Yngve, AR - Alien Beach

by Alien Beach (lit)

Midnight.

  All the cult members on the island were gathered to hear their leader talk about the assassination attempt. A videotape of the TV news had been shown to them: edited by the Church, but enough to inform what had happened and its consequences. The soldier sat next to Patty, gazing up at the stage, which was lit up by lines of flickering torches. The Regional Elder, dressed for the occasion in a black robe, held a microphone in his hand, connected to a rather inadequate loudspeaker; he compensated for it by shouting until he went hoarse.

  "Woe and pain! Woe and pain! This is how the evil forces strike at our collective heart! My poor friend Tmmtenaa - I can feel his pain even now, as his wound heals!"

  The bloated cult-leader raised his free hand, seemingly writhing with telepathically induced pain, and the cult crowd roared with unleashed emotion.

  Suddenly, the soldier was completely awake. He thought: "Feel his pain?" What a joke! That fat clown is preening like this was a rock concert. He's not in telepathic contact with Ranmotanii. The crowd is hypnotized all the same. Now is the time to escape!

  The soldier clutched his mouth and stomach, feigned an attack of nausea, and made his way through the crowd to the dark edges of the open place. No one had attempted to stop him. He halted in a dark shadow, and caught his breath. The petty cash he had managed to collect wasn't nearly enough to get him to another island. He could seek shelter at the local police station - they would probably send him to Fiji and the U.S. Consulate - and he would never be allowed near Alien Beach again. He just knew it.

  The soldier stopped and listened to the voice of the ranting cult leader.

  "The time is nigh to join our amphibian brethren! Ranmotani speaks to me, even now, and his message to us is: Faithful ones, do not despair! You are still welcome to join us in the new world we will create on this planet - not on the polluted evil surface, but in the blissful, undisturbed underwater world! If your faith in the Sirian gospel is strong enough, we will transform you into amphibians, and be able to breathe water like us."

  The soldier thought: No, you fools! Don't listen to him! But the assembled cultists, hundreds more now than when the soldier had first joined, sounded enthusiastic enough to try out breathing water immediately. The soldier was much too aware of where this madness might lead.

  Patty.

  He didn't particularly like Patty, he had told himself many times, apart from a vague physical attraction. She only had eyes for the cult itself and its leader; the soldier owed her nothing. And the Sirians, the real Sirians, obviously couldn't care less. He really should be running off now, and mourn Patty's fate later...

  The soldier stood still.

  Chapter Seventeen

  DAY 87

  "This morning's press conference brought few explanations for yesterday's New York shooting, but some facts came out:

  "The Sirian known as Tmmtenaa has been brought to the lander vessel at Alien Beach to recover. The police are investigating a number of known militant Islamic groups which may be involved in the assassination attempt. The Sirian spokesman has not yet given a public response to the incident.

  "Surprisingly, except for the standing members of the U.N. Security Council, very few statesmen have condemned the attack in public, or pleaded for peace and reconciliation with the Sirians.

  "Here with me in the CNN studio we have the renowned political analyst Gore Wyndham, who came out of retirement to offer the public his views on the recent events. Thank you for joining us, Mr. Wyndham - why are the world leaders quiet?"

  "This goes beyond politics. Way beyond. I followed the Cold War closely and, for all its atrocities and planned genocide, it was still a struggle between humans. The raw instincts that fueled that war - the greed for power, the fear of losing power - these are still present. But the presumed opponent now is not of this earth.

  "Furthermore, the superior technology and science of the Sirians represent a challenge to all the established power structures... of... the... entire... planet.

  "Our leaders know that. But of course they would never admit this to the public - that they secretly fear for their own privileges and authority. They must pretend they are still on top of things... yet they most of all wish the Sirians would pack and leave the next morning, so that the 'chosen leaders' could continue their petty power games. Hence the attack... hence the ominous silence from the establishment.

  "Now the public has seen that the visitors can bleed - they are that much like us. And that means they can be killed, which means the establishment can seriously consider an all-out war that might be winnable. I came back to the media to warn the public: You must stop your leaders from leading you into a war that could end human life on Earth.

  "The path to annihilation has been entered for real this time - a Cold War between the species has just begun. It is up to you, the public, to stop it before it's too late."

  "Er... thank you, Mr. Wyndham. The other news... after this."

  DAY 89

  Alien Beach looked more or less the same as when the group had left it.

  The weather had gotten worse. Ann was eating dinner with her colleauges. She said to them that the constant clouds above must be caused by the Sirians' manipulating the atmosphere. She suspected that the Sirian antenna-structure on the beach was a weather regulator.

  Takeru was sitting at the same table. He was angered to hear Ann talk about the weather manipulation to the others, but said nothing. He had been suspecting the same thing about the weather, and had kept his thoughts to himself. Takeru still had his mind-recording device, but he did not dare to use it after the initial test. Lazar, who used his mind-recorder regularly, was steadily growing more and more eccentric. Takeru needed to learn more about the side-effects, if he was ever going to claim a safe patent on these fantastic machines.

  "Mats," he asked after dinner, "I am deeply worried about Lazar's health. He is acting so strange. Please tell me if there's anything wrong."

  The Swedish physician seemed reluctant to talk about it; then again, he wasn't the talkative type. "While you were on tour, I made some thorough tests of my own thought-recording helmet," he said after a pause. "Have you?"

  "Well, not really," Takeru lied with a straight face.

  "My finished report is made public at the end of the year," Mats said enigmatically.

  "Are the devices dangerous? Is it safe for me to try and use mine? I was going to..."

  The Swede swallowed the bait. "I'd recommend that you not use the helmet, on yourself or any other humans," he answered quickly. "Do you know how it actually works? The helmet, like all the other Sirian machines, is like an organism made of intricate metal cells. The cells of the mind-recorders are special.

  "When activated, they squeeze themselves close to the scalp and shoot out millions of microscopic needles, three millimeters long, which perforate the subject's cranium. Somehow these needles do not trigger a pain response; instead, they connect into a matrix that registers the entire spectrum of higher brain activity, which is then... imprinted in the helmet's cells."

  Takeru nodded, and said: "I want to know what is troubling Lazar, but I cannot ask him. Would it be possible for me to borrow his helmet and replay his recorded thoughts in my own head? Is that safe?"

  He was fairly sure why Mats' answer would be no; he wasn't disappointed.

  "Whatever you do," Mats said, "avoid that! Any brain that you record from has a unique structure, like a fingerprint. It follows that the recorded thought can only be replayed on that same brain. If you would try on Lazar's helmet and 'borrow' his thoughts, you'd risk physical pain and all sorts of mental side-effects. I should have warned the group long ago, but... they seem to have been avoiding the devices on their own accord."

  "This is an amazing invention," Takeru admitted. "Do you think they have even more advanced technology. For instance, artificial telepathy?"

  "You mean, like radios connected to their brains? That wouldn't be any stranger than our cellular phones."

 
; "No, I mean sending thoughts directly into the brains of humans."

  Mats frowned at the shorter Takeru, saying nothing.

  "I heard it on the radio the other day," Takeru explained, "while I was monitoring the electromagnetic activity from the Sirian machines. There is this new cult that worships the Sirians, and some of them have set up camp on another island not far from here. Their leader claims he is receiving telepathic messages from Ranmotanii..."

  Takeru quickly laughed along with Mats, so as not to appear dumb.

  "You fooled me there, Takeru!" Mats grinned, pointing a knowing finger at him. "That is just so absurd. Is the human brain built to receive and decode radio messages? No! We have eyes and ears and noses for communication. And even if the Sirians had organs to transmit and receive thoughts, would humans be able to receive them? No! Not in any case! And I know by the simple measurements I've done on Sirians, that their brains work on other frequencies than ours - they're 'tuned' differently. To them, our thoughts should just resemble static."

  "So the claims of the cult are not based on facts?"

  "Not any that I know of. To actually project thoughts directly into a human brain, bypassing the normal senses, demands a physical, chemical manipulation of brain cells. Please, Takeru, don't bother with those ridiculous cults."

  "Yes, you're right." Takeru decided that Mats had to be right... yet, there was something about the cult coverage that had struck a chord within him - an uncomfortable urgency he could not quite shake.

  Suddenly the intercom link buzzed in Mats' office. It was Stone Pound: "Get to the mess hall quick! The Sirians are going to address the world on TV again!"

  They rushed out across the sand, the few meters to the crowded barrack and saw Carl talking to the group, accompanied by three Sirians. Why do those amphibians always have to announce everything at the last possible minute? Mats thought angrily.

  "Tmmtenaa has recovered. And, according to Ranmotanii, he has been discussing the situation with the other Sirians. They are not going to leave Earth because of this one incident. In fact, they were aware of the risks and well protected. Now, they have asked to hear your advice before they inform the Security Council about their new TV broadcast..."

  "Inform," not "request" or "ask permission". The scientists found themselves tongue-tied. It wasn't every day that important people asked them for advice which might alter the course of history - much less people from another world.

  Lazar spoke up first: "If Tmmtenaa makes a public speech to the people of this planet, there are people who, I regret to say, will see a wounded Sirian as a sign of weakness on behalf of the Sirians. Do you understand this?"

  The question was aimed at the amphibians present. They failed to understand it.

  "Expllainn the wwoord... 'weeeaknesss". Yyourr conntextt iss diffiicullt," said Oanorrn.

  "He means," Carl said, "the sight of a bleeding or injured human evokes an aggressive response in some humans. A primitive instinct. So in a public appearance, a Sirian should avoid to appear physically damaged."

  The Sirian delegation eyed the humans, then each other. They replied that Tmmtenaa intended to appear fully recovered, in a few hours. A transmitter would first send the message to the Sirian mothership at Mars, where the thousand-kilometer wide sail-disk could send back the amplified signal to the entire planet - in the manner of the initial contact message. Carl immediately thought: They don't trust us. They wanted no human help or interference.

  Before leaving, abruptly, the amphibians explained that the new message was meant to reinforce the message of the first-contact broadcast. Their meaning was not lost on the scientists: You have to repeat yourself when talking to children.

  "We interrupt this broadcast for an incoming message from the Sirian mothership near Mars. Do not adjust your TV set. The signals are on all channels and will override all Earth-bound transmissions..."

  DAY 90

  Ann was waiting for the chopper to arrive and take her away from Alien Beach, her bags and suitcases packed.

  The afternoon sky was turning a livid gray hue, and she felt a little cold. She hadn't told the Sirians about her departure; she was afraid to, and ashamed of her fear. A scientist in any field was supposed to be cold, detached, immune to subjectivity... but that was all a myth. All her colleagues here, despite their obsessive dedication to their work, had shown great feeling at some point or other - even a control-freak like Takeru, or that cool-headed Swedish doctor...

  Ann tried to repress the memory of her night with Mats Jonsson. It had meant nothing to either of them; just an outlet of pent-up tensions, she told herself. She put on her sunglasses in spite of there being little sunlight, standing stiff-backed, pretending to check her pockets for eventual forgotten things. Why couldn't they see that she was going to pieces? Why didn't Carl just declare her mentally unfit for coming back to Alien Beach?

  Ann saw a movement in the lagoon, and felt her heart jump. A group of amphibians were coming up through the surf. She recognized Namonnae, Tmmtenaa... and Oanss. He was waving at her, walking faster than his friends. Ann stood dead still, afraid to move or say anything.

  "Aann... wwill you come baaack to Allieen Beachh?"

  She nodded imperceptibly, keeping her shades on - though she knew the Sirians had superior eyesight and could see right through them.

  "Yes. In two weeks' time. I will be going to visit a friend on another island. It's called Sri Lanka - in the older radio and TV broadcasts that you've seen, the island was also called Ceylon."

  Tmmtenaa spoke up - he had a small black patch on his head and his large oval eyes were slightly bloodshot, but he seemed to have recovered. "Annn... do nnnoot sayy to peeeoplle theere, nooot sayyy: Tmmtenaa iis rreally dead orrr... Nnno. Saay thhat Tmmtenaa iss haappy to bee onn thiss pllaneeet."

  Ann smiled at him; the convalescent's thick lips widened, though his half-shut eyes seemed tired.

  "I promise, Tmmtenaa. I'm so happy to see you are well."

  Oanss, who had been keeping a respectful distance to Ann, stepped forth.

  "Aann... caan I foollow yyou to yourr timmme too Ceyllonn?"

  His friends did not seem the least surprised by his request. Ann thought: If they share all their thoughts with each other, every Sirian will know, in full detail, what Oanss thinks and feels - or what I say to him. No privacy of mind. No secrets. No shame. No self...

  "You cannot go without your people to Ceylon - it would be against your agreement with the United Nations."

  He said, "Myy peeople wwill nooot stoop mmme... We leearned sommmething nnew in Neew Yorrk... iit iis allowed to coome disguuuised aand preeetend to be frommm an otherr peoplle..?"

  Ann looked nervously behind her; the other scientists were occupied ten meters farther away and hadn't heard Oanss make his insane statement. He's being sarcastic. Must be. Some kind of alien attempt at humor... Can't risk assuming that - "No, Oanss," she said in a low voice, "you must not try to move among land-humans in disguise. It is very dangerous."

  "Yyes... I beelieve yoou. Machiine I wearr cannn reegissster hhow youu aare affraiid noww. I wwill noot dissguisse. Soorry forgiive mee."

  Oanss turned away and walked back into the surf, his head held high. The other Sirians studied Ann's face for a long moment, and she could see the little silvery blobs resting on their necks and heads... their machines, no doubt measuring her, reading her emotions like an open book. She began to choke with anxiety, shielded her eyes to somehow prevent those all-seeing alien eyes from looking straight into her head... Ann barely noticed the heavy helicopter until it was close enough to blow sand in their eyes. The Sirians backed away; she grabbed her luggage and rushed to the salvation of the cockpit. Two weeks without aliens around would set her head straight.

  Had to...

  Takeru looked after the shrinking helicopter in the sky, then quit his checking of the antenna rig and joined the group of Sirians at the edge of the surf. He saw Tmmtenaa, digging with his flat feet in the moist gra
y sand, playing with some device connected to his temples.

  "Hello, Tmmtenaa..." Takeru called from a distance.

  The amphibian seemed oblivious to his presence. It reminded Takeru of a child listening to music through a headset, lost in his own reveries... or replayed dreams, maybe... Takeru moved out of Tmmtenaa's line of sight and hid behind a nearby cluster of sloping palmtrees. He produced a small camcorder with an ultra-sensitive, stick-shaped microphone, and began to film the alien from ten meters behind his back...

  Takeru started at a sound above, and turned to face Namonnae, looking down at him from the crown of a palmtree. She had been lurking there without him noticing it! Never before had he seen a Sirian climb a tree... how naive he had been.

  "H...hi, Namonnae..."

  Namonnae blinked at him with her large, deep standing ovals of eyes. Once, twice, slowly... eyelids five centimeters wide from end to end. The whites of her eyes faintly translucent, the pupils large black spots in oval gray irises. Takeru stared into them, defying her judgement. You have no right to judge me, alien! I won't kneel to you! He grew angry, without knowing where the courage to be angry came from.

  "I thought your people were superior to us..." he half-whispered up to her. "More intelligent, more rational, better in every way. But you are just different... different. Not even very different from us."

  "Whhy doo yyou noow feelll angrry?" asked Namonnae, voice calm, curious.

  He giggled as if it was funny: "Yes... a very good question, yes? Why do I feel so... confused when I try to... feel something about a Sirian? When I want to like you, I hate you. When I want to hate you... but I cannot feel right about something which I do not even understand."

  "Explaain thhat woorrd againn... word 'understannd' in cooontextt nnow."

  Takeru scowled at her. "First, I want you to explain something to me. Why did Tmmtenaa go out of the bus in New York? Why did he go after the man who was dressed up to look like a Sirian?"

  "It iis diffficullt to eexplain too lannd-huumans," Namonnae said, a little uncertainly.