An Alien Rescue

by Gordon Mackay

Neither woman commented.

  “Anyway, each enclosure contained lots of chickens, where they would lay eggs until a time where they would be taken away to market by the lorry load.”

  Belinda raised a hand to stop him. “You said taken away by the lorry load, when earlier you said they were slaughtered. Which is it?”

  “Ah, you got me there, Belinda. It was slaughtered, but I didn’t want to use the word again after I heard you sigh. A lorry would pick up the carcases after the foul deed was done.”

  “It is okay, Scott. I understand. And thank you for considering my feelings.”

  “Sure. Anytime, Babe. Anyway, as I was saying. The hens lived in these compounds, where they would scrape the dust with their feet while looking for worms and clucking away to each other. Scott added a bit extra to give the listeners a better picture of what it was like. “This was a pre-battery henhouse time, which is to say they were allowed to roam freely in the open air with warm straw nest boxes at night, instead of its modern counter-part wire-mesh and inhumane metal boxes within a building that doesn’t allow daylight to enter.”

  He had said it with such conviction that Belinda understood he felt genuine sorrow for the birds that were totally confined. She nodded her understanding, which he acknowledged with a nod. He continued. “The birds would normally be quiet, just scratching around for any unlucky worm that might pop its head through the soil, or stuffing itself with grain. Plump chickens always bring the best prices because they look and taste better, my grandfather used to say.”

  Neither lady spoke, but each understood the inference.

  “The birds would get restless from time to time, with a flurry of squawking and feather fluttering that would arouse my grandfather’s attention. He was always aware of foxes in the area, culling them several times during a year before they could gain entry into his henhouses.” Scott raised his head in memory of the luxurious fox-stole his grandmother enjoyed. He had never once connected its presence with his grandfather’s occupation. He felt like laughing at his stupidity. He continued. “I used to spot some of the birds having a bloody go at each other, usually within the same flock and occasionally through the fences. Other birds would gather around them to watch, clucking like the blue-blazes while making a real racket to almost egg-them-on, no pun intended,” he added with a grin. “Yeah, honestly, the surrounding flock almost pushed the squabbling birds into a fight, building up the confrontation with a series of loud calls and wing-flapping gestures. I often tried to do what I’d seen my grandfather doing, rushing in to break up the fight. But being so small, just a little boy in shorts, the other birds turned on me to keep me away. And no matter how hard I tried I couldn’t reach the birds that were actually fighting. They really attacked me when I’d tried to intervene, you know? They were actually stopping me from gaining access to the fighting birds; and having a real go at me to keep me back. That’s right; those little feathery bastards were attacking me so the fight would continue unabated. I experienced that lots of times. Saw lots of fights too. The fighting birds would aim their beaks at their opponent’s eyes, trying to blind them with a deliberate stab. And when they were successful, the winning bird’s beak would pulverise the blinded bird’s head until it was nothing but a bloody mush. The other birds would get really worked up too, all squawking and screeching at the death match and at each other, just as if it was gladiators fighting to the death or bloody glory.”

  Scott paused, dropping his glazed look while he remembered the battles that took place in that picturesque dusty-brown field. He’d never given any thought to his memories concerning the chickens before, not even when Frell had used his own experience and knowledge to convey the message that human life could be in trouble by using it as an appropriate example.

  “Those little bastards tried it on through the fences as well, really pushing against the wire in an effort to stick the pointed tip of their beak into the eyes of another.” Then the details of Frell’s message hit home. “The factions she mentioned. The separated factions of chickens, where they would battle with each other for supremacy, surviving on what resources there were to be had, to fight and to win, to use and enjoy at another’s expense. And then of course, eventual oblivion.” It was his turn to release a loud sigh. “I never fully appreciated the meaning behind her warning. The use of chickens to tell me what might happen. It was cleverly brilliant, I must admit; but perhaps lost in its cryptic implications.”

  “But you remember her telling you the story, Scott.” said Belinda.

  “Yes. Sure I do.”

  “Then it did what it was supposed to. If she had used apes or monkeys to tell you, you might have forgotten it. Might that not be the case?” she enquired.

  “Mmm, yeah, I guess so.”

  “And what of the chickens at the farm? Did you consider them violent? Do you consider them to be a good example of what might happen?”

  Scott thought about the hens, the blood and the gore from the battles that occurred between them. The bickering and in-house fighting, the sight of mutilated bodies and flapping wings with heads that were left unrecognisable. The proud stance portrayed by the victor and the others that milled around them to glory in the win. He likened the memory of those horrible bloody battles to pathetic punch-drunk boxers in a roped-off ring, egged on by the bloodthirsty betting crowd, bright lights and television cameras.

  “They were really nasty little creatures, when I think about it. I’m going to enjoy eating chicken tikka all the more when I get the chance. Chicken is now top of my most favourite list of eats! The spiteful little bastards!”

  Belinda almost scowled at him for that offensive statement and would have verbally blasted him - if he hadn’t beaten her to it by adding he'd been wrong to say it. She had felt surprised at herself for feeling the way she did. It was so unlike her to feel a reaction of this sort; and yet putting his story aside, she felt a sense of fury against those who would enjoy eating another animal out of revenge. She hoped the feeling would never return.

  “I hope we can get ourselves sorted out,” he said with conviction.

  Belinda replied on behalf of them both. “We can only say, Scott, that you are doing your best to help, which is appreciated by many.”

  The submarine was underway at last. Its HQ and the Pentagon had been fully informed; who had, in turn informed the Azores island group of its imminent arrival. Plenty of beer and good food for all was the order of the day. The golf clubs had been flown out by USAF fighter jet from RAF Leuchars, in Scotland, all polished and wrapped in eye-catching glossy plastic. What was incredible, in this instance, was the fighters from the USA usually arrived with golf clubs, and never to arrive just to take a set away. The RAF handling ground crew had given a knowing wink to the departing fighter crew as the clubs had been carefully loaded and stowed into the vacant bomb-bay. What they didn’t understand was the clubs were part of a forthcoming celebration, and not the usual yank outing and return from playing golf at its most celebrated home.

  The coke was finished and trampled crisps covered the floor as each of the trio relaxed. Scott still munched away to his stomach’s content

  “Did you find anything else of importance,” asked a shuffling Belinda, looking quite uncomfortable in her seat.

  “Oh, yes,” replied Phyllis, having forgotten.

  “Yes, a toilet adjoining the kitchen, would you believe?” continued Scott.

  “On a Grey ship?” asked Belinda, taken quite by surprise.

  “Yes. And exactly like Mike’s kitchen and toilet on Mars. The same type of grub as well. Eh, sorry. I meant food… which is grub by another name.” Scott felt he should explain his badly chosen words when he could to help prevent misunderstandings, of which there had already been plenty. “I have an idea,” he said while stroking his hairy chin. “It’s a theory of sorts, which might explain the need for the kitchens and toilets.” He turned to face Phyllis. “Besides the ramp that we used to enter this ship, there is also a bay for levita
ting people on board as well. It’s entrance is circular and situated on the centre of the underside. Do you think we could locate that area?”

  Giving his request some thought, she replied, “I see no reason why we cannot.”

  Belinda raised a hand, indicating she wished to speak. “Would you both mind waiting until I visit the toilet? I seem to be in urgent need of using its facilities.”

  Scott let out a stifled giggle. “Are you trying to tell us you’re bursting to visit the bog?”

  Belinda was lost for words to answer him immediately. Then replied. “I do feel as if I am about to burst, yes. But as for a bog, no. The toilet will do… Did you find a bog on board as well?”

  Half-chewed crisps splattered the wall nearest Scott when he almost choked. What the Greys would make of the new pebble-dashed decoration remained to be known. Phyllis was as confused as Belinda, but kept quiet.

  Phyllis stood up. “I will show you the way, Belinda. I could probably use them again too.”

  Typical, thought Scott. Women always seem to go to the toilet in pairs. I couldn’t imagine myself having to go to the toilet with another guy all the time. I would certainly get some peculiar looks if I did.

  “I’ll hold the fort while you two are away powdering your noses.” He deliberately said it to confuse them, to give them something to discuss on the way to the bog. They already had enough to discuss without his additional input. Belinda wanted to tell Phyllis about the lack of Grey communications and what might face them when they arrived at the Earth base. They were much wiser than Scott was concerning the chances of a trap and what to expect. And what if Frell and Drang were already dead? They needed to think what they would do if that was the final outcome of their rescue attempt. And what about Scott, they both wondered? How would he cope?

  Scott didn’t sit down, he instead strolled around the Flight Deck, chewing. There was definitely no comparison with what he worked on in the RAF.

  Aircraft were bulky and primitive when compared to what he was looking at. They had Martin-Baker ejection seats packed with explosives, parachute and umbilical oxygen/comm's connectors. There were weapon control systems, a button-loaded joy-stick, several windscreens, a transparent canopy with detonating cord, multiple gauges and screens, various knobs or handles with legible multi-coloured warnings and an undercarriage selector switch console. On the side panels were primary and secondary alarm panels, fire extinguisher alert and action buttons, engine start and fuel supply switches, throttles and a radio-communication console. The forward windscreen had a head-up-display that incorporated a gun-sight with missile targeting and lock-on. It’s a whole new ball game, he recognised. We’re still in the frigging stone-age, for Christ’s sake! I wish I could take this little bit of kit back with me. That would raise more than just a few eyebrows, that’s for sure.

  The girls returned, complete with more potato chips and coca-cola, with additional cheesy snacks and chocolate-chip cookies to keep them fed and happy.

  “Right Scott,” said Phyllis. “If you are ready, we can go and find the area you mentioned.”

  “Just lead the way. I’m right behind you,” he said while wondering if there was anything new to discover.

  It only took a moment to arrive. He recognised the hexagonal chamber without question or doubt. It felt as if he’d only just hurriedly left it with Frell, both leaping through the opening to escape and landing on the lunar landscape in clouds of kicked-up dust and flying grit.

  “Follow me,” he commanded.

  He led the way, passing the places he remembered while being held onto by lots of the little guys, all dressed in black gowns, saying the same infernal droning sentence as if to pacify them. ‘You are going to be alright, do not be afraid, you have nothing to worry about.’ Scott shuddered at the memory. Phyllis saw him shake. They continued, heading towards another chamber where his body was to have been dismembered. He recognised the tumbling clouds of mist with flickering blue and orange lighting. “This is the decontamination area,” he pointed out. She nodded. He passed through the mist, leaving it behind with the knowledge he had just been cleansed again. Won’t need to wash for a year after this little lot’s over, he thought cheerfully to himself. The next chamber came into view with its blue-white lighting and perfectly white walls. “Just like a hospital operating theatre,” he told Phyllis, who was all eyes and ears at their surroundings. “This is where I kicked the shit out of the ship’s leader, he proudly informed her. She didn’t reply, but tried to imagine what had happened.

  “This way,” he called out. “This is the way Frell and I went after we beat the Grey bastard at his own game.” Without turning to check if she was following, he set off towards the door at the room’s far end. It was open and exactly as he remembered it. Marching through, he reached the corridor’s end, stopping short and turning to face a door on his left. It opened like the others, sliding quietly and remaining open as long as he was within its range. How he missed his lover, wishing they were together again.

  Phyllis stepped towards him, laying a supportive hand on one shoulder. He felt her presence and touch, knowing he was with friends he could rely on. The room beyond the door was bathed in blue, just as before. He recognised the ship’s were identical, even down to the coloured lighting within individual rooms.

  “Phyllis, I’m a little confused. Why do the rooms have different coloured lights?”

  She smiled the look of knowing the answer. “They are colour coded.”

  “Eh?”

  “Each room or area is designated a specific colour, which individuals will easily recognise and relate to, wherever they might find themselves.” She saw the confusion in his eyes as he tried to equate her description to what he was looking at. “If a clone was ordered to adjust a generator, for example, he would go to the blue area. Or a red area for supplies. In other words, a quick and easy method of reference is to use colour codes, a standardised colour system throughout their fleet of ships.”

  Scott understood what she meant, nodding his understanding. He was unsure whether he should be impressed with the Grey methodology or not, seeing it as a different and very easy method of recognition. He wondered if it was common throughout the Grey Empire and not just the ships, where power-generating sectors were one colour, while supply areas were another. Their cities, he thought, could be really colourful. He imagined leaping into a taxi, demanding to be taken to the green sector. He decided that should he ever find himself in one of these places, god-forbid, he would demand to be taken to the tartan sector. That’ll fuck ‘em up for sure! He almost laughed out loud at his humour. Quickly regaining his thoughts, he informed Phyllis about the room ahead of them. “This is where we came across the hybrids; part grey, part human.” He shuddered at the memory. Slowly entering a blue room, he tip-toed towards a second door. It opened, allowing a soft yellow glow to escape. Everything turned a horrid shade of green with patches of yellow and blue in corners where both colours couldn’t merge. It looked the same as it had previously. There were rows of bunk beds, all neatly arranged but without any bedding or bodies. “Thank fuck for that,” said Scott with tremendous relief, followed by a loud sigh. It had occurred to him there might have been some of the hybrids on board, waiting for orders or whatever. He recalled Frell, explaining he was supposed to have mated with the female who approached him.

  “Of course!” he shouted. “Now I understand it all! I was supposed to mate with that female… thing... because Mike couldn’t! And the kitchen and toilet, here and on Mars… They’re for the hybrids to use. I should’ve known for Christ’s sake. I should’ve realised ages ago. What an idiot I can be sometimes.” He scolded himself with wit for being so blind to the reality of the situation. Phyllis was about to speak, to tell him he wasn’t stupid when Scott held up a hand to stop her. “Only sometimes, though. I’m pretty damned clever for the rest of the time.” He released a little laugh to accompany his humour. Phyllis gave him a jovial push, laughing as well.

&
nbsp; Recovering themselves, they stepped towards the room's opposite end. The door, just like all the others, opened automatically. Scott inspected the doorframe, almost expecting to see a missing part; a piece destroyed by Frell as she forced the door to close behind them in their escape. Everything was intact, of course. He led the way along a dimly lit passageway, recognising it with sadness and a broken heart. They arrived at yet another door, which opened into the arrival chamber. “We’re back.”

  Belinda welcomed them with bulging cheeks and a mouthful of cookie. There were smudges of chocolate all the way round her mouth.

  “I’ve figured why there are kitchens and toilets on board the Grey ships and Mars,” he said proudly. They are for the hybrids’ use, and Mike was a guinea-pig.”

  Belinda's half-chewed cookies and chocolate-chips added to the room’s already colourful décor.

  Both ladies looked aghast at his statement. Mike was a human, Belinda passed to Phyllis, who in turn mentally said, a pig he was definitely not!

  Scott didn’t know if he should leave them to sort this out for themselves or not. He relented at their confusion and the peculiar looks he was receiving.

  He explained. “A guinea pig is used for testing a system or something that can be questionable, such as a kitchen and a toilet.”

  “Aha,” said Phyllis. “So the greys used Mike to test these areas for both human and hybrid use.”

  Belinda almost jumped as she added her own suggestion. “And the food too, they used it as part of the same test.”

  “Yep, they sure as hell did,” said Scott nodding to them both. Then his facial appearance altered with suddenness, as he added, “I wonder if the weapons were also for the hybrids use?” No one offered any kind of an answer or solution to that question.

  Having consumed enough crisps, snacks and drinks to make a house of partying kids sick for a week, they rested. The ship was flying in auto-mode, with any calculations for atmospheric entry carried out as a matter of course. The ship’s own systems steered it above the base where the submarine had sailed north from.