by Kasch, Andy
“We should wait inside,” Arkan9 said as soon as they arrived. He was looking around as if he were concerned about something.
They all entered the small building. Mip7 confirmed Brandon’s suspicions that this was a terminal for a minor charter flight operation. There was a small spaceship parked on the tarmac just outside the building that was to be their transport vehicle to Banor. It was not a flying saucer, unfortunately. It looked like a mini space-shuttle, except the wings were very small and fixed all the way in the rear. The thing didn’t look like it could even fly if it was just a plane.
“Tulros,” Yob3 said. He bowed to Mip7 and Arkan9.
“Thank you, Professor,” Arkan9 said. “I’m afraid you may find your work environment has become slightly hostile upon your return. I pray that situation will be temporary.”
“That’s not a surprise to me, and I am prepared for it. I wish you all a safe journey, and good fortune, in whatever becomes of your project.” Yob3 turned and left them all at the tiny terminal.
“He’s leaving?” Derek asked.
“Yes,” Arkan9 said, “going back to his job.”
Derek ran outside after him. Mip7 began to run after Derek, but Arkan9 stopped him.
“Let him be. It’s okay.”
The three of them stood and watched through the window as Derek talked to Yob3 outside. Derek was very animated. His arms flailed and his hands made sweeping motions as he spoke. Yob3’s replies were calm, as usual. Then, Derek placed both his hands up on Yob3’s shoulders, which he was barely able to reach, and continued talking. When he dropped his arms back to his side, Yob3 placed one of his hands on Derek’s shoulder, leaned down close to him, and said something. Derek nodded and made the peace sign. Yob3 turned and left. Derek came back inside the terminal.
“What did you say to him?” Brandon asked after they sat down together.
“Just something that needed to be said, brother.”
Derek was maintaining some of his aloofness. At least Brandon was his brother again.
Chapter Six
Derek’s face was squished against the window. His head was partially obstructing Brandon’s view.
“Well, you must have something like that in the year 2000,” he said.
Brandon stretched his neck as much as he could to try and look past him.
“No, not even close—and not twelve years later, either.”
They were in the spaceship, on their charter flight to Banor, and had just left the atmosphere of Amulen. The Cardinal-4 space station had now come into full view. It was perhaps the most impressive thing Brandon had ever seen, and actually stole much of the thunder from the thrill of his first spaceship ride—that is, the first one he was conscious for.
It was a short trip, however. Their ship, piloted by two Banorians, accelerated so smoothly you almost didn’t know you were moving. Derek had been concerned about motion sickness before they departed, but his fears proved to be unfounded. You couldn’t feel much. They didn’t even wear seatbelts. After hovering their way above the spaceport and then taking off, the ship had first flown over a mountain range and then out over an ocean before rapidly ascending up and away from the planet. Just like that they were in space. It happened so fast it was difficult to fully appreciate. As soon as they were in space, however, Cardinal-4 became visible.
The wondrous view of the space station was short-lived as well. It quickly faded as they zipped over to the other planet with all the fanfare of a ferry boat crossing a river. From space, both planets looked like Earth to Brandon, except for the unfamiliar continent shapes. They landed at a much smaller spaceport on Banor.
Brandon was amazed at the ease, speed, and overall feeling of routineness associated with just having travelled in space from one planet to another. They disembarked the spaceship and boarded a hoverbus, which left the spaceport area and began whizzing over a wide, grassy plain. There were hills with trees on every horizon. Occasionally, another hover vehicle could be seen in the distance crossing the plain in the opposite direction. Wherever they were, it was considerably more rural than the place on Amulen they had just come from.
Derek was fidgeting in his seat on the bus.
“Do people in your time go to the moon on vacation?” he asked Brandon.
“No. It’s only 44 years later, you know.”
“Yeah—but the year 2000 man, come on. That is so trippy and futuristic. They were getting ready to send men to the moon in my time. Don’t tell me they never made it, or a crazy thing happened like it swallowed them up or something.”
“We went to the moon without any major problems. They did maybe a half-dozen trips there, is all. Most of them happened in the early 70’s. I’m pretty sure the first manned moon landing was in 1969. They quit going by the mid-70’s. Kind of a been-there-done-that thing, I guess.”
“Wow,” Derek said. “I figured they would build a city there or something.”
“No, they drove a car on it, hit some golf balls there, and planted a few flags, but that’s about it. NASA decided to build these big jet airplane-looking spaceships after that, called space shuttles, and just fly them around the earth, launch satellites from them, and build a few space stations that orbit the earth. The space stations are really small, though. Nothing like that one we saw up there.”
“No trips to Mars or anything?”
“We sent a couple robot cars to Mars and drove them around using a remote control from Earth. That’s all, I think.”
“Far out, man.”
Indeed that was pretty far out, now that Brandon thought about it. Still, man’s technological advances by the year 2012 must have fallen miserably short of the expectations of somebody from the 1960’s.
The hoverbus came to a stop at a primitive-looking village. They all got out. The buildings were made of wood, and some were just thatched huts.
“Now this is more my style, man,” Derek said.
Mip7 had apparently been listening to their conversation. “In that case,” he said, “I think you’ll like where we are going. You might be surprised at the method we’ll be arriving by, though.”
Brandon noticed a strange smell in the area, and then heard noises that could only be made by animals. Weird grunting sounds, with occasional nays, similar to the sounds horses make. He looked around but didn’t see any animals. There were some Banorians in and around the huts and wooden houses—their bronze skin color was quite bright here, brighter than Mip7’s—along with an occasional Amulite. No one was especially looking at Brandon and Derek. For some reason, they were not the spectacle here they had been back in the Amulen city.
Arkan9 led them through the huts where the ground turned from being dry and hard to softer, cushiony soil. They passed someone who was dressed like Arkan9, and Brandon realized it was another Sheen. As they proceeded through the village, he saw several more Sheen, some shining brighter than others from underneath their cloaks. Arkan9 exchanged bows with several of them, and sometimes he gave a hand signal which was performed too fast for Brandon to see. The smell and sound of horses was becoming stronger.
Then they arrived at the animal pens. They weren’t horses. Their bodies were very much like that of donkeys, with sunken-in backs, only they were bigger—big enough so the Torians could ride them, Brandon figured. But what made them unique were their long necks and small heads. Brandon didn’t recall seeing this creature on the animal videos back in his room. The thought struck him that this is what you would get if you crossed a giraffe with a donkey. Derek might have shared the same thought, because he burst out laughing when he saw them.
Mip7 extended his arm toward the pens. “There is our transportation.”
“Groovy!” Derek said.
Brandon wasn’t quite as enamored. The beasts were docile enough, but Brandon had never even ridden a horse before. Two Banorians who ran the stable assisted them in mounting up, and gave them basic handling instructions. The smallest animals in the stalls were chosen for the human
s, but Brandon and Derek still needed a stepstool in order to get up on them. There were no saddles, just blankets draped across the animals’ backs.
Brandon noticed the stable master clicking some kind of small electronic device as he stood before Arkan9, then shaking his head as if something weren’t right. Arkan9 stood talking with him for a while as the stable master continued to fool with the gadget before finally nodding, whereupon Arkan9 also mounted up and then led them out.
“These are yuquil,” Mip7 said. “They are very domesticated, used to having riders, and should just follow along. Let them eat a few leaves here and there, but keep them moving by gently steering their neck away from the tree after they have a mouthful.” Mip7 rode in the rear.
The four of them rode out across a blooming meadow and then followed a trail up into forested hills. The trees resembled aspens back home, except for their black bark. The yuquil loved them and bit off mouthfuls of leaves whenever they had the opportunity. Brandon noticed the frog-food squirrels leaping through the treetops, along with leather-skinned birds, some which resembled mini-pterodactyls and others that had fuller bodies like bats. Amulen hung in the sky behind them and a light mist was in the air, tempering what otherwise would have been dry, hot weather. It was a pleasant ride, and Brandon was glad to be out of the city.
They passed through several hills and valleys before stopping on top of a ridge where they beheld the view of a large village, located in the midst of a forested valley below them. There was a sizeable modern building in the center of it that had a smoked-glass disc-shaped structure on the upper level, only three stories high. Several smaller modern buildings stood close to it. The rest of the village was all thatched huts and wooden houses, many of which were nothing more than simple shacks. There were some open spaces with what looked like fire pits in the middle. The houses thinned out toward the outer edge of the compound. It reminded Brandon of a large Boy Scout campground. From the hilltop, he could see dozens of Sheen walking about throughout it, but no native Torians.
“Is that where we’re going?” Derek asked.
“Yes,” Arkan9 said. “This is Uden, the C3 Sheen Colony of Banor. We will reside here for a while.”
“Right on, man. Right on.”
They descended to the village and deposited their animals in a stall on the outskirts. From there, they followed Arkan9 as he led them between the huts and shacks, occasionally stopping when Arkan9 would speak to someone. He eventually took them to an area of small thatched huts near the rear of the village and designated one each for Brandon, Derek, and Mip7. Arkan9 explained that he would be lodging elsewhere and left them to get some rest. He would find them later.
The huts were furnished with hammocks, running water in familiar Earth-style basins, tall tables with bench-style chairs, and a modern sink with one of those blue-light hand cleaners. Not much else, other than a bench outside. Hygiene rooms with blue-light showers were in public buildings nearby. Brandon sat on his hammock and noticed how quiet it was here. He wished he had a book to read.
Mip7 appeared in his doorway.
“I’ll be right back,” he said. “I like to have a drink before sleeping.”
“You mean, like an alcohol drink?” Brandon asked.
“That’s right.”
“Um …I wouldn’t mind one myself.”
Mip7 thought for a moment and then said, “Sure, why not. Come with me.”
They stopped in front of Derek’s hut to invite him along as well, but he was already asleep in his hammock. He looked happy and peaceful, like a cat taking a nap in his favorite spot.
* * *
“Why do you all have numbers in your name?” Brandon asked. He and Mip7 were sitting at a bar in the third-story of the modern building in the middle of the colony. They were each holding a test tube of a reddish-colored drink Mip7 had ordered for them. The view of the colony through the smoked glass windows was interesting. Brandon felt a little like he was on vacation in the Caribbean. The bartender was a Banorian native, but the rest of the lounge was empty, probably because it was the middle of the day—or maybe Sheen just didn’t drink much.
“All Torian names are derived ancestrally,” Mip7 answered. “Males take the male name, which all end in consonants. Female names end in vowels. The number in the name is assigned sequentially, based on the next number available for that name in the international name registry. Historically, the purpose of the number was to uniquely identify us, back in the days when the population hadn’t grown to where existing names needed to be reassigned. My direct ancestor has the name of Mip6, since I was his first male offspring and no other Mips produced any male children between him and me.”
“You mean your father?”
“Whatever word you just spoke translated into a word only the Sheen use. It is a term they use to designate respect for their direct male ancestor.”
“I see,” Brandon said. But he really didn’t.
“I suppose you come from a culture where they use multiple names?” Mip7 asked. “I have found that most races use either numbers or multiple names for unique identification.”
“Yes, each of us has two or three names. My last name is Foss.”
“So, Brandon Foss,” Mip7 said.
“Yes, but we call each other by our first name only, except in formal situations. What was your mother’s name?” Brandon took a sip from his tube. It was bitter and harsh tasting.
“That’s not the way to take this drink. Watch.” Mip7 put the tube to his mouth, threw back his head, and swallowed the entire portion.
Brandon was a little nervous after feeling a burning in his mouth from the small sip, but he went ahead and swallowed half the remaining serving. He never was one for doing shots. He then had a moment of panic as his mouth became inflamed. It seriously burned. The thought crossed his mind that this alien drink could quite possibly put a hole in his stomach. But then, the inside of his mouth turned smooth and buttery. No more burning. A slight fruitiness was on his tongue, and finally a butterscotch flavor prevailed. He had never consumed anything that changed on his palate so much. It was compelling, to say the least. Suddenly he felt good, a moment of pure euphoria. He tossed back the rest of the drink.
“I think maybe you are asking about my direct female ancestor,” Mip7 said. “I don’t know her name. Native Torians are not raised by their biological parents.”
Brandon was now feeling really, really good.
“Who raises you, then?”
“Most of us grow up in parental colonies. They are like small cities, separated from the rest of our society. Not much different from this place, actually, but more modern. Full of kids, and run by volunteers—Toras mostly, that is, females.”
Mip7 looked around the lounge. “I remember this place, though. I was here once before, for a week when I was young, in education level 6.” He held up his empty tube. “Too young to drink.”
Brandon looked at his own empty tube and said, “This stuff is fascinating, and quite good. Maybe too good. I don’t normally drink anything this strong. I’m more of a beer guy.”
“There’s another word that doesn’t translate. We do have milder alcohol drinks. Not wise to have more than one tube of Redflower-20. In fact, it used to be against the law to have more than one tube of it.”
Mip7 motioned to the bartender. “Two glasses of argim, please.”
The bartender filled two normal-looking glasses with something that came out of a spout. Now, that looked more up Brandon’s alley. Although, he would have to remember about this—what was it, twenty flowers?—for future reference, perhaps for medicinal purposes. The new drink the bartender delivered had a faint floral-honey odor and tasted somewhat like flat semi-sweet beer. Good enough.
“If all Torians are named after their ancestors, shouldn’t your name be closer to Mip875 or something by now?”
“The string ends at nine. Then the first vowel in the name is changed, sequentially, and we start over again. By the time a
name repeats, there is unlikely to be many others who are still alive with the same identification. If need calls for it, we can then add the continent and planet of our birth to further uniquely identify us. It works well. For example, Director Markin1 must have come after a Myrkin9, who may have been his direct ancestor.”
“He’s the one with the neck collar?”
“Correct.”
“He doesn’t like us much, does he?”
Mip7 shook his head and took a sip of argim. “I believe he likes Arkan9 and myself even less than he likes you, though. That director is a serious problem. I need to figure out how I can get back to RL-71 and help revive the research subjects—all of them, not just the Earthlings—but Markin1 revoked our access. I was worried about us getting out of the spaceport, actually, but Arkan9 wisely booked us with an independent charter service. We were fortunate to escape.”
“Escape? What are we, fugitives, now?”
“I wouldn’t say fugitives, no. More like persons of interest—which you are anyway, being aliens. No need to worry at this point. Director Markin1’s authority is limited. We got out of there and that’s the end of that. You two are relatively safe now. Arkan9 seems to have …a power of some kind, as well. He is greatly interested in the welfare of your race.”
“Why?”
“I don’t really know.”
“Why are you interested in the welfare of frozen aliens?” Brandon asked.
Mip7 set down his glass and thought for a moment before responding.
“I don’t really know that, either, but I find that I am. Up until a couple weeks ago, I didn’t feel my life had any real purpose. I haven’t held a job I particularly liked. This is the first thing I have ever felt strongly about, if the truth be known. I don’t know why Arkan9 chose me or how he even knew about me, but he knows a lot. Maybe he really is a prophet, who knows? I only know those cryonic chambers full of intelligent aliens are a terrible injustice and a smear on Torian society. I want to do whatever is necessary to correct the situation. But right now, I seem to be helpless over the matter. That must change. I have to figure out how to get back there and help. I’m almost certain Professor Yob3 is on our side. I guess I should have become a scientist.”