Alien Influences

by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

  When the ship landed, John didn't move. He was crazy to go back, crazy to look at the past he had been avoiding. No job was worth that, especially a job he only half-believed in.

  You have to face your past, face yourself. And once you see clearly what happened and why, you must forgive yourself Only then will you be whole.

  Harper's voice. John shook himself, as if he could force the voice from his head. He had promised himself, when he left Lina Base on the penal ship, that he would never listen to Harper again.

  He had a job. His stay on Lina Base would be short.

  He drew himself to his full height and let himself out of his room. The pilot was at the door. She stopped moving when she saw him, her gaze wary. He nodded. She nodded back. Then he went out of the ship before her.

  The docking bay had shiny new walls and state-of-the-art flooring. But it smelled the same: dusty, tangy, harsh with chemical cleaners. He gripped the railing, cool against his hand.

  ...cringing in the back of the ship, safe behind the upholstered chairs. Voices urging him to get off, and he knowing they were going to kill him. They believed he had done something wrong, and he was going to get a punishment worse than any his parents could dish out....

  “You O.K.?” the pilot asked.

  He snapped back to the present. He was not twelve, not landing on Lina Base for the first time. He was an adult, a man who could handle himself.

  Down the stairs and into the base. No crowds this time, no holoteams, no reporters. No Harper, no savior, no friends beside him. Only ships and shuttles of various sizes. Lina Base had grown since the last time he had been there. Now it had three docking facilities instead of one. It was one of the main trading bases in the galaxy, and had grown instead of declined when the officials had closed Bountiful to any and all aliens. He stopped, remembered: If he went to one of the portals, he would be able to see Bountiful, its deserts and mountains etched across the surface like a painting, the Singing Sea adding a touch of blue to the art.

  Odd that he missed the place when, as a boy, all he had wanted to do was leave it.

  “You seriously O.K.?”

  “Yes.” He whirled, expecting his anger to deflate her concern. Then understood that she was speaking from obligation. He was her charge until he left the docking bay, and she didn't want the responsibility of handling him.

  “Then get to deck three for inspection and hosing. They need to clean this bay for other arrivals.”

  He nodded, felt a bit numb at her lack of concern. Procedures. After an outbreak of Malanian flu almost three decades before, Lina Base had become fanatic for keeping unwanted elements off the station. During his first visit here, he had been quarantined for three Earth months.

  He turned his back on the pilot, sought the elevator, and took it to a tiny corridor on deck three. There a blinking light indicated the room he was to use. He went inside.

  The room was better than the one they had given him as a child. This one had a couch, and a servo tray filled with beverages. He stripped, let the robot arms whisk away his clothes, and then stepped under the pale blue light in the corner of the room.

  Streams of light invaded his orifices, tickling with the warmth of their touch. He closed his eyes, holding himself still, knowing that, on some bases, they still used hand searches, and wondering how he could ever stand that when he found this procedure so invasive. When the light had finished, he stepped into the autodoc and let it search him for viruses, traces of alien matter, alien materials, and—probably—alien thought.

  Alien influences....

  A shiver ran through him. He had been twelve years old. Twelve years old and not realizing that what they had done was abnormal. Not human. Yet he was still human enough to feel terror at separation from all that he knew. Knowing, deep down, that the horror was only beginning.

  The autodoc was beeping, and, for a long moment, he was afraid it had found something. Then he realized that it wanted him to leave its little chamber. He stepped back into the main room and retrieved his clothes—now cleaned and purified—dressed, and pressed the map to find out where he was and where he wanted to be.

  VII

  John huddled in the shuttle records bay. Dark, cramped, smelling of sweat and skin oils, it was as familiar as any other place on the base. Only, this was a different kind of familiarity. Every base had a records bay. And every base had an operator like Donnie.

  He was small, wiry, scrawny enough to be comfortable in such a small place. His own stink didn't bother him—he was used to being alone. He monitored the traffic to and from the base, maintained licenses, and refused admittance if necessary.

  “Left just as you were docking,” he said. His lips barely parted, but his teeth were visible—half fake white, half rotted. “In a hurry, too. Gave ‘em the day's last slot.”

  The day's last slot. No other craft could be cleared for leaving, then, until the next day. John clenched his fists. So close.

  “Where did they go?”

  Donnie checked the hard copy, then punched a button. The display on the screen was almost unreadable. He punched another button, lower lip out, grimy fingers shaking.

  “Got a valid pass,” he mumbled.

  The shiver again, something a bit off. “Where?” John asked.

  “Bountiful.”

  The word shimmered through him. Heat, thin and dry; deep, flowery perfume; the rubbery feel of Dancer fingers...

  “You done?” Donnie asked.

  John took a deep breath, calmed himself. “You need to get me to Bountiful.”

  “Nope.” Donnie leaned back in the chair. “I know who you are. Even if Bountiful were open, I couldn't let you go there.”

  Trapped. This time outside Bountiful. John's fingernails dug into his palms. The pain kept him awake, sane. He made his voice sound calmer than he felt. “Where do I get the dispensation?”

  Donnie gazed at him, scared of nothing, so secure in his small world of records, passes. “Level five. But they won't help—”

  “They will,” John said.

  VIII

  He put in a call to Anita, told her to hurry, or she would never get her sculpture back. She would pull the strings and dole out the cash. He would spend his time digging out information about the traders.

  Lina Base's paranoia about its traders led to a wealth of information. He spent half an Earth day alone with a small computer linked up to the base's mainframe.

  And found the information he had already known, plus some. Lina Base was their main base of operation. They were well known, not popular. Two men worked with Minx: Dunnigan, trained as a linguist; and Carter, no formal training at all. The women, Parena and Nox, provided muscle and contacts. They had gotten the jobs on Calmium and Mina Base. And they had all hooked up twenty years ago.

  After Bountiful had been closed to aliens.

  When Minx had to expand his operation.

  When Salt Juice had become illegal.

  Salt Juice. That little piece of information sent ripples of fear through John. Food. He had to get food. Take care of himself. He stood, unable to stop his mind.

  Salt Juice had started it all.

  The very smell of it gave him tremors, made him revert, close all the doors on himself, close out the memories and the emotions and the pain. He would focus on the future for protection, Dancer-like, and no one—except Harper, base kiddie therapist—had been able to get in. The only way to keep himself intact, human, was to take care of his body so that the damaged part of his mind could recover.

  He went to the cafeteria.

  Wide, spacious, with long windows open to space, and hanging plants from all sides, the cafeteria gave him a feeling of safety. He ordered off the servo, picked his table, and ran the credit voucher through. His food appeared on the table almost before the voucher stopped running. He walked over, sat down, and sniffed.

  Roast chicken, steamed broccoli, mashed potatoes. Not a normal spacer's meal. Heaven. He made himself eat, feeling
the food warm the cold places inside him. As he nourished himself, he allowed his mind to roam.

  Salt Juice had been one of the most potent intoxicants in the galaxy. It was manufactured on Bountiful, using herbs grown by the Dancers. The main reason for the dispute with the Dancers was those herbs—and when the colony finally learned how to grow them without Dancer assistance, they tried to wipe out the Dancers.

  With the help of children. Poor misguided children. Lonely little children who wanted only to leave the hell they were trapped in.

  Once Lina Base discovered the scheme, Bountiful was closed. The best herbalists and chemists tried to manufacture Salt Juice away from the colony, but it proved impossible. A good thing. Later they learned that the drug everyone thought addiction-free had some nasty side effects.

  Minx traded in Salt Juice.

  Then Moon rocks, cats. Worthless cargo. But Calmium's northern water supply had a drug as pure as crystal meth. And the Minaran skin was poison that, taken in small amounts, induced a dangerous kind of high.

  The five were drug runners. Good, competent, skilled drug runners.

  So the bodeangenie had more than artistic value to them. It also had some kind of stimulant value. He leaned back. What kind, he was sure he would find out.

  IX

  But things happened too quickly. The call came from Anita. She had bought him a window—three Earth days—and she let him know that it had cost her a fortune. He smiled. He was glad to put her money to good use.

  He located the pilot, and together they flew to the place from which he had been banned for life.

  X

  Once again he sat in his room on the ship, far from the uncommunicative pilot. He was glad for the solitude, even on such a short trip. He hadn't been to Bountiful since he was twelve. Then he had hated the planet, wanted nothing more than to be free of it. But the freedom he obtained wasn't the freedom he had expected.

  The plastic frame dug into his forehead. Through the portal, he could see Bountiful, swirling away from him. They had isolated him, considering him the ringleader—and perhaps he was. He hadn't understood the depths of their anger. He was experimenting, as they had; only, he was trying to save the others....

  He sighed and walked to the portal. Bountiful loomed, dark and empty. Only five humans on the planet. Five humans and hundreds of Dancers, thousands of other species. After the announcement of the murders, the authorities had declared the planet unsafe and had closed it to all colonization. Even researchers needed special dispensation to go. The Dancers were too powerful, their thought too destructive. He shook his head. But the Dancers hadn't been the real problem. Salt Juice had.

  Without Salt Juice, the Dancers would never have become an endangered species. Without Salt Juice, the colony wouldn't have made money, and wouldn't have tried to protect that base by allowing ill-conceived killings to go on. The colonists had tried to blame the Dancers for the murders to exterminate the entire species; the intergalactic shock had been great when investigators discovered that the murderers were children.

  Salt Juice. He still remembered the fumes, the glazed looks in his parents’ eyes. Colonists weren't supposed to indulge—and none did—but they all suffered from Salt Juice intoxication because of their exposure during manufacturing. Perhaps if he had had a better lawyer, if the effects of Salt Juice had been better understood at the time, he would have gotten off, been put in rehabilitation instead of incarceration.

  A slight ponging warned him that the shuttle would land soon. He dug in his duffel and removed the sand scarf and some ointment. The woven material felt familiar, warm, a touch of the past. As children, they had stopped wearing sand scarves, and he had gotten so crisped by Bountiful's sun that he still had tan lines. He was older now, and wiser. He would wear the offered protection.

  His throat had gone dry. Three days alone on Bountiful. The pilot wouldn't stay—probably due to fear of him. John strapped himself in, knowing it was too late to turn back.

  The shuttle bumped and scuttled its way to a stop. Already the temperature inside had changed from cool to the kind of almost-cool developed when the outside air was extremely hot. John unstrapped himself, put on the sand scarf, and rubbed oil over his exposed skin. Then he slung the duffel over his back and got up and went into the flight deck.

  The pilot made an exasperated, fearful noise. John ignored her. Through the windows, he could see the salt cliffs and the Singing Sea. The shuttle landed where they had always landed, on the edge of the desert, half a day's walk from the colony itself. He realized with a shudder that no one lived on the planet but the natives. The five traders and the sand sculpture were the aliens here.

  He had no plan. He had been too lost in his memories.

  “Familiar?” the pilot asked. Her expression was wary. She knew his history. Perhaps she thought that once he set foot on the planet, he would pull out a Dancer ritual knife and slice off her hands and feet.

  He didn't answer her. “You're coming back in three days?’

  She nodded. Her hands were shaking on the controls. What kind of lies had the authorities made up about Bountiful to keep the curious away? That one touch of the desert sand would lead to madness? That one view of the Dancers would lead to murder?

  “Wait for me. Even if I'm not here right away, I'll be coming.” The words sounded hollow to his own ears. She nodded again, but he knew at that moment that she wouldn't wait. He would have to be here precisely on time or be stranded on Bountiful forever. Trapped.

  The child inside him shivered.

  He tugged on the duffel strap, adjusting it, and let himself out. A hot, dry breeze caressed his face. The air smelled like flowers, decaying flowers too long in the sun. Twelve years of memories, familiarity, and fear rose within him—and suddenly he didn't want to be here anymore. He turned to the shuttle, but the bay door had already closed. He reached up to flag her down—and turned the gesture into a wave. He was not twelve anymore. The adults were gone. The colony was gone. He was the adult now, and he wouldn't let himself down.

  XI

  The traders had made a brilliant decision to come to Bountiful with the wind sculpture. Here they had a ready-made empty colony, a desert filled with sand, and winds aplenty. They could experiment until they were able to duplicate whatever effect they needed, or they could use the planet as a base from which to travel back to Bodean. No one would have caught on if Anita hadn't started the search for her sculpture.

  The colony's dome shone like a glass in the sunlight. The walk wasn't as long as John remembered. Still, he would have loved an air car. Air cars had always been forbidden here; they destroyed the desert's delicate ecological balance.

  He stopped in front of the dome, stunned to see it covered with little sand particles. In another generation the dome would be a mound of sand, with no indication that anything had ever existed beneath it. The desert reclaimed its own.

  He brushed the sand aside, feeling the grains cling to the oil on his skin. The dome was hot, hotter than he cared to touch, but still he felt for the fingerholds that he knew would be there.

  And found them. Smaller than he remembered, and filled with sand, but there. He tugged, and, with a groan, the section moved. He slipped inside, bumping his head on the surface. He was a man now, not a boy, and crawling through small spaces wasn't as easy as it used to be.

  Once inside, he closed the hatch and took a deep breath. The air wasn't stale as he had expected it to be. It tasted metallic, dusty, like air from a machine that had been turned off for a long time. Decades, probably.

  The traders had been in here. Of course they would know that the dome could be breached from the outside. Bountiful's colonists had had a terror of being trapped in the desert.

  All he had to do was go to the municipal building, and track them from there. So easy. They would have to wait three lousy Earth days together for the shuttle pilot to return.

  He turned onto a street and started walking. He had made it halfway down t
he block, before the things he saw registered and his emotions stopped him.

  The houses hadn't collapsed. They were old-time regulation colony homes, built for short term, but used on Bountiful for nearly a century. The lawns were dead. Brown hulks of plants remained, crumbling now that the air had come back on.

  The lawns, the gardens, had been the colonists’ joy. They were so pleased that they had been able to tame this little space of land, turn it into their ideal of Earth. Plastic homes with no windows, and Earth flowers everywhere. The dome used to change color with the quality of the light: sometimes gray, sometimes blue, sometimes an odd sepia to protect the colonists from the UV rays.

  All of that gone now. No voices, no hum of the Salt Juice factory, no movement. Just John on a long, empty street, facing long, empty ghosts.

  There, on the house to the left, he and the other children had placed Michael Dengler's body. He had been the last one, the true failure. It had seemed so logical that if they removed his head along with his hands, his heart, and his lungs, he would grow taller and stronger than the adults. But like the others, he didn't grow at all.

  John sunk to the ground, wrapped his arms around his head as if he could shield himself from his own memories. He and the others weren't covered under the Alien Influences Act. They weren't crazy. They were, according to the prosecuting attorney, evil children with an evil plan.

  All they had wanted to do was escape. And they thought the Dancers held the secret to that escape.

  He remembered huddling behind the canopied trees, watching the Dancer puberty ritual, thinking it made so much sense: remove the hands, the heart, and the lungs so that the new ones would grow in. He was on a different planet now, the third generation born in a new place. Of course, he wasn't growing up. He wasn't following the traditions of the new world.

  The attorneys asked him, over and over: if he believed that, why hadn't he gone first? He had wanted to go last, thinking that to be the ultimate sacrifice. Dancer children didn't move for days. He didn't understand the adult reaction—the children weren't dead; they were growing new limbs. Or at least, that was what he had thought. Until Michael Dengler. Then John understood what he had done.