Gimmolee's Arc

Chapter 1 of 1

Gimmolee had no eyes, yet still saw the fuel gauge in his mind blink red. His ship sat dead in a clearing, out of power. He had crashed on this world days ago, a small creature far from home, and he wanted only one thing now: enough energy to leave. But leaving was no longer his real plan. He had found something better here. He had found the socklings. Gimmolee rode atop a brachiosaurus, his one link to this strange place. He could not speak aloud, so he pressed his thoughts into the great beast's mind, and the brachiosaurus spoke his words to the world. "Tell me where the little ones live," Gimmolee thought. The brachiosaurus rumbled the question toward the towering trees ahead. The trees were enormous, their trunks wide as houses. Pod-like growths hung among the high branches. Tiny human-shaped creatures peeked out from them, each wearing brightly colored socks. Some socks were cheerful yellow. Some were nervous gray. Gimmolee did not care about their colors. He cared that there were hundreds of them, and that his ship needed workers to strip fuel from the ground. A crash split the calm. At the base of the largest tree stood a giant purple beaver, taller than a man, wearing brown overalls stuffed with tools. Big Ol' Furry Beaver gnawed at the trunk with long orange teeth. Wood chips flew. The socklings screamed in their pods above, clinging tight as the tree shook. Gimmolee felt the beaver's hunger through the air. Here was strength. Here was a wrecking tool he could aim. He sent his thoughts down through the brachiosaurus. "Stop chewing," the brachiosaurus boomed. "I offer you something sweeter than bark." Big Ol' Furry Beaver turned, teeth dripping. He spat out a mouthful of wood. "Nothing's sweeter than bringing a tree down," he growled. "Watch me." He bit again, harder. Gimmolee pressed closer with his mind. He showed the beaver a picture: every tree in the grove split open, every pod dropped low, every sockling shaken loose and gathered on the ground. "Knock them down for me," Gimmolee urged through his mount. "And you may chew this whole grove to splinters after." The beaver's eyes went wide. He grinned around his fangs. "Now that," he said, "is a deal." Big Ol' Furry Beaver threw his whole weight against the trunk. The great tree groaned, leaned, and toppled. Pods burst open as the branches struck the ground. Dozens of socklings tumbled into the dirt, dazed and crying, their colored socks flashing in the dust. Gimmolee slid from the brachiosaurus and moved among the fallen creatures. He had his first workers. He had his beaver. His army had begun. But the crash had been loud. Deep below, in the muddy tunnels, other purple shapes stirred. Big Ol' Furry Beaver was not the only beaver who had heard a tree fall. And beavers, Gimmolee would soon learn, did not like to share.