by Paul G White
The astronomer let her gaze fall on every one of her comrades in turn, and then announced, “Lock minds!”
Eighteen Sha’lee thought streams merged seamlessly into one consciousness, and Shenna commanded, “Now!” At 12:00 noon Belize time, a powerful thrust of mental energy radiated away from the group of Sha’lee at the speed of light, blanketing the globe with a simple command.
Now, there was little to do but await success – or failure.
*
Jean-Luc Gossart was twelve years old, and for most of those twelve years had been trapped within his own mind. He was autistic, and had not spoken a word since birth. His vocal cords and mechanism for producing speech sounds were unimpaired, but it seemed that the necessary connections within his mind were not ‘switched on’. Jean-Luc was an amiable child, who achieved relief from the frustrations of his condition through paintings of imaginary alien landscapes. And the paintings were well sought after by collectors, providing a steady income for his family to help pay for medical expenses.
Jean-Luc lived with his parents and younger sister in a sprawling stone house on the wooded slopes above the sluggish waters of the Vilaine River, a few kilometres south of Guipry in northwest France. His father, Paul taught mathematics at secondary level in the nearby town and his English-born mother, Hilary taught her native language in the evenings at home to private students. The arrangement worked well, allowing Hilary to spend daytime hours with their son. Emilie, their bright and vivacious six-year-old, attended the local school.
Most days followed a familiar pattern for the Gossart family, but that was about to change. At 6:00pm precisely, Jean-Luc uttered his first sentence, leaving his parents astounded at the unexpectedness of the occurrence. In English, he said, “I must telephone—” and proceeded to reel off a long series of numbers. His parents were amazed, not merely because he had spoken for the first time, but also that he had employed a language other than French. The only time English was ever spoken in the Gossart home was in the evening, between Mme Gossart and her students, and Jean-Luc had never been present on a single one of those occasions.
Jean-Luc arose from the table and went in search of the telephone, a retro, ivory-coloured Bakelite handset. His parents followed to see what would happen, and were astonished to see their son pick up the telephone and proceed to dial. After a few moments, Hilary eased the handset from Jean-Luc’s fingers and listened, expecting to hear nothing but a failed connection. To her surprise, a voice said, “Phil Makeman here. Please, it’s absolutely vital that you don’t hang up.”
When Hilary failed to respond, the voice said, “If you have a computer with a webcam, please type in the same numbers you used to contact us.”
Intrigued, Paul Gossart brought over his laptop and let Jean-Luc type in the number sequence. Immediately, the screen filled with an image of Phil Makeman and Shenna.
Jean-Luc fixed his eyes on the tiny figure of the Sha’lee astronomer and announced, “Shenna, do you wish us to travel on your spaceship to the stars?”
Shenna showed her tiny teeth in a smile and replied, “Yes, Jean-Luc, we invite all your family.” And to Jean-Luc’s parents, she said, “I sense that Jean-Luc has neurological inconsistencies in his brain. If you desire, we will repair them.”
Paul Gossart’s eyes widened. “You can do such things?”
Phil Makeman leaned towards the camera a little. “Absolutely! Our captain suffered a severe brain injury in the disaster that marooned our Sha’lee friends on Earth, and the damage has been completely repaired. The captain is as good as new, and so will Jean-Luc be. Look, we realise this is a big step for you and it’s come out of the blue. Take your time to think about it – but not too much time – and let us know your decision. Jean-Luc will know how to contact us.” Makeman grinned. “While you’re making your minds up, here’s something to think about: so far, on the whole planet, we know of only two humans with telepathic ability, and that’s Jean-Luc and myself.”
Paul and Hilary Gossart stared at the screen. “Telepathy?” they chorused. “But that’s impossible.”
“Not exactly impossible, just extremely rare. Your son was contacted at noon, Belize time, which was only a few minutes ago. Jean-Luc was the first to respond, but we don’t anticipate too many calls. Your son is pretty special, and because of his gift you’ll have the opportunity to fulfil mankind’s dream of journeying to the stars. It will be entirely your decision whether or not to take advantage of the opportunity.”
*
Kylie Redman was forty-three days away from her eighth birthday when she sustained a severe head injury whilst walking to school in the suburbs of Wollongong in the coalfields of New South Wales. In a freak occurrence, she had tripped and fallen against a wall, knocking herself unconscious; since that time, she had lain in a coma in hospital with only the occasional flutter of brain activity to disturb the readings on the multitude of monitoring equipment. She was eight years and three days old when, at precisely 4:00am, everything changed. Alarms on the monitors began to chime insistently, bringing the night shift nursing staff scurrying to Kylie’s bedside. The readings on the brain activity monitors were going off the scale, but all other vital indications remained stubbornly depressed. It was as though Kylie’s brain had moved from dormancy into overdrive without her body being part of the equation.
Nurse Carline Hughes carried out a thorough check on all the connections on the monitors, finding nothing amiss. She adjusted the electrodes attached to Kylie’s unconscious form; everything was exactly as it should be, but the readings still indicated heightened brain activity. The nurse was just about to call for assistance when the young girl’s eyelids flickered and her eyes opened wide. Kylie appraised the surroundings of the hospital room for a few moments; then her gaze settled on Nurse Hughes.
“Water,” she croaked. “I’m thirsty.”
The nurse quickly poured a small tumbler of cold water and helped Kylie to wet her lips. “You must be hungry, Sweetie. Is there anything I can get you?”
“TV. Will you put the TV on for me?”
“Of course, Sweetie, but there won’t be much on at the moment to interest a little lady like you.”
Kylie favoured the nurse with a look of disdain. “I don’t want kids’ programmes. It doesn’t matter what channel it is so long as you switch on.”
Eager not to cause the youngster distress, Nurse Hughes flicked the remote control and the screen filled with two figures: one was a man, but the nurse couldn’t have guessed what manner of creature the smaller figure was. She was utterly unprepared for what followed.
The man spoke to Kylie. He said, “Hi, Kylie, you took a bit of waking up. D’you feel OK?”
The young girl nodded. “I think so.”
Then the smaller figure spoke. In a sweet voice, it asked, “Do you know who I am, Kylie?”
Kylie grinned. “That’s easy. You’re Shenna and you woke me up.”
Shenna smiled and addressed Carline Hughes. “Please request Kylie’s parents to come to their daughter’s bedside. When they arrive, Kylie will know how to contact us. And do not worry, her injury is completely healed.”
Shaking her head in disbelief, Nurse Hughes set off for the nurses’ station to contact Kylie’s parents and to fill in a report, wondering which of the two tasks was going to prove the easier.
*
At 5:59 pm Elton Blaydes, a twenty-six year old plasterer steered his battered old Ford pickup onto the patch of grass in front of his tiny, tumbledown nineteenth century cottage. Elton was working between two building sites, trying to earn sufficient money to modernise the cottage. Maria, his Spanish wife of seven months, worked part time as a translator in the nearby city; and Elton knew she would be, at that moment, preparing a substantial meal in the cottage’s tiny galley kitchen. Maria had asked him to call at a travel agent’s shop on the way home to pick up a few holiday brochures; although money was tight, Maria was full of optimism about their chances of being able to aff
ord ‘some kind of holiday’, even if they couldn’t stretch to anything even remotely exotic.
Elton was scooping up the various brochures from the passenger seat when he received the Sha’lee call. Badly shaken, he sat for several minutes before unlocking his seat belt and sliding out of the car. Maria, having heard the approach of the car in the stillness of the countryside, turned down her stove and went to the front door to meet him. She instantly noticed that his arms were full of colourful brochures and his normally tanned face was drained of colour. On shaky legs, Elton made it to the door; almost eight minutes had elapsed since ‘contact’.
“What is wrong, my husband?” Maria demanded. “Have you had an accident on the way home?”
Elton shook his head. “No, nothing like that. It’s just that as I was about to get out of the car, my head filled up with all sorts of strange information.” He reached for the telephone, which rested on a small cabinet beside the door. “There’s a telephone number I’m supposed to ring.”
Maria’s eyes were wide with apprehension; her husband had never acted this way before, and it raised for her the spectre of a mental breakdown. After all, Elton had been working at two building sites and on their own little cottage for several weeks, and she wondered if the stress of trying to keep too many balls in the air had finally caught up with him.
“No, my sweet, I’m not going gaga or anything like that. I just need to make that phone call.”
As Maria tried valiantly to rationalise the fact that her husband, in addition to his other strange behaviour, now seemed to have read her thoughts, Elton keyed in a long series of numbers and pressed the phone to his ear, not really expecting anyone to answer. A male voice issued from the earpiece and said, “Hi, Elton, my name is Phil Makeman. Do you have a smartphone handy?”
Elton nodded. “Yes.”
“Is it switched on?”
“It’s on standby. Why?”
“Take a look at it for a moment, please.”
Elton withdrew the phone from his pocket and the screen lit up, showing a man and . . . Elton was unsure exactly what he was seeing, but it appeared to be vaguely human.
The creature spoke. “Hello, Elton Blaydes, I am Shenna and I am Sha’lee. We, the Sha’lee invite you to join us on our starship, the Comora, to take a journey to the stars. Our invitation extends to your mate, Maria”
Maria, who had been watching as the conversation unfolded, demanded, “How do you know my name?”
“Your husband is projecting such information from the surface of his thoughts, and although he is not yet aware of it, he is also beginning to notice a smell of burning food.”
Maria screamed in anguish, “My paella!” and rushed away to the kitchen.
It was now Phil Makeman’s turn. “Elton, you may not realise it, but you are one of a very small number of human beings with genuine telepathic potential. Not the kind you see in music halls, but a very real mental ability – a sort of extra sense in addition to taste, touch, smell, sight and hearing. And if you’re wondering about me, I’m the first such discovered by the Sha’lee. We’d like you to come with us on the Comora, where you’ll receive training from accomplished telepaths – the Sha’lee.” Makeman grinned. “Think about our offer, and—” He turned towards Shenna beside him and his grin widened. “Shenna tells me you have holidays in your surface thought, too. Wouldn’t this beat any holiday you might be able to take on Earth?”
As the screen blinked off Elton Blaydes realised he had some heavy thinking to do. Somehow, the idea of a package holiday had faded from his mind, to be replaced by thoughts of what Maria would say about the invitation to take a trip to the stars.
*
Alexei Korolev moved the grainy black and white photograph from one pile to another and back again. He picked it up and slowly ran his fingers over the glossy surface, as if attempting to elicit memories from the forty-year-old print that mere sight alone could not provide. His hand wavered over the right-hand pile and, his mind finally made up, dropped it decisively onto the growing pile of discards. What was the use of memories if everybody else chose to forget the glorious years of Mother Russia’s ascendency in the space race? Alexei had been a cosmonaut in those heady times, risking his life in the pursuit of knowledge and adventure, when even the slightest equipment malfunction spelt death for those prepared to ride atop the immense Vostok rockets.
Alexei sighed; this was getting him nowhere. He was sixty-seven years old and had been forced to leave the programme at the age of thirty following a freak accident, whose unwanted legacy was impaired function in his left leg. There was no room for sentiment; Alexei could no longer perform at the necessary levels, so he had left the service with distinction – and a small pension. To eke out his pension, he had entered the education profession, teaching mathematics up to university level.
At first, his fame had preceded him and many times he was asked to relate tales of his time as a cosmonaut. But interest in the stories diminished with each influx of new students, until eventually no one recognised him and no one asked what it was like to ride the thundering rockets into space. And the years rolled remorselessly onwards until here he was, sifting through his prints, sorting out which were worthy of retention and which were not. On balance, he thought, maybe none were worth the effort, but somehow he could not bring himself to sever links with his past with the finality that the destruction of all his memorabilia would represent.
Alexei glanced at the electric clock on the wall above the table in his tiny flat. He looked all around him at the simple but functional furniture, and then back at the clock. The time read 21:59. He considered watching television, but quickly discarded the notion. He had never been anything more than an occasional viewer, and tonight was not one of those occasions when he felt the urge. He decided to have an early night instead. Alexei had never been a drinker either, but tonight for some unaccountable reason, the vodka bottle looked particularly inviting. Reaching a tumbler from a cabinet, Alexei unscrewed the top . . . and stood still as death with the bottle half raised, as a series of images tumbled unbidden through his mind.
Alexei returned the top to the bottle and screwed it tight before sitting heavily in a hard kitchen chair with the bottle still in his hand. His mind was a turmoil of images and instructions, one of which was to enter a series of numbers into the keypad of a telephone. Alexei’s mind had remained sharp, despite the passing years; he made certain of that with copious reading, including books written in English, which he had taught himself over the years. But what was happening suggested that he might be losing his grip on reality. Alexei rolled the instructions around in his mind for more than ten minutes before he succumbed to curiosity. He dialled the number, which seemed to be indelibly stamped in his memory.
A voice answered immediately, “Hello, Alexei. Are you able to converse in English, or do I need to send for an interpreter?”
Alexei regarded the earpiece of the telephone for several seconds before replying in a heavy Russian accent, “I understand English, but I do not speak well.”
“That’s fine, Alexei. I can understand you. Can you turn on your television?”
“Why?”
“So that we can talk face to face. Then I’ll explain everything.”
Alexei reached over and depressed the ‘on’ switch and the image of a man swam into view as the ancient television completed its warming-up process. The man said, “Thanks, Alexei, that’s better. I’m Phil Makeman and this—” he moved aside to reveal the slight form of a humanoid creature, wearing a long-sleeved tee-shirt with an unfamiliar symbol emblazoned on its chest, “—is Shenna. She is a Sha’lee. You’ve heard about the Sha’lee?”
“I read newspapers. She is alien? Not of our planet?”
“That’s right, but technically, the Sha’lee have been on Earth far longer than the human race. Shenna would like to invite you to return to space with the Sha’lee expedition. Are you interested?”
The retired cosmonaut rega
rded Phil Makeman and Shenna shrewdly. “Was retired from space programme with injured leg. You say that does not matter?”
“Not one bit.”
“What about age? I am sixty-seven years old.”
Shenna intervened. “Your leg will be repaired and your age will not matter. You have a special talent, which we will improve.”
“Talent?”
“Telepathy, Alexei. That is how we contacted you. You are very rare amongst humans and we, the Sha’lee will provide training for you whilst you journey to the stars.”
Alexei looked at the two piles of photographs and then at the tiny flat – the full extent of his life thus far – and came to the conclusion that he would be leaving nothing behind. His decision was a simple one. “I am with you,” he said humbly. “Please tell me what to do.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
In total eight people of varying ages had responded to the Sha’lee telepathic broadcast. These comprised: Jean-Luc Gossart, a twelve year-old autistic boy from northwest France; Kylie Redman, an eight year-old accident victim from Wollongong, Australia; Elton Blaydes, twenty-six year-old plasterer, from Cambridgeshire, England; Alexei Korolev, sixty-seven year-old retired cosmonaut from Moscow; Michaela Febrowsky, thirty-two year-old housewife from San Francisco; her nine-year-old daughter, Leona and her seven year-old son, Lukas; Sarah Sutherland, a recently-divorced English teacher from Doncaster, South Yorkshire, England completed the numbers.
“I sense that others have received our message,” Shenna told Phil Makeman an hour after the first response, “but they have chosen not to contact us. This means that a small number of humans who display signs of telepathic ability will remain on Earth when these eight leave for the stars . . . and that is good.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Makeman agreed, “but I’d have thought people would have been falling over themselves to secure a berth on the Comora. After all, it will be some years before another starship can be built and they probably won’t get another chance.”