by Chance Maree
The scout replied, “The wagons flew low this time, from the northern hills. We saw them only shortly before they dropped to the ground.”
“What happened then?” Tarq, Ata's father, asked.
“The same as the first. Warriors appeared out of the side of the wagon and scouted the area. They met with the others of the sky tribe, then more got off of the wagon and unloaded items that looked like they might be supplies.”
“What did they bring?” Manu asked. “Any horses or goats?”
“No animals we could see.”
Manu frowned. “Place more guards on our herds.”
“It is done,” one man said before leaving the ger.
“What weapons do they have?” Tarq asked.
“Sticks,” the scout said.
“Sticks?”
The scout nodded.
Manu eyes narrowed. “How many are they?”
The scout swallowed. Ata could see his throat convulse.
“The first wagon held 100. Each of the others brought again as many.”
Ata found her own mouth dry. The sky tribe was larger than hers.
By the next day, more sky wagons came and went, depositing strangers along the riverbed. Tents lined the river shore for a long stretch north. At night, the lights of their campfires were reportedly seen by the watchmen at Ata's camp.
Ata and the other children were forbidden to ride outside the camp. The next evening, Tarq gathered his family and said, “The sky tribe is too numerous. The council has decided to demand that they leave.”
“And if they don't?” Kortu asked, his eyes gleaming.
Tarq showed his stone face. “If they do not leave, we will challenge them in war.”
Ata shivered when she saw the fear in her mother's eyes. Ata had never seen a war, but she knew one tribe would win and the other would lose. Whichever their fate, the war would be from sunup to sundown, and the outcome would be final.
Tarq touched his wife's cheek. “As you know, we win our wars.”
Calestanta nodded and offered only an attempt of a smile. She glanced at Ata.
“You were older than Ata when your tribe lost,” Tarq whispered, but Ata heard him.
Calestanta shushed him. “If you war, then you must win. But this sky tribe may have different customs than us.”
“Then we will speak with them and teach them our customs,” Tarq replied. “Don't worry. These plains are large.” He looked over the faces of his children. “And we are not without protection.”
CHAPTER 7
Pilot Pots Kahn-Anderson
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust—Pots had watched four shock-faced men lower Maggie's coffin into Ostara's first grave. Hundreds of people in government-issued work clothes stood along the slopes of the plains. They spaced themselves yards apart, like a terracotta army bearing witness to a tragedy that was all at once familiar and alien. This nightmarish array, in the broad light of day, wept tears—tears that streamed from the eyes of snakes, lizards, wolves, hawks, and tigers. Pots swallowed a tranquillizer that day.
The following morning, sitting barefoot on a stool outside her tent, Pots wanted to put all sadness behind her. This was a new world where even the trees were young and the mountains newly edged. Pots lifted her face to feel the breeze—clean air warmed by a gentle sun. Around her, golden grasses swayed in the wind. Birds and insects harmonized songs across the empty, open spaces.
Pots carefully unpacked her telescope, handling each piece like precious art. The materials and machinery to manufacture such devices on Ostara would take at least a decade to construct. Still, a night sky without a telescope would be as bleak as a world without oxygen.
From a distance, Dr. Geoff Byrd whistled, catching Pots's attention. He waved.
“Chikushō,” Pots whispered through her smile. She waved back, then ducked her head and concentrated intently on her task. Hoping…but no. Here he comes.
“Greetings, Pilot Anderson,” Byrd said with forced chipper. “Finally, we meet.”
Captain Montalbam had requested that all the pilots attend a session with the ship's psychologist. Pots had not done so. She glanced up from her prized lenses. The beady-eyed white head of an ibis stared quizzically at her. Pots gasped and nearly toppled backwards.
“I'm some sort of stork, right?”
Pots nodded, blinking.
Dr. Byrd smiled. “Seems appropriate for me, don't you think? The hallucinations are constant now, and amazingly consistent.” He tilted his avian head. “How do you feel about your appearance?”
“I try not to think about it,” Pots mumbled.
“Then we won't.” Dr. Byrd may have grinned. Hard to tell with his beak. “We haven't had our session yet.”
“I've been a little busy, Doctor—piloting Alphie by myself, and with moving and everything.”
Geoff sniffled. “You've been through quite a lot. Death of a comrade, too. Flying solo for weeks. Hallucinations. Settling on a new planet. What say you and I sit and talk a while?”
“I don't need therapy, Doctor.”
“Captain Montalbam asked me to check on each pilot. With McDonald found dead in that pilot's chair… It couldn't have been easy for you, and none of the others stepped forward to help. I know I'd be more than a little aggrieved.”
“I coped.”
“That, you did.” Geoff situated himself in front of Pots so she couldn't avoid looking at him. “Let's talk about it. I'd like to reassure the captain that all his pilots are in fine mental health.”
Pots stiffened. “I'm out this round. What's he going to do if I refuse? Drag me back on the ship?”
“You don't strike me as the type who needs negative reinforcement.” When Pots shrugged, Byrd added, “It would be a shame if Captain Montalbam felt he couldn't call on your piloting services in the future.”
Pots scowled. “Chikushō.”
“I get a lot of that from you pilots.” Geoff held out his hand. “Forty-five standard minutes is all I ask.”
“Half a standard hour,” Pots replied, ignoring his gesture. “Take it, or leave me.”
“Deal,” the psychologist agreed. “When?”
“Tomorrow.”
Dr. Byrd shook his head. “How about now, since you're in such an affable mood?”
“Start the clock already.”
“Not here. Properly. In my office.”
Pots raised her eyebrows. “You have an office?”
“You'd think my work would ease off here—that I'd be free to study other things, like the native animal life—but people are still quite stressed. The hallucinations are non-stop, as are everyone’s desire for tranqs. Folks aren't coping as much as they're getting kangered. This must be the most extensive case of mass hysteria on record.”
An audible sigh signaled her defeat. Pots placed the telescope lenses in their cases. Jacob had given her a few tranquilizers. If her own nosedive after yesterday's funeral was any indication, she might need a larger supply.
The pair of crude plastic sandals she slipped on were too large, but her feet were too tender to walk on rough ground. Ill-fitting sandals were preferable to clunking gravity boots.
As Pots followed Dr. Byrd toward a cluster of tents, she heard shouts from the rise where the military guards had set up a communication station. Shading her eyes from the sun, Pots observed, “The commander has returned.”
Geoff stepped beside her. “He flew in on a shuttle last night. Mandela and Franklin had to be relocated, and the commander wasn't pleased.”
Pots was one of the few allowed to choose which settlement she wanted to live in. Galileo seemed the perfect choice, until she learned Gunner was making it his headquarters. The man seemed to be everywhere, and in charge of everything. “I thought NASA hired you. Do you report to Gunner now?”
“No more than you. He wanted to discuss people's response to the hallucinations.”
“Does he see them, too?”
Geoff laughed, a sound like honking. �
�You know Gunner—he asks questions, but only gives out information on a need-to-know basis.”
“Look,” Pots said, pointing at the military tent where soldiers were scrambling. “Something is going on out there, over the rise. Let's go see what it is.” She marched towards the commotion. Dr. Byrd followed.
Pots heard Gunner yelling orders that sent soldiers scrambling. From the back, she saw one young bull-faced man hand the commander a pair of field glasses.
From what seemed out of nowhere, a coyote guard stood in front of Pots and Dr. Byrd. He held up his hand to block them from approaching further.
“That's fine,” Byrd said. “We can see what we need to see from here.”
“Captain Montalbam!” Gunner bellowed loud enough to be heard from across half the plains. Pots hesitated for a moment. Do I really want to see what creature Gunner has turned into? She forced herself to peek around the guard. The commander was reptilian, with the distinct profile of a crocodile. Primitive, mean, and thick-skinned. Seems about right.
Captain Montalbam emerged from the tent and stood next to Gunner. From the back, Pots could tell that the captain had white fur. Montalbam was a canine, maybe? Loyal, intelligent.
“Why am I looking at natives?” Gunner was yelling.
Byrd tapped Pots on the arm and pointed out to the plains. “Look at that!”
A group of half-naked riders on horseback was approaching the camp. Our first alien contact! From the distance, the riders appeared to be bipeds—definitely human-shaped, and definitely on horses. Pots looked back towards Gunner, wondering what the commander would do.
The guard directed Pots and Byrd to go back to the camp. After Byrd agreed to leave, Coyote-face trotted towards the military tent. Pots and Byrd followed behind him. The soldier trusted them enough not to look back.
Gunner's voice was booming. “First, NASA assures us there are no intelligent species on Ostara.”
“None showed up during our surveillance,” Captain Montalbam answered gruffly.
“Next,” Gunner continued, “NASA said there may be a few primitives scattered here and there, but none where we plan to settle.”
“Our satellites showed only wildlife near our settlement sites. If Alpha Horizon hadn't arrived early, you would have had updated surveillance photos.” Montalbam folded his arms. “We know what we're doing. If those natives were here a standard month ago, we would have seen them.”
“Natives popping out of thin air? That's your story?” Gunner stared intently through the field glasses. His anger dissolved as though it were made of vapor, and he seemed to sink deep into thought. “They could live underground, or use some sort of camouflage.” Gunner snapped back into an aggressive stance, thrusting the glasses at the nearest soldier, and then whirled to face Montalbam. He barked, “Get me full surveillance, thermal images, photos—whatever, Captain. I need to know how many natives are on this planet and the exact locations of their camps.”
The captain held his hand to his ear and spoke into his com. He turned to the commander. “You'll have the latest images within a standard hour.”
“Our first encounter with alien life, and we're going into it blind. Are you comfortable with that, Captain?”
“I am not.”
“Neither am I.” Gunner stomped towards the tent. “I want NASA's surveillance duties transferred to military personnel. Have your teams coordinate with Lieutenant Thomas.”
“That is unnecessary, Commander.”
Gunner snarled. “Earth needs you and your ship. We don't. Take your flight crew and your six crones and disembark by midnight tomorrow.” He turned towards the tent, yelling, “Where's Lieutenant Thomas?”
Captain Montalbam spun on his heel and trudged towards the camp. He spotted Pots and Byrd and veered in their direction. Upon his approach, Pots flinched. The captain had the head of a wolf—an angry wolf. She fought the urge to run.
Montalbam snapped, “Ms. Anderson—you, ma'am, have betrayed my trust. You risked Alpha Horizon for personal gain. As long as I am Captain, you will never again pilot for NASA.”
Pots felt dizzy. Gunner must have told him about our deal! She wanted to explain that she’d done it to save her brother’s life, but before she could speak, Montalbam flashed her the palm of his hand and stormed away.
“What was that about?” Dr. Byrd asked.
Wanting to make light of the situation, Pots shrugged. “Gunner's need-to-know basis just got me fired.” Byrd stared with an unblinking eye but didn’t probe any further. Perhaps he was fooled by Pots’s bravado, but inside, she felt as though the world had been ripped away beneath her feet. Again.
A dozen soldiers grabbed guns and lined up behind the commander on a small rise that overlooked a flat plain of tall grass. Pots and Dr. Byrd moved to the shade of the overhang of the deserted tent where Pots found Gunner's field glasses on the center table. She focused them on the band of twenty horsemen.
The natives had pulled their horses to a stop and five men dismounted. Gunner barked a command and his soldiers raised their arms. The five natives strolled forward, either ignoring or unaware of the threat.
“Gunner's going to massacre them,” Pots cried.
“The commander is many things, but an idiot, he is not,” Dr. Byrd motioned for the glasses and Pots reluctantly handed them to him.
“What are they going to do?”
“Probably show teeth and mark territory,” Geoff replied.
Frustrated, Pots searched until she found another pair of glasses hanging on one of the poles that supported the overhanging. She watched Gunner march forward, encircled by four armed soldiers. The two groups of men stopped three meters apart. Gunner stood with his feet set shoulder-wide and his hands clasped behind his back.
Pots zoomed the lens to the face of the man who appeared to be the natives' leader. She nearly dropped the glasses. Stunned and shocked, Pots blurted, “The natives' faces look…human!”
Byrd made a sound deep in the back of his throat, but said nothing.
The natives' leader was a man at the height of maturity, healthy and strong, with tanned skin and long black braids that were bound together, thick as a log, at the nape of his neck. His eyes were brown, and had an epicanthic fold. His cheekbones were broad and his mouth was set in a frown. He wore a vest and pants that looked to be a combination of rough cloth and hide. His sword remained strapped across his back as he held up empty hands with widely spread fingers.
Gunner dropped his arms to his sides and saluted. His guards kept their guns aimed at the natives, who still didn't appear to notice or care.
The native leader began gesturing. He pointed to the camp and ran his finger northward, pointing along the river. He opened and closed his hands many times. His face appeared anguished.
“Fascinating,” Dr. Byrd said.
“I find the whole thing nerve-wracking.”
“I never thought I'd have an opportunity like this.” Geoff's voice betrayed strong emotion.
Pots couldn't take her eyes off the natives' leader. “What is he doing?”
“Sign language,” Dr. Byrd answered. “He has pointed to our camp several times. I don't think he likes it. I don't blame him—we must appear quite a multitude.”
Gunner stood, chin up, unmoving. Pots doubted Gunner understood sign language, either. “The commander's going to shoot them.”
Geoff said, “I think we're being told to go away.”
Pots could see the fluttering of the leader's fingers as he moved them in a path from his waist to the sky. He motioned again at the camp, then continued to brush his fingers upward as though shooing Gunner towards the clouds.
Gunner stepped closer to the natives' leader. Every man on the field tensed—the soldiers' grips on their guns, the natives' hands on their swords. Gunner's crocodile nose nearly touched the native’s human nose. The commander shook his head slowly, side-to-side—no.
The native leader stepped backward, revulsion in his eyes. He waved his h
ands in increasingly angry gestures. Gunner folded his arms, glared, and then gave a short nod.
Pots said wearily, “Well, we know how this story goes.”
Pots and Dr. Byrd waited in the shade until the commander and his soldiers returned.
Gunner shouted. “Flipping fried rat shit—our first contact with intelligent aliens, and I'm the one with scales and a snout!” He motioned for Pots and Byrd to approach. “Tell me, Pilot Pots, what did you see out there?”
“Humans,” Pots said, making her way toward the commander. She saw Gunner in perfect detail—parietal eyes, scaly skin, and glared nostrils. He's scary up close. “And then you were there, too, of course.”
The commander turned toward Byrd and snarled, “This whiny-assed mass hysteria explanation is finished, Dr. Byrd. I've ordered the scientists to work out the hows and whats of our appearances. We are what we are, what we always were, but those natives look human, except for their hands—could four fingers be caused by inbreeding? Even so, seeing human-looking natives will certainly cause another round of hysteria.” He shoved his finger into Byrd's chest. “You and the rest of the nursemaids need to make certain our people don't go all lunar bug shit on us.”
“It's all illusion,” Pots stammered. “We don't really look like this.”
Gunner paused, as though he were going to laugh at her. “I don't give a flying cow's udder how we look, Pilot. I suggest you get your tongue out of your nose and help your people build themselves a city. No more whining. I've got a battle to plan.”
Pots clenched her fists. Her stomach burned and twisted so severely, Pots thought she would vomit. Maybe we are animals. Three days on Ostara, and we're already at war.
The commander tilted his head toward the military tents. “Byrd, with me.”
“This situation is quite fascinating,” Dr. Byrd said. His voice seemed small, a whisper from a long, down curved bill, and his white-feathered head was turned so one unmoving, flat red eye stared quizzically into the grin of the crocodile-headed commander. “I've studied quite a lot of anthropology. Perhaps I can be of some service towards understanding the natives, or how they might approach a battle with us?”