Happened to be rereading something, and made myself giggle. Had to share. From SPECIES IMPERATIVE (no spoilers) Their heads sat on stiff necks that bore accordion-like ridges on either side. Those worked independently, in Mac’s limited experience, to tilt the head an extraordinary distance one way or the other. There were two eyes, slit-pupilled, four nostrils, and a fanged mouth without lips but still capable of forming understandable Instella courtesy of a thin flexible tongue. These features were tightly grouped in the lower left quadrant of the front of the head, giving a Frow the appearance of never really looking right at you, even when doing so. The rest of the face, and top of the head, was kept beneath a hat, itself secured by a strap below the protruding chin. The head and neck were set below the shoulders but where Sinzi shoulders rose with delicate flare, those of a Frow were great lumps studded with spines that shot from the base of the fine bones supporting their membrane. Mac kept waiting to see the spines move in some display -- they seemed flexible -- but the Frow of her acquaintance hadn’t done anything interesting with them. The fabric spikes on their hats mimicked the real thing. Already top heavy in appearance, given their slender torsos, short legs, and long arms, the spikes made a Frow appear ready to tip over and impale the ground at any moment. Which was the truth. On land, flat land, they moved on two widely splayed legs and only when forced to do so, greatly preferring to lurch into position when no one was looking to assume a dignified, upright posture as if they’d been there all along. It was only polite to let Frow arrive first to any meeting for this reason. As for chairs, they were pointless. The beings didn’t sit; their torsos couldn’t bend. Or fit inside a taxi. Ruining a perfectly good joke. Mac’s visitors kept their arms wrapped tightly around themselves, as if protecting their uniforms from a possible fall was more important than using them for balance. She couldn’t help putting her arms out in anticipation, though her chances of catching one if it toppled were remote. Provide a softer landing, maybe. Se Lasserbee staggered to a halt, much to Mac’s relief and se’s own, then took a moment to compose se-self. As se wrapped se’s arms proudly around se-self, se’s membrane thus becoming a handsome mantle, the last of se’s companions planted a foot on an upturned root and began to leave the vertical. From that moment, disaster was inevitable. All three collided and went down in a mass of silver-sparkled blue, membraned arms flailing and hands clutching whatever was closest. There was a plaintive rattle as they settled. Mac froze, not knowing if it would be a breach to try and help, or if she should look into the distance until they pulled themselves apart. She compromised, staying close enough to assist if they asked, but looking, mostly, away. Between peeks to see how they were managing. Not well. One of the lackeys had a grip on a tree. Another had ne’s long, strong fingers wrapped over most of Se Lasserbee’s face, while that worthy had se’s hands firmly on the first lackey’s leg. They didn’t seem able to let go. Great instinct for a cliff dweller, Mac thought with interest. “May I help?” she offered at last. Se Lasserbee’s mouth wasn’t covered. “Ah. Dr. Connor,” se said in se’s metal in bucket voice, the words proceeding by a breathless pant. “Ah. What a pleasant surprise. You might want to move away.” About to comply, Mac noticed wisps of smoke coming from beneath the motionless tangle of aliens. “You’re sparking,” she commented then winced, having floundered yet again on the rocks of interspecies’ protocol. Never mention bodily functions. “I don’t mean you personally,” she qualified. “But ... there is something burning under --” an inclusive wave “-- you.” “Yes. Ah. Most observant. We aren’t at risk, Dr. Connor. Please. A moment.” Although this close their skin looked more like flexible blubber than leather, their uniforms didn’t appear flammable. Sensible precaution, Mac judged. Doing her best to keep a nonchalant expression, she tried to spot the source of the tiny sparks, clearly visible in the growing shadow of late afternoon. Particularly, she observed, around the poor Frow on the bottom of the pile. The likeliest candidate appeared to be a narrow channel in the skin underneath the arms themselves, from which the tips of thick solitary hairs protruded like a comb’s teeth. Might be some kind of spark-generating organ. Or it could really be a comb, Mac chided herself. The spikes on the shoulders looked to require bit of buffing. Who knew what lay under the uniforms themselves? Let alone the hats. With agonizing deliberation, the three Frow sorted themselves out. Mac found a flatter root than most for a perch and watched, fascinated. They acted as if a false move could plummet them all into some abyss. The simplest shift of a finger involved a great deal of discussion, some of it loud, in their own language. Several times, one grip was replaced in favor of shifting another. It took, from Mac’s surreptitious checks of the time, seventeen minutes and twenty seconds before Se Lasserbee stood free and proud in front of her once more.
Posted on: Wed, 26 Nov 2014 20:06:58 +0000
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