by Lucas Bale
Physically, they could almost have been mistaken for human, although they were taller, perhaps more slender. Their faces were formed almost like a human face: symmetrical, with two eyes to the front, albeit set slightly back. Both eyes were larger than a human’s and shaped more like the thin shadow on a crescent moon. They sloped downwards slightly at the outer corners. Instead of white, they were pale blue, and there was no iris, just what could have been a single, oval black pupil.
They’re not human. The absurd thought, absurd because it was so obvious, knotted with Gant’s breath too tightly in his chest. Nothing in this ship had resembled anything he recognised—anything that might be said to be human. Yet still, as though it was some truth that he could not quite believe until it was spoken, the thought came again. I’m not looking at human beings.
The rest of the face was smoother than his own, less contoured, and he realised there was no nose, just a vague suggestion where there might have been a nasal passage. The mouth was thin without lips, and perhaps a little wider. Rather than ears they possessed subtle protrusions along each side of the head that were longer than an ear, but within them he could see shadows that might have led to an auditory canal.
We’re not alone, he thought, his mind swimming in the confusion. Alien life exists. Here, in front of me. This is their ship. These beings built this ship, and in truth it looks so much like ours. They look so similar to us.
Their skin seemed to have no colour. It was almost translucent, like gazing at sunlit water, and beneath it, Gant saw what looked like the vague contours of muscle fibres and tendons. His attention had been fixed to the first—the nearest to him—but when he managed to glance at the others, he saw that there were subtle differences. Instead of having the translucent skin of the first, one seemed to shimmer slightly in the soft light, and when it moved its head, Gant realised that its face had a thin covering of fine fur. The eyes were a different colour too—more yellowish than blue, and it was slightly smaller than the first and not quite as slender.
He realised then, as he stared at them, that he was afraid. He found himself subconsciously wanting a weapon and feeling suddenly naked. The instinct to protect himself was almost uncontrollable. He wanted to put the muzzle of a rifle between himself and these alien beings who stood before him, watching him. Expressionless. Emotionless.
Do they feel emotion? Love, hate? Fear? Are they as afraid of me as I am of them? No, this is their ship. Their terrain. I am the stranger. I am the alien.
He looked to their hands almost instantly then, searching for something that might be considered a weapon and therefore a threat to him, and saw that they possessed only three fingers, long and delicate with three knuckles, and what looked like a fourth in place of the thumb. Of course there was no weapon. There did not need to be. He was alone here and vulnerable.
They were sitting, Gant thought suddenly, ridiculously. Just like us. They were sitting down. They have chairs. Technology enough to build something like this, yet they still use something as simple as chairs.
‘I imagine you have questions,’ the one nearest to him said, breaking the silence.
Gant didn’t know how long he had been staring—how long he had felt threatened by these beings that could easily have taken his life had they chosen to. He understood this, but the fear remained, perhaps even grew.
The voice that spoke to him was wispy, like too much air was exhaled as it formed the words. It came almost like a whisper, and every word was enunciated carefully, as though speaking them was an unfamiliar process.
‘I had planned this very differently—this meeting between us—but we have so little time left, diplomatic nuance would seem inappropriate. So let us say that I am pleased to meet you, William Gant.’
A bedlam of thoughts scrambled for a footing in Gant’s mind, screaming at him all at once, shredding everything he had ever believed. He wanted to answer—felt it was right to say something—but he had no idea what to say. So finally, and for want of anything else to say, he said, ‘And I’m pleased to meet you.’
A faint wave of colour shimmered across the alien’s skin, and the features of its face, what Gant supposed might be its expression, shifted slightly. It glanced at one of its companions, who now, Gant noticed, shimmered a similar colour—perhaps a different shade.
The first being must have noticed Gant’s surprise, because it tilted its head from side to side. ‘Of course, there is so little you know, but which we take for granted. Where you might express your emotion, if you choose to, by movement of your lips or eyebrows, perhaps even with your hands, we may do so by alteration of the pigmentation of our skin. Similar, perhaps, to what you might call… blushing.’
As Gant gradually became more comfortable with the unsettling events unfolding around him—as much as he could be said to be comfortable with any of it—he found he was able to think more easily. The fear settled in the back of his mind, churned a little less inside him. He began to pick out details that had not struck him immediately. For instance, none of these beings seemed either masculine or feminine. And they all wore simple clothing that seemed surreally familiar to him—trousers, tunic, flat shoes that were sculpted to the foot—although all of it had been fashioned from fabrics and materials he didn’t recognise. The clothing seemed to be styled and coloured differently for each of them, too, and he took this to mean that these were unlikely to be uniforms.
They aren’t military then? No, you shouldn’t make that judgment about them. Something inside him warned him against relaxing.
‘I can understand you,’ Gant said in a low voice, the sudden realisation creeping over him and immediately confusing him. ‘You’re speaking my language. How is that possible?’
The colour of its waxen skin shifted again, yet still only in vague hues rather than bright, obvious shades. The expression on its face changed too. ‘This is not the first contact between our species—that was some time ago. Thus, I have been able to learn your language.’
‘I didn’t believed that life existed beyond the human race,’ Gant said quietly. ‘When you spend years trawling the emptiness of space as we did, you’d think it was inevitable there would be something else out there. But we never found any trace of the existence of civilisations beyond our own. We saw animals and plants, but never…’ He hesitated. ‘I don’t know what you’d call it—intelligent life?’ He stopped and shook his head. ‘I’m standing here now, and I don’t have any idea what to say to you.’
‘It is more of shock to you than me. I can see that. You must be confused. Perhaps you might be afraid of us, but I promise you, you need not fear us. Believe me when I say, we are here because we want to help you. However, what we are about to tell you will be very hard for you to hear. Nevertheless, you must.’
‘Why am I here?’
‘You are hungry,’ it said, almost abruptly. ‘Your journey has been a long one. Perhaps you would like to eat something first?’ It gestured sometimes with its hands as it spoke, Gant noticed now, and so often in an ungainly way. It struck Gant that its actions might be an awkward attempt to mimic human behaviour.
Gant shook his head. ‘I don’t want to eat. This…’ He indicated the ship around him. ‘You. It’s a little too much to take in.’
‘That’s understandable.’
‘I’d like to know why I’m here.’ Gant faltered a little. ‘I’d like to know what’s going on. I mean, I don’t speak as a representative of the human race, if that’s what you were you hoping for. I’m not sure such a person really exists. Not anymore.’
Gant saw the being shift its gaze to Abraham, and he realised he had forgotten the small man was there at all. The realisation dawned on him, and the suspicion returned instantly. How did he know? How did he know to bring me here?
‘You know them,’ Gant said to Abraham. ‘You knew where to come. You knew they would be here.’
The first of the slender figures glanced towards one of its kin, then canted its head. The recipient of the gesture ret
urned it in a similar way and walked towards the doorway. Something shimmered as it walked through, like the meniscus of a bubble breaking and then reforming almost instantly. That wasn’t there before, Gant thought. Am I a prisoner?
‘We are at war,’ the first said as it turned back to Gant. ‘For some time, we sought to protect your kind. We hid your existence. Through our vassals, we instructed you, introduced you to technology beyond your own. We advised you to learn first before experimenting. Understand the universe before venturing beyond the star systems where we knew you could be safe.’ Again the colours flickered across the translucent skin. ‘We were ignored. Now your kind are considered a threat by those who rule us. You will be drawn into this war. It is unavoidable. Our enemy knows of your existence and actively seeks you now. We cannot allow you to fight against us, so there is only one option. Mankind will be subsumed within our culture. There is to be no negotiation. You will accept our rule.’
Its eyes had grown more intense now and had narrowed slightly. The pupils had tightened. Gant stepped back. ‘And if we don’t?’
‘There is no alternative.’
‘The Magistratus will fight you.’
‘We are aware of that. That is why you are here.’
‘I don’t think I know what it is you think I can do—’
‘There are those in our government who see mankind as a considerable threat. They would prefer to eliminate that threat completely. Their rhetoric is gathering support as the war begins to intensify. Others take a more moderate line and suggest occupation of your territory. Subjugation of that threat—an offer of a place within our culture. We feel, as do others like us, that your safety would not be guaranteed by such a course. We feel that mankind would fight us. You said as much yourself. And then we would be forced to exterminate you.’
Gant couldn’t respond. He didn’t know what he could say.
It continued. ‘There are those of us do not believe in genocide. It is a course we feel we cannot allow. My group has negotiated an alternative with a caucus of mankind. A method that will protect your species from extinction, and in turn protect us from your involvement in this war. We will permit a small colony to leave and build settlements elsewhere. A hidden system where you will not be discovered, and where you will remain and no longer be a threat. It is your government, not your species, whom we blame for overstepping your boundaries and threatening us, for ignoring our instructions, so we have allowed you this compromise. But this must be done immediately, and in secret. Our own leaders would not agree with our course.’
‘Who?’ Gant said. ‘Who have you negotiated with? The Magistratus?’
‘No. Others who we believe will be more circumspect in future.’
‘What about the rest of humanity?’
‘It is too late for them. All war involves sacrifice.’
Gant’s voice rose. ‘How can you make that decision?’
Again the skin shimmered, but this time the colour was more vibrant. ‘It was made the moment your leaders ignored our instructions.’ It paused before it spoke again. ‘You are our guest. You do not understand our culture. We realise this, and we forgive you. But it is time for you to rest. If you have questions, you must address them to our vassal.’ It motioned to Abraham. ‘We cannot be seen among your kind—you understand this, I am sure.’
‘I need to know what you need me to do. Why you brought me here.’
‘You will know, when the time comes. Above all, be sure to safeguard the safety of your race. Now, you will be shown to a place where you may rest.’
C H A P T E R 29
JORDI STEPPED off the loading ramp and into the grey sand, blinking into a bright, jaundiced sky. Around him, the survivors of the attack on his village gathered, huddled against either the wind or the fear growing inside them. Perhaps both. This new place wasn’t as cold as his home, but it felt much more barren.
He turned to look at the freighter behind him, the arcane steel creature that had carried him away from his old life, away from the Praetor and his Peacekeepers and the charred husks of the bodies in his village, and into this new darkness of the unknown.
The preacher had lied to both he and Ishmael, and Jordi found that impossible to forgive. The people in his village had welcomed the preacher, and the power of his beliefs, into their homes—and they had paid dearly for that heresy. The preacher had been as much responsible for Ishmael’s death as the Praetor; Jordi believed that completely.
Yet the preacher’s sermons had dominated his thoughts as he’d rested on board Soteria. The strength in the preacher’s words, the sense Jordi saw in them—he still yearned to know what it meant to be free, to be able to choose his own destiny. Belief in something beyond humanity and the Magistratus; seeing with clarity and in order to understand who he truly was. Those had been the preacher’s words to him, on the cart as they had made their way to their camp in the woods.
Freedom to make good on his unspoken promise to his brother. He kept seeing Ishmael’s broken body in his dreams, and even in his waking moments when he allowed his mind to wander freely. It always came to him, no matter how hard he tried to stop it. He no longer cried, a fact for which he was grateful, but he still felt overwhelmed by that same, hollow sadness. That empty feeling in his stomach that things would never be good again. I won’t forget what they did to you, Ish, he thought bitterly. I’ll never forget.
He stood now, gazing on the ship that had brought them here, saving his life and the lives of his parents. He realised that the ship now symbolised that freedom to him more than anything else in his life. He ran his eyes over the huge exhaust ports at the back, the engines that drove it through the black of space, and in the trembling haze of heat surrounding them, he saw it: true freedom.
‘Are you coming, son?’ his father said behind him.
‘Yes,’ Jordi said quietly. ‘How is Mother?’
His father appeared surprised by the question, but then nodded. Perhaps he saw something different in his son now. Jordi certainly wasn’t the same person who had woken from his cot that night and gone outside to try to catch a glimpse of deer in the forest. ‘Weary,’ his father said. ‘She still grieves for your brother.’
‘You both knew he was helping the preacher,’ Jordi said. It wasn’t a question.
For a long while, his father didn’t answer. Jordi glanced over at him, trying to read him. His old face was pinched and drawn. Eventually, in a dry voice, he said, ‘It was his own choice. No one could make it for him. I’m proud of him. As I am of you.’
‘Did you try to stop him?’
‘Could I have stopped you?’
‘No,’ Jordi replied. ‘Maybe not.’
‘We should go,’ his father said. ‘Your mother needs us. The rest of village needs us.’
They walked together in silence until they caught up to the rest of the village, walking in a tired group with the others that had joined them—the inmates from the prison fleet, someone had said. They had tattoos on their faces and bandaged wounds on their bodies. To Jordi, they looked every bit as beaten as his own people.
As they were all led away, Jordi saw that the preacher and Shepherd remained behind with two of the newcomers—a woman with haunting red eyes and pale skin, and a tall, older man with a stern demeanour who said very little. Jordi felt a curious pang of sadness; he found himself wanting to stay with them, to understand what it was they had come here for. He didn’t know why he felt that way, but the feeling remained with him for some time to come.
But instead, they were all led away to tents in the camp, similar to those they had just come from, but perhaps larger. They were given blankets and food, and new clothes to replace to the worn, bloodied rags they had been wearing. They were able to wash, too, and Jordi found some comfort in the familiarity of being able to undertake these mundane tasks.
After he had washed and dressed, Jordi wandered out into the camp. Some of the children played with a mongrel dog, teasing it and then running awa
y as it chased them, yapping happily. Their parents watched them, smiling. Yet behind those smiles, Jordi saw tension and worry. In fact, on the faces of everyone in the camp, he saw the same, haggard expression.
‘You’re new,’ a voice beside him said.
He turned, surprised, and saw the slightly grubby face of a girl. She had bright eyes that smiled at him, and unruly curls that fell unbidden around her dirty face. She was a little older than he was, he guessed, but not by much. She was dressed similarly to him, although her clothes were well worn and scuffed.
‘We arrived today,’ he said.
‘There many of you?’ she asked. She watched the children playing with the dog, and smiled when a boy fell and the mongrel was able to exact its revenge by slathering his round face with its tongue. ‘My brother,’ she explained.
Jordi nodded. ‘There’s not many of us, no,’ he replied. ‘Where did you come from?’ Although in truth, whatever answer she gave, he would not have heard of the place.
‘Gerasa,’ she said. ‘Do you know it?’
Jordi shook his head and was suddenly embarrassed. ‘I’ve never left my home. I mean, I knew there were other colonies, but I never knew anything about them.’
The girl nodded as though she understood. ‘There are plenty here like that.’ She turned to him and offered her hand. ‘I’m Freya.’
He took it. ’Jordi.’
‘Well then, Jordi, it’s nice to meet you.’
‘And you.’
‘You hungry?’ she said brightly. Jordi realised then just how hungry he was, and he nodded. ‘Well, come with me and we’ll get you something to eat.’
She took him to a large tent, a little way from his own, where others sat at long benches, working through platefuls of steaming food. She approached a table laden with steel vats and returned with two bowls of stew and some bread. It smelled good. They sat at a bench and spoke for a while, and Jordi found Freya to be good company. Mostly, they spoke about her home planet and his, and found them to be similar in many ways, but different in others.