A Beginner's Guide to Invading Earth

by Gerhard Gehrke

  “So many corridors don't seem to go anywhere,” she said.

  Jeff examined one of the smooth walls. At regular intervals were small, recessed handles. He tugged at one. A perfectly blended hatchway popped open. He looked inside, saw what looked like a empty room. He went to other handles on the walls, popped open more hatchways. Each revealed chamber was mostly devoid of any objects that might betray the room's purpose. Furniture was nonexistent, except for more of the depressions like the ones that they found in the cockpit.

  “No clutter,” Jordan said. “No dust. No pictures of home, except for the paintings.”

  Jeff explored each room as much with his hands as with his eyes. His fingers ran along the smooth, cool surfaces. He saw no signs of machining or molding, with few joints and fewer access panels for whatever lay behind the walls of the ship. It was still a tech level or two below what was at the Commons or inside the Grey's ship but still a marvel. Jeff wondered what the tech aboard a ship like this would do to Earth's scientific know-how.

  “Do you think we were kidnapped by the OCD species of the galaxy?” Jordan asked.

  Jeff didn't laugh. He found a pair of black toggles on one counter top. He tried pressing them in various sequences.

  “Are you angry?” she asked, puzzled.

  Jeff didn't answer.

  She sighed, gave an expansive shrug. “Look, I already said I'm sorry. I got played. I thought I could trust the little green men. And I don't know why I said what I did when the Bunnie almost stopped us from escaping. I was scared, you know.”

  “It's been a learning experience for both of us,” Jeff said. “Give that latch a pull.”

  He pointed to a wall near her. He had to think of this ship as a Bunnie construct, not a human one. The Bunnie had a long reach and could touch the toggles and the wall at the room's entrance with ease.

  Jordan slipped a finger into one of the recessed controls and pulled. Jeff hit both toggles. The floor at the center of the room opened, a large round door sliding away with a slight hum. They stepped back. A bright, warm light reflected from below. Jeff crept to the edge and looked down. Below was a room much larger than the one they were in, thick with trees and bushes. From the vegetation grew various fruit, clusters of bright violet orbs, yellow fuzzy pear-shaped berries, and several splotchy red and russet offerings that hung low off droopy vines. Humid air wafted up, heavy with smells both cloying and pungent, reminding Jeff of honeysuckle and plums.

  “They brought a piece of home with them,” Jordan said.

  “Or it's their larder.”

  No ladder or stairs descended to the garden. The edges and sides of the round opening had many gripping holes perfect for the Bunnie. Jeff laid himself flat and reached for the top of one of the trees. He caressed the fuzzy leaves. He reached for an amber fruit with smooth skin.

  “I wouldn't,” Jordan said.

  “Why not?”

  “I read a book once,” she said sarcastically. “Besides, you don't know what might be toxic down there. Even to the touch.”

  “Good point.” He stood and examined his fingers. No odd sensations or swelling. He rubbed his fingers together and wiped them on his pants.

  “Still,” she said, “I can't believe we're looking at a tree that came from another world.”

  The lights flicked once and the ship gave a small shake.

  “Did your friend hit another tree?” Jordan asked.

  “I wanted to ask him where he was flying, but he looked busy figuring things out. Better go see.”

  Together they ran for the cockpit. They found Oliop still in the command chair, fingers and toes scrambling at the various controls. He muttered excitedly. The large screen in front of them displayed a single clear image: their flight path. They were flying low, maybe fifty feet above the ground. Homes and fields went quickly by just beneath them. Cars and trucks passed along a two lane road that led to a row of two story buildings that grew larger. The Bunnie ship was flying straight for the town.

  “We're going to crash!” Jordan said.

  Jeff put a hand on Oliop's shoulder, said as calmly as possible, “Can you stop us?”

  On the monitor, Jeff saw the shocked faces of people below as the ship crashed through a banner stretched above the main road that read “Second Annual Quinoa Festival.” They passed between a row of buildings and sank down to the street. They hit the ground with a shudder, the craft around them groaning and rumbling. The ship skidded down the center of the avenue, leaving a deep furrow of asphalt and dirt. It crushed two parked cars before it came to rest in the town center, destroyed hedges, a review stand, and a good portion of the prep for the town's upcoming festival now all a ruin underneath the ship.

  The monitor winked out.

  “Ouch,” Oliop said and tapped at Jeff's hand.

  Jeff realized his hand was still on Oliop's shoulder, gripping him tight. He let go. He felt wobbly and disoriented. There was a disconnect between whatever happened to the Bunnie ship and what he felt standing in the cockpit, barely shaken or disturbed in spite of their having just crashed. Something in the Bunnie tech shielded them from the effects of inertia and momentum, no doubt saving them from broken bones or death. He swiped a film of sweat from his forehead and pushed his hair out of his face.

  “I think we're okay,” Jeff said.

  “What happened?” Jordan asked. She was on the floor, fingers gripping Bunnie toeholds.

  “The controls turned off,” Oliop said. “It wasn't my fault. Did you touch anything?”

  “No, it wasn't us,” Jeff said. He stepped away from the command chair, found the floor was at an angle. The ship was listing.

  Oliop put his hands to the controls. He hit a few of the recessed toggles and next tried the fob. Nothing happened. The small device didn't respond, and it looked dead. “We've been shut down.” He slid the fob into a pocket and got up from the chair.

  “Could it be a safety feature?” Jeff asked. “Automated security that kicked in?”

  “I don't know,” Oliop said. “Bunnie tech is all new to me. Best to assume that they did it to us on purpose with some kind of backup system. This ship is down for good.”

  “Well, we still have lights and power,” Jordan said. “Those douche nozzles only turned off enough of the space ship to make us stop.”

  “They obviously want the ship back,” Jeff said. “And us. Let's get out of here.”

  They went down to the beam-up bay where they had first accessed the ship. Nothing on the deck powered up even after Jeff and Oliop tried every switch they could find.

  “We're stuck,” Jordan said, a tremble in her voice. “Is there enough air in this thing?”

  “We're not giving up,” Jeff said.

  “I didn't say give up,” she said. “Just...if this thing can fly into space, there's probably no way to open it up.”

  “Hmph,” Oliop said. He climbed down to the round center space where the floor had turned translucent for the tractor beam. The bottom was solid white now. He groped about the edges of the well. What looked at first to be another series of seamless surfaces soon yielded to his prodding. Oliop opened a panel, and soon another panel behind the first, and in moments he was torso deep inside the lower guts of the ship.

  Jeff crouched over the pit and watched the technician work.

  “Oliop?” Jeff called down. “Will this get us out?”

  “Not sure,” Oliop said, voice muffled. “Might take a while.”

  Jeff watched and weighed Oliop's track record. Two elevators worked, then broke down. A Bunnie ship flew, and crashed. Could Oliop get them out of here? He looked at Jordan. She was chewing her nails and pacing about.

  “We're going to be fine,” Jeff said but wasn't sure if he believed it. “At least there's plenty of air. Don't worry.” Jordan nodded, went back to her pacing. Down below, not even Oliop's tail was visible as he crawled out of sight. All Jeff could hear were the tings and clangs of the Bunnie ship being dissected by an alien mech
anic who might or might not know what he was doing.

  CHAPTER 30

  OFFICER THEODORE RAYMOND AVERY'S well-honed mind kicked into follow-your-training mode when the small aircraft streaked past him and plowed into the center of town. He put away his radar gun and engaged the light bars atop his Stuart Lake Police Department cruiser. The lights flashed their hypnotic cycles of red, blue, and blinding white.

  “37-151,” Ted said into his radio, voice calm. “A possible airplane just crashed on California State Route 26 and went straight into downtown Stuart Lake. Requesting fire and EMT services.”

  “37-151 acknowledged,” a woman's voice said from the radio's speaker followed by an electronic two-tone bleep. More chatter followed, with other cops already in town reporting the crash.

  Ted pulled out from behind a row of white-flowered oleander and floored it. He had to swerve. The asphalt before him was buckled and torn up from the aircraft's point of impact. Whatever type of plane that crashed was big, hot, and heavy. He drove carefully over the ruined two lanes of highway, finding the opposite shoulder relatively free of debris. He felt relief when he didn't see any crushed cars. Maybe the plane hadn't killed anyone on the ground. At least there was that. He didn't relish the idea of finding the plane's cockpit and whatever was left of the pilot.

  He followed the furrow right into the center of town, the plane having stayed mostly to the middle of the street and right between multiple two-level homes and commercial properties. A maroon Chrysler and a silver Corolla lay twisted in the street. They appeared unoccupied but would need to be searched. Ted steered around them and hit the brakes. There, at the end of the torn-up road was a bulbous plane of some sort, having come to a complete stop in Stuart Lake's central square, an acre-sized park of green lawn, shrubs, and a plastic playground, all decorated with streamers and balloons and banners. The plane didn't have wings. Ted hadn't seen any sheered off wings along the way, but maybe that had happened earlier during whatever emergency knocked the thing out of the sky. A cloud of dust hung over the crashed craft, the town center, and the central park like a brown bank of fog.

  Ted got out of the cruiser and took a long, black flashlight from the central console. He did a quick check of the two crushed cars, playing the flashlight beam on and between the seats. He didn't see anyone inside either vehicle. He walked over the busted street towards what he thought was an airplane.

  But it wasn't.

  The shape was all wrong. The craft looked lumpy and rounded off with no consideration of aerodynamics or streamline. It was also the size of a two-story house. If someone had taken a 747, cut it in half, and mushed it up a bit, then smoothed everything over and removed windows and doors, that would approximate the thing that rested atop the shrubs and quinoa festival display in the center of his town. The craft wasn't scratched, had no missing or obviously torn off wings or tail. Five years as a department veteran, four years at Annapolis Naval Academy, six more in post-grad navy service, and a degree in criminology all failed to prepare him for the possibilities that came to mind. This was definitely not an airplane.

  A crowd stood by on the sidewalks and the street of the town square. Most of the people had emptied out of the two coffee shops kitty-corner from one another, some with steaming coffee in paper cups in hand. None looked too sure of what to do or even what had just happened. This included a pair of police officers standing at their parked Ford Explorer service vehicle. One of them had his hand on his shoulder-strapped handset but wasn't speaking into it.

  When the cops saw Ted, they walked over. Ted moved them out of the way of a yellow fire truck that rolled up next to them and set its brakes with a pneumatic squeal. Four firefighters clambered out of the cab. Three started to unfurl coils of heavy hose from the side of the truck.

  One of the firefighters in a dark blue t-shirt with the station emblem on his chest and the golden pants of his turnout gear joined the policemen. He looked at the crash, then at Ted.

  “What the hell is that, Ted?” the firefighter asked.

  “This thing just crashed here,” Ted said. His radio warbled and beeped. Ted ignored it.

  “Is it safe? What do we do?”

  Ted didn't have an answer, and for the first time since becoming a police officer, he wasn't sure what to do next.

  “Ted, is anyone hurt?”

  “I don't know,” Ted said. And that broke him from his paralysis. That was something he could lock onto that made sense. He didn't know the answer to the question, and he needed to find out. He walked into the brown dust hanging in the air and went towards the crashed ship. The others stayed behind.

  The firefighter said, “Hey, Ted, wait. We don't know what we're dealing with.”

  Ted just nodded, put up a hand for the rest to hang back, even though no one moved with him. Was anyone hurt? He clung to that question and his training and started to check the area around the ship. He walked slowly, one arm raised as if to block any glare. An old green pickup had been cleaved in two. Green coolant dripped through the front grill. Ted checked the cab, didn't see anyone inside. He stepped past crushed shrubbery and the splintery remains of a decorative white picket fence wrapped in red paper streamers. He saw no signs of anyone in the debris. He did a shoulder check. None of the other cops or firefighters had moved forward, his fellow first responders still back somewhere behind the curtain of dust. Ted was alone. He looked at the ship's grey hull. He exhaled once and touched it. It felt cool and smooth and solid. There were no flames in sight anywhere. Also, to his relief, he didn't see smoke or gas or leaking fluids. Whatever this strange ship was, it was intact and stable, at least for now.

  “Hello?” Ted called. He circled the ship. The crest of the furrow terminated right at the ruined festival displays and a splintered grandstand. The town square's once-pristine lawn looked like a Godzilla-sized gopher had popped up near its center. Ted saw no signs of anyone buried in any of the carnage. He rapped the back of his flashlight on the ship's hull.

  From the police vehicles and over one of the car's PA system, the firefighter called. “Hey Ted, get back here. That whole thing could be radioactive.”

  Ted hadn't thought of that. But he finished his loop of the ship. He saw more residents of the town gathering, all standing across the street. A few had their phones out and were recording, small red or white lights from the phones twinkling in the haze. Some spoke to one another or maybe to themselves. The crowd was growing. If there was the chance this thing was radioactive, the town needed to be evacuated.

  That was when Ted head a faint clang from somewhere inside of the ship. He faced the strange craft, put his ear close to its surface, and listened. Next he heard a creak followed by a tortured grinding noise. The sounds were moving somewhere under the ship's hull. Ted walked along with the rattling as it migrated in spurts underneath the metallic surface. When the noise stopped, he stopped. He banged the flashlight three times near the last spot from where the noise came. First, no answer, then a tap-tap-tap response. Ted tapped back.

  “There's someone inside,” Ted shouted over his shoulder. “Hey, get over here.”

  “What?” the firefighter said. He approached with caution, the other cops and firefighters cautiously falling in behind him.

  “Inside this thing,” Ted said. “There's someone knocking.”

  “Or something,” the firefighter said. “Look, Ted, will you get away from there? You have no idea what it is or what might be in there or if there's poison or fumes or Lord-knows-what.”

  Another noise came from the ship, first a bang, followed by a metallic squeak. Next came a hiss of air. The air came from an nigh-invisible seam near a low slope of the hull and formed a corkscrew of dust that blew away from the ship. A round section of the craft's surface slid away, revealing an opening about the size of a manhole. A hairy head with a mustache stuck out of the hole, looked around, and saw Ted.

  Ted stepped back, then looked closer. The hairy face smiled and said something that Ted didn'
t understand.

  “Oh God,” Ted said. “Hey!” he called back to the firefighter. “Get the Jaws of Life! There's a dog trapped in here!”

  ***

  Jeff wasn't normally claustrophobic, but when Jordan followed Jeff into the narrow warrens of the Bunnie ship, she didn't leave much wiggle room between him and Oliop, who blazed a trail under a bulkhead and between support struts. The crawl forward had slowed to a creep, the creep to an inching along with frequent stops in spaces so tight that Jeff couldn't fully inhale. He couldn't tell Jordan to back up so they could retreat to the ship's interior.

  The tight space didn't faze Oliop. He hummed as he worked away at anything that blocked their path. His skinny body could twist and bend around the tightest choke points. Finally, he proclaimed, “This is it!”

  Oliop, Jeff, and Jordan spilled out of a round hatch and onto a torn-up street. Dust blew everywhere. Jeff inhaled the choking air, not caring that it tasted like dirt, just grateful to be out of the tight space. Several people stood around the wrecked Bunnie ship, most obscured by the gloom. The closest man was a police officer in a black uniform, with a firefighter a few steps behind him. The cop kept his gun hand loose near his holstered weapon.

  “Who are you?” the cop asked.

  Jeff looked up at police officer. He didn't know where to begin answering that question, so he said nothing. He helped Jordan up. Her black and purple hair had miraculously held its deliberately tousled shape during the passage through the ship's guts.

  “Relax,” Jordan said. “We're from Sacramento.”

  “I'm not,” Oliop said. “I'm Oliop. Pleased to meet you.” He approached the cop with a hand extended. The cop drew back and drew his service pistol.

  “Call him off,” the cop said.

  “It's okay,” Jordan said. “He won't hurt you.” She grabbed Oliop's shoulder.

  The cop adjusted his grip on the firearm and took aim. Oliop looked confused, his hand hanging awkwardly before him.