Jury Duty (First Contact)

by Peter Cawdron

  They climb out of the snowcat.

  Standing on the treads, Nick is able to look out over the crew fixing guide wires on a radio mast. Above them, the Aurora Australis lights up the night. Curtains of light flicker in the cool air. It’s far brighter than the display they saw by the fuel dump. Streamers of green, yellow, orange and purple reach up hundreds of thousands of feet above them, dwarfing them.

  One by one, lights around the camp are switched off. It seems everyone wants to enjoy the majesty unfolding above them. The stars are radiant. Nick doesn’t recognize any of the constellations. Jazz stands in front of the snowcat, having dropped down onto the ice.

  She says, “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

  “Me neither,” Nick replies. He suddenly becomes aware she’s talking about something other than the aurora. Jazz points at the horizon. Rather than dissipating, the storm swirls around them, forming a wall of cloud. It’s as though they’re caught in the eye of a hurricane.

  One of the stars is in motion. Nick feels sick. He knows what’s happening before the pinprick of light grows in size. Within a minute, the temporary base is illuminated with enough light to play a game of football. Shadows shrink as the alien spacecraft descends to within a few hundred meters of the plateau.

  Adrianna says, “It’s beautiful.”

  The vessel rotates above them. A kaleidoscope of colors circle the rim of the alien spaceship.

  “What do they want?” Nick asks, hopping down off the treads of the snowcat and joining her.

  “I don’t know,” she replies. “Contact, I guess. They want to see who rescued them. I mean, this is more their style, right? They’re the dominant star-faring species. They get to initiate these things, not us.”

  Jazz asks, “Should we be worried?”

  Adrianna laughs. Nick gets it. For her, the question is ridiculous. They’re standing beneath a massive vessel capable of flying across the endless darkness between star systems. This is no derelict, abandoned hundreds of thousands of years ago. The paintwork is fresh, for lack of a better term. The UFO hangs in the air, defying gravity.

  Snow swirls in front of Nick. At first, he’s confused as there’s no wind. Legs appear, followed by arms and a torso, shoulders, and a head.

  “Oh, hello,” Adrianna says, standing beside Nick.

  Rather than being made from snow, a humanoid appears as thousands of snowflakes caught within a snow globe, only the globe is in the shape of a mannequin. Flakes swirl around, caught within the invisible bounds of a technology beyond human comprehension. The ghostly figure raises its hand, holding its palm up beside its chest.

  Nick starts to raise his hand, but Adrianna stops him, reaching out and gripping his forearm. “Wait. We don’t know what this means.”

  Nick asks, “What’s wrong?”

  “Whatever meaning this gesture meant down there, it’s different now. You need to understand that. The power dynamic has shifted. Remember, there’s nothing in front of you. Nothing but snow. You’re communicating with someone—something up there. It’s asking you a question. Are you sure you want to answer?”

  “They wouldn’t hurt me,” Nick says.

  “They may not even understand the concept of hurt,” Adrianna replies. “Pain might be an entirely terrestrial phenomenon. They came to Earth looking for something—looking for life. For them, this might be like catching bugs in a glass jar.”

  “It came back for me.”

  “It did,” Adrianna says. “Not for Anni or Jazz. Or me. You. Think carefully about this. It might not be something you can undo.”

  She releases his forearm. Nick stares into non-existent eyes. Slowly, he raises his hand, matching the pose before him. On Earth, such a gesture is a sign of friendship. It’s a greeting. At the very least, the alien must understand that.

  What choice does Nick have? He can’t ignore the apparition. He’s not going to go running off into the storm. Curiosity gets the better of him.

  Nick blinks. In that instant, his body soars hundreds of feet in the air. The acceleration causes his knees to buckle. Beneath his feet, snowcats and tents sit on the ice. People appear as dark blots loosely grouped together on the plateau. Before he can react, he’s standing inside the heart of the spaceship.

  “Ah, okay,” he says, watching as vapor forms on his breath. “Not what I was expecting.”

  Conduits wind past him, packed in bundles on the walls. Junctions split cables, allowing them to run in different directions. His boots rest on six-inch pipes instead of a walkway. He’s been brought in through a hatch in the outer skin of the craft. Behind him, a circular hole provides his last glimpse of Earth. The hatch closes by shrinking rather than sliding shut.

  “Where are you?” he asks. In the back of his mind, he can imagine Adrianna’s reply. Nowhere. There’s no crystal man because there never was a crystal man, only a crude representation of a human form.

  Lights pulsate in a crawlspace, urging him on. Nick crouches, working his way forward. There’s no floor as such, just a network of pipes.

  “This way, huh?” he says, feeling nervous. “You know, I was expecting a welcoming committee or something. Anything.”

  As he shuffles along, the lights behind him fade, leaving only one option—to continue on.

  He says, “It would be nice to talk about this.”

  The tunnel isn’t straight. It curves, rising and falling. At points, Nick has to haul himself up to another level. Lights guide him. They fade as he passes various points, discouraging him but not preventing him from going the wrong way.

  “You know, a simple thank you would have been enough.”

  He emerges in a chamber full of specimens preserved in some kind of gooey liquid.

  “What is this place?” he asks, resting his hand on a glass enclosure. Inside there’s an ostrich, only it’s huge, reaching up twelve to fifteen feet in height. Nick could tickle its underbelly but not much more. Vast clawed feet give way to dark brown feathers covering a body the size of a small car. Bubbles rise slowly within the thick fluid surrounding the flightless bird.

  “I mean, those drumsticks rival anything on The Flintstones.”

  As a joke, his humor falls flat, but it’s comforting to speak aloud.

  The neck of the flightless bird is covered in white feathers. Its head has a fine blue plumage. Its beak is intimidating, but it’s the top of its skull that takes him by surprise—it’s been removed. Clean cut. Thousands of tendrils reach into the fluid, peeling away from the ceiling. They converge on the animal’s head. The bird’s skull has been cracked open like a hard-boiled egg, exposing the brain. Red tendrils reach into the soft tissue.

  “Okay, that’s creepy.”

  He walks past a sea lion. Like the ostrich, the top of its head has been removed. Blood has seeped into the fluid immediately in front of its eyes but no further. Rather than mixing, it’s suspended. Tendrils probe the mammal’s brain. Its flippers look as though they’re frozen mid-stride. It’s as though the animal was captured as it swam along.

  “This is quite the zoo you’ve got here,” Nick says, walking on.

  He pauses beside a mammoth. To call it an elephant is wrong. It’s clearly not, and it’s not just the fur that reveals that. The tusks are astonishingly long. They curve like the branches of a low-hanging tree. Besides, its body shape is all wrong for an elephant. Instead of a raised saddle-back like that of a horse, the mammoth’s hindquarters slope like the back of a giraffe. Again, tendrils wind their way through the liquid and into an open skull.

  “This is starting to freak me out,” Nick says, squeezing between specimen cylinders, looking for animals he recognizes. Most of them are alien to him. There’s a monkey-like creature with arms as long as its body, a bear that’s clearly not a bear but rather some kind of giant anteater with a long snout and claws like meat cleavers. He sees birds and bats, plants and insects. Most of them are oversized.

  Nick comes to a halt before a cylinder with a hairy m
an standing erect. He’s seen exhibits like this at the Smithsonian. Were it not for the occasional bubble rising slowly through the clear liquid, Nick wouldn’t realize the caveman was submerged. Whatever this fluid is, it’s not water.

  The caveman is holding a wooden spear. Rather than having a beard, it’s as though there’s no distinction between the hair on his head and that growing from his cheeks, his chin, neck and chest. If anything, his hair looks like the mane of a lion. It merges, forming almost a hood as it sits on his shoulders. Black skin. Black hair. Clearly defined stomach muscles. Broken nails. He’s an astonishing specimen.

  Scars line the man’s chest. Skin is peeling from his shoulder, exposing the texture of the muscle beneath. Unlike his other injuries, this appears to be the result of the way he’s been preserved.

  “I don’t understand,” Nick says, resting his hand on the glass.

  Like the others, the caveman has had the top of his skull removed. Tendrils wind their way over his brain. His eyes. The whites of his eyes. They seem almost hollow, but they’re not. Dark pupils seem to move, following Nick as he steps forward.

  “You’re collectors,” he says, feeling the hair on his arms rise with that realization.

  A thick gooey liquid surges from the floor, surrounding his boots.

  “No, no, no.”

  Nick tries to run, but a glass cylinder slides up from the floor, cutting him off.

  “Wait,” he yells, pounding on the smooth surface. “You’re making a mistake. Stop! Don’t do this. Please.”

  Already, the warm fluid has reached his waist, impeding his motion. He looks around, trying to gauge the height of the cylinder. Nick jumps, wanting to reach the upper edge, but the goo holds him back.

  “You can’t do this to me,” he yells as fluid swells around his chest, reaching up over his shoulders. Like quicksand, the more he fights, the tighter it grips.

  “I’m begging you. Don’t.”

  Tendrils reach from the ceiling, wrapping around his throat and under his jaw, holding his head in place.

  A tear rolls down his cheek.

  Nick knows what’s coming. Deep down, he’s always known—ever since he pulled that goddamn gun on Sandra. Regardless of what happened after that, nothing was ever going to be the same again. Granted, he didn’t expect to be dragged to Antarctica, but there are some tickets for which there is no return journey.

  When the handcuffs were released, he knew something was wrong. Horribly wrong. He should have been bundled into the back of a police car and carried off to jail, not to the airport. He should have been sent before a judge, not placed on a jury. What? Did he really think being dragged onto a military transport was going to improve his situation? Hah. What a joke. Nick may not have known these events would lead him here to the cargo hold of an alien spacecraft, but he always knew he’d die. He could feel it—even while he was on the C-5 Galaxy. It was the disassociation with reality. He’d been torn from one world into another. He was never going back.

  Nick was given a choice. Jazz told him he could spend his time in solitary confinement or with them in Antarctica, but choice is a curse in itself. Choice is an illusion. Choices are always limited by the options available. Choices are as fleeting as the vapor rising from a cup of coffee. No, his fate was sealed when the Russian intelligence service settled on him as their patsy and drove out with Jazz to collect him. Nick was too dumb to see it, but death was waiting for him. It was just a question of how and when. What other outcome could there ever be? As soon as he stepped away from his home, he knew he’d never go back. He felt it in his bones.

  A dome descends, closing over his head. Sharp edges dig into the skin above his eyebrows, extending around his head and above his ears. He wants to scream, but the thick goo is lapping at his chin, threatening to go into his mouth. It’s all he can do to purse his lips and suck in what little air is left within the cylinder. The pressure of the fluid closing over his chest makes breathing a chore.

  A surge of pain pulsates through his skull. In an instant, the bone is severed. His skullcap is removed. Blood squirts from a vein somewhere near his right eye, splashing on the inside of the cylinder. He can see the thin stream pulsating in time with his madly beating heart. Tendrils reach into his brain, following the curves and crevasses of his grey matter. They wind around the lobes, reaching down to his brain stem. The last thing he sees is the eyes of the naked male hominid opposite him. He’s watching. Although he never blinks, his eyes are locked on Nick. He knows. Somehow, he’s conscious. There’s pity in those eyes.

  Darkness descends.

  From behind him, a familiar voice says, “You be careful down there, bro.”

  “What?”

  Nick’s confused. He’s standing in the galley of the Te Kaha, holding the wahaika. The Maori war ax hangs around his neck. Light reflects off the polished greenstone. Nick’s back on board the New Zealand naval frigate operating in the South Atlantic, only he’s not. Nick’s not fooled. He knows precisely where he is. He’s deep within an alien spaceship, but all he sees is the gunmetal grey walls of the warship.

  Eddie’s a big man. Physically, he’s six foot four in height. He’s got the biceps and shoulders of a grizzly bear. Ornate tattoos curl around his forearms. Black lines swirl over his muscles like vines. Tendrils.

  “Remember us down there, my brother. Don’t forget us. Don’t forget your mana.”

  Eddie places his huge hand around the back of Nick’s neck and pulls him close. They touch foreheads, looking down at each other’s boots. Eddie holds him there for a second. It’s as though he’s imparting something to him. Strength. Nick can feel the warmth radiating through his skin. There’s a shared sense of might and determination. Mana. In that moment, Nick’s determined to do Eddie proud. For once, duty calls to him.

  He closes his eyes and breathes deeply, only he can’t. There is no air within the cylinder, only a thick sludge oozing down his throat. He chokes, convulsing.

  A woman’s voice says, “She doesn’t have a name.”

  Nick blinks.

  Instead of being inches from Eddie, Nick’s staring into a desiccated human skull. Darkened eye sockets pierce his soul. The smooth curve of the bone above the brow reaches back to where the girl’s skull knitted together shortly after birth. A gaping hole marks where once there was a nose. Yellowing teeth reach up into the lower skull and down into the jawbone. To him, they appear unusually long.

  “She had one,” the lab technician standing beside him says. “But I don’t know what it was.”

  The young woman works in the biology department within his high school. She prepares lessons for teachers, preps dead rats and frogs, along with the odd cow’s eye. Dissection is fun for some, nauseating for others. For Nick, it’s a horror movie minus the screams and jump-scares.

  “Sad, huh?” she says, looking at the skeleton.

  “We call her Lucy,” he replies. Nick can’t stand to think of the collection of pale bones before him as anything other than human, but she looks like a prop from a movie or a Halloween decoration. She’s suffered. She lost her life. She shouldn’t lose all of her identity. She deserves something, at least.

  “Lucy’s a good name,” the technician says, nodding in agreement.

  The single burst of a siren announces class is over. Children begin flooding the corridor. Nick can hear them beyond the solid wooden door. He should go. He’s done his job. He’s transported her back from the administration block. He’s got to get to his history class, but he can’t leave. Not yet. He needs to know more about her.

  “How do you know?” Nick asks. “I mean, I believe you, but how do you know she’s a girl? How can you tell?”

  He gestures to the thin, aging bones hanging before him. A chain leads up from a screw in the center of the girl’s skull. It attaches to a metal frame that reaches behind and then below the skeleton. Even though he knows the screw was inserted long after she died, it looks painful. Nick can’t help feel as though that s
crew was twisted into his own skull. His palms go sweaty at the thought he too might end up as a specimen in some laboratory somewhere. Such a thought is terrifying.

  “Look at her hips,” the woman says. “See how they open outward. It’s the shape that gives it away. Also, look how small her ribs are.”

  Boney arms hang limp from hollow shoulder sockets. Thin wires hold her lower ribs in place. Seeing through her ribcage to her spine is unnerving. Legs hang from smooth hips. Her feet are limp. They’re a seemingly random collection of bones ending in stubby, boney toes.

  For Nick, it’s disturbing to see what amounts to his own body mirrored before him. It’s as though he himself has been stripped bare in an acid bath. Is this what will happen to him? As much as he doesn’t want to admit it, one day, all he’ll be is a bunch of bones like Lucy. Although he doesn’t say anything to the lab tech, he longs for something more.

  “How did she die?” he asks.

  “She drowned. A flood struck her village, sweeping away her home in the middle of the night. They found her a few days later, hundreds of miles downstream.”

  It’s difficult for Nick to see the collection of bones before him as once being a living, breathing human being, but she was. He wants to. Although it means nothing to her, it is important to him. For years, she was just like him. She laughed. She played. She went to class and wrote notes in textbooks. At lunchtime, she kicked a ball around or sat in the shade of a tree. She hung out with her friends after school. She ate dinner and probably loved candy. Who doesn’t love candy? And now she’s dead. Now, she’s the star of his anatomy class. Now, she is an example of the intricate network of bones everyone has hidden from sight.

  “Bye, Lucy.”

  Memories, that’s all these are.

  Nick is dying on an alien spacecraft, but his mind is clinging to anything it can in a vain hope of surviving. For whatever reason, his brain is racing through past thoughts and feelings, desperately trying to find answers. There’s no escape. He’s become Lucy—a specimen on display for others to peruse at their leisure. Instead of a high school, he’s been caught up in an interstellar zoological expedition.