Chapter 6

[May 29, 20XX]

The shelter provider did not go out all day, giving me the opportunity to observe the natural living habits of this species.

Around noon, the shelter provider emerged from the bedroom door, performed a simple cleaning with water, tidied up his messy hair, and then entered the kitchen to prepare food for himself and me. After eating, he returned to the bedroom—he did not close the door, so I followed him inside—and turned on a bulky machine: a computer.

This large device, which had not yet evolved autonomous intelligence, shocked me greatly, as it meant my previous assessment had been seriously flawed: the developmental level of the dominant species was higher than I had originally thought. They had progressed beyond the “primitive” classification I had initially assigned them.

They were capable of communication, and at the same time, their danger assessment level had also risen.

Among Starfarers, many tragic stories circulate. These stories usually begin with a Starfarer from an advanced civilization revealing their identity and end with the destruction of their physical or mechanical body—species groping toward and thirsting for the entrance to the “civilization” gate are always filled with fervent curiosity about advanced civilizations. This curiosity is, for a lone Starfarer like me, potentially fatal.

I have no intention of offering myself up for study by the dominant species. I must proceed with even greater caution.

[May 30, 20XX]

The shelter provider left the nest to “go to work”—I haven’t yet figured out the exact meaning of this term, but based on today’s situation, it means I can occupy the entire nest alone for nearly ten Earth hours.

Yes, I already know the name of this planet in the language of the dominant species.

The shelter provider’s absence gave me the opportunity to use his computer: rudimentary, but the rudiments of an information network are already in place, allowing me to download and store knowledge about this planet. I used the energy I had accumulated over the past few days to activate the Biocomputer’s information update function—doing so would undoubtedly slow down the Biocomputer’s restructuring process, but for now, the most important thing is to quickly understand the civilization level of this planet. Only then can I avoid unknowingly falling into danger.

The translation function can only roughly filter newly loaded information. For detailed classification and understanding, the Universal Translator Module must be activated.

To do this, I need more energy.

Before leaving for “work,” the shelter provider added food to my dish. These generally delicious foods have a low energy conversion rate. Given the amount I consume daily, it would take at least seven Earth days to reach the energy level required to activate the translation function.

Perhaps I should try other foods, such as those the shelter provider eats.

[May 31, 20XX]

The shelter provider is accustomed to storing his food in a machine called a “refrigerator,” which has a preservation function. I tried to open it while he was away at work. My Mimetic Camouflage’s jumping ability allows me to easily hook the door handle, but my lack of strength means my attempts always end in failure.

I could only wait for the shelter provider to return and then seize the opportunity to obtain his food.

Waiting is not unbearable for a professional Starfarer: long periods of solitary travel between star systems have long accustomed me to loneliness.

While waiting, I briefly reviewed the events of the past few days.

This planet, called Earth, is the third planet with intelligent life I’ve discovered in my career that was not previously marked. Such a high discovery rate would be enough to make me famous among my peers—as long as I survive until the rescue ship arrives.

Based on my current survival situation, this goal should not be difficult to achieve.

My shelter provider is very kind and takes good care of me. Although our cultural differences are significant, I can sense his goodwill.

This obvious kindness has made me less resistant to some of his physically intimate actions, such as stroking my head or back or lightly scratching my chin and cheeks. Mimetic species are sensitive to this kind of touch (not in a sexual sense), and it produces a sense of euphoria. Without relevant species data, I don’t know the reason for this euphoria, but I must admit, I don’t dislike the feeling.

In addition, the shelter provider often picks me up and places me on his limbs. This kind of contact, where I can feel the other’s body temperature, once made me very uncomfortable, but recently, I seem to have gradually grown accustomed to it and no longer resist.

I am adapting better and better to my mimetic form—so well that I’ve begun to worry whether there might be side effects after reverting to my original form.

For now, this excellent adaptation is the best guarantee of my safety.

The planet’s rotation brought night. In the dimness, the shelter provider returned.

I approached him and noticed he was carrying a simple polyethylene container: based on observations over this period, it should contain food.

“Huh? So enthusiastic today? Even came to the door to greet me?” The shelter provider’s tone was quite cheerful. While changing his shoes, he bent down to try to stroke my head.

I did not avoid him.

The shelter provider laughed: “So well-behaved!”

I walked to his side, intending to investigate the contents of the container, but the shelter provider raised his arm and avoided me: “You can’t touch this now.”

He carried the container into the kitchen—based on his habits, the next step would be preparing food for himself.

My opportunity had arrived.

I followed him into the kitchen and sat nearby, observing his actions: he added water to a “pot,” placed it on the “gas stove” to ignite the flame, and then poured the contents he had brought into the pot.

Was this cooking food?

I couldn’t identify what those dark-red substances added to the pot were—I needed a closer look.

The shelter provider was currently using the water dispenser with his back to me.

Perfect opportunity!

My mimetic form’s excellent jumping ability came into play again: I accurately leaped to the side of the pot. The heat from the flames and steam rushed over me but could not harm me.

I peered inside. Several irregularly shaped pieces with smooth edges lay at the bottom of the water, emitting a peculiar smell.

This should be food, right?

I extended a forelimb toward those pieces.

“Get down!!!”

An extremely loud roar suddenly sounded behind me. Before I could react, “Smack!” The shelter provider violently struck my head.

“Meow!” I yelped in surprise and jumped to the ground.

I couldn’t understand what was happening: the dominant species member who had always been kind now appeared extremely dangerous, his raised palm seemingly ready to attack me again at any moment.

This unpredictable behavior made me nervously watch his every move.

The shelter provider seemed furious—his hand clenched into a fist, then he extended a finger toward the kitchen entrance: “Out!”

I immediately fled.

The kitchen door slammed shut behind me, barring my entry.

Once out of the shelter provider’s attack range, I began to ponder the reason for his sudden outburst. My interactions with him over the past few days had led me to believe that neither he nor his species were capricious. Perhaps my attempt to investigate his food had angered him? Many species have a strong sense of possessiveness over their food—had I offended him by trying to take the shelter provider’s food without permission?

Highly likely.

The shelter provider’s kindness had made me too bold.

This was an extremely unprofessional mistake. This conflict might even lead the shelter provider to refuse to continue providing me shelter.

Terrible.

As I silently regretted my actions, the kitchen door opened, and the shelter provider walked out.

I didn’t know if he would attack me again, but this time, the fault was indeed mine—I had to face it.

I neither fled nor hid, merely lowering my head and waiting for whatever was to come: the shelter provider’s physical attacks couldn’t cause me much harm. I could endure his anger.

The shelter provider’s hand descended. I instinctively closed my eyes—but this was not an attack!

“No more jumping on the stove!” The shelter provider’s voice was stern, but the hand on my head gently rubbed the spot he had just struck. “What if you got burned?”

Huh… This wasn’t what I’d expected.

“Here,” the shelter provider pushed a food dish in front of me. “I bought some chicken liver for you today. Want to try it?”

I lowered my head and sniffed the finely shredded substance that no longer resembled its original form: it was the same scent I had detected by the pot earlier.

This was… specifically for me?

He crouched next to me, his hand sliding from my head to my cheek, scratching lightly as usual.

After a moment’s hesitation, I turned my head and gently licked his finger: “Mew.” Thank you.

The shelter provider smiled that cheerful smile again.

“You’re welcome,” he said.