very interested in her. She rolled some of the tension from her shoulders and scanned the perimeter of the area. To her right, in the distance, she saw the outline of buildings. That’s where she would head.

She turned that direction and strode forward, telling herself she was resourceful, brave, and intelligent. She’d do what she needed to do to survive, until an IUEP ship located her and— Something warm and thick and utterly slimy squished around her foot. She looked down and saw it was a now-flattened, dark substance. The horrible odor told her it was exactly what she fervently hoped it wasn’t. Excrement, probably from the Grog wannabes. She’d never seen, felt, or smelled anything as fowl as this. Ewww, ewww, ewww!

She hopped back, frantically wiping her foot on the grass, with only marginal success. She feared that foot would never be the same again, and decided then and there if a level ten decontamination didn’t take the first three layers of skin off the foot, she’d opt for amputation. Artificial body parts were a five-credit a dozen.

She stomped along for a few meters, dragging her foot against the hideous green grass as she went, and keeping a sharp lookout for more excrement (she saw quite a few patches of it). Her head ached and she stopped next to one of cylindrical things to calm herself (hard to do when you had to breathe through your mouth, or gag on the foul atmosphere). The cylinder came up to her shoulder, and now she could see it was indeed made of some sort of fiber or dried plant material.

She began to feel chilled—the wind had kicked up, and the air felt much cooler. Rubbing her hands over her arms, she kept watchful eye on the grog-like beasts, as she considered her predicament (and revisited the excruciatingly-painful things she planned to do to Zaneax if she ever caught up with him).

A movement in her right peripheral vision snagged her attention. She turned to see a humanoid male riding on another beast, this one slighter than the others. The sight was so foreign, she felt like she was in sensory overload, trying to take in both male and beast while ignoring her aching head. At a glance, the male looked pretty much like a humanoid from her world, except for the oddness of his uniform (was that wide-brimmed, high-domed object perched on his head a helmet?).

The creature he rode—and where were the automated driving machines?—had a longer snout than the other beasts, and no horns, and sported a fall of fur over its arching neck, and a tail made of the same stringy fur. Neither type of animal had been described in the obviously too-brief neural interface.

The male (or man—that’s what they were called on Earth) had obviously seen Mela. As he approached her, she could only stare, backing up until she was pressed against the cylinder, unable to retreat further (and she’d never retreated from any challenge in her life!). He looked huge, perched upon the animal, and she felt a rush of relief when he halted three meters away, then gracefully swung off the creature.

The man didn’t look quite so intimidating then, although he had some height on her, she noticed as he strode purposefully towards her. The strange helmet was still on his head, but her gaze was drawn to his face. She hadn’t known what to expect, and was pleasantly surprised that he had the rugged look of a seasoned military officer, with boldly carved features in a tanned face, and a full, firm mouth (no fishy, wimpy Harb lips here). His eyes, a golden brown, were intense, his gaze direct, as he stopped before her.

She straightened her stance, proudly lifting her chest. At her movement, his gaze immediately lowered. Belatedly, she remembered she wasn’t wearing anything, becoming very aware of her nipples puckering and the chill bumps on her skin in reaction to the stirring air. His eyes widened, and his attention snapped back up to her face.

“Miss, are you all right?” he asked.

Nice voice, deep and smooth, confident. She tried to think of something that wouldn’t give her away. “I think so. Except for . . .” she pointed towards her soiled foot, “this.”

He looked down again, and his mouth quirked slightly. “Yes, ma’am, that is a hazard when you’re in a cattle pasture. And when you’re . . . uh,” His gaze traveled up along her body, back to her face. “Barefoot.”

She didn’t understand the sudden darkening of his eyes, or him clearing his throat. Must be the damn (she really did like that word) excrement on her foot. Well, it wasn’t as if she’d stepped in it intentionally!

He shrugged out of the coat he was wearing and slipped it around her. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

Snuggling into the welcome warmth the garment provided, Mela ran her hands over the foreign material. It was heavy and smooth, with an intriguing scent. The man watched her intently. He expected answers to his questions, and she knew this was a make-it-or-break-it moment. She thought about what the computer had told her; it was sound advice (not that taking advice was one of her strong points).

“I-I don’t know who I am. I must have been in an accident. I think I hit my head,” she touched a sore spot on her skull, wincing, “here. I don’t remember anything else.”