Our Child of the Stars

by Stephen Cox

‘In a bit, I’ll show you the attic. That’s an exciting place.’ That’s where they’d hide him if anyone came; there was a crawlspace no grown person could get into.

  His bedroom was blue, of course, with silver stars glued to the ceiling. Inside, they had constructed an inner room of plastic sheets with the air pump and filtration system spatchcocked so he could live in a clean bubble. It wasn’t right; it needed more love to be a bedroom and more equipment to be a proper isolation unit, but they hadn’t expected to need it so soon.

  Cory rolled on the bed while they tried to figure out their next steps.

  ‘Maybe we should leave town?’ Gene suggested. They’d have to use the pickup with Amber County Hospital on the side as their car was still at the hospital, guarded by soldiers. Maybe they could borrow Janice’s car?

  ‘If Hooton is their source, they don’t know he’s alive.’ Molly was clinging to that. ‘We’ll just have to bluff. Stow the truck somewhere out of the way.’

  Cory was tired; his eyes were drifting shut and his head bobbing, beyond eating. ‘Get him to bed,’ Gene said. ‘I’ll put the truck in the garage for now.’ Halfway through the first lullaby, she felt him slip into sleep. She wanted to join him, exhausted, but they needed to plan.

  When Gene eventually rapped on the door – shave and a haircut, two bits – Molly was almost frantic. ‘What took you so long?’ she whispered, pulling him inside.

  ‘Young Mrs Hardesty caught me. When will we tidy up the yard? Yak yak yak . . . But I’ve been thinking: we need to get on the road while we still can.’ He rubbed his forehead. ‘They’ll come, tonight or tomorrow. It won’t take them long to figure out which staff were involved . . . The truck is a smoking gun.’

  Running away would be a blazing cross of guilt, of course. It would mean losing their friends, the house, everything they’d worked for . . . and with Dr Jarman in jail, the only doctor who knew anything about keeping Cory alive . . .

  ‘Where would we even go?’ she said, as if they’d not had the discussion before, dozens of times.

  ‘Oh, it’s a big country,’ he said, waving his hands. ‘The West Coast, maybe? Some little town in the redwoods, near the ocean . . . Or Canada, like the draft-dodgers.’ They had talked of travelling, years ago, before the death. They could try Molly’s sister in Indiana, but they’d grown apart. If Molly turned up as a fugitive, of course her sister would take her in, for a night, or even a couple of days, but her brother-in-law was painfully square and, rightly, she wouldn’t want to put her nephews at risk.

  ‘Or we could go to my parents’,’ Gene suggested. ‘Grandpa was always telling us stories about how easy it was to hide around the farm in Prohibition days.’

  They were home at last. Would it be any safer to flee? ‘Or we just brazen it out,’ Molly said. ‘They all think he’s dead, after all.’

  At midnight, Gene went out and hid the truck in the scrubland. They couldn’t decide whether to burn it or keep it as a getaway until they had their own vehicle readied.

  *

  Cory sat by the window looking out at the trees, his tentacles rippling a little. That was his wanting something expression.

  ‘Outsiiide,’ he said when Molly asked. ‘Hide-from Bad Men outside. Birds-and-flowers.’

  ‘Cory, it would really help if you explained how this hiding works. The soldiers couldn’t see you – or us.’

  He looked at her, head on one side. ‘Hiiide. Cory not understand. Not work on adults. Are Bad Men children?’

  ‘No, humans can’t do that. None of us can.’

  ‘Good. Cory hiiide from Bad Men.’

  ‘Yes, good. If they come.’ She felt like tearing her hair out. Gene had walked to the truck and found it gone, so someone knew how to hotwire a truck for sure.

  ‘Go outsiiide.’

  ‘Cory, you’ll get sick.’

  ‘Outside smell fiiine.’

  Molly remembered the feeling that had come off him in those first days, when Nurse Hooton had said, ‘I was shivers all over . . . like he called up a cold gust of wind.’ Cory was so likeable, but these things showed he wasn’t human.

  Gene offered to distract him so she could make lunch. A few minutes later, as she got out the makings for a tuna salad, she heard ‘California Dreaming’ coming from their bedroom while Cory crooned along, something unworldly.

  There was an imperious rap on the door.

  It’d begun.

  As a teenager, Molly had realised that her mother couldn’t see the truth in her face, no matter what she said. And a drunk is always a good liar; they get so much practice lying to themselves. She had prepared her story for this moment with the same care she’d taken with her nursing exam.

  Wiping her hands, taking her time, she went to the door.

  The banging got louder. ‘Open up, Mrs Myers,’ someone shouted. ‘We have a warrant.’

  She opened the door to Dr Pfeiffer and a tall man in FBI black.

  ‘Special Agent Anderson, FBI,’ said the tall man. ‘I think you know why we’re here, ma’am.’ Black hair touched with grey; fearless eyes. Polite and tough.

  Behind them was another FBI agent and two young soldiers, one carrying a holdall. Pfeiffer had cut himself shaving; he looked ragged and red-eyed. Behind them she could see a military truck and two more FBI waiting in a black town car.

  ‘You’d better come in,’ Molly said, her eyes lowered. ‘I’m not going to deny anything.’ Inside, she was burning, but she had a role to play. Men with guns were coming into her house, but that wasn’t what made her scared. They all knew the plan: Cory would go into the attic crawlspace, which had been lined with clean plastic. It was just she wanted to be holding him, reassuring him, keeping him safe.

  ‘Do you want coffee?’ she asked. Her voice sounded dull, defeated.

  ‘This isn’t a social call,’ Pfeiffer said, looking to see that the front door was shut. ‘You hid the alien.’

  ‘Yes, and he died.’ She turned away from him and called, ‘Gene, we have visitors.’ She was playing for high stakes: Cory’s freedom, or even his life.

  The intruders sat in the front room and Pfeiffer looked at the bookshelves, a sour expression on his face. Gene came down the stairs, very sombre, and said, ‘Dr Jarman should be locked up. My wife’s sick and he took advantage of her. She told me everything, after the creature died.’

  ‘You’re in serious trouble,’ Pfeiffer said. ‘This is a matter of National Security, do you understand that? Serious. Let’s get the facts straight.’

  ‘I’d better start,’ Anderson said, butting in. The two men were clearly at odds, which reassured Molly a tiny bit. ‘Tell us what happened, Mrs Myers.’

  She got out a tissue, to illustrate her grief, but really, she was using it to hide her nerves. It felt as if a quivering bird was hiding in her stomach.

  ‘We called him Cory. He was a child, a real person.’ She told the unvarnished truth about those first few days, not sparing her feelings. To her surprise, one of the soldiers took down her words in confident shorthand.

  Anderson wanted to know who knew – surely everyone on the fifth floor must have known? Who had she told? Family, friends . . . Molly was still shaking her head when the doctor interrupted.

  Making a face, Pfeiffer growled, ‘What possessed you? You took such a risk, with the child, with infection . . .’

  She gave him chapter and verse on their precautions, how professional they had been. Then she gave them Cory’s death, complete with tears that were heartrendingly easy to summon. Pfeiffer looked embarrassed and the shorthand soldier sympathetic, but the FBI man was the one she feared: he was a cipher, a machine who watched her face, spat out polite sentences and gave nothing away.

  The conspirators had play-acted the death to make sure they got the story exactly right. They’d even walked the route to the incinerator.

 
Pfeiffer began throwing questions: When did you know? Who did Jarman tell? Was he working with anyone outside the hospital? Was there any discussion with a foreign power? Did you talk about selling the alien?

  ‘Don’t bully her,’ Gene snapped at last. ‘She’ll answer your questions, but you haven’t even let her speak.’

  Looking grim, Anderson took control again. ‘Perhaps one point at a time. Mrs Myers, did Dr Jarman ever discuss telling a foreign power?’

  ‘We just wanted to keep him alive,’ Molly said, ‘so that I could bring him home.’

  And on it went.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell us when the child died?’

  Gene simmered and sometimes snapped, visibly angry at Jarman’s arrogance and how he’d dragged Molly into the affair, but other than that, he said as little as possible; after all, he had never been on the fifth floor.

  Pfeiffer and the FBI agent looked at each other. Pfeiffer opened his holdall and spread folders out on her table. One was a Xerox of notes, the fake set that ended with his death. There were photos of the dead adults. Another folder had Myers, M on the cover: her employee file. She was angry, but she could use what her file said against them.

  ‘This was dangerous and unprofessional. You were unbelievably reckless,’ Pfeiffer repeated. ‘You could have released some alien epidemic – it could have been worse than the Black Death. You ought to go to jail for stupidity alone!’

  Pfeiffer was clearly obsessed with Cory. He kept asking for her observations and challenged things they had written in the notes.

  Molly talked freely, because she was cooperating, wasn’t she? ‘He was like a human child, really,’ she said for the third or fourth time. ‘I mean, he looked bizarre, but in time, we could have learned to understand him. He already knew my name . . .’

  Pfeiffer sighed. ‘Well, of course he died. If you people had only told me, I’d have been able to save him – and not just the child, but everything he could have told us: their science, their culture, their intentions towards Earth, how to use their machines—’

  ‘The nurses all thought we should tell the authorities.’ She was as pious as little Molly had been, going to school Mass in her plaid skirt.

  The FBI man said, ‘Please don’t sell me that line, Mrs Myers.’

  Molly kept her face still as a new fear washed over her. What would happen if the FBI took them away? Cory had enough food and water in the attic to last for a few days, but how frightened he would be . . . Could he even use a can-opener? How would he cope? The men would search the house, of course. There were so many things they hadn’t thought through . . . She felt the power and the reach of the government all around her.

  ‘You’re right,’ she said, humble now. ‘We got carried away. It was stupid, really.’

  ‘If you don’t mind, Dr Pfeiffer.’ The FBI man returned to the peace groups Gene and Molly used to be involved with. Had they discussed Cory with any of them?

  ‘All that feels such a long time ago,’ she said honestly.

  Gene insisted on getting Molly a soda, and a soldier went with him. As soon as they stepped out of the room, the conversation turned.

  ‘What about the alien machines?’ Pfeiffer asked.

  ‘We had some medicines and their spacesuits, but I never had anything to do with them,’ Molly told him.

  Pfeiffer opened the holdall and produced a clear plastic bag. Inside was the black and silver box, about the size of two cartons of cigarettes.

  ‘That’s the voice translation machine,’ Molly said, remembering how Cory, frustrated, had thrown it across the room. How much easier things would have been – would be now – if we fully understood him.

  Pfeiffer produced a second clear bag from the holdall. Inside was the slim watch-thing that had disappeared from Cory’s wrist in those first hours.

  ‘Oh! Yes, he was wearing that on the first night,’ she said, ‘but it disappeared.’ Cory asked for it, much later, by drawing it; he said it played music.

  ‘Nurse Hooton took a little souvenir,’ Pfeiffer said, like he was enjoying revealing human weakness. He put the device back into the holdall. ‘When she tried to sell it, we realised she had something much bigger. One night under armed guard and she told us everything. Don’t worry; we’ll be searching the house for any souvenirs you might have taken too.’

  The soldier who had escorted Gene went out to the street and reappeared moments later with two dogs, German shepherds, not a breed Molly liked. She gave Gene a look, her heart in her mouth: they should’ve thought of dogs. Would they bother taking them up the ladder to the attic? Would the dogs find Cory’s scent over the disinfectant?

  ‘What do you want dogs for?’ Gene said. ‘I’m allergic.’ She could have kicked him for the stupid, unnecessary lie.

  The FBI man showed the first sign of being human. ‘Go in the garden if you need to.’

  Molly took control. ‘I’ll come upstairs to open things up for you. I don’t mind the dogs, so long as they don’t make a mess.’

  *

  Cory’s bedroom made the FBI guy stare at her. ‘You planned to bring him here?’

  ‘We wanted to give him a home,’ Molly said, and now the tears flowed for real. ‘His mother had died . . . he didn’t have anyone . . .’

  There were clothes and books and toys bought for him. At midnight, the Myers had decided it to leave it all out, like some perverse shrine, rather than try to hide it all. Right now, it felt like a big mistake.

  Dr Pfeiffer looked at her oddly as the men searched Cory’s things. They got to the drawer of clothes, the things she’d kept from years ago.

  ‘My baby died,’ she said simply, the tears still flowing. She turned away so she didn’t have to see them violate her memories.

  The other FBI men had joined the search. One climbed the attic ladder and was feeling for the light-switch.

  She closed her eyes and silently said the drunkard’s prayer, sending it up for all she was confident there was no one to hear it. Was that a muffled sneeze? She tried to control her breathing, not give anything away.

  ‘Guess we could get a dog up here,’ he called down at last. ‘Mind you, it’ll be fun getting her down again.’

  ‘There’s something going on down here,’ the handler said as the dogs went running in and out of the bedrooms, their tails wagging, eager and a little perplexed. They rolled on the carpet in Molly and Gene’s bedroom like puppies.

  ‘Bess, Marcie, work time! Quit playing!’ said the handler. He had rather a sweet face, Molly thought; she liked the way he jollied the dogs along rather than snapping at them.

  ‘What’ve they found?’ asked Pfeiffer eagerly.

  ‘A bird flew in a few nights back and bashed its brains out,’ Molly said. That had happened once. ‘Can’t you smell the disinfectant? And we have mice – I keep thinking we really should get a cat.’

  ‘Take up the carpet in case there’s something under it.’ Anderson turned to her. ‘You can go downstairs, ma’am.’ It wasn’t a suggestion.

  ‘I’ll take that coffee, Mrs Myers,’ said Pfeiffer as she left.

  You invade my home and expect me to cater? she thought, furious.

  Downstairs, Gene was standing by the open back door, smoking; he flicked the cigarette away as soon as he saw Molly. She was so tense herself that she easily forgave him the lapse. Outside, two soldiers were searching the overgrown tangle that was their garden.

  She mustn’t look upwards, although she could hear the FBI men and their dogs trampling through the bedrooms . . . Only Cory’s strange power could save them.

  ‘How did you know he understood you?’ Pfeiffer said, appearing suddenly at her shoulder. She hadn’t even heard him come down the stairs. ‘We pretend we know what dogs and cats are thinking, but we’re just anthropomorphising them.’

  She thought about his question. ‘Wel
l, even though we were always masked up, he could tell me from Nurse Fell. He understood names . . .’

  Pfeiffer must be able to hear my heartbeat. Keep breathing, she told herself, breathing as slow as you can. Keep talking about how smart he was, not how smart he is.

  Oh Lord, the neighbours – the whole street would know they were in some sort of trouble. Not that she talked to many of them . . .

  Gene and Molly, holding hands, went to sit in their kitchen while the clock hands ticked round. The dogs came down the stairs, followed by the handler and the FBI man, and Pfeiffer went over to confer with them.

  Molly could hear the dog handler praising the dogs. ‘Marcie was just playing . . . yes-she-was. Bess too . . . yes-she-was.’

  ‘Mr Myers, Mrs Myers, let’s talk,’ said Anderson, coming into the kitchen. ‘Your politics are none of my business. I just care about my country. A word of this and you’ll go to a Federal prison. You will be locked up for life, alongside the spies and the traitors who have put our country at risk. Do you understand what I am saying?’

  Gene, bristling, demanded, ‘Which actual laws did Molly break?’ but Molly started to shush him.

  ‘Don’t be hostile, Gene,’ she said, putting a hand on his arm. ‘You were right: it was a mistake and I know that. I’m not going to tell the world about it.’

  ‘Word gets around in small towns,’ Anderson said. ‘We’re going with the radioactivity story. There’ll be more questions, and we’ll need you to sign an agreement. If you keep your mouths shut, then we can just let this ride. If it gets out, we’ll know who talked.’ He produced papers. ‘The Executive Order, and the Acts that authorise it.’

  Molly nodded. ‘We won’t make any trouble,’ she said, pinning Gene with a glare. ‘We’ll sign anything. Come back if you have more questions. We’ll try to help.’

  ‘It’s a weird house,’ someone in the hall said. ‘Did you feel it? Like we were being watched . . .’

  ‘What about Dr Jarman?’ Molly said. ‘Will he go to prison?’

  There was a pause. The authorities have a problem. Everyone knew Dr Jarman. He’d cared for their sick children and grandchildren, delivered their babies in thunderstorms and on holidays, he’d offered trusted advice to the adults and he’d given his energy to serving the people. As if that wasn’t enough, his father-in-law was rich, a Bradley, no less, who knew people in State politics. Dr Jarman was not someone you could lock up without causing an enormous fuss.