Frank Wasdale- First Mission

by Chris Lee Jones

  "OK," he grunts. "Two minutes, but I come with you."

  I quickly tap another message.

  I'd like to be alone.

  "I'm coming with you."

  OK. Another plan bites the dust. I look around, scanning up and down. I can see the information desk that the Mannequin mentioned, on the far side of the hall. I begin to walk towards it.

  "Hey, there’s a door this way," says my man, following behind. I ignore him and keep on walking ahead in my slow, ponderous way. It takes a few minutes, but then I see the Mustang. Even under the dim airport lights I can see that it looks brand new. There's a lady in the front, revving the engine like a rally driver. The doors from the hall slide open and I step out into the cool night, the goon still beside me. I make as if I’m about to faint, and lean on the Mustang’s hood. I take a few gasping breaths to make it look like I'm savouring the air.

  Then I get in the car. Simple as that. I pull the handle and roll into the passenger seat, and the Mannequin locks the doors.

  "What the hell?" I hear the man shriek. He bangs on the door, then the hood, so hard he's probably dented it. Then he pulls out a revolver from under his shirt, and aims it squarely at the windscreen, threatening us.

  Brace yourself, Frank.

  The roar of the engine, the screeching of tyres and we're off. The man just manages to get out of the way. In the mirror, I see him on his phone, gesticulating wildly.

  I’m going to have to tank this thing. They'll try to follow us.

  As if to illustrate, she pushes harder on the throttle and accelerates to a speed that most people would regard inappropriate for the outskirts of a small town in the middle of the night. Within minutes, we're on a main road leading out of the town.

  I estimate a four-hour drive to the transfer site. Try to get some rest.

  There's little chance of that. I've already had my night's sleep on the plane. And how can you rest when you're in a car whose speedo is hovering around the 180 kph mark?

  The Rescue transfer will be scheduled for dawn on the first morning of the sixth year of the mission. That's about 5.30 A.M. We should just get there in time. The transfer itself will take only a few seconds. You won't feel as if you've journeyed anywhere. But you might feel out of sorts, a little unbalanced. When we reach the other side, my people will want to take you somewhere safe. I will accompany you, but at some point I will have to leave you, to be reunited with my own kin.

  You know what? I hadn't thought about the fact that the Mannequin might have a family over there. Parents. Children. Grandchildren perhaps, considering her age.

  The Mannequin is silent for a while. She's looking nervously in the rear-view mirror. There's a car behind us, its headlights dazzling. It must be going at some rate because it's gaining on us, second by second. Eventually it goes past. Wow. Someone else in a rush.

  I don't have a family in your sense of the word, she resumes. Like all others of my species, I am a link in a chain of givers and receivers. I received my second life from my prime giver. She is the one who rejuvenated me, many years ago. I took juice from her glands at first, because mine had not yet matured. She is, I suppose, like a mother to me. And I have a daughter. Or what my species call a prime receiver. I rejuvenated her a hundred years ago after she drowned in a flood. I found her just in time, as I did with you.

  A lot of what she's saying, as usual, doesn't make sense. But if I've got it right, does that mean I'm now her son?

  You are a receiver of mine, so I suppose I could call you a son. But you do not have the genetic capacity to become a giver. In terms of my family tree, you would be a dead end.

  She's not one for feel-good compliments.

  The Mannequin checks her rear-view again, then does something I wasn't expecting. She slows the car down to a normal speed for these sorts of roads, then takes the next turning. We left Fairbanks only twenty minutes ago, so what's she up to? Where is she taking us?

  Our destination remains the same, Frank. But we wouldn't get very far on main roads. They would find us within the hour. We're going cross country.

  In a Mustang?

  The Mannequin dips the headlights as the road begins to climb. After about five minutes, she pulls off the road and starts to drive straight into a thicket of trees. I wince as stiff low branches scrape against the sides of the brand-new sports car. Deeper and deeper we push into the woods, until the car can move no further, dropping into a rut, its wheels beginning to spin.

  This will do, she says, and gets out. These trees should provide enough cover from eyes in the sky.

  I follow her as we begin to trudge through the chill night.

  I have hidden a more appropriate vehicle near here, she explains. Something that will cope with the gravel and dirt tracks.

  Sure enough, we soon emerge from the trees onto a narrow stony road, where a range rover is parked in a dirt lay-by. A jangling of keys and we're in. Cost me a lot of money, hiring two cars, she says as the engine roars into life. I was down to my last dollar of Stump's allowance.

  The ride is bumpy, but interesting. Let's just say that I don't think the hire firm will be too happy when they get the car back.

  The Mannequin's caution in coming off the main road is justified. Within fifteen minutes, she tells me that she's picking up sentient signals from the sky. From a helicopter. She kills the lights completely and switches off the engine. She listens carefully, twitching her head like a bird. I hear the throbbing of rotors in the distance.

  They're following the highway, she says. We're safe for now.

  We drive for hours on gravel and dirt tracks that are barely wide enough for the range rover. Occasionally, the Mannequin takes us off the road completely, and we cross fields, copses, even small streams. I have no idea how she can figure out which direction we’re going. The car doesn't have satellite navigation, and I have yet to see her consult a map.

  Finding my way comes so naturally I don't even have to think about it, she explains. You might call it a homing instinct, guiding me to the crossing point. The ability to navigate like this was gene-sequenced into my species many thousands of years ago, from migrating creatures similar to your birds.

  OK, well that's reassuring. At least we're not going to get lost. I wonder if she's got any other special abilities, apart from being able to read minds and navigate like a bird? If she has, she doesn't seem ready to tell me.

  *

  As a dim red sun peeps above the eastern horizon, the Mannequin tells me that we're very near to the crossing point and reminds me that we should remain cautious when we get out of the car. Several times on the journey, we've had to pull over and find cover as helicopters fly overhead. They’re looking for us.

  We can walk from here, she announces, stopping the car alongside a narrow brook. As usual, I make pretty slow progress slogging through the woods. As we come over the brow of a hill, the Mannequin points towards the crossing point, but then stops suddenly.

  We have company, she says, pointing down into the little clearing. Two military jeeps. Five soldiers, milling around and making breakfast. They look quite relaxed.

  They have been a continuous presence here, ever since the night I arrived.

  I wonder how long it will be before her rescue pod arrives?

  Could be a few minutes. Could be half an hour.

  The Mannequin's signal goes silent again. Her head twitches like a bird’s, listening.

  The soldiers aren’t expecting anything. They've done this duty many times. But we'll still have to get past them, when the pod appears. I will be able to move more effectively if I remove my modelled exterior. Turn away, Frank. You might find this unpleasant.

  I do as she says and listen to a variety of sucking and squelching noises as she peels off her human skin.

  There. You can look now.

  I turn to see a sight that is surprisingly reassuring. Stripped of her human exterior, I was half expecting to see a wart-covered green body with tentacles and twitchin
g antennae. But she looks almost human. Almost, I say, because she's definitely alien—she wouldn't have got far without her modelled exterior. But she has a head, two arms and two legs. Her face has two eyes, but below them nothing that we would call a nose or a mouth. Instead there are holes, several of them. The holes are constantly opening and closing, gasping, and spouting with sticky mucus. Her chest rises and falls to a similar rhythm. Breathing. She has a strange bulge beneath her teats that seems to be pulsing to the beat of her breaths.

  She's ugly, it must be said.

  But no uglier than I am.

  Frank, get down. Right down, into the undergrowth.

  Eh?

  New signals coming in. Lots of them. Getting stronger.

  Now I can hear something. Engine noises. Wheels on gravel tracks. The Mannequin picks up the sloppy mess that was her human skin, spreads it flat on the floor then buries it under loose earth. She crouches, low to the ground.

  Follow me.

  Together we crouch behind a moss-covered tree lies fallen amongst the pines. Several large vehicles have arrived in the clearing. I hear doors open, people getting out.

  Somebody must have known that we're coming, says the Mannequin.

  Or followed us.

  This is a big problem, Frank. There are at least fifty soldiers. I don't think I can hold off that many.

  Cautiously, I peep my head above the fallen trunk. The Mannequin is right. At least fifty. Orders are being shouted, and one of the soldiers is barking something into a radio. Some heavy-duty weaponry is being shifted from the trucks and set down amongst the ferns and branches.

  What's worse, the Mannequin has stopped communicating. I try to ask her if she's OK, but I can tell she's not receiving. I give her a physical nudge and she doesn't respond to that, either. Surely she hasn't gone to sleep?

  Something in the air is changing. I feel it at first as a light prickling on my skin, like I'm bathing in static electricity. The breeze picks up, making the branches on the trees flap around, as if a storm is on its way. The commotion down in the clearing is getting louder, as the light changes from dawn-pink to a sickly brown.

  The Mannequin still isn't responding. It looks as if she has passed out. Her strange body is lying face down on the ground. Using both arms, I try to roll her over, but she's surprisingly heavy. She doesn't budge. It's like she's thrown roots into the ground.

  A flash of crimson light and bewildered screaming from below. I feel a sudden rush of excitement. A pod has arrived in the clearing. The same shape as the one I saw at O.I.L, but perhaps a few metres longer and fatter. Shots ring out, bouncing off the pod's hull like peanut shells, and soon the woods are alive to the sounds of warfare. Several explosions ring out near to the pod, causing me to crouch down like a baby, holding my ears.

  A large crater has formed in the clearing. Piles of earth and dead wood lie around its rim. The pod sits at the bottom of the crater, half-covered with soil.

  The explosions haven’t even dented it.

  The Mannequin stirs.

  Are you ready? she asks.

  Is she crazy? How are we going to get down there without being noticed?

  Climb onto my back, Frank. I will try to direct my interference away from you, but I can't promise great accuracy. I suggest you cover your ears.

  She moves as fast as a gazelle, running straight down towards the soldiers, in full view of everyone. Within seconds, my world fills with the most awful sound. I've heard it once before, back at the hut, when I escaped from Stump. It's like sick thunder, tearing and retching. Several soldiers fall to their knees covering their ears. Some sit down, rock side to side or stare blankly into space. Bullets continue to fly. I feel a dull thud in my shoulder, and another near my bottom. The Mannequin wavers slightly in her course, so I'm guessing she's been hit too.

  We're almost there. The pod is below us, at the bottom of the crater. I'm expecting a door or hatch to slide open somewhere on its shiny surface, but that doesn't happen. Instead, the Mannequin simply places a hand on the shiny surface, and we're in. Somehow, we slid straight though the hull, as if it were made of liquid air.

  Another creature, like the Mannequin but a little smaller and browner, crouches at one end of the pod. It glares at the Mannequin, but there's no obvious sign of a greeting. The creature waves a hand over a cross-shaped piece of metal.

  The Mannequin announces that we've arrived.

  Holy Smoke, that was quick.

  But there's a problem. We cannot get out.

  Remember I told you that the crossing points are very special, in terms of matching topography?

  I think I do. The crossing points are the only places where the elevation of the land surfaces of our two Earths coincide, where they're at the same level.

  Exactly. That was true of this crossing point, before their explosives blew a hole in the ground.

  Now I get it. We’ve ended up below the surface. Underground.

  Fortunately, we've emerged into loose clay, and not rock. But it may take a while for them to dig us out. In the meantime, let me introduce you to our pilot.

  Another voice worms its way into my head, seeking permission to talk. It welcomes me and apologises for any disorientation I might be suffering. I tell it not to worry.

  After a few minutes there's a knocking on the hull. The pilot and the Mannequin fall into silence, presumably communicating with their colleagues above.

  I start to feel a bit clammy, and fidgety. I could really do with some magic juice.

  Are you ready?

  The Mannequin takes my hand and we step out into an alien world.

  THE END