Residential Aliens - Issue 4.11

by ResAliens Press

  Douglass pulled the truck over to the side of the road and turned off the engine. His heart was booming in his chest, setting a rhythm to the ever-present humming inside the cab. The purple blobs seemed to make a crackling sound as they flew around his head. He felt a warm tingle on his scalp each time one of their luminous wings brushed against his head.

  Got to get some rest, he muttered. His voice seemed to come from behind him and had a strange metallic quality to it, as though he had spoken whilst gargling electrified coins. He shook his head, and it felt as though it was slowly coming loose from his neck. He desperately reached forwards to grab the steering wheel, needing something real and solid to hold onto. His jaw swung open as his hands splayed before him. They were luminous yellow threads of light, humming as he moved them from left to right. He looked down, his head lolling forwards as though his spine was a string of soft warm putty.

  Is this how it feels to die? he thought. The sweat induced by the panic of this notion crackled over his slowly sublimating form, producing no tactile sensation, other than that of a cool, dry breeze. He could see the ruffled shape of his black boiler suit draped limply over the yellow and green that was slowly permeating the dull material. His mouth felt as though it was filling up with tin foil, and yet somewhere on his palate he was aware of a dense sweetness. The warm buzzing from his hands had now spread up through his shoulders and into his chest. His tongue tingled against the roof of his mouth before he felt it widen and then spread out into the cab in vibrant orange tendrils.

  His panic was yielding to this marvel, a feeling that increased as he suddenly became aware of a pulsing red glow around what he used to call a stomach. He knew this shrinking sphere of light, layered beneath the gently oscillating yellows and greens and blues of his form was his panic, and that his marvel was now the pink luminescence that rippled from and around him.

  He reached for the door on the driver’s side, which was now two large blue spheres of light sitting on top of each other like canoodling moons. The yellow glimmer of his hand passed into the blue moons, and he gasped at the tingling pleasure that coursed across his being. The sound as he released his breath filled his senses, cooling him against the heat of the day, and his instinctive need to hold something palpable began to gently disintegrate with his physicality. He drifted through the moons and out of the truck, but the gravel-strewn lay-by was gone, replaced with a bright humming prism of infinity. His marvel had evolved into something like calm, but even this was now ebbing away, slowly shifting to become—and make way for—the endless flux of nameless sensations that he was to be.

  He twirled around slowly to perceive the box that he had floated from, but all that was there now was an ephemeral kaleidoscope of nebulous beauty. He let the light of his left ear float off towards a bright purple rose in an invisible distance, sharing its journey as it drifted many miles away from him to explore this eternal languid ecstasy. His legs dissolved into yellow threads of light, that then widened and floated away to make new shapes and colours. The molecules of his being bloomed into a majestic sedation. The smell of summer rain on sun-scorched tarmac coalesced with the light of his being, coiling into his brilliance until it was a part of him. He had notions of a hot little prison made of dullness and absolutes, but he couldn’t remember what it was called, or even whether this was memory or creation. He sensed removed beings too, distant entities that were in some way linked to him. But these patterns of sensation slowly fragmented, slipping away to become something brighter; their faces and names dissipating into the tingling ether that was now his existence. Maybe he had imagined them all. Maybe they were just another piece of transient beauty, woven from the Fluttering Flies.

  Copyright 2010 by Gary Raven

  Gary Raven crafts nightmarish worlds and lures us in to stay as long as we dare. The British author is published both in print and online and is currently working on his first collection of stories, Red Mass.

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  PLAGUE SHIP

  by Kurt Heinrich Hyatt

  The wind swept through the city, exhaling a halitosis of smoke and dust and chemical waste. It genied about the dozer, greedily sucking the plume of exhaust from the stack as the engine cranked up. Ignoring the wind, the dozer dropped its wide shovel blade and advanced on the pile of bodies. Sparks danced as steel kissed concrete and dug into the mound of torsos, heads, arms, and legs, pushing them over the edge of the pit to soundlessly tumble onto the growing heap of stiffening limbs and anguished, staring eyes.

  “Thus are gathered who sin and heed not the will of Valgloom,” declared the Kloakan priest, extending a clawlike hand to the birds circling the pit. The wind snapped the black robe around him, eyes pink coals beneath the cowl. “And many more will perish until the hour of his judgment when the Chosen shall stand forth!”

  The dozer grumbled contentedly and backed away from the pit, checkering the concrete with bloody prints of treads. A red beam arched from nowhere and the pit erupted in a flash of hot incandescence, the stacked bodies vanishing.

  The priest savored the rising column of smoke. “Blessed be the holy circuits of Valgloom, hallowed be his sacred diodes,” he intoned. “As prophesied by Prif, the Sniffer of Powders, the day of reward awaits the faithful who prepare to—”

  “—Pass around the collection plate.” Risole pulled the cigar stub from his vest pocket and grinned thinly at the scene beyond the grimy plastoid far below. He turned and eyed the dejected group in the lines before the departure gates. All outworlders like himself, he mused, trapped on Kloak by the disease that was knocking off pinkeyes like pawns in a fast game of so-do, clutching forms and paperwork with eyes fear-bright. Guards toting needleguns slouched by the gate leading to the launch terminal.

  Another gust of smoke boiled from the pit. Risole watched it swirl against the clouds. Like the clouds of another day. He let himself drift to that moment of chrysalis.

  ~*~

  “He’s coming around. Pump another cc of interfix into him, orderly.” The smoke surrounding him was etched with flashes of red pain. Shapes took drifting form and became a circle of white uniforms.

  “Okay, Corporal, sign here on the dotted line.”

  A clipboard swam before his eyes, dazzling him with the reflection of an overhead lightbar. “What…sign what?” he mumbled, gagging on a wad of congealed blood and broken teeth.

  “This release form, Corporal. The frag beam that took out your ship at the invasion made raspberry mush of your body. We have to transfer your sentience to a cybernetic andrex.”

  With an effort Risole focused on the holder of the clipboard. “Why can’t I be patched up? I don’t feel all that bad,” he croaked.

  “Are you kidding? My lead hypo man puked all over the floor when you were wheeled in.”

  Another body lay on a table beside him flanked by a looming mass of equipment. He stared at the nondescript protoflesh face and realized he had seen it everywhere, from loading docks on Ganymede to space bars on Dropoff. The standard andrex profile: blond, cleft chin, steel blue eyes.

  “This is your lucky day, Corporal. The warehouse ran out of enlisted men’s units so you get the officer’s model, the 25J. This baby has taste, smell, and one hell of a protoflesh hard-on, guaranteed to keep the old lady down on the farm. You married, Corporal?”

  Naked fear shafted through the paingas fog. “But I don’t wanna be a model 25J,” Risole moaned. “I wanna be me!”

  “Your bioreadings are dropping fast, Corporal. Better sign, ticky-boo.” Clipboard and attached servipen hovered in the gathering fog. “What’ll it be, soldier? A shiny new 25J…or a body bag?”

  ~*~

  “Next applicant, please.”

  Risole tucked the cigar back into his vest and moved up to the window. In the cubicle beyond, the Kloakan clerk brooded over a desk piled high with datatapes, gazing at a viscreen as if pondering an oracle. Risole dropped a stack of forms on the counter.

  “Well, her
e they are, pal, forms DD214 through ZZ500, notarized, testified, and plagiarized in triplicate,” he declared. “Now are you gonna let me get the hell off this planet?”

  The Kloakan looked up from the viscreen and surveyed Risole bleakly, drooping jowls and pink eyes exuding melancholia. “I am familiar with the paperwork, Mr. Risole. Please be patient.”

  “Yeah, well I’ve been patiently filling out forms and cooling my heels for the last six cycles,” he retorted. “I came down here and worked for you people, got your machines fixed and topped off my contract. Now I wanna go home to Earth.”

  “All you outworlders want to go home, I’m afraid. But let me remind you, Kloak is a plague world, under interplanetary blockade and quarantine.” He lifted Risole’s application and ran a pensive glance across it. “Earth has only a small amount of shuttle craft willing to evacuate non-indigenous life forms. We have diplomats and technicians on the wait list and I see here you are merely a mechanic.”

  “Merely a mechanic, huh?” Risole retrieved his cigar stub and jammed it between his teeth. “Next time the plasma hydros go out on one of your big ore freighters four tabs after liftoff you just call in a diplomat and toss him some tools. Then see what happens.”

  The clerk lifted a restraining hand. “Mr. Risole, try to see things as a Kloakan. We are a race dying of an unknown disease, shunned by all sentient worlds, our government collapsing in despair and our people maddened by religious fanaticism. We deserve your understanding and compassion.”

  Risole fired up his lectroflash and blew a plume of smoke at the ceiling. “So what’s my number on the wait list to leave this paradise, if you’ll pardon my sarcasm.”

  “Not at all. You are number 5016 on the evacuation wait list of 9862.”

  “Golly, I’d better stampede back to my squalid living quarters and hurriedly pack.” He dropped his cigar butt on the carpet and stepped on it. “Thanks a lot for your kind attention.”

  Wind blew grit against the viewport of the waiting hall. Another flash from the cremation pit painted the side of Risole’s face red while he struggled into his storm jacket. The crackpot of a priest was still ranting, playing on hopes and fears. Several more rejectees trudged in from the departure terminal and lined up before the racks.

  “Excuse me, I think that’s my face filter under your dust goggles.” The woman behind him was petite, wearing antique eyeglasses over dark observant eyes. Dusky complexion, black pageboy hairdo. Hispanic background somewhere, Risole guessed.

  “Got the old steel-toed number ten from the terminal bureaucrats, huh?” he commented affably. “How low was your wait number?”

  She turned and studied him. “My wait number?”

  “Yeah, your name on the wait list for a ship outta here.”

  “I’m not on the list,” she replied. “I already have access to a ship, although it may as well be a pile of slag. What I needed from the Terminal Commission was an authorization for a mechanic to repair the hyperdrive system. They handed me a wad of forms to fill out and put me on the service list, of course. Cooperation was never a trait of Kloakans—” She paused at the sight of Risole’s widening grin and stared. A smile of dawning realization crept over her face. “You wouldn’t happen to be a mechanic, would you?” she asked tentatively. “Timephase certified for a Class IX Terran shuttle?”

  Risole swung the goggles from a finger and grinned even wider. “I’m here to tell you I can fix anything but a bad attitude.” He held out his hand. “Jay Risole, at your service.”

  “Dr. Blanca Marina.” Her hand was tiny and warm, firm with a man’s grip. “Perhaps we could work something out. My office is at the Madon Clinic.”

  “Didn’t that used to be called the Kloakan General Hospital?”

  “Not anymore,” she answered, reaching for her atmosphere suit. “The Director and his committee died of the plague. Madon Interplanetary Realty took over ownership.”

  He nodded. “I suppose the director and his boys were pinkeyes?”

  The corners of her mouth turned down, eyes disapproving.

  “I regard the word pinkeye as a derogatory term, Mr. Risole. I believe the correct term is Kloakan.”

  Risole smiled. “Yes, ma’am. I consider myself suitably rebuked.”

  “Shall we say after two this afternoon?”

  ~*~

  Climbing out of the cab Risole handed the fare to the Kloakan driver, pink eyes somber above the protective facemask. Most of the Kloakans passing him on the walkway weren’t wearing them. Maybe they figured out masks were a futile gesture considering the death ratio. He walked up to the counter.

  “Excuse me, but shouldn’t you at least be wearing a facemask?” The clinic receptionist was wearing one, plus gloves and a full atmosphere suit. The eyes behind the faceplate looked female and incredulous.

  “No ma’am, don’t need it,” Risole assured her.

  The faceplate leaned closer. “You’re an andrex?”

  “Yep, made from the finest protoflesh, nuts, bolts, and staples.”

  “Oh, I see…can I help you?”

  “Hope so. I’m here to see Dr. Marina.”

  “You would be Mr. Risole.” She waved a glove over her shoulder. “Down the hall, turn right at the isolation ward, first door on the left.”

  His boots squeaked on the polished linoleum. Traffic in the hallway was sparse, humans encased in atmosphere suits, Kloakans in masks and gloves. They all stared at him, edging away.

  Halfway down the hall he passed a long window. Beyond the glass was a vast ward, blindingly lit, rows of beds holding sheeted Kloakans. White-suited figures moved among them, adjusting tubes, checking the readouts from blinking machines. An occupant was being eased into a black body bag. Against the far wall was a stack of filled body bags. Lots of them.

  “Please take a seat, Mr. Risole. I’ll be with you in a minute.” Dr. Marina sat behind the largest desk he had seen outside a museum. Probably a twenty-first century antique. Her I-love-me-wall was hung with awards and certificates. There was a framed photo of her in a karate gi. Now that was interesting.

  “Now then.” She dropped a stack of reports in a basket and leaned forward, steepling her fingers. “Down to business. You want transport off Kloak and we have a ship which needs expert repairs.”

  “Well, I didn’t come all the way down here for a prostate exam,” Risole remarked. He reached for a cigar in his vest then thought better of it under that basilisk gaze. “When are you planning on leaving?”

  “Hopefully in two days, sooner if you can correct the problem with the hyperdrive. I think that’s what they called it.”

  “Yeah, I’ve done lots of work on them in the Service.” He leaned back in his seat. “You can start loading your passengers and goodies aboard and get your evacuation permit dated and signed.”

  “We don’t have an evacuation permit at this time.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Dr. Marina adjusted the glasses on her nose. “Did you happen to glance at the isolation ward on your way here, Mr. Risole?”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “The plague on Kloak has so far killed two thirds of the population. Their mortality rate is 83.4 per cent. Do you know that the mortality rate for humans is 98.2 percent? The bubonic plague or the ebola virus is a mild case of the flu compared to it.”

  “I know that’s a rough deal but—”

  “Will you please allow me to finish, Mr. Risole?” The eyes on him were luminous. Looking at her a thought came out of nowhere that she would probably be quite a handful in bed. “I have years of research in the disease and a sample of the virus. If we can get those to the advanced labs on Earth I believe the virologists there can come up with a vaccine.” She was gaining momentum, like a snowball pushed from the top of a mountain. “The problem is, I can’t convince the Kloakan Council how urgent it is to move me up the evacuation list. The only ones immune to the plague are the Madons and they are moving into the planet and buying up every asset left by a de
ceased Kloakan.” She paused, her face flushed. “As far as leaving Kloak, that’s not a problem. We have a plan.”

  “Oh, you have a plan?” Risole retorted. “Skuzzy Hines had a plan too when his timephase calculator went on the fritz. Came out of warp to find himself in the middle of a sun.” He waited for a riposte that didn’t come. Instead she leaned back, looking at him as if he were a patient terminally late for a scheduled appointment.

  “How long have you been number 5016 on the evacuation wait list?” she asked.

  That stopped him. If she knew that then the Kloakans at the immigration office knew. Andrexes didn’t get the plague. He might be number 5016 on the wait list for a very long time. Like forever.

  “If it’s a problem with the hyperdrive I can have it back online in a few hours. Who else is going with us?”

  “The ship is owned by Mr. Skeem. He and his associate are both Madons.” She pushed a card over the blotter, tapping it with a fingernail. “Be at this address at the main starport tomorrow morning with your tools, Risole. Do you have any further questions?”

  Risole eased himself up and leaned against the door. “Just one. Why does such a little sprout like you need such a big desk?”

  ~*~

  Ghost town. That’s what the main Kloakan space terminal reminded Risole of. Rows of assorted parked jumpships from assorted worlds waiting departure permits, decontamination, bribes to officialdom. He got directions from a lethargic Kloakan lounging by an empty baggage slider and found himself looking up at a sleek office tower. Madon Interplanetary Realty, LLC, was emblazoned over the entrance.

  “Ah, there you are at last!”

  Risole looked to see two Madons approaching, one tall and beaming, the other squat and sullan. Tweedledum and Tweedledee. He lowered his toolbelt to the asphalt.