Yngve, AR - Alien Beach

by Alien Beach (lit)

  "These recorders were not meant to be used against anyone's will. Edmund, I respect your decision. No one has the right to demand your thoughts. No machine, no matter how great, can relieve us of responsibility."

  The others agreed.

  "Now for another matter. About half the team has resigned, and they will leave Alien Beach in two, three days. And yes, they are under pressure from outside. Except us here - Mats, Takeru and Ann have promised me they're staying the year out. There won't be any replacement scientists coming over, because of a decision made by the U.N. Security Council just after my TV speech. They decided not to accept any new scientist candidates for the ECT."

  It was as if they could predict Carl's next words, as if the mutual bond created by the mind-recorders had created a permanent rapport between them. He didn't have to say it: the fear of spies and terrorist attacks, plus the general suspicion of the ECT among the politicians had grown too great. In any case, new volunteers would be vetoed by the council members - which could eventually lead to the break-up of the Security Council. For the sake of world stability, science would have to bend over for politics.

  "Are we supposed to take sides now?" Andrea said gruffly. "I'm no bloody government stooge. I'm nobody's stooge."

  Had Takeru, Ann, or Mats taken sides? Without access to their thoughts, this group could not tell for sure.

  "And in case you were wondering," Edmund said, "I'm not into altar boys."

  It was a welcome joke, and everyone laughed; some of the bishop's strength seemed to return. He took up a prayer; two of the others joined him.

  DAY 120

  "Welcome to Insight. Today we discuss the growing threat of conflict between King Khadi's alliance and the American fleet stationed at Alien Beach. As you can see on the map, The Arabian-Iranian fleet has now entered the Timor Sea, and has not stopped. If the fleet continues toward the Torres Strait, it will come within striking distance of Alien Beach in a matter of days. It is believed that the Arab fleet is equipped with mid-range ballistic missiles.

  "The governments of Saudi Arabia and Iran have finally cut off all trade and communication with non-Moslem nations. The U.N.'s long-standing threat of an international oil embargo has been overtaken, since the Arab countries themselves stopped the shipping of oil to non-Moslem countries.

  "As predicted, oil prices today shot up twenty percent: the oil blockade is seen by many as the last move before an open full-scale war. With us in the studio we have Tom Lancet, bestselling thriller writer and consultant to the White House in security issues...

  "Welcome, Mr. Lancet."

  "Thank you."

  "If the worst were to happen, how could a war scenario play out?"

  "This is almost impossible to predict. It's very likely the Sirians have technology that'll turn nuclear missiles into junk. Or a missile attack might be bounced off by a repelling force-field screen. Any scenario is certain to be guesswork. Let's assume the Arab fleet moves on into the Pacific. Basically, the President's choice will simply be this. Either strike first, without being able or capable of invading Saudi Arabia and Iran. Or: wait until after Alien Beach is destroyed, and then order the retaliatory strike. In either case, the enemy is bound to save a few submarines and send nuclear missiles at Hawaii and the West Coast. Millions of Americans will die."

  "I take it there are... other options?"

  "Well, unless the enemy suddenly changes its policy that 'all aliens are the Devil's cohorts,' I can see a few options.

  "Option one - the President tells the Sirians: 'Go home. It's not safe for you here. For the sake of world peace, leave now.' Given how advanced the Sirians are, they should see reason and take off. Only, the Arab missiles will still be here, and the threat of war will never go away as long as we know the aliens are still out there in space.

  "Option two - the aliens stay, but the U.N. pulls out of the Pacific, we leave Alien Beach undefended and see what happens. Maybe the aliens will take off and leave the planet - maybe they'll stay and fight. We don't know. Those who still don't trust the Sirians' motives, would choose this strategy as a test. This is a tremendous risk - the Sirians might wreak revenge on the planet and put an end to mankind, just to make sure they won't have trouble with us in the future. But again, they seem too civilized for that.

  "Finally, there is the option to side with King Khadi against the aliens. After all, it's his planet too, and at least we know he's human - right? A show of global unity against the Sirians could well scare them off. That is, if that's what we want - chase away the only other known intelligent species in the universe."

  "Thank you, Mr. Lancet. We have asked the President for a comment, but he has not been available; he is believed to be in New York, making last-minute attempts to negotiate with the Arab alliance..."

  A large helicopter landed on Alien Beach, surrounded by the waiting platoon.

  When the President stepped out of the helicopter, the soldier's first thought was: What the hell is he doing here? Then he understood why the troops were there: the President had never been here before, or met an amphibian in person. Come to think of it, the President had all the time avoided being openly associated with Sirians; he had always sent others to communicate with them. The man's face and hands were pale - or maybe it was the mist coloring everything that way - and his movements were awkward. Just behind him came General Harrod - and both men wore dark sunglasses.

  The would-be mightiest man in the world was a coward.

  A gray mist had settled over the island, smothering the breeze, lingering as if it were waiting for something. The soldier saw Carl Sayers come up to greet the President; Sayers seemed surprised too. Then they both went away to the barracks, closely surrounded by guards. The sergeant ordered the platoon to secure the helicopter.

  Ten minutes passed. The soldier saw something stir in the lagoon. They were coming. Eleven of them! Marching up from the sea, spitting up water, and walking in his direction! He began to shake - they really were that tall, two meters on the average; their eyes really were like the huge ovals of Japanese cartoons. He wanted to rush forward and talk to them.

  "Ten-shun!" barked the sergeant at his troop.

  The soldier knew the sergeant would order the other soldiers to stop him. Damn! And he had promised not to be a soldier anymore! Here he was, meeting them with a gun in hand... and the aliens walked onward, about forty meters away, passing the soldier's line of sight. He stared, standing to attention; some of the Sirians stared back. The shame was unbearable.

  The soldier stood still - and let his assault rifle slip and fall to the ground. The sergeant began to shout, but stopped - suddenly and frightfully aware of the stares from the big-eyed amphibians who walked past with confident strides, much taller than he was. He shrank back, pale with fear and insecurity.

  Another soldier dropped his rifle - but stood unmoving. Then another grunt slipped. And the man next to him as well. All but eight of the row of thirty Marines dropped their arms. The soldier beamed a sheepish grin at the passing amphibians. One of them, a female with a long translucent mane down the back of her conic head, smiled right back at him - the soldier's heart skipped a beat. The sergeant looked like he had just wet himself.

  The aliens disappeared among the scientists' barracks, and the sergeant ordered his men to pick up their rifles. Without a word or a smile, the soldier obeyed. Just playing along, the soldier promised the misty skies. Just enough to get to stay here. I'd rather die than harm your people.

  Even before Carl had figured out what to say to the Sirians, they were at the door. only Oanss was absent. The President stood up from his seat when the dozen Sirians came in; he seemed terrified and eager to run away. If Carl had ever doubted the President's positive standpoint on the aliens, there was no longer any doubt. The President was afraid to face them, because he had always chickened out of a commitment - to anything. Go ahead, Mister 'I-Feel-Your-Pain,' Carl thought, and his contempt was great, try and weasel your way out with thes
e people!

  The President quickly gained control of his panic, homed in on Ranmotanii, shook hands and stuttered a few meaningless welcoming phrases. The aliens all took turns making the greeting ceremony with the President, giving him just enough time to calm down from outright panic. Carl had learned just enough about their body language to recognize confusion in Ranmotanii, but that wasn't all. The old amphibian was tense, sort of... irritated?

  "Thee Annceeestors arre agitaatedd!" boomed the even older Oanorrn when it eventually came to his turn to greet the President. "Too-laate-to-be-quuuiet-wwith-mmeee-youu-thhhe- Prresiiident-wwhyy-doo-yyou- nnot-taaalk-to-uuus-beefoore?"

  The President giggled nervously, eyes flicking to his sides - he was quite tall, but this slightly bent old alien's eyes were at level with his own. The man silently beckoned to Carl talk to Oanorrn; Carl sat immobile and did not lift a finger. It's time to show what you're made of, he thought.

  Within minutes, the "emergency conference" turned into an embarrassment.

  The President's way of using the English language proved incomprehensibly vague to the alien visitors. The Sirians' broken English and direct questions were by turns incomprehensible, too blunt, or too demanding on the President's mindset. Carl took Ranmotanii aside and asked him if the Sirians could create a man-to-Sirian link with the mind-recorder, and bypass the speech problems. Ranmotanii curtly explained that this was just not possible.

  Finally, more than an hour later, the President managed to make a clear statement to the Sirians. An enemy force would soon attack the area with nuclear weapons and destroy it, unless the Sirians left the planet within a few days.

  Ranmotanii and his flock shouldn't have been all that shocked to hear this - after all, hadn't they seen decades' worth of TV-broadcast footage from Earth? But all the same, they stared at the President with what had to be great concern. Maybe it was too difficult for them to understand and predict the thought processes of human leaders; Ranmotanii was certainly no politician.

  Ranmotanii considered the presidential statement for a minute or two, then solemnly declared that the Sirians were to consult the Ancestors the same night. If the Ancestors gave the sign to do so, the Sirians would evacuate without objections. No land-humans were allowed; their presence might disturb the ritual.

  Then he turned to Oanorrn, and declared: "I aask opeen quuestionn too Oanorrn. Thee Anceestorss aare present, at Aaalien Beachh?"

  Oanorrn's ribcage became briefly visible when he sighed; then he shut his bloodshot eyes and stood silent for a whole minute. The President stared at the scene, utterly bewildered. Eyes shut, Oanorrn's cracked lips widened in a grin of white, tubular teeth.

  He purred: "R-r-r-r..."

  "He said 'yes,'" Carl told the President. "Do you understand what this means? Do you? A higher life form is present here, right under your nose!"

  The President seemed hurt in his pride, even resentful: "You're asking me to believe in an old shaman who's talking about ghosts. Real or not, ghosts cannot fight wars."

  Oanorrn said something to the other Sirians in their own tongue; they became concerned again. Ranmotanii translated: the Ancestors were among them, but their "concentration" or "presence" was different today... he found no adequate words for it.

  "Can the Ancestors stop an attack? Without your help?" Carl asked him.

  "Iii doo noot knoww... thaat hass nnot happennned beeforre."

  "Are you prepared to leave this planet before the end of the year, even if the Ancestors do not give the sign?"

  "Wwhy?"

  "Please understand... do you know what nuclear weapons are? That your enemies here will try to use nuclear weapons against you?"

  "Whaat iis... 'ouur eenemmmies'?"

  Carl wished that some miracle could transport King Khadi to this spot, so that he himself could hear Ranmotanii's words. Only a man who had never met this human being, could think of him as an enemy. For a few moments Carl wondered if the Ancestors might manifest themselves directly to the Saudi and Iranian leaders, and frighten them into surrender - but quickly discarded the idea. People of their mindset could very well interpret a fuzzy blue glow as another demon invasion, changing the situation for the worse.

  The conference lasted until the evening. A very tired President said goodbye, retreated to his helicopter... with no promises of militarily nor technological help from the Sirians.

  His last words to Carl were: "The best thing for everyone, you know, would be if they just left our solar system, and never came back. Could you make them understand that, that the whole idea of visiting our planet was a mistake?"

  Carl swallowed; had he been a younger man, he would have lost his temper at this supreme insult.

  "I will try and make them consider a temporary retreat to space. Right now, it is you who must convince the world that the Sirians are not after anything or about to give us anything - they really are just visitors."

  Presently, as the President entered the helicopter and took a last look at the little island, Carl saw the man's disappointment - and he felt a little sympathy. Both of them had set their expectations too high, expected too much personal benefit - like animals begging food scraps at the table, and getting miffed when their masters said "enough".

  The helicopter rose up through the darkening air with a tremendous noise, and Carl shielded his eyes from the draft. Now, he reflected with gloomy awareness of the irony, I have the alien visitors all to myself - just like I wanted all along... and the rest of world's pointing a gun at us.

  Ann dared not ask where Oanss was, why he wasn't attending the meeting with the others - dared not go searching for him where he probably was. Passively she watched the eleven Sirians return to the sea and the submerged spaceship...

  It felt almost like his gift was burning in her hand.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  DAY 121

  At 00:30 AM, the nightly sky above the island was clotted with stars - the Milky Way shone as a bright band across the visible cosmos.

  The lights were out on the island; the soldier knew not why, but was grateful for the darkness. He managed to sneak out of his barrack without waking up the entire platoon, and the sergeant slept soundly too - thanks to the pills the soldier had slipped into the platoon's coffee supply.

  Barefoot, wearing T-shirt and shorts, the soldier crawled and sneaked his way to the open place where he had seen the Sirian antenna-tree from the TV broadcast. This was where the blue lights had manifested themselves; it had to be a kind of lightning rod for the Ancestors; he had to get closer to it. Maybe all the answers he needed were in that place.

  Knees and elbows sore from crawling, the soldier hid down behind a fallen, blackened palmtrunk - the only convenient place to hide behind - how lucky he was, that a tree had died just there! - and peeked out past the large root clump. He saw the antenna cluster, four meters high, perhaps ten, twenty meters away. It was silent still; no glow or heat came from its shiny metal sprouts. The soldier waited, watched the starry sky, and rubbed his arms and feet to keep the cold at bay.

  After a while, the entire group of amphibians appeared. They must have excellent eyesight, the soldier guessed, because they moved with confidence and stumbled on nothing in the gloom. The ritual dance began again, as in the TV broadcasts. The soldier feared his own pounding heart and quickened breath would give him away.

  Again, the chant... but this time he could hear it clearly! It was almost the same alien words as in his first, strongest vision. He had to resist interrupting the ceremony, so much did he want to ask the aliens what the words meant. If only he could repeat the words to them and... no, not a chance.

  The antenna-tree began to glow blue in the dark, very faintly - but abruptly the glow ceased to be. The sky was still dark and clear. The circle of amphibians stopped moving - they seemed confused and frightened, staring at each other, then at the metal tree for guidance.

  Abruptly the soldier stood up, urged by an irresistible yearning for knowledge - at
once, the amphibians saw him. One young female made a warning peep; the others scrambled into cover behind the antennas.

  From the small devices they were wearing, a swarm of little black and silvery shapes emerged around the place. Immediately, the fragments took the shape of several inch-long robots. The tiny robots scuttled up toward him, wielding tiny mandibles and spikes. The soldier put up his hands, beckoning at the frightened aliens, to which he was but another dangerous land-human...

  A blue lightning-ball materialized out of thin air, between the soldier and the attacking miniature machines. In a second, each little robot was zapped by a barrage of miniscule electric bolts from the blue glow, and lay still. Then, the blue glow vanished. The soldier stood agape, opened his mouth to speak -

  "Mer-r-r-leee!"

  He saw the Sirians stop and listen. He continued to utter words he didn't understand, with an inflection that wasn't his own... and began to notice how odd his arms and hands looked. Each of his arms was single-jointed, and the palms were too broad and bony. His field of vision was too narrow, the spectrum of colors stunted.

  His head began to ache again, and for the first time since the war he knew why: his skull had the wrong shape, the brain pressed against the top of his cranium. Straining for breath to keep on talking, he found his lungs to be inadequate and small. Why didn't he look right, like the other Sirians? He had to stop talking - the headache overpowered him and he clutched his scalp - what was all that hair doing all over his head?

  "Help me."

  The soldier sat back on the fallen palm trunk, struggling to stay conscious. And he made it. The Sirians, silent but intensely curious, gathered around him, touching him, holding up small instruments, checked his pulse. Their touch was so strange, yet soothing.

  A very wrinkled alien faced him down with his eyes very wide, and said in English: "Mmy naame iss Oanorrn. Doo yyou understaand wwhat happennns to yyou noow?"