An Alien Rescue

by Gordon Mackay

  “And a box full of beers too,” she replied in good humour.

  Scott spun around at hearing her joke, saying, “I like you, Phyllis. You’re a good egg.”

  She did not reply simply because she did not know what to say to that. Was it a compliment, she wondered? Scott saw her look and decided to leave her to it. The door was open and open it stayed. With a small step inside, he stood in the doorframe, able to see much further into the room and around its walls. What he saw answered his question about why the door was opening and closing on its own. There was a cylinder lying on the floor, just inside the doorway. It looked like the type used for storing gas, where there was a single hose coming from what appeared to be a rotary valve at one end. The ship’s momentum and low gravity had allowed the bottle to rotate and roll in a semi circle, where it would be in the door’s sensory area one moment, then back out of it the next. The door was simply doing what it was designed and built to do. There wasn’t anyone else on board after all. They were the only occupants and that was fine by Scott. Phyllis was heard to exhale deeply when she also saw the bottle and its movements.

  “So what is a chicken-tikka sandwich?” Phyllis asked curiously.

  “Mmm, it’s a sandwich with chicken in the most delicious Indian curry sauce ever.” He licked his lips at the mere thought of holding a slice in his hands. The idea of eating one had also kicked in his feed-forward mechanism, where gastric juices started to pour into his belly in the false idea of being fed a very tasty morsel. His belly groaned loudly and his hunger pangs started. “Bugger it,” he said. “I’m hungry now.”

  Phyllis placed a sympathetic hand on one shoulder. “And now that you mention it,” she added, “I am hungry too.” She urged him not to say he could murder something, even though it was meant harmlessly. He agreed.

  “Mike had a kitchen where he lived; I wonder if there might be something like that here.” Scott suggested, almost running ahead in the belief there might be.

  Phyllis had to sprint forward to grab him. “Hold it! We still haven’t completely explored this vessel so please wait until we have done so before you go running off.”

  With a look of embarrassment, Scott apologised, calling her, Babe, as he did so. But the thought and the scene of a tikka sandwich and a beer was stuck firmly in his thoughts.

  Phyllis took one step backwards. With a puzzled look, she asked, “What is this babe thing you sometimes refer to? Mike did as well.”

  “Scott smirked at her, not knowing if he should really tell her such things. His eyes did the walking, down then up, taking in the eyeful of her blue-clad figure with curvy shaped bottom and voluptuous breasts. “Eh, it’s just that you’re a very attractive lady with an incredibly nice shape. You are what would be called a babe on Earth, and that’s in anyone’s language.”

  “So … you are complimenting me then?”

  “Eh-h-h-h,” Scott hesitated. “I guess you could say I am, yes.”

  “You could guess it? I am not sure I understand that”

  She had caught Scott out. There was no use using cryptic answers to disguise what he had been trying to say. “You are correct, Phyllis. I was giving you a compliment.”

  She nodded to humour him while considering all he had said. She felt the need to add up everything he said to her so she was aware of what was meant.

  Finally, she thought she had the message. “You think I am attractive and well proportioned with a nicely shaped bottom and large breasts. Is that so?”

  “Definitely, yes! I couldn’t have put it better myself.”

  “But you did, Scott. I just had to piece it all together to work out what it was you were actually saying.”

  “Erm, I suppose I did, didn’t I?”

  “Yes … you did. Do you find Belinda attractive as well?”

  “Holy shit,” replied Scott while not meaning to have said it. He was not sure where this line of questioning was going, and decided to end it as quickly as possible. “Yes, she is also very attractive, with a figure similar to yours.”

  “Really?” She asked.

  Absolutely,” he answered truthfully.

  She gave his answer some thought. “Do you not think my breasts are larger than hers and her hips are wider than my own?”

  She had just knocked the wind out of his sails with that question. He didn’t know where to go with it. With an obvious sigh, which she was acutely aware of while wondering why; he gave his final answer, hoping it would end this line of conversation. “Yes, there are differences, but only minor details. You are both equally as attractive and gorgeous. If I hadn’t been in love with Frell, I guess I could easily have fallen madly in love with either or both of you. But as it is, and even though you are both perfectly beautiful creatures, I love Frell and intend to rescue her from wherever she is. And on that note, I think we should continue with our exploration of this ship. Now, there has to be a kitchen somewhere?”

  She sort of twisted herself around to try and see her bottom without a mirror. The suit wasn’t tight enough to show her curves accurately so ran her hands across her breasts as if to feel how big they were. His eyes almost popped out of his sockets at the sight of Phyllis inspecting and feeling herself. He would have loved to have seen more, with the devil inside him screaming its head off for him to give her a helping pair of hands, but he knew it was morally wrong so didn’t. He hoped he wasn’t going to regret that decision. “I would rather you didn’t do that Phyllis. I find it a very big distraction. Or should I say a couple of big distractions?”

  Phyllis completed her examination, saying, “I am sure they are bigger, but I do not suppose it is very important.”

  “Nah!” exclaimed Scott, while wanting to grab her in both arms to feel for himself.

  'Phyllis. Scott. How is your exploration going?' A telepathic message from Belinda broke the conversation better than Scott had managed. Scott felt like telling her they had decided there are a few physical differences between their lovely bodies, explaining them in detail while he stripped and inspected Phyllis’s body at close quarters, but decided it really wasn’t a good idea. 'It’s going very well, although slowly.’ Saved by the telepathic bell, he thought.

  In addition to his answer, Phyllis reported the gas bottle, proposing there might have been some maintenance or repair work in progress. She suggested that Belinda should be aware there might be a system not functioning correctly because of it.

  She accepted her findings.

  There were no boxes of beer or stacked shelves of tikka sandwiches, just large barrel-shaped energy generating units. Scott very gently laid a hand on one, expecting it to be hot enough to burn him. It was surprisingly cool to the touch. He reached across and felt the other, experiencing the same comfortable temperature. Belinda was examining what looked like a panel of fuses, where vertical rows of serrated caps had small adjacent lights as if to indicate they were serviceable and live.

  “Are they fuses?” he asked her.

  Being pulled from her thoughts, she said, “They are energy cells. This is where the ship gets its power from.”

  He surveyed the boards, suspecting the ship might shut-down if any of the little caps were removed from the panels. Exactly like pulling fuses, he thought. That would have the same effect by removing electrical power from individual systems, he sent to Phyllis by thought. She concurred that it would, although by a different process to what he imagined. Apart from the units and panels, excluding the bottle, there was not much else to see in the room. They turned and left, wondering what else was to be found. Maybe that kitchen, thought Scott, hopefully, as his stomach released another rumble of thunder. A toilet wouldn’t go amiss either, he felt.

  The ship was making good progress, and still without any transmissions from the Grey Empire. Belinda wondered why. She was taken aback by the absence of communications from Earth and considered the discovered gas-bottle and its system might be part of the problem. If it was, and they were missing anything important being pass
ed to the hidden base beneath the ocean floor, they could be heading into a storm of danger.

  Continuing along the corridor from the energy generating room, Scott and Phyllis treaded softly so any sounds not of their making could be heard by them. If there was anyone on board they might surprise them with their presence. Come to think of it, thought Scott, we would all be surprised! The corridor was a short one with three separate doors. He suddenly remembered the ship from his previous lunar abduction, trying to recall the ship’s layout; but it proved impossible to do it in any great detail. He could visualise the bay where he and his lover had risen into from the moon's surface, lifted by an unseen force and dumped into the dissecting hands of a nasty Grey. The walk between there and the operating theatre didn't take long, passing through an area of mist and eyesight-hurting light on the way. That same Grey held sharp instruments, intending to surgically remove parts of Scott's anatomy. He recalled throwing moon dust into the Grey's eyes, blinding the eyes before kicking the seven shades of shit out of him before escaping. His only regret was not tearing him limb from limb when he had the chance.

  Phyllis brought him back to reality with a tap on his right shoulder. Is there anything wrong, Scott?”

  “Nah, nothing at all. Except I wouldn’t mind another bit of revenge. I hope the chance arrives.”

  Phyllis stood for a moment wondering if his remark was connected with his previous experiences. She guessed he would recall much of his ordeal and of Frell too.

  “Right,” he said. “To blazes with pussyfooting around here, we’re going too slowly for our own good. I don’t know how long it will be until we reach Earth, and I suppose it won’t be all that long a journey either, so we need to explore this ship quickly. And if we catch sight of a Grey we simply catch the bugger and tie him up, period!”

  “Yes. That’s fine by me.” Phyllis thought of finding a Grey on board and hoped they wouldn’t. She had already seen too much killing and the possibility of more was never far away from her horror-stricken memory.

  Scott stepped up to the first door, which, like the generating room, opened automatically. The room was bathed in blue with nothing outstanding to be seen. He moved along and watched the second open. It was bathed in green and empty. The third opened in the same way, but it led into another corridor. He motioned forward without uttering a word. At the end was another door, which also opened without a fuss. Inside was an array of silver worktops and cupboards, a bit like Mike’s kitchen, he recollected, just as sounds of tummy-rumbling thunder loudly announced itself… again. Just as he was about to explore the cupboards, Phyllis squeezed past and beat him to it.

  “Yes!” she said excitedly. “There is food here.”

  Scott opened another, recognising the same tins, packets and bottles that were on offer on Mars.

  “There is some bad news though,” said Phyllis turning to face Scott with her bottom lip protruding like that of a disappointed child. “There are no beers or tikka sandwiches.” Her big bottom lip had been replaced by a smile that shouted humour.

  “I’ll make do with anything at the moment. The beer and tikka will have to wait.” He replied with his own smile and a friendly hug. She squeezed him back, lingering a little bit longer than she should have. As they parted, Scott winked at her. She felt reassured by it.

  Belinda had tried all the channels, trying to get a trace on any transmissions this side of the systems filtering boundary. All her attempts had proved fruitless; convincing her there was a fault with the ship. Sitting back into the seat, she surveyed the controls, searching for anything she may have missed. The received radio signals were solely from humans’ transmissions on Earth, and they shocked her. She especially found the news reports disturbing. They were all about death, politics, scandals, hate, murder, accidents, failures, unemployment, commodity-prices, hardship, intolerance, discrimination, and lots more hate and hardship. It was difficult for her to believe she was related to the race that transmitted this absurd filth and degenerative muck into the far depths of space. It wasn’t any wonder why the Greys wanted control of this lovely planet. It had all the resources and adequate atmosphere for intelligent life to survive, but was slowly being spoiled and contaminated by its present dwellers. She switched off the human channels, exhaling a deep breath of relief at the welcome silence.

  The control room’s entrance door slid open just as she relaxed.

  “Hey, look at what we found!” Scott held as many packets of chips and savoury nibbles as he could manage to carry without dropping any. A couple fell to the floor as he stepped forward. Phyllis followed him with her own arms piled high with bottles of mineral water and Coca-Cola. “You wouldn’t believe what’s down there,” he added with a splutter as he tried to finish chewing what he had in his mouth. Phyllis was also heard to be munching away quite merrily, crumbs falling from her lips onto the once upon-a-time sterile floor.

  They were all soon munching and scoffing, with discarded empty crisp packets and bottles lying lazily around. “I particularly enjoy the cheese and onion flavour,” said Belinda before hungrily shoving another handful into her mouth.

  “My favourite flavour has to be smoky-bacon, although salt and vinegar is a close second,” added Phyllis. Scott didn't comment on her bacon choice, leaving her to enjoy it.

  “I like them all,” said Scott grinning while eating from two different bags at the same time.

  Both women laughed at Scott’s greedy antics, with particles of food being accidentally spat out in the hilarity of the moment. They all fell about laughing with tears of joy. It lightened the moment and made them feel better; especially Belinda.

  After gorging themselves on crisps, chips and long brown sticks that tasted of yeast-extract, all washed down with cola or water, they comfortably settled.

  “I wish there had been chicken tikka favoured crisps,” said Scott, which he immediately followed with a loud belch.

  The ladies laughed loudly at his bad-manners, sniggering and shaking their heads as if to say, ‘Honest waiter, he’s not with us!

  Belinda gave some thought concerning the chicken aspect of his tikka desire, asking, “What is it with you and chickens, Scott?”

  The laughter faded before he replied. “What do you mean by that?”

  Belinda thought about what she had heard prior to leaving the Mothership. “It was in your report, the hypothetical story told to you by Frell, or should I say, explained to you.”

  Scott had to think about what she had said for a long moment before he remembered what it was that Belinda was resurrecting. “Oh yes, I remember now. She used a story concerning a couple of chickens, no less. They were stranded on an island and she used the scenario to warn me about Earth’s future. That it will be the end of us all, if nothing changes.”

  “If nothing changes?” she asked.

  “Erm, yeah. If we, as a human population, don’t get ourselves off our lazy, ignorant and greedy arses to sort ourselves out before the proverbial hits the fan.”

  Both women looked at each other for support or an interpretation. They had each followed part of his explanation, but lost it when he had said something about a proverbial fan, or whatever.

  “I’m awfully sorry,” he apologised, smiling. “I know I keep saying things in a way you find difficult to comprehend.”

  “No!” quipped Phyllis sarcastically.

  “Yes!” stated Belinda, in no uncertain terms

  “Mmm. It’s a yes,” said Scott, feeling highly embarrassed.

  “But why did she use chickens to explain your world’s problems to you? In the past we have always used primates as an adequate example when explaining the possible problems facing your population, because of the morphological similarity. But Frell chose something much different, she chose chickens. There must be something in her choice of creature that is relevant to you and you alone.”

  Scott stroked his chin as he recalled what he had been told concerning Earth, and that of its resident human population�
��s future. “I remember her using an island full of chickens to put across what might go wrong with Earth. I remember it sort of shook me up as I listened, while I couldn’t help wanting to laugh at the same time. I know she could have used apes as the focus for our problems, or monkeys or baboons; but she chose bloody chickens.”

  Belinda demonstrated a serious look as she said, “I have read your file, Scott. You had a grandfather with a farm, a farm where he bred chickens. The point of using these birds to drive the message of a warning to you was to possibly use something you could associate with through personal experience. Might this be the case?”

  “Erm… I suppose that’s right. He used to rear the birds, having hatched them in large incubators, collecting the eggs to sell them... and the birds too of course. But to use them to help me understand a warning?”

  “Yes, that’s right. What do you recall about the farm and the chickens that might be of use in thinking about what will happen if your planet becomes overpopulated?”

  His shoulders slumped slightly as he fought to remember the times he often spent on his grandfather’s farm. He was just a boy, small and youthful with blonde curly hair and a tanned complexion from spending so much time out of doors. He’d climb the forest’s trees for birds’ eggs and fish in a local burn for trout. He smiled as he remembered those happy times. Then the mental pictures of the hens in their segregated enclosures surfaced from some of the furthest regions of his long-term memory. “The hens were sectioned, kept together in seperate flocks of a certain age. From the moment they were chicks they would remain in close proximity until slaughtered.”

  Belinda sighed at the thought of his mentioned killing.

  “Yes, that’s right,” he stated, while imagining the field as it was all those years before. “I remember it all now. There were wooden sheds, all of the same design, where the hens roosted at night. Each shed was within an enclosure, separated from the others by wire fences. I guess that’s where the name chicken-wire comes from?”