Col’inayru woke in stages, consciousness dawning through bits of memory recalled only in brief snippets. An orbital view of the planet. The readings on his instrument panel as the meteor suddenly appeared to his sensors. The crashing, tearing vibration transmitted through the hull of his scout ship as the mass of metal went through his dorsal thruster assembly. The cloud-streaked atmosphere of the Impossible planet Hurst streaking past him. His hand slapping the auto-pilot just as he blacked out.

   Slowly, he opened his eyes, expecting to find his consciousness spread through eternity in the final joining with the universal god-being Unali’wahnah, placing Col'inayru in touch with the minds of all the living Aaul’inah. Instead, his right eye opened to nothing more than the view of a white ceiling over his head, while his left found itself looking at a bank of unknown electronic equipment displaying oddly blinking lights and graphs. The deep slashes of his nostrils flared wide as they took in a range of barely recognizable smells – the heavy scent of alcohol-based compounds, the harsh odor of medicinal liquids, and most pressingly to his empty stomach, a wonderfully light aroma just slightly akin to his own mother’s cooking. Whatever this place was, it was neither his scoutship, nor any familiar place on Aaul’in or its moons.

   Fear bolted through him, and though it brought pain, he sat up as best he could. His eyes swiveled about the room – one finding a curtained window, the other finding another apparent sleeping unit like the one on which he rested. Weary, he tried to determine if he had the strength to rise to his feet, but it seemed a wasted effort. Col’inayru knew that he must have taken many injuries in the crash, for surely the ship could not have set down in one piece. Yet he found only an ache in his head and lower torso, and stiffness in his joints and limbs.

   As he was assessing his condition, and considering the plastic tubing connecting his arm with a bag of clear liquid, he heard the door on the other side of the room open. Twisting his neck slightly to bring both eyes to fully focus on the door, he twittered a query. And then wished he had never awakened.

   The being that entered the room filled him with more fear than he’d ever known. It was one of the Impossibles – those primarily hairless creatures whose ship "Sheekago" had arrived at Aaul'in and almost overturned all of Aaul’inah society. The ones who called themselves “Yoomens” in the primitive, monotonal, sleep-inducing murmuring they called a language. The beings who existed despite not being of the body and mind of Unali’wahnah, when every precept of his culture insisted that only the Aaul'inah could exist.

   The Yoomen came toward Col’inayru, baring his teeth in a formidable fashion. Even in full song, no Aaul’inah would ever raise his fleshy upper lip enough to reveal his teeth, especially to a stranger. It was dressed in a white coat, and had a variety of devices sticking out of its pockets. It began to speak, but only one word (if one could call such primitive utterances true words) made any sense. “Yoo r awaik.” - “yoo” meaning that the Yoomen was addressing Col’inayru. But, the rest was simple gibberish, with all the levels of meaning of a tinakfly's buzzing . If only he still had the translation matrix he had compiled from Yoomen broadcasts during his time in orbit, there would be some hope of understanding.

   The Yoomen looked down on Col’inayru, picking up an electronic pad of some sort that had been hanging on a hook next to the bed, and tapped buttons while pointing it at Col’inaryru. This was more than the poor scout pilot could take. His earbuds popped out of his pelt at the sides of his head, his eyes swiveled wildly, and he heard a long, high beeping sound just as he fell unconscious again.

* * *

   Some time later, Col’inayru awoke again – this time faster and with slightly more energy as he remembered the Yoomen that had been towering over him. The Yoomen was now gone, and he was alone. Or so he thought until his left eye lit upon another Yoomen sitting near the door. This one was different from the first, and, from his monitoring of the Yoomen video broadcasts, appeared to be female. She was holding a small electronic device in her hand, and appeared to be intently viewing whatever was on the screen. As she reached with one hand to tap a button on the device, she glanced up and saw him looking at her.

   Her mouth began to spread outward to the sides, though she did not bare her teeth. She rose and came toward him. Slowly, she put one of her oddly-formed hands to her chest, and spoke in the lighter tone of the females of this species. “Pat.” She patted her chest again, and repeated “Pat.”

   For any other Aaul’inah, this would likely have resulted in another fainting spell. However, Col’inayru was aware that he was feeling much better than the first time he’d awoken. He had been scouting these beings for the previous eight moon phases, and though fearful at finding himself at their mercy earlier, he now thought that they might actually have tended his injuries. He tried to apply some of what he’d learned from monitoring them.

   “Col’inayru.” He sang it with only the undertones of his position as scout, and omitting the usual courtesy of the subharmonics detailing his familial heritage. The Pat nodded her head slightly, and sat down at his bedside.

   “Kan yoo undastan me, Colin?” she asked. “Doo yoo no wair yoo r?”

   He tried to tell her that he did not understand, and wanted to return to his ship – realizing as he said it how foolish it must be to think his ship remained intact. But, his twittering, even sung in the children’s register, elicited only a shake of the head from the Pat.

   Then his stomach rumbled loudly. Her eyes opened wide, and she smiled fully, making his stomach lurch yet again. “Uv cors! Yoo mus bee hungri!” She held up one slim finger, and rushed out of the room. Col’inayru looked about himself, totally confused by this hasty action. If he had ever needed evidence that these Yoomen were not part of the mind of Unali’wahnah, he had it now. No Aaul’inah would dare disrupt the mind of the universe itself with such disorganized activity.

   She was back with nearly as much speed as she had left. She carried in her hands a flat, round container, which she placed on a tray before him. Steam rose as she opened it, and his nostrils flared to grasp the scents. Just as quickly, his nostrils slammed shut as the foulest aroma he’d ever encountered hit his olfactory center. His eyes watered as he pulled his head back as far from the platter as possible.

   The Pat gasped as she yanked the platter away. 'So,' he thought, 'they mean to torture me with disharmonious sounds, foul odors and taunting me with the hope of food.' It did not bear thinking how such despicable creatures could exist within the Unali’wahnah. He sat up, and glared at the Yoomen female. She was saying over and over, “Im sori. Im sori.”

   Col’inayru looked back to the plate. The steam had dissipated, and he could see that the plate was covered in bits and pieces of various colors. There was a brown, lumpy object covered with some sort of liquid. There was a lump of white stuff that reminded him of the insulation on his scoutship. And what appeared to be a thin, green sort of intgo pea. As for what the red cubes of jiggling material were, he could not begin to hazard a guess.

   For her part, the Pat saw him eyeing the plate, and brought it toward him slowly. Though he tried to clench his nose shut, a waft of the odor still managed to get through, and he held himself in check as his nausea rose. She could see what it was doing to him and again removed the plate, this time covering it and placing it on the window ledge.

   Again, she raised a single finger, and left the room. These Yoomen could torture him forever, it seemed. He thought he might manage to escape from the room, given time. But where would he go then? This planet Hurst had no others of his kind, though his monitors had caught glimpses of other beings which weren’t Yoomen. Not that he could approach even non-Yoomen Impossibles. He would be completely on his own, as the Council had warned he would be if captured.

   The door opened, and the Pat came back. This time she carried a smaller bowl, uncovered. She took a spoonful, and sipped it carefully. So, this was intended as food. 'Or poison,' his mind replied. No. If they meant to kill him, their Yoomen haste would have seen the deed already done.

   Slowly and deliberately, she placed the bowl in front of him. He saw that it held cubes of light tan, white and orange floating in a sea of oily yellow liquid. Warily, he opened his nose a crack, and instantly began to retch and dry-heave as this vicious substance made itself known to his senses. How could the Yoomen have possibly put this sewage into her mouth?

   The Pat moved the bowl away to the window ledge, and again made the “Im sori” sounds. Col’inayru did not know what to do. He lifted himself shakily from the bed, and the Pat made to grab his arm. He pulled back, and trumpeted a warning which any other Aaul’inah would have taken quite seriously. As it was, she backed up and circled him slowly, heading for the door. Before she quite reached the door, a male Yoomen entered the room. Though there was n need for guardsmen on peaceful, orderly Aaul'in, Col'inayru could see from the male's uniform and what could only be a weapon on his belt that such was his assigned duty.

   “Its ok.” the Pat said. “Hee duz not undastan. Hee jus wantz sum fud.” The guard's brow furrowed at this, and Col’inayru thought for a moment that perhaps the guard didn’t understand the female either. But the guard said, “Wate heer. Il breeng sumthin.” Then he left the room.

   “Its all rite. Weel find yoo sum fud. Pleez, get bak in bed.” The Pat tried to calm him. He didn’t know what to do. The guard could be right outside the door waiting for him to try an escape. Since every Aaul'inah was a working component of the mind of Unali'wahnah, it was unimaginable for one to disrupt the deity's mind by harming another, yet having seen Yoomen images during his surveilence, Col’inayru suspected that the weapon would be as effective on him as it had been in those broadcast images. It was clear that Yoomens did not see themselves as irreplaceable parts of the universe.

   He would not allow the Pat to lead him back to bed. He moved slowly about the room, curious to look out the window, though the presence of those vile platters on the ledge forced him to keep his distance. He had just finished examining the medical monitors by his bed when the guard returned, carrying yet another of the dreaded beige platters. Col’inayru’s heart began to beat crazily, and he started to warble protests against this treatment. If only they’d left him his matrix so he could understand them. If only they were true intelligences like the Aaul’inah, that real communication might be possible.

   The guard handed the plate to the Pat, and said “Weel hav too sidate him if hee gets too upset. Comand wantz him wel enuf too help with his eekwipment.” She nodded. Turning toward Col’inayru, she slowly raised the lid on this platter. Col’inayru’s eyes spun, as he tried to avoid looking at whatever foul substance they had brought this time. It was too much effort for one as hungry as he. His right eye focused independently on the platter, and he saw that it held a mound of green leaves. This might be more to his liking, as his mother often served such leafy plants back home. His left eye swung toward it as well, and then he gave a look to the Pat. She nodded her head and quietly said, “Salat. Letus.” And again took a taste to show him her example.

   Dubious, he came closer, and allowed the slightest sniff in her direction. This one overcame all the others. He shook and screamed. His pelt bristled. His earbuds popped into view. His eyes rolled about. And finally, his bowels released onto the floor with what little remained in him from before he was captured.

   As he collapsed by the bed, nostrils tightly shut, panting through his mouth, the guard reached for his weapon, and thumbed a control. “No,” the Pat said. She set the platter down on a table, went to the wall, and pushed a button. Then she came back to be near him, still not touching him. She said to the guard, “Its thee smel uv owr fud. Its sikning him.”

   The guard shook his head, “I don gettit. I yoozd thee lite dresing.” The Pat was about to reply when the door opened, and another male Yoomen came in. “Yoo need a cleen up?” The new male looked at the mess near Col’inayru, and nodded. “Yup. Yoo doo.” He then wheeled in a bucket with a long handle sticking out of it, and several bottles attached to the sides. He moved carefully toward Col’inayru with this potential torture device. Self preservation won out over fatigue, and Col’inayru bolted to his feet, and raced to the far side of the bed.

   The new Yoomen began to clean the mess Col’inayru had made, while the Pat and the guard conversed in quiet tones near the door. It was becoming clear to Col’inayru that escape at any cost, even that of his own life, would be preferable to staying here. He began to eye the door and window with a more desperate need to make an escape attempt.

   As Col’inayru was contemplating his options, the second male finished swabbing up the mess. He returned the hairy, long-handled tool he was using to the bucket, and removed a piece of cloth and a bottle from their places. Opening the bottle, he poured some solution onto the floor.

   Reflex overcame security yet again, and Col’inayru’s nostrils opened slightly, only to be greeted by the heavenly aroma he’d faintly scented upon awakening. His mouth began to water instantly, and pangs of both hunger and homesickness struck his stomach at once. He moved forward like an automaton, reaching for the bottle, trilling the sweetest music any of the Yoomens in the room had ever heard.

   The custodian began to back away, and the guard reached for his weapon again. Once more, the Pat interceded. She moved forward, and took the bottle from the cleaner. “This. This iz wut yoo want too it?” His only answer was to reach for the bottle again.

   The guard told the Pat, “Dont let him hav it. Hee cud uz it az a wepon.” The Pat shook her head. “No. I dont think so.” She handed the bottle to Col’inayru. He inhaled deeply, and warbled even more sweetly. Then he spun about, and quickly poured some of the contents of the bottle over the plate of greens, put the bottle on the floor, and began to eat with gusto. His eyes relaxed and retracted for the first time since he woke. His earbuds fluttered, and he trilled joyously between bites.

   The guard turned to the custodian as the three Yoomens watched him eat. “Wut wuz in that botl?”

   “Jus sum amoneea an alcohol for sanitizin. It's kwiker than settin up a steri-feeld."

   The Pat turned to the guard, “Tel Comand I think heel bee wel enuf too help with hiz ship in a day or too. An lets get annutha salat an mor cleenin solushun in heer.”