"Lets' just say I don't need any weapons, friend."
Join the Flea in his serialized adventures as the hardboiled gumshoe hops across the galaxy from planet to planet solving mysteries and searching for the origin of his own existence.
From acclaimed author, Warren Fahy (FRAGMENT, PANDEMONIUM).
You know, it’s funny.
Everyone I know is an alien. I’m an orphan, one-of-a-kind as far as I know. No one knows how or when or why I was born, not even me. I’m related to no known form of life, although I do strongly resemble a common Earth flea, nasty buggers strong enough to make the jump to other worlds, unfortunately for everyone. Of course, I’m much bigger than a flea, three-and-half feet from nose to butt, and much more sophisticated. I’m a little over three feet tall with a hard creased shell on my back that is dark mahogany to people who sense light, mokk to those
who sense X-rays, yaule to those who sense electromagnetic waves, hantor to those who sense term waves. I sense them all.
Each friend’s face is an utterly different concept from the next, each mode of expression, each “eye,” each mouth and nose and antennae and voice so radically different from the next that I have never been stigmatized by any one biology. When I see someone totally different, I see me, in a deep way. Moreover, I can directly hear every species’ voice. Everyone else is so used to the sound of their own voices they sometimes can’t hear other kinds of voices. Members of species, I would assume that is everyone who will read this, see their own physical form as an abstract genetically blessed ideal as well as just an isolated and individual shape. I’ve heard humans complain that they can’t recognize when a scythian is angry (until it’s too late) or if a luscian is laughing, and I hear scythians explain that they cannot tell when humans are begging for mercy or when luscians are being sarcastic. And this is to say nothing of standards of beauty.
I meet each kind one at a time. And after a while, I know when each one is blushing over his first crush. I always know when Job is bluffing in gin Romulus. I know when Hobbs is worrying about the gray on his temples and thinking about his home in Idaho. Most of all, I know when I like somebody’s face. I didn’t like this scythian gal.