Our Child of the Stars

by Stephen Cox

  The library closed, his colleagues left, and Gene occupied himself with a back issue of Witness, skipping the editorials, admiring the photography and skimming the articles that took his interest. He planned to walk, although he hated carrying his guitar in its scuffed case; people always joshed him, asking for a song. He always joked that he’d learned it to attract girls, but then he found Molly before he’d got any good. You could stick him in front of a stranger and he could give a fulsome book report or talk about the town history without fear. But play or sing to someone he didn’t know? It made his chest tighten and his pulse race.

  Gene sat looking out of the window. Founders Green was once kept as neat as a golf course. He remembered his ears ringing on Meteor Day and how the solid stone library had bucked and the windows cracked. Now Meteornauts took photos of the giant fragment buried in the ground, ignoring the drizzle. In the solid pages of the Hermes and around the tables in Francine’s, the town argued about what to do with this rock and who should pay. Mayor Rourke wanted a memorial to the dead and a museum for the tourists, something to bring more jobs, so no one would be digging up the rock without his say-so.

  Gene bit a fingernail. He had two big fears: that he’d turn up to the hospital and Molly would say, ‘Surprise!’ and the others would come out laughing – or they’d show him the child, the unbelievable bomb that had dropped into their lives. Molly needed him to fall in love with the child so badly it hurt. If the child wasn’t true . . . well, he didn’t know where that left him, or his marriage. They’d made it through the dark years so far, but now he was scared. He thought they’d turned the corner these last few months. The war against the drink – well, they were surviving that, not winning, but at least they were fighting it together. There were small, tender wonders in Amber Grove: the return of her smile, the return to making love, the return to her jokes.

  Now it was time for the truth.

  Gene locked the library door, picked up his guitar and set out into the early evening dark and drizzle.

  At the hospital side door, he put on the Volunteer armband as if it conveyed some sort of magical protection. His pulse was up, his stomach unsettled. He walked up the stairs and there was Sister Pearce, the short, ferocious one.

  ‘She was specifically ordered not to tell you,’ she said.

  He shrugged. ‘Try being married to her.’

  The woman gave a cold smile, then turned and led him along a corridor.

  He noticed a sign on a door:

  LABORATORY.

  NO UNAUTHORISED ADMITTANCE.

  USE GROUND FLOOR LABS, EAST WING.

  DR JARMAN

  Sister Pearce stopped and said, ‘Mice, guinea pigs, frogs and goldfish – none of them hurt by any of his bugs. So far at least.’ She harrumphed. ‘Doesn’t mean his bugs can’t wipe out the human race.’

  They walked through a storeroom; she unlocked a door and ushered him into what turned out to be an outer room with an inner glass door to a much larger room beyond. All he could see was his wife, uniformed and masked.

  Molly had already explained the anti-infection procedures, but Sister Pearce ran through it all again while Gene stripped off his rain-speckled outer clothes.

  ‘You can watch his blood kill human bacteria in real time, but we can’t test every possible danger. Jarman is worried about viruses. The boy’s DNA seems similar to ours.’

  She looked at the guitar case like it was a rattlesnake, then opened it and wiped the instrument down with a sharp-smelling cloth.

  ‘Surgical gloves,’ she said, holding out a pair.

  ‘I can’t wear gloves and play,’ he protested.

  She waved them. ‘Surgeons remove brain tumours from children wearing these gloves.’

  He decided not to mention the books.

  No amount of words, no crayoned sketches or breathless descriptions had prepared him for what was waiting in the inner room. The creature sat cross-legged on the bed; he coughed and his tail twitched. Those big violet eyes focused on the guitar and the purplish-red tentacles danced like some exotic seaweed from National Geographic. Gene tried to hide his shudder. The eyes were beautiful, but not in a human way, and that face gave him the same unease in his gut as seeing his grandfather dead and made up in the open casket.

  Of course it was an alien. The disturbing child in T-shirt and shorts had wires sticking everywhere. Molly went to sit by his side and even from that distance he could see her eyes above the mask were looking worried – but she had to realise how strange this was for him, how difficult. This creature belonged under alien skies unspeakable distances away.

  I’m not ready.

  He took a breath. ‘Hi, little guy. I’m Gene.’ He sat down and showed the boy the guitar.

  The boy started to rock a little. ‘Pleese-pleese-pleese,’ he said, clapping with each word. He seemed all nerves too.

  Ridiculous, thought Gene. How can you tell what an alien with no real face is thinking? He fumbled a note or two and launched into – what an idiot! – ‘We Shall Overcome’.

  Molly sang along and the alien swayed in time, and after a bit he joined in with fluting noises, wordless notes in harmony. He sure had good pitch.

  ‘Good-good-more-pleeese.’

  No one had ever written a book about this. In that tucked-away corner of the hospital, Gene invented three new choruses, singing, ‘Humans and aliens together . . . some daaay-ay-ay-ay-ay . . .’

  Then he tried ‘Puff the Magic Dragon’, thinking he should’ve brought that kids’ song-book they’d never used.

  ‘What-meeen?’ asked the boy.

  Lord knows how people argued over that.

  Those big eyes gripped him with their weird beauty. That odd skull. The tentacles weren’t like worms really, much more like fronds of a sea anemone. Molly insisted they were neither cold nor slimy.

  He pulled himself together and flashed Molly a sign with one hand: three fingers. Three meant, not bad.

  She growled.

  Gene said, ‘We can explain his looks. We’ll say he takes after your mother.’

  Molly cuffed him. ‘You monster, this is serious.’ She’s all nerves, he realised; that stiffness is her hiding it. She’d been living with this all those weeks without telling him, frightened of his response, just bluffing away.

  He launched into ‘Better Times’ and the alien – Cory – clapped along with those strange paws – hands. They got two verses in before he realised that Molly was wiping her eyes.

  ‘I’m ridiculous. Crying doesn’t mean anything to them,’ she said to Gene, then, ‘It means I’m happy, Cory.’

  ‘Yes-yes. Cory-home-with-Molly-and-Geeene. Sooooon.’

  ‘When we can, sweetie-pie.’

  Gene looked at her.

  ‘Jarman’s building an isolation unit in his house. I’d have to live in, like a housekeeper – maybe we could rent our place and live at his, free, of course. He’s even got a car to lend us.’

  But Gene knew Molly had another plan; he’d found rolls of thick plastic sheeting and hospital disinfectant. Medical equipment catalogues. Two unexplained tins of blue paint, enough to redo the back bedroom with the sunshine-yellow walls. They kept that door locked, as if to keep the memories trapped inside it. She’d always said blue for a boy.

  Where else would Molly want her son to live?

  Gene wasn’t going to talk about that now, not here.

  Cory was staring at the guitar like he might lick it. He moved those odd hands and after a burst of his language, a flurry of clicks, said, ‘Cory-do?’

  Gene vowed to take Molly through every rational objection. Yes, the kid was an orphan, yes, it needed love like any child, yes, it talked and could sing in tune – but this was crazy! Just the three of them, maybe for years, maybe for ever, against the whole world? Every man’s hand would be raised against them if it got o
ut. And this was not a healthy child, but one who might die at the first mistake they made. The child was so very different – a child he might not learn to love. Molly must see sense. It was down to him to be the realist, to be firm. This wasn’t their problem. And he wasn’t ready to be a father.

  Inside, a little voice said, But she loves him, and she needs you too.

  Yeah yeah yeah . . .

  CHAPTER 9

  Making plans

  They had to find things to feed Cory, as the alien meal pouches were running low. They had been trialling one human item at a time, the alien drug for anaphylactic shock at the ready, smelling his rations and trying to recreate smells and textures. Rice, eggs, bread and applesauce were all acceptable. Sardines mashed with peas had gone down well; he’d asked for that again. Molly, thinking of his dreams, had tried canned clams; they’d worked too. He liked cheese, but it gave him diarrhoea.

  That lunchtime she’d made Cory an honest-to-goodness chicken sandwich; he’d sniffed it solemnly, looking at her, before slowly chewing a corner. Then he’d eaten the whole thing and four hours after, he still hadn’t thrown up, so they added chicken to the list. He got odd purple rashes, but they went in hours, not days. The humans around him dared to hope he might be able to live safely on Earth. His colour was consistent now, and he wanted to exercise, which he did in strange jerky moves. And he wanted to talk, talk, talk.

  ‘He’s getting well,’ Molly said.

  Dr Jarman looked edgy, like a boy wanting to ask her on a date. ‘Molly, did you take the old air-pump?’

  Molly froze. ‘What makes you think that?’

  Jarman sighed.

  He doesn’t want to confront me, she thought, holding his gaze until his eyes dropped. She saw the flicker of knowledge on his face.

  He said, ‘You’re building your own isolation unit. You want to take him to your house.’ That curious smile hid anger. ‘I have plenty of space, and research facilities – a little palace. And you’re working behind my back.’

  ‘Cory needs a home,’ Molly said serenely. She hadn’t felt like this for years. ‘You’re only offering him a nicer, more comfortable lab.’

  ‘Molly, he’ll expect you to be there. You’ll have a key, and your own room. You’ll be his main carer . . .’

  Not a carer; she would be his mother. The word fitted, and it made her powerful. With another smile, she said, ‘We’ll give him a family, not a rota. Bless you for all you’ve done for him, but he’s coming home.’

  He stared. ‘I won’t allow it. We don’t know it’s safe—’

  ‘Let’s ask him,’ Molly said. ‘Let him decide. It’s Cory’s life.’

  ‘You’re being absurd.’ He fell silent.

  From inside the room came the sounds of hooting joy. Molly and Jarman turned to look through the glass door. Cory rolled the dice and moved his piece around the game-board in big exaggerated hops, counting in English. Pearce looked different when she was playing with him. Cory waved his hands over the board and Pearce laughed, trying the same odd motion.

  Yesterday Molly had found herself chatting to Sister, who was very private outside the fierce discipline of her work.

  ‘You could come to Mass with me on Sunday,’ Pearce had said.

  Molly judged Pearce’s expression and decided it was a diplomatic opening of some sort. ‘It’s been a long time,’ she said, politely.

  Pearce shrugged. ‘I bring my aunt. She’s very frail, and confused by the changes in the church. Then we go for a little walk, or a coffee or something. You’re probably busy.’

  ‘Well, maybe we could meet afterwards?’ Molly knew she needed Pearce on her side.

  ‘Call me Rosa. Off-duty.’

  Now, looking at the laughing child, she knew she hadn’t yet won, but she was looking forward to the battle.

  *

  The following evening, when Gene came to the hidden rooms, Molly watched Cory hurl himself into Gene’s arms, and how natural the embrace looked. The man and the boy had been so awkward together that first week, so uncertain, and it had worried her.

  ‘Hello-hello Geeeeen. Read and sing and wash. Why no geetar now? Why sixty minutes hour . . . why twenty-four hours day? What banjo meeen?’

  Molly needed to go scavenging. Jarman could disapprove all he wanted but she needed supplies and she knew how to get them. She told Cory she’d be back in a bit and went a-roving through the hospital she knew like her own home.

  It always felt very different when visitors and day-cases were gone. Her route took her through the west wing, then along the main corridor on the ground floor, where just a few people were dawdling ahead of her. It was safe, familiar—

  —when suddenly men started shouting and somewhere up ahead a high voice shrieked – and into the hall trotted soldiers, rifles held across their chests.

  Molly’s heart jumped. No no no! Weapons in the hospital felt so very wrong. A male voice barked, ‘Secure the building!’ and men in dark suits followed the soldiers towards the stairs and the elevators.

  She wanted to flee, but she needed to understand the danger. In front of her, two orderlies and their grey patients in wheelchairs stared at the spectacle. Molly moved to the side of the corridor, hoping to see but somehow not be seen.

  And there was the grim truth: in the centre of the hall stood Dr Jarman, stiff-backed and defiant. His arms were awkwardly positioned behind him and she realised he was handcuffed. Dr Pfeiffer, in a raincoat, had his back to Molly, but she could see he was waving his fists. And a few steps behind Pfeiffer, a tissue to her eyes, was Nurse Hooton. A stern woman beside her wore a uniform Molly didn’t recognise.

  She was finding it hard to take it all in. Pfeiffer’s ugly voice, raised almost to a shout, was unmistakable. ‘This is obstruction, this is theft, this is treason,’ he repeated. ‘What did you hide? Where are your notes? Tell us everything—’

  ‘I’d like a lawyer,’ Jarman said, calm and forceful, projecting his voice. His eyes caught Molly’s just for a second. He showed no recognition, but his head twitched a little: Go! Take Cory!

  Only one thing mattered now: she needed to keep Cory safe.

  Pfeiffer snapped, ‘Major, stop these people staring. Disperse them.’

  Her heart thundered but she needed not to show it. She turned and walked away, busy, but not too busy. Running would look suspicious. There were dozens of soldiers swarming the hall. She had to find a phone – she had to warn Gene . . .

  Had they been betrayed? Were more troops on the way? Did they know exactly where to look? She wouldn’t think of Jarman, who’d saved Cory’s life; she couldn’t help him now.

  Her heart skipped a beat: there were soldiers ahead of her too, guarding the ambulance entrance. Were there enough of them to guard every exit? Out in the parking lot, she saw camouflaged trucks and yet more uniformed men. She stilled her face and walked into a deserted clinic. Her hand trembling just a little, she picked up the phone and dialled the extension number that was listed nowhere but rang in the outer room of Cory’s hiding place. Ring four times, pause and call again. Four, pause, four meant safe to answer. Stay calm, she told herself, keep breathing and get on with it.

  Time was passing and Gene didn’t answer. There were a dozen reasons he mightn’t pick up. Two rings, pause, two rings, stop. That was the alarm.

  For a moment, sheer fright held her: so many of them – what could she and Gene do? There was no time to lose.

  The hospital grounds were surrounded by a wall. The southwest gate was for patients and visitors; the east gate for staff and deliveries. It was a trivial matter to block and guard both exits; there wasn’t any way to get Cory to their car without being seen. Surely they’d search every vehicle trying to leave? That left the long-disused, locked north gate. She got to the foot of the stairs and took them two at a time.

  She turned on no lights, closed all doo
rs quietly behind her and wherever she could, she ran. It felt like an age, but at last she reached the door to the hidden rooms. When she opened the outer door, she saw Gene hurling books and Cory’s clothes into his hiker’s backpack while Cory shuffled his drawings into a neat pile. His ears were right down.

  ‘Soldiers and trucks,’ Gene said. ‘We saw them through the window. Molly, we have to take everything – we can’t let them guess he was here.’

  Molly put on her gloves, mask, apron. ‘Jarman’s been arrested. I’ll get Cory’s medicine box and the notes.’

  ‘What-mean-bad-men?’ said Cory. ‘Molleee what-mean arrr-rest-ed? What sowl-jers?’

  ‘Don’t worry, sweetie-pie, it’ll be fine,’ Molly said, opening the inner door. ‘We’re going on an adventure: a drive outside.’

  ‘Where’s the car?’ Gene said.

  ‘It’s in the staff parking lot. We can’t take him out there, there’ll be soldiers. We’ll have to use the maintenance truck.’

  ‘Go-out?’ Cory asked, outer tentacles waving. The little inner tentacles slipped into his mouth, a bad sign, but those huge violet eyes looked hopeful. Going outside was Cory’s dream. ‘Driiive in truck?’

  ‘It’s a surprise,’ she said. ‘A lovely surprise.’

  So far, all their lab tests had been largely reassuring, but they didn’t know if letting him out was safe – for him, or for the world. His little room at home wasn’t ready. And yet . . . what else could they do?

  She took a deep breath. ‘Let’s take him home,’ she said to Gene, her voice firm, brooking no argument.

  Gene continued ramming things into pillowcases while they talked. ‘They’ll figure out who might be involved – they’ll soon be after us.’

  ‘Well, we can’t stay here, can we?’ She glared at him, then went back to checking items off her list on the wall. Did he expect to hide the boy in a tent in the woods?

  They’d planned for this, of course. She bundled Cory into the sterile carrier they’d concocted, a plastic-lined wicker laundry basket on wheels. After weeks of fiddling, they’d got the fishbowl helmet working again and attached to an oxygen tank.