Frank Wasdale- First Mission

by Chris Lee Jones

  She puts a foot down on the embers of the fire, smothering them out.

  I came to Earth five years ago. I brought you back to life because that was my purpose, the reason they sent me. My task was to find and rejuvenate a recently deceased human, and to bring them back to our side. Something that has never been attempted before.

  Whoa! This is going to take a while to sink in. I'd guessed she was a mutant. But an alien? An alien who's going to take me back to her home planet?

  It doesn't have to be you, she continues. I could find another.

  Something doesn't make sense. If it was her entire purpose to rejuvenate a human and take it back to wherever the hell she comes from, why didn’t she do it straight after the accident? Why's she still hanging around here after five years?

  There were complications, she says. My arrival on this Earth did not go unnoticed. Within hours of my transfer here, teams of humans in uniform - FBI, CIA, and others - began to swarm all over the crossing point. I hid from them, but they stole my means of transfer. Took it away, so that I could not return.

  Hell, she talks in a weird way. You mean your spaceship? They took your spaceship?

  My means of transfer was not a spaceship. But I'd be perfectly happy for them to believe it is. No, you see, a spaceship moves through space. To get here, I didn't have to move at all. My Earth and your Earth are one and the same.

  My Earth? Her Earth? What's she on about?

  Against the advice of my superiors, I'm going to tell you a secret. Something that nobody else knows on your Earth. I'm going to trust you with this information, because I believe you are not the type to take advantage. Am I correct in that assumption?

  She's right. I'm not one for blabbing.

  Five hundred years ago, during a time of unparalleled scientific advancement, my species discovered that there was another Earth—your Earth—coexistent with ours. My Earth, like yours, has its own continents, oceans, hills and valleys, but the map of my Earth looks completely different to yours. The landmasses overlap with those of your Earth only in three narrow zones. One is here in Alaska. With me so far?

  I’m not sure, but I’m prepared to roll with it for now.

  The three overlap zones represent quite a large area, about twenty thousand square miles. However, gravity mapping revealed that there are only a handful of locations that are suitable for a safe transfer. This is mainly due to the vastly differing topography of your Earth and mine.

  Huh?

  Apologies, Frank. I forget that you have hardly been to school. Let me put it another way. A safe transfer between my Earth and yours is only possible at a small number of locations. We call them crossing points. If we attempted a transfer here, in our present location, we would both die in an instant. This is because the land surface at this point on your Earth is about half a kilometre below the corresponding land surface in my Earth. We would travel straight into dense bedrock. It would be a crushing experience.

  Was that an attempt at a joke?

  Yes it was. I tried to make light of a potentially distressing fact. Did I make a misjudgement?

  I couldn't care less. I want to hear more about her Earth, and how she travels from there to here.

  The means of transfer is difficult to explain, without a sophisticated understanding of quantum gravity. I do not fully understand it myself, but I can give an overview. Four hundred years ago, our subatomic particle scientists noticed some highly unusual data in their experiments. The only way to explain the data was to invoke an entirely new type of matter. A type of matter that felt gravity's pull but otherwise didn't interact at all with the atoms in our experiments. These new atoms, it seemed, would just pass straight through our atoms, like wind through the holes in a wire fence. These new atoms, you might already have guessed, are your atoms.

  Mine? I say.

  Not yours necessarily, Frank. I mean the atoms that make up your Earth. The atoms that make up your mountains, your seas, the air that you breathe. About a hundred years after the initial discovery, our scientists worked out how to convert our atoms to yours. They called it 're-labelling'. We learned how to take a lump of our matter, re-label every particle in it, and send it to your Earth. The apparatus we built to do this was called a 'transfer pod'. The first successful experiment made headline news. A small sample of rock from our Earth was placed in a transfer pod and re-labelled. The rock disappeared. No trace of it left whatsoever in the apparatus. Which could only mean one thing.

  The rock was sent here, to our Earth?

  That's right. A recent topographical mapping of the initial site suggests that it fell into your Pacific Ocean. If a human had been watching from a boat, they would have seen a lump of rock materialise out of nowhere a few hundred metres above them and fall into the sea.

  That would be cool.

  After the famous rock-disappearing act, progress was rapid. Next, they disappeared a living creature. To your eyes it would look something like a small lizard. After that, it was just a matter of scaling the apparatus up before they could try it with people. But there was a problem. A moral dilemma. How could we ever tell if the people we re-labelled survived the process? If they disappeared from our Earth, we would have no way of knowing whether they arrived alive on your Earth. Unless, of course, we re-labelled the transfer pod itself, and sent it along with the scientists.

  I'm liking this. Put the transfer pod in a bigger transfer pod and send it across with some scientists. Then the scientists can use the pod backwards, to get back to her Earth.

  Those initial experiments were a bit of a disaster. Ten scientists were sent across, along with three different pods. None of them came back. We suspect topographical issues, of course. They probably suffered the same fate as the stone, plummeting to a watery death.

  That must have made the scientists' hearts sink, I add, making it one-all in the making-light-of-a-potentially-distressing-fact game.

  Indeed, replies the Mannequin. Eventually we figured the topographical issues out, using high-resolution gravitational mapping. Since those early experiments, we have safely sent fifteen volunteers to explore and map your Earth. The most important development was the self-labelling pod, which can transfer itself back and forth between our two worlds, along with any contents. That's what I arrived in. The thing you called a spaceship.

  The spaceship that’s been stolen. I wonder if the CIA have it, and where they've taken it.

  I wonder too, Frank. It is extremely important for my civilisation that we get the pod back. We worry that your scientists might be able to reverse-engineer it and figure out how it works. That could prove disastrous. This is where Colonel Stump comes in. And Dr Babbage. And you.

  She wants me to get her spaceship back?

  Not exactly. I just need to know where it's being kept. I was hoping that Stump would provide the answer, provide the documents that detail the location of my pod. And, fool though he is, he almost succeeded.

  I gulp, realising my unfortunate part in the ruin of her plan. My mind is whirring, trying to connect all this stuff together. But one thing is clear. The documents I was sent to receive on my mission. The diagrams, the plans. All along, it seems, I've been working for her. For the Mannequin.

  You're quite right, she says. Although in my mind you've been working with me rather than for me.

  To me, it doesn't make much difference. Why did you involve Colonel Stump in the first place? Why not just find the information yourself?

  A gurgling sound emerges from somewhere within the mannequin’s shell. I wouldn't know where to look for it, she replies. I was very fortunate that Colonel Stump came along. And fortunate that he's such a conniving, mean little man. We struck a deal, soon after he found me. I was wandering back towards the transfer site, holding you in my arms. Stump had heard news of the discovery of an alien artefact in the woods, and he'd come to see it for himself. Curiosity, I suppose. He didn't find the artefact, but he found me. I knew straight away that he might be able to help.
He had connections, in the military and beyond. And for my part I could offer him something that he really wants.

  He wanted me?

  He wanted what you represented, Frank. Power. I told him what I'd done to you, that I'd brought you back to life as a zombie. That you couldn't feel pain. He didn't believe me at first, so he slapped you around a bit, just to make sure. I made him an offer: if he could find out where they'd taken my pod, I'd provide him with a small army of undead soldiers. I had no intention of doing such a thing, of course, but for him the prospect became something of an obsession. He took me in to his quarters, helped me with my external appearance, provided a fake identity and papers. Together, we trained you up, and you became an integral part of his plan. It took almost five years to come to fruition.

  So all that business back at the hut? That was to be your part of her deal?

  In his mind, yes. But I knew I couldn't go through with it. Finding you dead in a van and rejuvenating you is one thing, but deliberately killing those soldiers and that boy? Such an act would be against my peoples’ moral code, and against my orders. Besides, by the time he’d burst through the front door of that hut, I realised that his plan to get the papers had failed. I was as relieved as you were when...

  Suddenly her communication shuts down, and it feels like there's a vacuum in my head. I ask her what's wrong, but no reply comes. She presses a rubbery finger to her lips. Message loud and clear—stay still and don’t talk.

  We wait for several minutes in silence, and all I can hear is my big, slow heartbeat. Then something else, a rustling in the distance. Something moving through the trees. Whatever it is stops for a while, as if searching. Then it begins to shuffle forwards again, getting closer. A low whisper enters my mind, barely audible as it dribbles into the silence.

  I am picking up sentient signals, right at the edge of my range. Coming from about half a mile away but getting stronger. Be ready to move on, at my command.

  A sudden scuffling sound, much closer than half a mile, makes me almost jump out of my grey skin. I push the Mannequin's arm, trying to get her attention. Has she not noticed?

  A sniffing, and there's a wet nose near my cheek. I sit bolt upright, alarmed, and whatever it is jumps out of the way, scurrying back into the night.

  Black-tailed deer, whispers the Mannequin. A young one. Lost its mother, perhaps. This forest is full of them. Stay still, Frank. No more sudden movements.

  I let out a big gasp of relief, as if I'd been holding my breath for an hour.

  Come, let’s go.

  She moves quickly through the trees, and it takes all my effort—what with my gammy leg—to keep pace with her. Dawn is coming fast now, a blue-grey light filtering through the canopy.

  We’re crossing a dirt track into a dense copse of pines when I hear the helicopter. The same one as before, from the sound of its blades. The light changes and I hear voices. Crackling voices on radios, like the ones they use back at the base.

  We have found the boy. Over.

  I spin around to tell the Mannequin, but she has gone.

  I look in all directions and listen hard for her voice in my head.

  Nothing.

  Suddenly, they’re on me. The helicopter is hovering directly above, causing the boughs of the trees to shiver and sway. Several pairs of hands lift me up from the ground strap me into a swinging harness.

  The woman is not with him. Repeat. The woman is not with him.

  The flashlights are so dazzling, I can't see anything. The whipping sound from the helicopter's rotors gets louder. Then I'm being winched up, higher than the top of the tallest pines, into the morning sky. From up here I can see an ants-nest of soldiers, scurrying around below, searching and shouting and shaking their heads.

  Whoever these men are, it seems the Mannequin has given them the slip. I understand why she needs so desperately to evade capture, but I feel slightly saddened that she has abandoned me. I try to call to her, reaching out with my thoughts as far as I can, but it doesn't work. She’s out of range.

  Chapter 9 - Debrief

  After I'm strapped into a canvas seat inside the helicopter, I notice little Benny stretched out opposite me, a dark silhouette against the dawn-lit fuselage. I’m relieved to see him twitch occasionally in his sleep, his chest moving up and down with deep dreamy breaths. He doesn't appear to be hurt or injured, but I wonder how much the events back at the hut will affect him. It's tempting to wake him up, to try to comfort him, but I think better of it.

  As I try to wriggle into a more comfortable position, I notice something in my trouser pocket that I’m pretty sure wasn’t there earlier. It’s a small plastic flask, which I open with eager anticipation. Magic juice! Concentrated and fresh. The Mannequin must have secreted it earlier and slipped it into my pocket before she disappeared into the woods. It takes me about three seconds to guzzle half of it. I could easily drink the whole lot but decide it would be wise to save some for later.

  I push the bottle back into my pocket and let out a forceful belch. Some blue dribble comes out with the belch, which I quickly mop up with my tongue. “You OK?” one of the troops asks, frowning at my weird behaviour. The burst of concentrated juice has left me feeling hyperactive, if I’m honest. Perhaps I should have been more careful with my dose. I wonder if anyone has told the soldier that I can't talk. All I can do is nod vigorously in the hope of deflecting the soldier's attention. It doesn't work. “We’re taking you to a place where you’ll be safe, somewhere we can get that wound sorted,” he says, glancing down at my injured leg.

  A grimace and another belch successfully put a stop to the conversation. Outside it is getting lighter, and I watch the landscape whizzing by beneath us. We must have already flown a long way from the forest, because all I can make out below is a grey-brown flatness with some hills in the distance.

  We’re in the air for at least a couple of hours before Benny finally begins to stir. He looks groggy but gives me a big smile when he recognises me. He asks me why I ran away from the hut and left him, and he asks me if I know how many Moose there are in the world. Before I can even shrug my shoulders, he tells me the answer: there are about three million, and did I know that one in every three Moose is Canadian? The soldier sitting next to Benny looks bemused, then glances at his watch. "Nearly there," he grunts, and almost on cue the helicopter begins to descend.

  The Sun is quite high in the sky as we arrive at our destination—a small airfield in the middle of nowhere. The soldier tells us that we won’t find this place on any map. No roads lead here, and for fifty miles in every direction there's nothing but dry and bumpy tundra.

  The rotors are still spinning as we step out of the helicopter, causing flakes of skin to flee my face like dry snow. A canvas-covered truck is waiting for us, and the moment we’re inside, the helicopter takes off. The soldier that accompanied us on the flight didn't even say goodbye, and now we’re faced with another nameless soldier with a bigger nose and harsher face. This one doesn't even attempt to speak to us.

  The truck pulls up alongside a grey hangar, and we pile out. It feels nice to stand on a dusty, solid ground that isn’t wobbling or lurching. Now we can properly stretch our legs.

  “I think we’re a long way from home,” says Benny, gazing northwards towards the distant hills.

  By my reckoning, we must have flown a couple of hundred kilometres south. Benny looks up at me with his big hazel eyes, and I find myself wondering where his true home is. And why his parents left him to wander the streets, to be found and snatched by Colonel Stump.

  I gaze around me and notice lights in the sky near the eastern horizon. Pinpricks of light, swaying and juddering, getting ever-closer. Looks like more copters, a whole convoy of them, heading this way.

  The soldier has noticed them too. “Get inside,” he grunts, gesturing towards a metal door at the foot of the hangar. Inside, we take some aluminium steps up to a corridor, with an office at one end. The office has leather chairs, a fridge
, and a big glass table in the middle with maps and newspapers strewn all over it. The soldier pours two cups of milk, one for me and one for Benny, and tells us to wait.

  We each take one of the leather chairs. They’re the revolving type, and we entertain ourselves for a few minutes by swivelling round and round until we’re both giddy. Then Benny, rather cheekily, opens the fridge and finds some slices of cheese and ham, which we devour hungrily, like a pair of opportunist wolves. I’m halfway through my fourth slice of ham when the soldier returns, accompanied by two men dressed casually in jeans and checked shirts.

  “This is agent Sparks, and this is agent Lowe,” grunts the soldier, closing the door behind him. Agent Sparks is a white man with a serious face. Agent Lowe is a black man with a serious face. Both are from the CIA. Both remain standing.

  Agent Lowe speaks first. “We have some questions for you, Frank. Please answer them truthfully. And don’t worry, we’re the good guys.”

  I lean forward in my chair. I have lots of questions to ask, too, but I suppose they can wait. Benny is still swivelling in his chair and stuffing his face with cheese.

  “How long have you known Colonel Jackson Stump?”

  Jackson? Is that really his name?

  “Five years,” I try to say, straining and forcing the words out, to be accompanied by looks of agonised concentration from agent Lowe.

  “I didn’t catch that, Frank,” he says. “Did you understand that, Sparks?”

  “I think he said ‘Bad news’. Is that what you said, Frank?”

  I shake my head and mime the act of writing on an invisible pad of paper. The soldier with the big nose finds a pen in one of the desk drawers, and hands it to me. I grab a newspaper from the table—there’s room enough in the margins to scribble my answers.