Alien 8 and the Great Bakery Mishap

High up on Planet Octo-Prime, past the fizzing pink nebulae and the little cluster of rocks that smelled faintly of cinnamon toast, there sat a cozy floating cottage with a sparkle-rock porch. And on that porch sat Alien 8.

He was lime-green, squishy and wonderful, with eight long arms, two sturdy legs, and two big violet eyes that blinked slowly at the swirling colors of the sky. His two golden antennae sat very still on top of his head, which meant no new ideas had arrived yet. And his eight arms? Well, they were doing their best.

Arm One was fanning him with a wide, floppy space-leaf. Arm Two was polishing a smooth space-rock until it caught the light and threw little rainbow dots across the porch. Arms Three and Four were tapping a slow, bumpy tune on the cottage wall, something like tap-tap-tap-bonk-tap. Arms Five and Six were busy petting Pip, his small, round space-newt, who had fuzzy alien ears and iridescent scales that shimmered between green and gold depending on how happy he felt. Right now, they were very gold indeed.

But Arms Seven and Eight? They just hung there, dangling off the sides of Alien 8's body like two noodles that had forgotten what they were for.

"What do I do with my hands?" Alien 8 asked.

Pip looked up from the petting. He twitched his left ear once, then his right ear twice, then let out a soft, rolling chirp that sounded a little bit like a question mark.

"You are right," said Alien 8 seriously. "We should go find something to do."

He looked down at his orange utility vest. It had pockets everywhere, big ones and small ones and one very tiny one near the collar that Alien 8 had never quite figured out the purpose of. But today, every single pocket was empty. He pressed Arms Seven and Eight flat against the vest and thought very hard.

"What if," he said slowly, and his antennae gave the tiniest, most hopeful little wiggle, "I became an inventor?"

Pip's scales flashed bright orange with excitement, like a tiny spark jumping from a campfire.

"Yes!" said Alien 8. "I will build something! Something wonderful! Something that makes all my neighbors smile when they see it!" He jumped up, and the sparkle-rock porch shimmered beneath his feet. "Eight arms are perfect for building. I have more hands than almost anyone on Octo-Prime!"

He looked at Arms Seven and Eight, who seemed to perk up a little at this news.

"Do not worry," he told them kindly. "Today is your day."

The first thing Alien 8 decided to build was a blanket. Not just any blanket, but a beautiful, floaty one woven from comet-silk, which he had collected in a small jar on his windowsill. Comet-silk was the softest stuff in the whole galaxy, thin as a whisper and shimmery as a soap bubble. Alien 8 spread it out carefully, all eight arms moving at once, weaving and tucking and looping the strands together.

It looked lovely for exactly four seconds.

Then Arm Three reached in to smooth a wrinkle, and the whole blanket gave a little shiver. It tickled Arm Three right up to the elbow. Arm Three yanked back with a giggle, and the comet-silk lifted gently off the porch, drifted upward past Alien 8's antennae, and floated away into the pink sky without so much as a goodbye.

Alien 8 and Pip both stared up at it until it was gone.

"Hmm," said Alien 8.

Pip made a small, sympathetic trill and bumped his fuzzy head against Alien 8's knee.

"That is all right," said Alien 8, patting Pip with Arms Five and Six while Arms Seven and Eight crossed themselves in frustration. "We will try something sturdier."

The next idea was a tower. A very tall, very impressive tower built from the squishy alien spoons that Alien 8 kept in his kitchen drawer. He carried them out in great armfuls, stacking them carefully, using all eight arms to balance and steady and nudge each spoon into place. It was the kind of job that really did need eight arms, and for a moment the tower rose up tall and wobbly and rather magnificent.

Then it made a sound like sploooosh.

The squishy spoons, it turned out, were too squishy for stacking. The whole tower melted sideways and slid off the porch in one slow, green, gloopy wave. Pip jumped back just in time, his little silver bell tinkling as he landed.

Alien 8 looked at the puddle. The puddle looked back, in the way that puddles sometimes do.

"Wobbly widgets," said Alien 8 quietly.

He sat back down on the sparkle-rock porch. Arms Seven and Eight drooped. Arm One had stopped fanning. The space-leaf sat forgotten on the ground. Even Arm Two had put down the shiny rock.

But then something small and warm hopped right into his lap. Pip turned in a circle, settled down, and let out a long, steady purr that buzzed like a tiny, happy engine. His scales glowed the softest, coziest shade of blue.

And right then, something happened.

Alien 8's antennae began to glow. Not a little flicker, but a full, steady, golden glow, warm as a small sun sitting right on top of his head. He had never felt them do that before, and it felt like the best kind of fizzy feeling, the kind that starts in your chest and moves all the way out to the tips of your fingers.

All eight of them.

"Pip," said Alien 8, and his voice was very quiet and very sure, "somewhere on Octo-Prime, there is a problem. A real problem. And it needs exactly eight arms to fix it."

Pip chirped, bright and clear.

Alien 8 stood up. He straightened his orange utility vest. He picked up a few shiny pebbles from the porch and tucked them into his pockets, because shiny pebbles always seemed like the right thing to bring. Then he looked out at the swirling, colorful neighborhood of Octo-Prime stretching below the floating cottage, full of neighbors and noise and all sorts of interesting things that might need fixing.

"Come on, then," he said to all eight arms at once. "Let's go find it."