Harold the Space Bear
Another dozen boxes in the cargo hold left him pining for the old days, when prying metal containers open resulted in a feast
Harold the space bear pried the container open with a satisfying pull, crack, and crunch. Inside, he found nothing but foam padding and small, smooth cubes with strange markings that lit up. None were his target, but he placed two that he liked into the pouch on his left side. Another dozen boxes in the cargo hold left him pining for the old days, when prying metal containers open resulted in a feast and not an endless search.
He dropped onto all fours to walk to the next room. His masters had changed him so walking upright was easier. When he’d asked why, they told him it was more civilized. Harold remembered, though, the satisfying pressure of his paws pushing him forward, his claws digging into the dirt as he ran. Now his claws and the hard ridges that covered his fingerless gloves clanked on the metal flooring of the abandoned spaceship. No, not abandoned. Surrendered. The occupants had fled in escape pods at the sight of his master’s ship approaching. It happened with every ship they encountered. Sometimes he wondered what happened to the beings who’d lived onboard. Did they get away? Were they captured and upgraded like him? Or were they at least killed quickly?
Even though the masters hadn’t upgraded his intellect too much, it had been enough to let him have such thoughts. Also the thought that whoever fled probably took any items of value with them. His current target was so small it seemed unbelievable anyone would give up their entire ship for it. In the image they’d shown him, the green pendant hung around a small creature’s neck and glowed with a light he’d never seen. It had mesmerized him, brought him back to the green fields along a drop in the dark blue river where the fish flew out of the water into his mouth. They hadn’t let him sit with his memory though, instead directing him to the small transport that brought him to the ship and his search.
He plodded along, sure in his opinion that the tiny item was long gone with the one who wore it. There’d be no reward at the end of his search, but being able to move, walk, amble along as he used to had become its own reward. He did his best to look miserable though, lest his masters figured out he enjoyed the time too much.
It was all he had left.
Another two rooms passed, filled with boxes of uninteresting items. Some of them had required him to use enhancements to open. He’d hated that. Ripping, tearing, cracking things with his own strength brought him more joy.
The top of his head, just between his ears, buzzed. The mission hat attached to him there, the side panels squeezing his cheeks just enough to be uncomfortable. Harold fought the urge to swat it away like an annoying fly. He knew well the pain of ripping it off, so instead he sat back on his haunches as he was trained to do. A map appeared, hovering in the air in front of him, showing a new destination five levels up. There were only three rooms left on his current level, and he hated leaving them unfinished. Maybe they’d let him roam after he’d retrieved the target, if it was there. That thought left him quickly. In the three-hundred and thirty-six missions he’d been on, they’d never let him roam after getting the target. The most freedom he ever had was in the moments after he first arrived and got his bearings, and even then, it was often limited.
He grunted assent and tapped a claw on a large button on the right side panel of the mission hat. The map turned translucent and remained centered in his view as he went into the lift. Another tinge of regret passed through him. There was a time when scents, beautiful and foul, were his map. His nose followed the smells for miles and miles to discover delicious treats. Berries on the mountainside. Coolers of tasty smoked meat. Of course, he didn’t know they were smoked then. Just that they tickled his nose and his mouth with delight.
A cry escaped his throat as he raised his snout to sniff. Metallic. Too clean. But just underneath other smells of life mixed, recycled by the air scrubbers, into nothing he could follow. Another part of him they’d taken away, he suspected, after it led him to abandon the target on his first mission in favor of a tantalizing smell.
The doors of the lift opened. He lumbered out, still on all fours, despite the pain in his front paws and hips. When he reached the door, he stood, pushing a paw onto the door controls as his instructions told him. A sharp boop sounded. The controls turned red.
Without waiting to be told, he smashed into the door. Three times bent it inwards. A claw hooked behind it and pulled. Metal creaked and gave way.
Inside was a tiny room, barely large enough for him to enter and turn around. An unmade bed and storage cabinets lined the walls. A stinging, putrid smell, strong enough to irritate his no-longer-sensitive nose, filled the space.
A sniffle and a shuffle from inside the wall of cabinets gave him pause. It wasn’t that he hadn’t encountered resistance on missions, he just didn’t expect it on this one. His instructions had been clear. Locate and retrieve target from an abandoned ship. The stench of urine proved it wasn’t abandoned. Not entirely.
The top of his head vibrated again.
Secure target.
The words flashed with intensity over the map, still hovering in his vision.
He shook his head and huffed, trying to get rid of the lingering tingle that the vibration left behind, and turned the map off. Avoiding the one he knew was occupied, he opened doors and drawers in search of the green gem. Whatever happened to the ships after he completed his missions, he didn’t know. But perhaps whatever it was in the cabinet would somehow survive. Somehow live its natural life if he didn’t reveal it.
As the search proceeded, that hope seeped away from him. The last door had to be opened.
He gripped it, pulling gently. Something pulled back. There wasn’t much resistance, but enough to know whatever was inside was aware, waiting.
Harold ripped the door open, teeth bared, and prepared to fight if he had to. The door came off and with it flew a tiny creature, not much bigger than a cub a few months out of the den.
The little one scampered backwards from him, pressing itself up against the far wall. It resembled a young human. Like the ones that played behind the fence where the masters had taken him in a flash of light. But it was also wrong. Dull grey skin that matched the bottoms of storm clouds. Arms thin enough to break in a strong breeze. Legs, though pulled up tight, too short to wade through the smallest of creeks. Eyes set wider apart than the great owl he used to call friend of the sky.
Around its neck hung a green gem, no longer glowing but undoubtedly his target.
His mouth closed, his snout dropped, and he fell backwards, catching himself in time to sit.
The soft grass felt good on his rear. Bubbling of the river as it fell onto itself mixed with a breeze gusting through the trees, carrying with it smells of the forest so distinct he breathed in deep, sifting through and tasting each one. A soft rumble purred in his chest as he relished the pleasure of being scratched behind his ear. Turning, he saw the creature next to him, its skin no longer grey, but a blue-green as if the sky and trees had blended. It smiled and leaned into him. He’d never felt such peace and contentment.
Secure target. The words flashed, and the hat vibrated longer, yanking him back into the room.
He shook his head, understanding settling over him like the cold before his long-ago winter naps. The child, not human, but a child nonetheless, still huddled in front of him. The glow of the gem slowly dissipated, and he looked into its eyes.
Standing, he growled, reached up to his head, and prepared for the pain.
Notes on This Story:
This story was inspired by a bear in our backyard (pictured in the video above). The trailcam we have set up captured him waltzing by, just on the other side of the fence. Bears are all around here, so it wasn’t a surprise, but it isn’t something we see frequently (as long as we don’t leave out bird feeders or yummy barbecue).
Anyway, I wanted to include the bear in a story and I just can’t seem to write anything that is even close to being in our normal world (I would argue our world isn’t all that normal either).
That’s how Harold was born. Slightly inspired by Rocket from Guardians of the Galaxy, he’s more than just a bear now. My daughter tells me I need to finish this story and continue Harold’s adventure. It’s on my list of things to write. Should it be a grown up story, or maybe a middle grade? What do you think?
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