Still Human- Planet G

by Jerry Underhill

  Huston stood silent in front of the colonists. Not all were there, of course, as some had duties elsewhere. He waited a moment as the church bells and throat singing imaging for the radio broadcast finished, and stepped out from behind the podium.

  “Ah, I miss the smell of those candles. Good morning. Ohh. Some of you seem a little mad at me still. To those of you who are, I want you to know that I do not wish you a good morning...but I am sorry, to all of you. Not necessarily for leaving. Journeys into the wilderness are a special thing. Every flake of wood your hand runs over out there, every grain of dirt that collects on your body or lodges under your fingernails, every sneeze that follows the inhalation of some alien pollen is a special experience- both physical and spiritual.

  As you now know, I had another experience out there and it was that which inspired me to stay out a bit longer, to learn what we should know.

  From what I’ve seen of the Cloud beings, they wouldn't be able to breach these walls. You are safe. From what I’ve seen of the Clouds and Cavers, we would be able to impress with our strength. We found cave art. These are not wild predators whose reactions to our presence will be instinctually deadly. Know also that as much as the darkness brings fear, we are not blind here. We can communicate with them. I can communicate with them, and I am not the only one to have done so.

  We are in a unique position. We see so persuasively here that mankind is not the center of the universe, which says nothing about the God we should worship, but must give us pause in our conception of the breadth of creation. We must consider ourselves as newly defined within that. Even if we already held the belief in the supreme likelihood of greater life. We now know this as fact. These beings don't have Jesus, the Buddha, Mohammed, Lao-Tze, or Bahá'u'lláh, they've their own ideas about the ultimate that which burns at the center of us all, and I intend to understand them. We should not make the mistake colonizers made not so long ago-- dismissing indigenous practices and ideas as backward-- but consider their spiritual beliefs a new perspective shining on the same ultimate reality we've all sought. I can tell you they seek it. I can tell you I've felt them.

  It's important that you feel that, lest the potential of this moment be stolen from us...by us.

  God appears to us as is appropriate for each of us. Has appeared to us as has been appropriate for those cultures and those time periods- offering us all some fundamental truths. We represent the body of spiritual beliefs born of human intuition and discovery.

  We've talked a lot together about our shared pursuit of a unifying teaching. We've shared our perspectives with each other, so that our respective angles might give greater shape to the essence at the heart of all of us. In that pursuit, we've spoke of Hinduism's Atman and Christianity's Christ- the vine from which all branches grow. Our scientists, our impressive scientists, have a sense of this too. They might not identify it the way the more spiritual among us do, but as science has unraveled the smallest scales of existence, have mapped the matter between matter, there's an intellectual sense of something binding. I want to take another moment to thank them again for joining us here, those who have. You make us better and more whole, and I'm ever appreciative of that.

  Before we begin, if we could all please take a moment to pray, meditate, visualize, or simply hold hands in silence….”

  Chapter Nine

  At least this time Scott had asked him to go. And the colonists knew that he was deeply involved in something essential to their stay here.

  Just before the shuttle had arrived with the second stage of resources— it’d be the last for a long time, they needed to limit resource use and wear and tear— he’d taken the CPO’s boat down-river to where it opened to the sea. He’d ridden along the coast until moving into the mouth of a different river, this one the result of the watershed and spring he’d visited days earlier. Scott had a canal digging project planned, but it wasn’t a priority, so the trip had taken hours to get here- faster than walking over the ridge again, though.

  He slowly floated through the gape in the coastal beach and through estuary waters, guided by maps and a reconnaissance drone mirroring his pace 30,000 feet above him. This was one of several planned excursions for the discovery team: a group of scientists and security personnel eager to survey the surrounding terrain. For now, they were grounded, so to speak, while Huston served as Hermit Diplomat, which was among the roles he suspected Wallace had intended for him in such an event.

  “I need you to stop filming me like that.”

  “You know film?” came back the voice.

  Scott had insisted that Huston bring somebody with him, but ultimately agreed with the minister’s assertion that it was best for him to go alone; Huston knew that he was willing to die before making a mistake out of fear or instinct. But he’d agreed to wear a headset so that he could remain in contact.

  He’d underestimated how voyeuristic Tarma would find the moment.

  “Sex sells.” Tarma said matter of factly into the silence.

  “That’s in my past.” Huston replied.

  Tarma had become one of his best friends in the run up to the launch. A talented renegade, there was a zen to his presence. Not the mind unfurling zen of koans, but a willingness to occupy a space in the room that somehow transcended it, even as his personality could define it. It was inarguable that his mind was unfurled, though. Happy to play the clown, Huston knew the depths of his mind and warmth of his soul- for those he shared himself with.

  The briny breeze whipped mist into his face as he sped past barrier islands and toward a small breach in the land ahead. The river carried him beyond plains, bald capped ridges, and deep pine forests. Turning from the main river to follow the tributary from the valley as far as it would take him, he patiently listened to Tarma’s monologue as it oscillated between a standup act and his recounting of the many prestigious awards his documentaries had won in the past.

  “You’ll lose visibility from the drone soon. The river thins, so the canopy will cover me.”

  “We see that. Still monitoring from your shoulder cam.” Tarma replied quickly, shifting to a professional demeanor Huston knew had taken him to great heights as a younger man.

  Huston gasped. Slowing the boat to a crawl.

  What was the familiar dark of evergreen understory had suddenly burst with shafts of light breaking through the canopy at all angles. But that wasn’t what had been so startling. Lit by the sun beams as if by spotlights, dazzling and giant trees reminiscent of cherry blossoms blanketed the riverside. The contrast between shadow, light, and brilliant pink was mesmerizing.

  “Never seen a pine forest like this.”

  “Yeah, you usually wouldn’t. Shouldn’t be enough sun for it.” Huston said, slightly distracted as he scanned the tops of the trees. “I don’t think this light is natural.”

  “What do you mean?” Tarma responded.

  “I think the canopy has been culled.” Huston speculated.

  “By who? Your Clouds?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know. Maybe not. Could be completely natural. There must be hundreds of branches up there that are only a few feet long, though. It’s new growth. I don’t know….never mind.” Huston said, not sure enough to keep guessing.

  The forest was a patchwork mosaic of coniferous trees, all towering to heights several hundred feet in the air, which created enough height on the forest floor for these angiosperms to blossom to the height of seven story buildings before bumping against lower branches. Looking closer, he noticed what may have been designs etched into the sides of the trees. He tried counting the variations but stopped after a dozen or so. Some looked like the number 3, others like rudimentary hieroglyphs, and yet all could’ve been natural.

  He moved the lever forward again. The boat responded with a lurch, surging by mile after mile of pink. They weren’t just along the bank; the trees stretched as far as his perspective could make out.

  “Hey Huston.”

  “Yeah.” The minister responde
d, surprised by the serious tone.

  “It’s me. Randy Tarma.”

  “I know.”

  “And I know that you cult types sometimes imagine stuff. Wanted to be sure you knew I was real.” Tarma responded in a neutral tone. “I’ve gotta go film something with Knux out in one of his agro fields. I’ll pop back on before I head over to Scott’s Q and A meeting tonight.”

  “Ok, looks like a waterfall ahead, so i’ll be walking for a while. Thanks, man.” Huston said.

  Pushing the small boat onto a narrow beach formed by sediment washing down the serpentine waterway, he jumped into moist sand and walked to tie the boat to a nearby cedar- or something closely resembling its brother back on Earth.

  Moving was never the same as standing still in nature. The smells layered on top of one another, life crawled about its mischief, and rain clouds seemed to visibly condense as they climbed higher in the grey sky above. He paused to breathe in the pine and mud-soaked air before grabbing his pack and setting off toward the waterfall, the grass tickling at his legs and arms as he scrambled up the steep bank and into a field lined sprinkled with blue and purple wildflowers. Pollinators swarmed above his face, busily pursuing sustenance.

  Laying on his back in a particularly puffy bed of grass, his view was entirely consumed by the sprawling branches of the alien cherry blossoms, with beams of light splashing against trunks and leaves, and beyond the pink, the deep green of a canopy broken here and there by penetrating fingers of warmth, allowing all of what he laid amidst to thrive where it shouldn’t. Now that he was up here, he could see varying sizes of the pink flowered tree growing in all directions. Some looked to be less than five years old, while others appeared so ancient they may have sprung as the planet cooled. And in some places, seedlings had failed and left dwindling stalks laid softly to be recycled by the legions of detritivores and other such critters beneath his feet.

  He sat himself up. The scene was mesmerizing, but there was more to see and time later to bathe in it.

  “Oh my God.”

  From his standing vantage point, he spied several dugout canoes laying near the waterfall basin.

  “Tarma, any chance you’re still there?” Huston asked, ducking and glancing around to see if the owners of the crafts were around.

  After several seconds of silence, he was convinced that both Tarma and the boat-men were at least momentarily gone, and lightly ambled to stand beside them. Only then was he able to see that they sat in various states of abandonment. One had been broken by a large branch which had seemingly fallen off during a storm.

  Whoever they belonged to would have access to the sea and the river’s many tributaries. And while the waterfall wasn’t imposing— he was taller than it was high— it was enough to keep his boat where it was. He wondered whether the canoes would be carried beyond the fall, whether they were strictly for traveling on this side of the fall, or whether they had alternate craft for what might be shallower waters or larger waterfalls ahead.

  To either side of the waterfall was a steep wall of mud and pebble, which rose to the foot of a nearly ten foot wall on either side of the water. It was made of thick logs which had seemingly been dug into place, with small gaps between them that may have been situated to allow weapons through. The walls didn’t extend out very far from the water, only forty feet or so, but each side ended at topography that would’ve discouraged most assaults. As if cementing his sense of abandonment, the platforms erected in trees above each wall, themselves spaced frequently and evenly along the length of each wall, were empty.

  The way in seemed to be a small space in the vertical logs, in which laid several logs horizontally stacked to the wall’s height. He imagined they were held in place by some means, but gave the lowest one a gentle test. It didn’t budge. He looked up. At both ends of the doorway, the vertical logs rose higher than everywhere else. The tops had been carved into what he could only compare to fertility figurines from Earth civilizations. Headless and without limbs, it may as well have been the midsection of a hominid. Several seconds of surprised silence gave way to uncertainty. The figures could be anything. They reminded him of totems, and the symbols scrawled under the fertility-head looked similar enough to those on the trees. It struck him that the symbols could represent clans. On Earth, many indigenous peoples’ access to resources and routes were governed by such membership- depending either on matrilineal or patrilineal descent.

  Walking the leftward wall’s length, he worked his way up a steep gathering of large boulders which had been unnaturally piled on the hill there, and pulled himself beyond the barrier.

  He didn’t expect what he saw. A swamp blanketed the terrain as far as he could see forward. Maybe as wide as a 5-lane highway and speckled with trees rising from its murky, mysterious depths, it was watched over by a series of small shacks, much like the guard turrets at the wall, which similarly sat on large platforms- this time a few feet above water, with a few accompanied by tied-off canoes smaller than the ones he’d already seen.

  The sight vibrated with suspicious silence, save for the rambling squawks of birds-- so many birds -- and the occasional movement on the water as unseen things stirred, jumped, and otherwise picked at the surface.

  They’d missed it. They’d missed all of it. It increasingly became difficult to reconcile the preparative natures of minds like Scott and Wallace with the number of unknowns they’d encountered. Scott had spoken persistently of the unknowable knowns inherent in a mission like this, which included the certainty that the planet would host species they hadn’t known of beforehand, or that something unlikely would likely happen- such as Wallace’s illness.

  He’d always imagined, possibly because he’d had so many conversations with Scott about it in their long friendship, that the exploration of an alien planet would be preceded by a painstaking and methodical collection of more data than anyone could know what to do with. The truth of it shouldn’t have been surprising given the relationship between technology and pioneering spirit: once the technology was capable of trying it, it would be tried, and it’d be tried on an aggressive timeline that sought to box out competitors.

  So, having not had the time to send probes into the depths of the forest near their landing site, they’d dropped amidst a dynamism they hadn’t seen- their sweeps for signatures characteristic of advanced civilization having turned up empty, of course. They’d had plenty of video for software to sift through from cameras they’d landed in a large perimeter around the site and several from within the mountain range even, but what were the chances of sticking a camera in the right place amidst thousands of square miles? Valley might have been a good place, though. If they’d done it again, somebody would have taken the time to send a rover- something capable of hiking the area. That something turned out to be Huston. It occurred to him again that Wallace may have intended the role for him. Possible, too, that Wallace didn’t want to know if something advanced was in the forest. International intervention had been hard enough to steer around.

  Opting to use the walkway that connected the spot he stood to some fog veiled distant point, rather than heaving a canoe over the waterfall, he was able to make it to one of the lone canoes in sight, which floated untethered near the walkway, and dropped himself into its grip.

  Finally remembering his camera and headset, he called for the robots monitoring the transmission for trouble.

  “Is Scott available?” He asked, knowing that it was far too silent for Tarma to still be nearby.

  “Scott is meeting with the Board. As you know, some of them will be joining him for tonight’s Q & A. Would you like me to interrupt them?” Replied the polite, clipped accent of Gangotra.

  “No, thank you. Are you seeing this?”

  “I am now. They’ve pushed the stream through to my comm.” Gangotra paused for a short moment. “More of the unexpected. I don’t imagine anybody will be happy about this. Except, possibly, with the exception of you.”

  “No.” Huston s
miled. “I mean, yes. Of course, but not abandoned like this. Maybe it belonged to an earlier cultural group. Maybe even to the Clouds or Cavers. Suppose I might find out why they left, if that’s the case.”

  “Yes. Well, I assure you I’ll notify Scott as soon as he’s available. Be safe, Huston.”

  The minister used his hands to paddle to the nearest canoe, hoping to find whatever they’d used to move the craft. The boat itself was empty, so he tied his canoe to the other using excess cordage from its own knot, and shakily balanced himself long enough to reach up and pull his weight onto the platform. Happily, a paddle rested against a wall inside the shack. It was otherwise empty except for a large blood-stained rock in the corner, two visibly broken fish traps made of fibrous netting and structured by sticks, and a long wooden spear.

  Grabbing everything and pushing aside the oddity of how relatable the supplies were, he dropped back into his canoe. He plunged the spear into the water. It was roughly three feet deep where he was. Curious, he paddled to the middle of the swamp, where his spear found resistance at five feet, and then to the darker water nearer the waterfall, which he was able to plunge the entirety of the spear’s nearly eight foot length into before the light current pulled at the tip. It was possible the beings who’d lived here-- or still lived here, somewhere out of sight, he had to remind himself-- had dug a reservoir to help retain more water.

  Turning toward the location of the spring, he kept a good pace as he paddled forward. Their walkway would have been faster, obviously, but he was tired of walking, his balance wasn’t great, he had no idea the state of the materials, and it seemed to be the most obvious way to travel upriver if beings were waiting to ambush him.

  He’d been traveling for hours, staying within eyesight of the walkway most of the way, stopping sporadically at shacks to search for supplies and artifacts. By the end of the afternoon, he’d collected a few stone knives, several feet of cordage, dozens of wooden hooks, and an unbroken fish trap. Each time, he was made more dizzy with the realization that he was holding something that was made and used by an alien being.