Galactic Storm

by Morgan Blayde

  Mitron is wise. Now, no one will object if I’m underfoot. That would be bad manners, what the humans call ingratitude.

  Twila remembered Mitron’s last message, nearly sub-vocal, as he’d hit her: Too many Light Born. You’ll have to finish this. She knew what he meant. He expected her to find Max in an unguarded moment and kill her.

  The problem was, Twila didn’t want to.

  Mitron hadn’t pulled his punch. He wanted to produce a convincing display of enmity. Twila was essentially unhurt though her head still rang from the back-fist. Her thoughts were only confused by the renegade feelings she clung to.

  I should not have called my brother and given Max up. I like her. My research mission has required that I keep a low profile, so I’ve discouraged her overtures. But she still makes them, willing to be my friend though I haven’t been her’s. She has a noble soul. The same can’t be said of Ashere.

  Twila struggled to her feet, acting weaker than she was so that her inorganic nature might not be discovered.

  Of course, if one of the Light Born breaks out a scanner, the deception will be over.

  She allowed her outer flesh-like covering to redden where struck, and simulated a trickle of blood-like fluid from the corner of her mouth. She waited, observing, recording her perceptions.

  The Light Born were in stand-by mode as well; most relaxing while others created a perimeter for sentry duty. A few of her fellow aliens played with the TV controls, discussing the merits of local programming. Others poked around odd corners of the house, inspecting the human structure.

  An amphibian Light Born seemed particularly fascinated by a black-and-blue beta fish swimming slow, graceful circles within a bowl. As the pet fish came around, the alien grew still, so as not to alarm it.

  Twila zoned-in on Max and her mom. Though often interrupted, Max persisted in her explanation, determined to purge her guilt with a full—and rational—confession. Her mother’s face went through a remarkable range of responses, shifting rapidly as Max progressed through her account. Twila wasn’t sure she had tags for all the emotional categories she witnessed. She was able to perceive stubborn disbelief giving way to shocked alarm, which edged toward panic with a bit of hysteria thrown in. Without extensive study, all that would have eluded Twila.

  Twila sat on the righted couch and watched a mixture of fear and anger provide an extra garnish. The phrase “Oh, my Gawd, what were you thinking?” reoccurred with increasing intensity and varied inflections. Twila decided to add the language in her next report to the faculty.

  Mrs. Bright was warmed up, dispensing an angry deluge of words, but broke off suddenly, her gaze meeting Twila’s. They shared a moment of connectedness. The human thrust herself to her feet. Her eyes widened, taking in the battered child, remembering how she got that way.

  Twila felt her box lid rise, startlement spilled out; she felt like a sparrow being pounced upon by a cat. She made herself stand her ground as Mrs. Bright rushed up to her.

  “Oh, you poor dear! Here I am going on and on, and no one’s even looked at you twice.” Twila felt her wrist being seized. “You just come with me, and I’ll get you fixed up.” Twila was jerked into motion and dragged off by the arm. She dampened down on impulse to pull free, going along with the woman.

  They reached the kitchen, and the sink. Mrs. Bright turned on the faucet and ripped some paper towels off of a roll. She folded them and let them soak up water. Gently, she wiped the pseudo-blood from the corner of Twila’s mouth before discarding the damp towels. Twila watched her go to the freezer next, and rummage around for a stiff bag of stir-fry vegetables. A dishtowel from a drawer completed her scavenger hunt. The vegetables were wrapped in the dishtowel and plopped in Twila’s hand.

  She stared with incomprehension at the wrapped package. She was about to explain that she wasn’t hungry when elucidation was offered. “Hold that against your face. The cold will keep it from swelling, and will take the pain away.”

  Silent, Twila complied, puzzled by a comforting warmth that crept over her in the Earth woman’s presence. Mrs. Bright opened a cabinet and drew out a glass. She filled it with water from the tap, then brought it toward her lips. Twila noticed the woman’s hand shaking. She had to use both hands to take a drink. She set the emptied glass down by the sink and turned back to Twila.

  Mrs. Bright said, “You know, I appreciate what you tried to do, but really, you shouldn’t have. If Max hadn’t come home just then, we both would have been killed. You were taking a big chance for someone you don’t even know.”

  Twila employed a well-rehearsed shrug. She was proud of her mastery of non-verbal communication skills. She had a formidable nod and an accomplished non-committal grunt. She said, “You’re Max’s mother. I had to do something.”

  “I didn’t know you were friends. You’ve never been over until today.”

  “I have a…um, problem…getting close to people.” Twila blinked large violet eyes. “Most people don’t like me. They think I’m strange. Do you think I’m strange?”

  Can you tell I’m not human?

  The older woman stared a moment, chewing a corner of her lips. “I wouldn’t say strange, different maybe, a little exotic somehow. But different can be good. In time, you’ll learn to use it to your advantage.”

  “Does it bother you that Max has become so…different?”

  “To be honest, yes. But I’m through the initial shock of it and I know I can’t let her see me rattled. She has enough to deal with without adding my fears to hers. That’s why I’m going back in there with absolute confidence in my daughter—even if it kills me.”

  “I’ll stay with her,” Twila said. “Having someone around her own age to talk to may help.”

  “You can use the kitchen phone,” she gestured toward it, “to call your parents. Let them know where you are so they won’t worry.”

  Twila shrugged once more. “My parents never worry. They let me do pretty much whatever I want.”

  “I know that’s how parents are these days, but I still find it strange. I guess I’m just an old-fashioned homemaker at heart. Well, give your folks a call anyway, just to put my mind at ease. I need a word with Max, then I have to go shopping. The National Guard has advised that we should stay calm and stay off the streets as much as possible. It’s too late for the calm part, and with all our…guests…in the house, we need to stock up. I’m actually glad the circus is in town and in my living room. Keeping busy just may keep me sane.”

  Mrs. Bright hurried off.

  Alone, Twila dropped the makeshift icepack into the sink. Having no one to call, not owning a phone, she simply waited a few minutes and then headed for the living room. As she arrived, she noticed many of the Light Born were absent.

  Probably exploring the rest of the house. It’s what I would do.

  Twila came up behind Commander Hardrune. His back was exposed. The leathers were burned away. The skin was unmarred, freshly regenerated. He seemed to be talking to himself, his hand touching the back of his ear. A silver post was there. That’s right, Twila remembered, he wears a stud earring. From the front, all you see is a small sapphire. Must be a com link to his transport ship.

  “You heard me,” Hardrune said, “tell her to shove her diplomatic immunity up her tin-plated… What?”

  Curious. Twila observed that the longer he talked over the link, the redder his ears turned. The commander’s hand formed a tight-packed fist. It shook with impotency, having no direct target to address.

  His voice boomed louder. “Slap Ashere in irons if you have to…confine her crew to their ship…and I want her yacht’s main systems powered down except for life-support. Her offensive weaponry is to be disabled, disassembled if necessary. Keep the vessel under your guns. Inform her highness, acts of aggression will not be tolerated by the League worlds. You act on my authority as Light Born to the new Guardian. The attacks on her world will cease, or I will take Ashere out of play—permanently. Hardrune out.”

 
; Twila noticed Max was no longer powered-up.

  She’s vulnerable. I can get right up to her without anyone stopping me. Then, one quick partial morph and… No, can’t do it.

  Twila settled for watching Max kiss her mother good-bye. Separation ritual, Twila noted absently, further referenced under biological bonding, subsection—public displays of affection.

  As Mrs. Bright trampled over splintered pieces of wood in the hallway, she called back to Max. “Oh, do something about the front door and the mess in here, dear. We don’t want the neighbors to call the police.”

  “Sure, Mom. I’ll handle it.”

  “Thanks. Bye-bye.”

  Twila waited for Max to turn and notice her. She did. Max jumped a little in surprise. An uneasy lop-sided smile appeared on her face. “Uh, hi. Listen, Twila, I want to thank you for standing up for my mom. And for looking after her, letting her fuss over you. Fussing always makes her feel better.”

  “You’re welcome.” Twila fell back on the formula response.

  “Are you alright?” Max asked. “Want to go home and lie down or somethin’?”

  “Your mom invited me to stay for dinner.”

  “Wonderful.”

  Is it? Your voice lacks intonation.

  Suddenly, Max’s features grew animated. Her tone brightened. “Hey, as long as you’re here, you can help me clean up.”

  “I would be happy to,” Twila said. “Where is your broom?”

  “In the kitchen…”

  Commander Hardrune appeared, looming ominously over Twila. The Light Born caught Max’s gaze. Twila was delighted to see that he barely noticed her existence.

  “Guardian, do not concern yourself with such things. You must assume a universal frame of reference. You represent your world to the rest of the galaxy. Such menial labors are beneath you.”

  Max grew angry. “I refuse to stick my nose in the air and become a pampered poodle. I told my mom I’d take care of this mess. My word means something to me, if not to you.”

  The pink-skinned giant trembled. A pained look flashed across his face. He sank to his knees, sweating bullets, as pale as Twila herself.

  The mechamorph stared, fascinated.

  Max’s negative emotional energy creates a dangerous dissonance in the communion bond. The implication is clear; the power that creates a Light Born can also unmake one.

  Max’s compassion surfaced. “Are you alright?”

  “I’ll be…fine. The pain is easing. Please accept my apology, Guardian. I spoke without thought.”

  Max smiled. “It’s okay, really. I’m sorry for losing my temper. You’re an alien. I should expect you to have ways different from my own.”

  Twila cocked her head. It’s amazing how quickly, and completely, these humans exchange one emotional state for another.

  Twila turned to Max. “You said the broom was in the kitchen?”

  “Oh, yes, in the pantry. You get it while I pick up the bigger chunks of wood. We’ll sweep up what’s left, then the vacuum will finish the job.” Max gazed hopeful at Commander Hardrune. “You got any extra doors layin’ around on that spaceship of yours?”

  He bowed, fist across his heart. “I will have something fabricated and brought down at once.”

  A new voice burst into the room. “Holy spittin’ tree frogs, Max! What happened here?”

  Twila recorded the image of the newcomer in a transmittable memory file. The Galactic Archives might want a record of him—not that he appeared to merit much attention. Passably handsome—by human standards—with dark brown hair, a sensitive face, given to humor and compassion, a dazzling smile, warm deep eyes, dark as midnight, a lean athletic body, graceful, and strong… No, nothing interesting there.

  Then why do I keep looking back at him? A few years older than Max, he bore a similar likeness to her. Probably related.

  “Guys,” Max said. “This is Tommy. Tommy, these are some friends of mine—from the far side of the galaxy.”

  “Yeah, right,” Tommy’s voice seemed thick with disbelief. “Good try though, Max. Great costumes, but I’m not falling for… Oh, yeah, the door! What happened to it?”

  “Don’t give me no grief. Mom already knows about it. It’s being handled,” Max said.

  “Yeah, but what happened?”

  Max leaning forward, projecting earnestness. She used a loud whisper. “Termites,”

  Twila remembered that the stage-whisper often implied a humorous fabrication.

  “All right,” Tommy said. “Have your fun…but when Dad sees this…hey are you listening to me?”

  Twila noted a sudden joint focus among the Light Born. They stiffened in unison, listening to a voice she could not hear. The mechamorph cranked up her audio-receiver’s range. She heard vehicles parking in the outer street.

  Commander Hardrune returned to life. Twila watched him flick his hand in dismissal. The Light Born in the living room phased upward through the ceiling, heading for the roof. The Commander stayed but powered down, losing his glow.

  He cast a glance Max’s way, and rumbled, “Company coming. Be discrete in what you say, Guardian. We will follow your lead.”

  Hearing steps, Twila turned with the rest, facing the front hallway. A man in a rumpled suit stepped through the shattered door, into the hall. “Hello?”

  “Who are you guys,” Tommy asked.

  He flashed a press pass. “Jones, National Inquirer. I was wondering if you’d answer a few questions about the broken willow outside, and the long hole in your lawn. Also, there have been reports of glowing figures in the sky over this house.”

  “No comment,” Max said.

  “Well, what about the SWAT team in the street, that’s getting ready to head this way and kick in a door that’s…already been kicked in apparently?”

  “Like we said,” Tommy answered. “No comment. So take a hike.”

  Twila heard the thunder of a police chopper hovering in the sky above the house. A bullhorn erupted out front. “This is the police. Stay calm. Do as you are instructed, and nobody has to get hurt. Throw out all weapons, and come out slowly, with your hands raised.”

  “Any last words?” Jones asked hopefully, backing for the door.

  “Yeah,” Max said. “LIGHT UP!”

  “Wha—?” Tommy threw up his hands to shield his eyes as his sister became an incandescent light storm.

  Jones covered up as well, dropping his notebook.

  Twila didn’t need to shield her eyes; they adjusted spontaneously, morphing up light filters within the compound lens assemblies. She watched as the firestorm leaped from Max to Commander Hardrune. It was an illusion, she knew. The Commander had simply generated his own power-field, a heartbeat after Max.

  Together, Guardian and protector rose toward the ceiling.

  Blinded, Tommy screamed uselessly. “Max! What the heck?”

  The reporter still covered his eyes while crawling around, feeling for his notebook. He muttered, “Spontaneous human combustion, two at once. Bet I get the front page on this one. Now, where the back door?”

  THIRTEEN

  Ashere beckoned the serving unit to come closer. The servitor shivered, complying.

  “Yes, Mistress. How may I serve you?”

  She extended a gold-chased goblet with a thick encrusting of garnets. She used a mild coaxing voice. “What is this?”

  “That is your drink Ma’am, a graphite sludge with a light dusting of chromium-zinc.”

  “And this…obstruction…jutting out of the top?”

  The servitor dipped its quicksilver head in fear, blinking eye-shutters rapidly. “An umbrella, Your Highest Majesty In Glory, a festive garnish served with drinks at the finest resorts of this world. I saw it on the Food Network, a transmission from one of their telecommunication satellites, and thought…”

  Ashere knew her court anticipated a display of royal temper. The servitor was nearly burning out cerebral circuitry in terror; the emotion Ashere most enjoyed shaking out of boxes.
Running amok was a long-cultivated hobby of hers. Still, she hated being predictable.

  “I like it.” Ashere plucked the umbrella out of her cup and rotated it by the stem so that the pattern on top dissolved in motion. “You may go.”

  The servitor bowed hurriedly, growing extra wheels and treads, scurrying away before Ashere changed her mind.

  She rose from her throne. Her voice filled the reception hall, slashing past the honor guards lining the walls, lashing her attendants in passing. “Miiiiiiiiiiitron! Present yourself.”

  A red globe of light appeared before her. It swelled exponentially like a star going super-nova, collapsing finally into pink petals of light around a materialized form. Mitron bowed. “I am here, Princess.”

  “Report.”

  “I made an attempt on the Guardian’s life. It failed due to the presence of the Light Born. My sister located the home of the Guardian where I staged a second attack to solidify Twila’s position among the enemy. I broke off further aggression knowing I could not succeed. I have passed the execution order on to Twila. I fully expect betrayal to accomplish what direct force cannot.”

  “I hope you are right, Mitron, but I cannot count on it completely. I will give your precious sister time to make the kill. If she fails to act by the time boredom sets in, I will be forced to signal the mechamorph navigators aboard the League ships to download our new nano-virus into all bridge stations. This will immobilize fleet operations so I can crack this world to the core. Won’t that be fun?”

  “I don’t believe your backup plan will be needed,” Mitron said.

  Frowning, Ashere settled onto her throne again. “That would be unfortunate in a way. I’ve always wanted to hear a whole world scream as it dies.”

  A servitor by the door extended its lips to simulate a war-trumpet’s blast.

  Ashere looked up as the reception hall iris twisted open and an assemblage of League starship captains arrived. They strolled boldly toward her throne, coming abreast of Mitron, who edged to the side.