“They would.”
“You should look at our data. The angels have created a comprehensive, detailed sociological analysis showing that the reduction in the wars alone would save millions of lives and prevent a vast amount of destruction. You know that wars do not create wealth; they destroy it. They do not enhance the lives of your species. They degrade it.”
“Well, in any case, you’ll have to deal with a lot of people who think your proposals will create havoc.”
“Like the male legislators.”
“Yes, and for the environmental laws, there’s the oil industry, the coal industry, the plastics industry, and developers.”
Jack leaned forward, his journalist’s impulse to observe and report trumping his diffidence. “So, you’re saying that you won’t support any of these laws, even if all their data show their validity?”
“Look, we’ve been invaded by aliens trying to tell us what to do with our own planet, our own society!” exclaimed the president. “Why should we listen to them?”
“Because I’ve been to one of their planets. They are far more advanced than us. And, in fact, their societies have faced and overcome the same problems of sustainability we’re facing.”
“And you consider yourself loyal to us?”
Jack started to answer, but the door opened and an aide rushed in. “Mr. President, I believe there is news you should see,” he said, moving to the video screen on the wall and switching it on.
The bright red breaking news banner at the bottom of the screen read “Werewolf commits murder.”
The voice-over continued, “. . . you can clearly see in these images the perpetrator of the murder in this forest.”
The series of grainy images showed a hulking creature leaping toward the camera, its fangs bared, its claws extended.
“I can’t tell,” said Jack “Is that . . . ?”
A’eiio looked stricken. “The werewolf Flaktuckmetang? Yes.”
The wormhole wafted down from the star-filled sky into the gloom of the clearing near the Pilgrim colony. The darkness was made even more absolute by the surrounding thick woods. Stealth was absolutely critical, so the men and women ringing the clearing did not switch on their flashlights. Nevertheless, some light emanated from the evanescent, shimmering aurora that played about the wormhole; and as always it emitted a steady, static-like crackling.
An eager murmuring rose among the gathered Pilgrims, conveying their eagerness at the arrival of the portal to their home planet.
“You sure the outsiders are asleep? They must not witness this,” urgently whispered the thin, elderly man to his shorter, bearded companion, as they watched the wormhole coming to rest.
“Yeah, Robert,” said the companion. “Anna is watching them. They’ve turned in for the night.” He took a deep breath and smiled, no doubt relishing the fresh tang of ozone that the wormhole invariably brought with it.
“Do they suspect anything other than—”
“That we are just another colony of the Pilgrim cult,” interrupted the companion. “Just like all the others around the world. They see us as harmless kooks. I gave them the usual spiel to get them to turn back, ‘We have no motel here, no store, no gas station, no campground. We only wish to be left in peace.’ I told them they should go right back where they came from.”
“But they stayed,” said Robert, shaking his head.
“Yes. They’re just curious, like so many others. We couldn’t very well threaten them. That would bring the police in. Tomorrow, I’ll start giving them our indoctrination lecture. That usually prompts people to leave.”
“If they don’t leave, find out all you can about them,” said Robert. “If nobody knows they’re here, we can disappear them, if necessary.”
The bearded man nodded in grim assent, as the wormhole halted its descent above the grassy clearing. Its lower side flattened, a ladder extended from its depths, and a figure climbed down, pausing in the still night, peering around.
Robert switched on his flashlight to guide the visitor, and he walked toward him.
“Welcome, Christopher, Brother Pilgrim,” he said formally, embracing the man. “Welcome to our home.” It was the appropriate ceremonial greeting for the executive director in charge of the Pilgrimage, whose job it was to oversee the colonization.
“All our homes . . . soon,” replied Christopher, a portly man dressed in a black suit and tie. His silver pompadour seemed to float in the darkness as he moved about, smiling, warmly shaking the hands of the other Pilgrims. He carried his heft lightly, but with a reassuring authority. He showed no evidence that the weight of his species’ survival was on his shoulders.
James, a slim, balding engineer followed Christopher down from the ladder, looking upward at the hole with the precise scrutiny of a pilot inspecting his airplane. He was a stark contrast to the jovial Christopher, his almost continually wrinkled brow portraying the worry over managing the only portal between his dying world and the promising new one.
“We had a problem with the steering field,” James told Christopher. “But it’s fixed. It’s okay. And the containment field magnets will need replacing soon. We need to do that soon.”
“Louisa can do that?”
“Of course,” replied James, with a prideful emphasis, given that Louisa was his wife. “She’s finishing a flight checklist.”
Shortly, Louisa, a comfortably round woman with white hair held in a short, efficient bob, descended from the ladder. She wore the usual jumpsuit that wormhole engineers and pilots wore.
“We knew you were coming, but we didn’t know why,” said Robert. “We’re happy to see you, but a transit is always risky.”
“We’ve monitored the news here . . . about the Mythicals’ revelations . . . their proposals to save the native species. We need to discuss steps to be taken.”
“Certainly. Let’s go to my house. There have been developments.”
Christopher turned to James and Louisa. “I know you’d like to rest, but please join us. There’s a matter I need to discuss with you. I wanted to wait until we were back in the colony.”
As they walked, Christopher embraced some of the townsfolk, most of whom had no real business being present at the transit, but were drawn by homesickness. Even a possible glimpse of their home planet—as ruined as it was—through a wormhole was welcome. And, they wanted to see their leader Christopher. He was the symbol of their hope of colonizing this planet, and of the coming likely violent struggle to replace the native species.
They emerged from the woods to a small village of modest cottages with one main road, paved only through the town. The lights in the cottages began to blink out, as the people returned and retired for the night.
They entered one of the cottages and settled in the small living room, drinking the homemade liquor that was as close as they could come to their own whiskey.
Robert told Christopher, “Some very strange news. The intelligence we have is that the werewolves appear to be planning some drastic action. We have detected that they are orbiting what appear to be electromagnetic pulse devices . . . a great many of them. And they tested the effects of such a device on a small town.”
“It sounds like a potentially devastating attack,” said Christopher. “Could it accelerate the extinction?”
“Possibly,” said Robert. “And a werewolf has committed at least one murder . . . I would guess in an attempt to thwart the Remediation that the Mythicals are proposing.”
“So, if we were to contact them—the werewolves—could we trust them to be allies?” asked Christopher.
“We shouldn’t. After all, they aren’t human.”
“Is there evidence that the Mythicals are aware of us?”
“Not so far. And I’ve been in contact with the other Pilgrim colonies. They see no evidence either that the Mythicals know we exist, although they may suspect. They could have detected our transits to the planet, and they would have known that our wormhole was not their own.
”
“Whether we trust them or not, we need to help the process along . . . whatever it is the werewolves are attempting,” said Christopher. “Our models show that our ecosystem deterioration is accelerating. We have only a few years.”
“How many of us are left at home?”
“Only a million worldwide.”
“Maybe they would accept us here,” interjected James. “Maybe we don’t need to . . . well . . .” His voice trailed off. They almost never stated the drastic plan to save their dwindling population.
“Accept us? Would we accept them?” asked Christopher emphatically. “We’ve devastated our own planet, and now want to abandon it for theirs. They would see us as pariahs. No, the only way to survive is to take the planet. It’s them or us. And we will be better stewards of the planet than them. We know what we did wrong. We know that they’re on a suicidal course. We will fix that. And if the werewolves are planning a global attack, that could give us our chance at life.”
“It’s just that—” began Louisa, her expression downcast.
But Christopher interrupted. “I’m told that your son is deeply involved with the Mythicals . . . that he is one of their . . . what do they call them . . . Allies? What an excellent, fortuitous advantage for us! Does he know what he is?”
“No, Director, he does not,” said James. “We are very careful not to reveal to him where he came from. As far as he knows, he grew up in a normal household. And that we moved into the Pilgrim cult after he left.”
“Well, now it’s time you told him. It’s time you enlisted him in our cause . . . his cause. Remind me, what name did you give him?”
“Jack March.”
“We’re eons older than these creatures,” declared the werewolf Warden. “We know what’s best for their pack. And that is for the weak to be culled.”
The Warden stood at the window, enjoying the rise of his planet’s ancient sun, as it cast a baleful orange glow across the stark, tortured, volcanic landscape. The sun was a looming ball of roiling red plasma, even in its death throes, which had lasted for a million years. A flare began to erupt from its surface, launching tendrils of luminescent, swirling gas.
“Some of us don’t necessarily disagree with you,” said the ogre Warden, sitting in the stone chair at the head of the conference table. “But you have gone too far. Testing your EMP weapon . . . dispatching your exile to murder and cannibalism! That is unconscionable!”
The werewolf turned from the window of the stone fortress. He showed his fangs. “I did not dispatch him. He is a rogue.”
“Then trigger his coma chip,” said the fairy Warden, shivering in the frigid temperature of the planet. He drew the coarse cloak he’d been given tightly around him.
The werewolf shrugged, tilting his thickly maned head in just a hint of disdain. “His chip was destroyed in the EMP test, as was his termination chip. It was unfortunate, but he decided to be at the target to gather ground-truth data.”
“Nonsense,” muttered the troll Warden. “You would have notified the Council the instant one of your exiles went off-line . . . unless, of course, you gave him permission.”
“Prove it,” the werewolf shot back.
The resounding crack of a lightning bolt signaled the beginning of a storm. It would yield magnificent violence, thought the werewolf. A fitting backdrop to support the defiant stance he would take.
The vampire Warden rose from his stone bench. “This is what you will do. You will find your exile, Flaktuckmetang. And you will banish him to the prison on your moon.” A gale rose outside, its winds buffeting the thick window of the fortress.
The werewolf touched his wrist communicator with a clawed finger, and five guards entered the room—hulking creatures bred for battle. They carried the full complement of weapons—rifles, bomblets, missiles—that made them effective killing machines.
“My praetorians will escort you back to the transit station,” he said coldly.
The elf Warden climbed upon the stone table—putting him at eye level with the werewolf, and stalked down its length to face him. He screeched an emphatic, furious answer.
The pixie Warden translated: “He said you risk a vote of the Warden Council to sanction you. Then you would face dire consequences.”
“I know what he said!” snarled the werewolf. Another crack of lightning outside, and the winds rose to viciously batter the massive citadel walls. “I will manage my own exiles. And we will take whatever steps necessary to prepare for the Palliation.”
“Yes, but only prepare,” declared the ogre, drawing to his full height, looming over the werewolf. “You will take no further steps without the Council’s permission, or you will face the likelihood of a conflict with all the other member worlds.”
The ogre turned to face the phalanx of looming praetorians. He glared at them eye-to-eye. “And not even your engineered praetorians can overcome such foes.”
“You have until our sun sets to depart,” said the werewolf. He waved his claw at the guards, and they parted ranks, allowing the Wardens to leave. “The discussion is concluded.”
• • •
Jack sat hunched over his computer, pecking away at his article on the latest events. Fortunately, he didn’t have to rely on the Capital Herald to publish it. The online Lightning News had commissioned him to cover the most significant news story in centuries. Screw the Herald! But he couldn’t concentrate. He kept switching to various other media sites, where a worrisome trending topic was “Dangerous Mythicals.” The werewolf’s cannibalistic murder had triggered a storm of rage. Jack scanned through the growing list of messages:
“Cannibal werewolves? What about the rest?”
“Should blood banks be checked for vampires?”
“Fairies could kidnap children! Lock doors!”
“A pixie made me crazy with her odor. True!”
“Heard of an ogre attacking cop!”
“They’re evil creatures to be stopped!”
He willed himself away from the message feed, to write for half an hour, enough to upload his latest story on the worldwide receptions held for the Mythicals.
But he knew that positive story would change drastically, when he checked back. New topics were attracting massive followings: “Round up the Monsters,” “Intern the Mythicals,” and most frightening, “Death to Mythicals.”
Then one message popped up that sent him leaping from his chair and rushing out the door:
“Heard Mythicals are being arrested all over. Major busts! Imprison the freaks!”
• • •
A’eiio sat alone in the upstairs study, staring at the screen of her phone, but not seeing it. E’iouy, came in, fresh and naked from a shower, fluttering his wings to rid them of droplets of moisture. Seeing her distant stare, he bent down and kissed her on the cheek. She did not look up.
“What could we have possibly done?” she asked quietly.
“You have no control over the others,” he said, sitting down in the armchair across from hers, leaning forward and placing his hand on her knee. “Especially the werewolves. They’re so different from the other species. They barely survived their warlike period, as did this planet, with its nuclear arms race.”
“Ah, well—” she began, but splintering crashes downstairs, from the front and back doors, interrupted her.
“POLICE!” bellowed a voice from downstairs, along with the thud of boots, and the faint metallic clink of weapons. The sounds of steps pounding up the stairs.
A’eiio stood, frozen in shock, but E’iouy sprang to the window.
“We can’t let this happen!” he exclaimed. “If we’re taken, we can’t help the others!” He flung open the windows, his wings becoming a blur as he sliced through the air.
“No! Don’t!” she exclaimed. “They have—”
But he had already lifted off, sailing out the window. She ran to look out at a phalanx of helmeted men arrayed on their front lawn. One raised the barrel of his weapon, wh
ich erupted a sharp crack.
E’iouy faltered in his flight, his wings flailing wildly, as he spiraled down to slam into the ground.
A’eiio screamed in agony, her hand over her mouth, tears welling in her eyes.
A sound behind her. She turned to face three hulking men in helmets, masks, and bulletproof vests. They leveled their weapons at her.
• • •
No answer! No answer! No answer! Again and again, Jack punched in the number for A’eiio, between bouts of urging the driver to speed up. The driver uttered a curse in some language Jack didn’t understand, and hunched over the wheel. It was thirty minutes to the address A’eiio had given him.
The driver muttered another curse when Jack ordered him to stop before reaching the address, farther down the tree-shrouded avenue from the house. He shoved enough money at the driver to give him a good tip and leaped out, sprinting along the street.
His way was blocked by a large, black armored truck with “TACTICAL” painted on the side, parked on the street along with several vans. The truck’s rear doors were open, and its rows of bench seats were empty. He was too late!
He turned to run up the broad lawn to the stone mansion, when a voice behind him shouted “STOP! POLICE!”
He ignored the warning and was slammed from behind and wrestled to the ground. A heavy body held him down, his face smashed against the thick grass. His hands were wrenched behind him, and his wrists bound with handcuffs that sliced into his wrists.
“Turn him over,” said one of the body-armored policemen. “Poke him in the chest. If he’s one of them, his skin will fall off.”
“I’m a reporter! You want me reporting that you assaulted me?” Jack exclaimed, as he was flipped over and a finger began prodding his chest.
“Shut up,” growled the cop, as he continued to jab at Jack’s breast bone.
Abruptly bright lights lit the scene, and the cop straightened up, startled.
“Officer, what are you doing?” came a voice from behind the lights. It was a reporter with a camera. They were being videoed.
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