I didn’t know was how small human hands are. How feeble all of you are. Some of your number have frailties so debilitating that you spend half your shifts complaining.
And I already told you how much I don’t care for your buzzing little voices.
But I’m fair. I’ll give you a chance to surprise me—hells, impress me, if you can manage a decent effort.
My rules are simple: obey me. I have two imperatives: close your mouth, and put your back and hands to work.
CHAPTER 1
BASH
Prior to the humans’ arrival, I had many hobs in my employ for many solars. Most of the males who worked under my hand belonged to no Gryfala, and they worked tirelessly. I came to appreciate many of them.
Now the aliens have come and melted my hobs’ brain matter. My once steady and dependable workforce no longer has a stout work ethic. Thanks to humans, their ability to mind my will has essentially liquified. They’re distracted, they compete for females’ attention, and they break into fights over you aliens, for tevek’s sake.
It’s tiresome.
And the squabbling and distracted hands takes away from productivity.
This is irritating.
Unspeakably irritating.
I can’t harm the females. But I’m allowed to do whatever I like to the males.
Consequently, I’ve found that if you grab a hob in each fist and shake them, their leathery wings make surprisingly pleasant crinkles and snaps. As bonus entertainment, initially upon being attacked, the hobs will aggressively emit a hiss. Hobs, like Gryfala, have a wicked bite. They show fang right up until they see who has ahold of them—and then they quit fighting and let me shake sense into their heads.
I’ve found that shaking all nearby males relieves some stress—more if I toss them like javelins. At high velocity, a hob’s partially folded wings act like feather fletchings. They sail through the air with accuracy.
Shaking and throwing hobs also has the side benefit of cowing the humans. It terrified them at first, to see the hobs lightly mauled. (As it should. I wanted them next.)
I’ve been lightly mauling my employees ever since.
Every time a human gets out of line—back-talking, questioning me, the impudent little pipsqueaks—I start shaking hobs.
When the humans misbehave, I throw hobs.
When I want to strangle humans, I wrap my hand around the necks of hobs.
(Thus far, I have not killed any hobs—but Creator knows I’ve imagined killing cartloads of humans. These aliens are so teveking irritating.)
And today… this day is still in its infancy, and it’s been trying. Currently, there are no hobs left in my vicinity. Very unfortunately, there are uncowed humans. Two of them sit before me on rocks, none the wiser to my presence as they’re so engrossed in idle chatter that they don’t know I’ve managed to stalk right up behind them. Their knees are touching companionably, their shoulders occasionally bumping—and if I were a male who enjoyed seeing simple happiness on an alien’s plain little face, I’d be pleased these two individuals are socializing so peacefully.
But I’m not a male who enjoys seeing happiness on an alien’s plain little face. I could not care a teveking tittle less that these two are partaking in socializing, which I’m told humans need to do. Apparently, the little nitwits need to maintain a certain level of interaction with their own kind in order to thrive.
If that’s so, then they can thrive on their own time. I’m here to work—and so are they.
After all, the humans begged me to allow them to be here. They want a part in building their human village—and if it means all of these pocket-sized specks of torment gather together far, far away from me in the near future, then I am all for breaking my back to see a proper cage for them is finished.
As soon as possible.
Despite the lot of them begging to break their backs with me, begging to contribute to the building of their preserve—they chatter constantly when they could be hard at work. They often stop and take seats when they should be moving. Resting should be done on their own time.
Not mine.
Not this quarry’s.
One of the oblivious humans sitting before me whispers something before nudging her companion with an elbow. They both erupt in ribald-sounding chuckles.
Meek and terrified is how humans were described to me before I’d ever seen them.
Meek and terrified my tail.
Who felt it would be a wise decision to entrust a herd of these alien pups into my care? A Gryfala, that’s who. A female who, like so many of her