Menace of the Chitar

James Abraham Carter

The violet grasses of the savannah swayed in a wind that smelled of alien fragrances. The planet’s crimson sun, setting low, tinted the jagged peaks of the northern mountain range and bathed the plains' flat landscape in soft light. In the cooling, amber-tinted air, the thallim fields stretched out like a sea of man-tall, spiny coral, their green-black leaves bristling with tiny, translucent filaments that shivered when touched by a breeze. The plant’s sap, once tapped and processed, was faintly orange – a cure for Jacob’s Disease, the terrible leprosy-like scourge that had, in the early days, cruelly killed many of the human colonists. The Iraca, the natives of this world called Acron, were immune; they tended the fields, quiet, hard-working humanoids who were looked down upon by many of the human colonists because of their pre-scientific Bronze Age culture.

Ryan Elliott had been born on Acron. Eight years ago, at the mere age of 22 he had inherited the modest homestead named New Hope from his late parents, both tragically killed in a hovercar accident. There were only two thallim plantations on Acron, which were sufficient for the medical needs of the human population, 10 thousand souls in all. New Hope was a small holding; its appearance was modest, its profits lean, but it was his. It was also the place where his beloved wife, Linda, had moved in three years earlier, bright-eyed and full of the promise that every colonist clung to when they left the congested cities of Mother Earth for the raw frontier.

Ryan’s hover-truck glided over the dusty track, a battered vessel patched with salvaged parts and a magnetic drive whose whine indicated that the field stabilizer needed replacing sooner rather than later. Behind him, the distant lights of Jamestown flickered, a source of supplies and occasional news from far-flung Earth. He glanced at the gift-wrapped box on the passenger seat, which contained an elegant blue dress cut in the latest fashion. He had bought it at a market stall near the spaceport, hoping that the anniversary gift might bring a smile back to the woman who had stopped laughing three months earlier.

The memory of Linda’s laughter still echoed in his mind, a fading memory. When they had married, she had been a whirlwind of ideas and affection, running her hands over the thallim stalks, tasting the sap, and commenting on its bitterness with a poet’s tongue. The first season after their wedding had been a blur of endless work and laughter. But slowly, something had changed. Her voice grew sharp, her eyes darted away, and she tensed when he tried to touch her. The evenings that once ended with words of love now ended in desolate silence. Their sexual intimacy, which had been as natural as the rhythm of the seasons, had now become an unending winter.

He tried to convince himself that the distance between them was merely the inevitable strain of frontier life – the endless labor, the risk of illness, and the constant threat of crop failure due to drought or plant diseases. Yet the truth that pressed against his troubled mind was harder: something inside Linda had altered, something he could not reach through the wall of indifference she had erected around herself.

The stone homestead rose like a low citadel from the savannah. Its circular walls, built from the same bluish rock that dotted the landscape, were girded by a deep verandah that shaded bull's-eye windows. Its architecture was a blend of human modernity and Iraca tradition; the roof was thatched with woven reeds, the interior walls were stone, the floor was polished timber, and the heavy doors were carved with intricate geometric symbols of the native people.

Ryan’s hovertruck eased to a halt in front of the entrance, the dust pluming around the levitation field as the vehicle settled on its landing gear with a groan. He lifted the boxed dress from the seat, the gold gift wrapping catching the waning light. The familiar view of the homestead was a welcome sight until his eyes fell upon an aerodynamic, silver-hued hovercar parked beneath the nari tree at the side of the house. It was not Linda’s. Its sleek lines and the crest painted on its side – a black gauntleted fist clutching a crimson thunderbolt – marked it unmistakably as Blake Norton’s, the owner of Victory Plantation, and his ruthless business rival.

A cold dread settled in Ryan’s gut. Three months ago, he and Linda had attended a dance in Jamestown, and there, Blake had introduced himself to her. Ryan had bristled when he saw the way Blake eyed his wife with lustful hunger. He had never liked the man, but he trusted Linda and thought she was merely being polite when she hung on his every suave word with rapt attention. But now doubt gnawed at him like a rat. Could her frequent trips to town have been a cover for an illicit liaison? He stepped out of his battered vehicle, the worn soles of his boots crunching on the gravel path as he hurried through the gathering dusk toward the entrance, his heart heavy with dread. The wooden door swung open with a soft sigh at his touch, revealing a scene lit by oil lamps that seemed to have been ripped from every man’s worst nightmare.

Linda knelt on the polished floorboards, her blouse open, breasts swaying free, her blonde head bobbing in an act of pleasuring that made Ryan’s stomach lurch. Blake Norton, 10 years his senior, sat on the cane lounge with his trousers undone, his erection thrust toward her as she knelt between his thighs, her lips wrapped around his glistning shaft as she sucked him with a greedy eagerness that Ryan had not felt in months.

The moment Ryan’s eyes took in the dreadful scene, his gift slipped from his grasp and fell with a soft thud onto the timber floor. The sudden sound cut through the room like a gunshot.

The adulterous pair stopped. Blake jerked the zipper of his trousers shut, pushed himself up in a fluid motion that marked his innate confidence, and rose to his full, imposing height – a man whose wealth was evident in the sharp lines of his tailored clothes and his ruthlessness in the cold, calculating look in his eyes.

Linda rose as well, her face flushed, the red of embarrassment staining her cheeks as she wiped semen from her lips. But as she buttoned her blouse, concealing the nakedness of her pert breasts, there was a strange steadiness in her voice as she spoke.

“I’m leaving you, Ryan,” she said, each word a brutal hammer blow against the love he felt for her. “I’m going with Blake. He can give me a life you can’t. I’m tired of being poor, of being married to a man who can barely make ends meet, and of living in a house that looks like a savage’s hut. I want a proper home, real comforts, and he can provide that. I’ve already lodged the divorce papers with Blake’s lawyer, who will fast-track the proceedings. You get to keep the plantation. There is nothing here that I want.”

Ryan’s mind emptied. The dress lay on the floor in its dented box, his anniversary gift now a mute witness to betrayal. He stumbled forward, his shaking hand clutching the back of a wooden chair, the timber creaking beneath his muscular frame as he collapsed onto it. At 30 years of age, his world was falling apart like a house of cards.

Blake laughed at the sight of Ryan’s distress, a harsh, guttural sound that hit him like a fist.

“You’re a softheaded loser, Ryan,” Blake sneered, his voice having a cruel edge. “Your wife deserves a real man who can give her everything, not an idiot who coddles the natives and works his fingers to the bone. She’s leaving you because you’re a weak fool.”

“Your wealth is built on the backs of the Iraca,” Ryan managed to shoot back, his voice dull but full of truth. “You pay them poverty wages, you cut corners, you ruin the fields for a higher profit. You have no loyalty, no respect for those you employ. You’re a ruthless, selfish bastard!”

He looked at Linda, uncomprehending. “How can you want to be with this man? Everyone knows what he is like - remorseless, cruel, and arrogent.”

She didn’t answer.

Blake’s smile widened, his eyes glittered with sadistic amusement. “That’s why I get what I want. Your wife is leaving because you can’t give her what she desires. Good luck, Ryan. Good luck with your primitive stone hut and your dirt-poor plantation.”

At the moment, Ryan was too emotionally numb to want to smash Blake’s smug face. That desire would come later, but when it did, he was smart enough to know that violence wouldn’t accomplish anything except getting himself charged with assault and probably jail time as well. So he watched in devastated, crestfallen silence as both walked unhurriedly from the house.

Blake carried Linda’s luggage. Linda didn’t look at him as she walked out the door and didn’t look back at their home, the life they had built together. It was as if it had meant nothing to her. Blake’s sleek vehicle lifted off and departed, vanishing into the distance and leaving Ryan slumped dejectedly in the chair amid the wreckage of his shattered dreams. 

The heavy silence that followed was broken by a soft rustle of clothes as Madjara, their 22 year old housemaid, entered from the vegetable garden, her voluptuous frame moving with a surprising grace that seemed to embody the rhythm of an earth goddess. Her skin was the deepest midnight; her head was covered by a short tuft of jet-black fur that glimmered with a faint iridescence. Her breasts, heavy and slightly sagging from their bounteous weight, were draped in a simple length of handwoven fabric that wrapped around her generous body, the garment’s geometric patterns of black and white intertwining like the fragrant ulon vines that clung to the walls of the homestead.

She approached, kneeling before Ryan, her large, expressive eyes reflecting a mixture of compassion and regret.

“Tysun,” she whispered, the Iraca word for “sir” soft on her lips, “I know what has been happening. Mistress Linda threatened to harm my family if I said anything. I was afraid of what she might do. I am sorry.”

The news that Linda had threatened the girl’s family shocked him as much as her infidelity. His wife was capable of things he had never suspected. Ryan looked at Madjara, and his eyes softened as he saw the sincerity in her posture and heard the genuine regret in her voice. He raised a hand and placed it on her shoulder; the gesture conveyed comfort and forgiveness.

“I understand. It’s not your fault,” he said, his voice hoarse. “She chose this evil path. You… you have always been a hardworking and loyal employee. I thank you and am very glad for that.”

Madjara’s gaze lingered on his face. “You are a good man, and you have treated me with respect and kindness, as well as my people. I am grateful, and now I will show my gratitude by revealing something to you that humans do not know from experience, having lived in our world for only fifty years. We tell time by the cycle of the planets. Our wise men watch the heavens. Just today, they informed us that there is a planetary conjunction coming. It signals that the chitar are breeding in the northern mountains. Their numbers are growing. Very soon, they will descend from the peaks by the thousands, and the thallim, their favorite food, will be devoured. But if you plant kovi weeds near the thallim, they repel the chitar. My people have used kovi for generations as a natural defense.”

Ryan’s mind, still reeling from his wife’s betrayal, seized on the urgency of the new threat. He imagined the thallim fields – rows upon rows of spiky stalks that had provided for his family and had cured countless colonists. If the chitar ate them, without a cure, Jacob’s Disease - the dread illness that plagued the humans - would spread unchecked. Thallim was slow-growing, and the colony would face a tragic collapse far more severe than his personal heartbreak if both plantations were destroyed.

“You’re saying we can save the thallim?” He asked, the tremor that had been in his voice turning into a determined edge.

“Yes, tysun,” Madjara answered, her voice steady. “If we work quickly, we can plant enough kovi to form a living barrier. I know where the best wild patches grow.”

The plan ignited a spark of purpose in Ryan’s chest. He rose from the chair, his hands steady and his resolve hardening like the stone walls of his sturdy home. “Gather the workers,” he said to Madjara, his voice carrying steadfast authority. “We must act now.”

Within an hour, the homestead was a hive of resolute activity. The Iraca gathered under the light of the planet’s two moons - Nax and Fa, their faces illuminated further by the orange glow of torchlight. Madjara, moving with speed and competence, directed the men and women to an area of land beyond the northern edge of the fields, where she knew the largest patch of kovi grew.

The chitar, strange dark brown spiny insect-like creatures about the size of Alsatians, were known to the colonists only through hearsay. They were described in old native folktales as relentless swarms that would strip thallim in a wave of dark bodies, their cries like a chorus of cicadas. Prominent entomologists, however, assured the human settlers that it was impossible for insects to grow to such a size, so the natives' knowledge had been taken lightly and dismissed as the exaggerated tales of ignorant primitives.

Now, with Linda’s betrayal still fresh, Ryan felt the nature of his fate changing. He was no longer just a grieving husband mourning the end of his marriage; he was perhaps, along with his native labourers, the only force that stood between the human colony and utter disaster.

For days, the fields became a whirlwind of frenetic activity. Ryan drove the hovertruck, hauling kovi plants from far and wide across the savannah, where diligent teams of native searchers had located other dense patches of the weed. He worked side by side with Madjara, their bodies slick with sweat in the heat of the noonday sun, their breaths forming clouds in the cool night air. Their conversations grew from the practical to the personal, each sharing stories of loss and survival.

Madjara told him about her own mother, a healer who had taught her the ways of the land, of the ancient mystical songs the Iraca sang to coax the kovi to grow. Ryan spoke of his childhood, the loss of his father and mother, and his hopes for a future where humans and natives could live in equality. The bond that formed was not one of romance, at least not yet, but rather one of mutual respect and deep, unspoken loyalty. The pain of Linda’s infidelity began to dull, replaced by a fierce protectiveness for the people who had stood by him.

By the fourth night, a line of verdant kovi weeds, thick and fragrant, snaked around the perimeter of the thallim fields like a living fence. The weeds' leaves emitted a faint bluish haze, a protective scent that fluoresced faintly in the planet’s crimson sun.

On the fifth morning, a low, humming vibration rose from the savannah. The wind carried a strange, acrid scent, and the ground trembled ever so slightly under the rhythmic thud of countless feet. Madjara, perched on a small rocky knoll overlooking the fields, squinted against the sun, her eyes widening as she saw a dark mass rolling across the horizon. The girl turned to Ryan, who squatted beside her.

“It’s the chitar,” she gasped, pointing with a steady finger, not bothering to call him tysun, for they were now equals. “They’re coming.”

The dark swarm neared, a teeming ocean of Alsation-sized creatures, moving like a living tide, their spiky brown bodies glistening with an oily sheen that caught the light. Their cries, a relentless cacophony of cicada-like stridulations, filled the air.

Ryan’s heart slammed against his ribs. He turned to Madjara, his voice urgent. “Ring the alarm. Get the workers into the huts.”

Madjara nodded. The couple sprinted down the slope to the homestead’s verandah, where a large bronze gong hung, its surface etched with the Iraca’s sigil of protection. Using a hammer, she struck the disc with a solid, resonant clang, the sound echoing across the savannah, a warning that seemed to vibrate through the earth itself.

The workers scrambled, slipping into their thatched stone houses, girded with protective kovi, sealing doors and windows with woven mats and wooden planks. Inside the homestead, Ryan grabbed an Iraca hunting spear from a wall-mounted rack, its bronze point gleaming, while Madjara snatched up a two-handed weapon that resembled a medieval mace. Both gripped their armaments, knuckles white with tension in response to the creeping darkness. Similar scenes were taking place in Iraca households. Modern weapons would have been ideal, but only members of the colonies' defense forces were permitted to carry arms.

The chitar swarm reached the perimeter of the kovi barrier. For a moment, the weeds seemed to quiver, as if sensing the approach of their age-old enemies. The creatures, detecting the repellent, turned, their massive jaws clicking in frustration, but the sheer number of the swarm forced some to push through the gaps in the barrier.

One of the large circular windows in the lounge room shattered, sending shards of glass scattering across the floor. Three chitar burst through, their clawed feet rasping against the wooden floor. Their eyes glowed with an eerie violet, and their four legs, jointed like an insect's, clattered as they lunged toward Ryan.

“Kill them!” shouted Madjara, her voice a fierce war cry.

The battle that erupted inside the modest homestead was brutal and desperate. The couple thrust and swung their weapons, striking the creatures with brutal force. The chitar exoskeletons cracked under the crushing mace and thrusting spear, the creatures’ stridulations turning into guttural screeches. The air was filled with the metallic smell of green blood and the sharp tang of the monsters’ communication pheromones.

Ryan found himself face to face with a chitar that was lunging for his leg, its powerful jaws snapping at his shin. He fought back, thrusting the bronze spear into its thorax. The creature convulsed and fell, its body collapsing, its blood pooling into a sickening dark puddle.

Ryan turned to see two more converging on Madjara, cornering her against a wall. The girl swung her mace at one. It dodged the strike. The second creature latched onto the haft of her weapon with its serrated jaws, immobilizing it as the first creature leaped at her again. Ryan charged, and with a wild cry, slammed his spear into the chitar before its huge jaws could shear the girl’s leg in two. He booted the creature clinging to her mace, sending it stumbling against the wall. Then both slammed their weapons into the stunned chitar, finishing it off.

One by one, the swarm began to thin. The kovi barrier, though strained, held the bulk of the monstrosities back. The strange plants had sensed the chitar pheromones and had increased the production and altered the chemistry of their exudates, which spread in a lethal, thickening fog. The survivors of the swarm scuttled past, flowing around the homestead and the fields like water around a rock, continuing on to the southern jungles. They disappeared toward the horizon, the sound of their departure a high-pitched whine that faded into the distance.

An unearthly quiet settled over the landscape; the homestead stood scarred but intact. The floor was littered with the bodies of fallen creatures, their dark brown, spiky carapaces glinting in the waning light. Ryan’s muscles ached; his breath was ragged, and his hands trembled from exertion.

Madjara leaned against a wall for support, her tense expression softening as she looked at Ryan. “We’re safe; my people are safe,” she said, her voice low but resolute. “The kovi barrier held.”

Ryan, still gripping his spear, looked out of a circular window, raising his eyes to the horizon. Beyond the fields, the tall violet grass swayed peacefully, hiding the carcasses of the dead chitars, which began to dissolve rapidly, their bodies attacked by the enzymatic action of the kovi’s vaporous emissions. Soon, nothing was left, and Ryan felt a strange mixture of relief and loss wash over him. He had saved his plantation, his people, his future. He had lost his wife, but he had gained something far more enduring: the loyalty of those who truly cared for him.

His thoughts were interrupted by Madjara. “You saved my life,” she said softly.

There was something in her voice that made her words far more than a statement of mere fact. Their gazes locked, brimming with emotion, as if seeing each other clearly for the first time. Ryan had been attracted to Madjara for a long time. But he had always denied his feelings. He was a married man and scrupulously faithful to his wife. However, with the divorce finalized a few days ago, there was nothing to hold him back any longer. Madjara, too, was drawn to Ryan but had hidden her desires for the same reason. Now, in the aftermath of battle, a transformative realization came to both of how close they had come to dying with things unsaid and unexplored.

Madjara could wait no longer. She shed her simple garment in a graceful move. The girl stood before Ryan, unashamed. Her body was heavy, earthy, with full breasts, broad hips, and thick thighs. Her sable skin was smooth and unblemished. Her smile was warm and inviting, speaking of love and desire. Ryan, suffused with wonder, stepped into her embrace. Uncontrived nature took its course. They sank to a soft rug. Ryan shed his clothes, and soon both were immersed in a passionate exploration of each other’s bodies with their hands and lips. Desire soared. She urged him to enter her. Her warmth enfolded him, her gasps coming quick and fast, matching the rhythm of his vigorous thrusts. She cried out in delight as he filled her with his seed. Her body shuddered as she held him fiercely. Then they relaxed in each other's arms, spent and immensely satisfied.

**********

The following day, as the sun climbed out of the dawn and the heat settled like a heavy blanket over the savannah, a knock sounded at the entrance to the homestead, now free of the signs of battle. Ryan, who was in the kitchen helping Madjara prepare breakfast, wiped his hands on a tea towel and opened the door to find a figure standing on the threshold.

It was Linda, her hair disheveled, her torn dress crudely patched, her eyes wide with a mix of anxiety and desperation. Her skin bore the marks of healing scratches as if she had run a gauntlet of thorns, and her hands were white as she clutched a small, battered suitcase packed with donated clothes.

“Ryan,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “Please… please let me in.”

He stared at her, his heart a storm of conflicting emotions. “What happened?”

She explained that Blake’s plantation had been overrun. The chitar swarm, which Ryan had warned him about for the sake of the colony’s drug production, had been dismissed as a vengeful hoax designed to waste his time, and so the monsters descended upon his unprotected fields with a ferocity that no human engineering could stop. Blake had been killed when the ferocious creatures overran his homestead. Linda had barely escaped with her life, running through the fields, driven by mindless terror until she reached Jamestown, which had also ignored Ryan’s warnings. Fortunately, fate had been far kinder to its citizens, and the settlement had narrowly escaped the depredations of the chitinous horrors.

“I… I was foolish,” Linda said, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I left you for a dream that proved to be an illusion. I thought I wanted wealth, but now I see that it’s nothing without… without love.”

The words hung in the hot air, heavy and raw. Madjara came to the door, her eyes glinting with suppressed anger at the woman who dared to show her face after what she had done. The native girl placed a hand on Ryan’s shoulder, a silent question in her gaze: would he forgive this woman who had betrayed him and take her back?

Ryan looked at his ex-wife, the broken woman before him, at the rawness of her apology, and at the truth in her eyes. He felt the ache of his own bruised heart and the lingering pain of lost love. Yet beyond that, he saw the harsh truth of the matter. Linda had returned to him only because her affair with Blake had ended in disaster. With no resources, no allies, and a tarnished reputation, she looked to him as a safety net to catch her fall.

He turned to Madjara, his voice calm and reassuring. "Madjara, you have stood by me through everything. You have helped save this plantation and the people who depend on it. I am more than just grateful. In you, I have found someone who knows the true meaning of love and commitment.”

Madjara smiled as he placed his arm around her. “You have always treated us with kindness and respect, Ryan,” she said. “That is why we did not abandon you.”

Ryan faced Linda, his expression one of sad finality. "You chose a path that destroyed not only our marriage but also your own future. I forgive you for that betrayal. But I cannot return to the life we once shared. I have a future here, with Madjara, with people who have shown me what love and loyalty look like.”

Linda’s eyes widened, the realization dawning that Ryan now looked beyond her. The hurt in her voice was palpable as she whispered, “So you… you choose her?”

“Yes,” Ryan replied, his tone softening, his words sincere. “I hope you eventually find love, but it will not be with me. Learn from your mistakes, Linda, and do not repeat them.”

Linda’s shoulders slumped. She turned, leaving the homestead with a final, lingering look of envy at the loyal and loving woman who stood beside Ryan. She stepped into her rental vehicle and departed; the silhouette of the hovercar shrank against the violet horizon as she drove away.

Ryan watched her go, a strange ache in his chest for what could have been, but also a sense of relief at the closure. He turned to Madjara, his eyes meeting hers.

“What will happen now?” he asked, the question more for himself than for her.

She smiled, a small, genuine curve of her lips. “We will finish planting the kovi to strengthen the barrier, and then we will expand to fill the void created by the destruction of Blake’s plantation. One day the chitar will return, but we now know how to protect the thallim. Together, we can make this plantation thrive. And we will do it with the respect and commitment to equality that all our employees deserve.”

Ryan nodded, feeling a weight lift off his shoulders. The sunrise painted the savannah in shades of gold and violet, a new day breaking over New Hope.

He stepped closer, his hand affectionately around Madjara’s waist. The two of them walked toward the fields, their love a promise of a future built on commitment and solidarity, not betrayal. The thallim swayed gently in the breeze, the kovi weeds spreading their protective scent at their edges, a luminous shield against the menace that would always threaten but could never overcome the unity of those who tended them.

And so, on the frontier world of Acron, amidst the purple grasses and the lingering scent of alien herbs, a once-broken man found healing through love and purpose. He learned that love, in its truest form, could be forged in the crucible of shared hardship, and that the strength of a community lay not in wealth or power, but in the compassion and loyalty of its people for one another. The storm of the chitar had passed, but its echo would remain a reminder: the frontier demanded resilience, and those who survived did so by working together.

The End