Our Child of the Stars

by Stephen Cox

  The field was edged with long grass and bushes; he’d be out of sight, so it would be fine if anyone passed. Cory looked every way, then scurried into the grass, just as Molly heard a rumbling in the distance. She squinted back at it: a truck – a camouflaged truck. She swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry.

  ‘Stay hidden, Cory,’ she hissed. ‘Soldiers.’ She opened the trunk and found the jack. Get on with it, she told herself. They’re not here for you.

  The truck stopped and the driver, a soldier with bright brown eyes and a perfect smile, leaned out of the cab. ‘Ma’am, that looks like a real bad one.’ He came from somewhere down south, as many of them did. There was another man in the cab, older and greyer.

  ‘Thank you for stopping,’ she said, trying to smile. ‘I’m fine. I’ve done this before.’

  The other man had eyes that had seen it all, but he shot Molly a smile, then barked, ‘Ten-minute smoke break. Two volunteers on the double to help a lady in distress.’

  ‘Sir-yes-sir!’ said the driver at once, and opened the cabin door. Molly felt her heart race as the truck suddenly started disgorging men – eight, nine of them . . . Was this the end? She pictured Cory running across the fields, being hunted down . . . She turned around, her eyes darting in every direction. Where was he? Hidden, of course, as only Cory knew how, but where?

  She caught the soldier’s eyes flick to her left hand. He was looking for a wedding ring. Their eyes met and she saw only the friendly mischief of a puppy.

  ‘Oh, it’s fine,’ she said, as casually as she could manage. ‘I couldn’t put you to the trouble.’

  The soldier walked up to her and looked at the tyre as others came around from the back of the truck. A couple walked off the road and lit up as another strode towards them.

  ‘You see, ma’am, if we left a lady by the road like this, it’d sure spoil our appetite,’ the brown-eyed young man said. ‘We’d look at our suppers tonight and think we just failed to be good neighbours. You wouldn’t do that to us, now, would you?’

  The driver could charm a cloud from the sky, and didn’t he know it. ‘Okay, well, thanks,’ she said, hoping he couldn’t see her pounding heart. There were four of them now by the car.

  She watched as his eyes landed on the bumper sticker, No to War, and there was a flicker of a frown, but even so, he squatted and fitted the jack and someone else lifted out the spare.

  She was sweating, above and beyond the heat of the day. Had Cory found a safe space?

  Distract them, she thought. Sound normal.

  There were things she could never ask but desperately wanted to know. People had seen strange lights over the woods – was that the military, or what was hiding in the lake, the damaged ship that had brought Cory to her? But of course she couldn’t know about that . . .

  ‘How do you like Amber Grove?’ she asked.

  The driver had his eyes on the job now. ‘I grew up in a town just like it, a small place by a river. I’m told I’ll prefer our winters to yours. But it’s real pretty.’

  Then someone was shouting and Molly looked round to see a portly man in the field waving his straw hat. He was carrying a roll of fence-wire shoulder to hip, like a bandolier. And heavens! By his leg was a bright-eyed brown dog.

  ‘Good day, ma’am,’ he hollered. ‘D’you fellas need a hand?’

  A red-haired soldier flipped the sharp metal off the road with a careful boot. ‘We have things in hand, sir.’

  ‘Now, ma’am, your boy should be real careful – there’s old drains near here. No idea what might be in them.’

  Molly’s heart lurched. She might have faced down Pfeiffer and the FBI, but now she felt panicked. What had he seen? The dog was whining, an odd noise, like there was something wrong.

  She could do this. She’d dealt with her mother, her drunken father . . . ‘I’m sorry? I don’t understand,’ she said.

  The farmer looked a bit like John, Gene’s father, just a bit rounder and balder.

  Puzzled, the man said, ‘A boy in a grey sweatshirt? Right there.’ He pointed at the bushes where Cory had been. ‘Shut up, Truman!’ he told the dog, adding, ‘Don’t know why the fella’s making such a fuss.’

  Molly shrugged. ‘I didn’t see anyone.’

  The driver got up from his job. ‘Check it out, Wayne. Ma’am, if someone hides when we drive by, maybe we need to know who they are. And I know dogs, and that dog’s not happy.’

  He was right, it was showing its teeth.

  Two soldiers – no, three now, were searching the grass and the bushes. One of them took his rifle from his back.

  Make it a joke. Deflect their interest. ‘It must be the Great New York Werewolf,’ Molly said with a laugh. Gene had read her the magazine article a couple of days back. Maybe it’ll be full Moon tomorrow.’ She wished she believed in magic or prayer, that she could make them turn away and ignore where Cory was hiding.

  The red-head looked at her now. ‘Better not hunt on duty,’ he said, grinning.

  ‘Uncle Sam don’t stretch to silver bullets,’ said the driver, but he was watching the search.

  Courtesy and anger fought on the farmer’s face. ‘My ears are going old but my sight ain’t,’ he said. He threw down the wire and joined the soldiers, but the dog declined to follow.

  ‘I’m sure,’ Molly said. ‘Of course, it might be Russian assassins.’ Her tone implied it was more likely to be fairies, or a headless horseman. Hurry up and finish, she almost prayed.

  And here was the world-weary officer in charge, looking at his watch. ‘Hurry it along, men. Let’s get this lady on her way and do the same ourselves.’

  The soldier checking the driver’s work threw the damaged wheel into the truck and gave her a snappy salute. She thanked them all profusely and blew them a cartoonish kiss.

  Leaving the farmer still prodding a stick into the flattened grass, the soldiers put out their cigarettes and went back to the truck.

  Summoning a smile, Molly waved the soldiers on.

  ‘Well,’ said the farmer, looking at her.

  ‘Well,’ said Molly. She drank some water and offered him the bottle.

  ‘Can’t stay here all day,’ the man said, with no grace at all. He turned, and the dog leaped up and followed him.

  She counted to a hundred and made sure the farmer’s red shirt was nowhere to be seen before plunging into the grass; she couldn’t be seen looking. Oh Cory, where are you? If the man came back, she’d squat, pretend to be relieving herself. Or perhaps two soldiers would walk back and surprise her . . .

  She dared not call out, but said softly, ‘Mom needs you, Cory. Don’t hide.’ Where is he? Was he caught in some animal trap? Maybe he’d scurried far, far away.

  There was stagnant mud in this ditch, the only mud in a mile, and a mossy green culvert, too small for a man . . .

  Cory’s instincts were never to rely on his power alone but to hide physically if he could.

  She squatted by the opening, which stank of something dead. She couldn’t see or hear anything, but this felt right.

  ‘Cory,’ she whispered, one ear cocked for the farmer, and here Cory was, for a moment vague, then her mind fully saw him, covered in mud, his eyes closed and hands tucked under him. She stroked his ear and he stirred a little. He was cold and shivering, exhausted.

  ‘Hard-hard, all of them,’ he said. ‘Cory hiiide, fooled Bad Men, very clever hide all.’

  ‘Yes, Cory, my smart boy. They’ve gone now. There’s just one we might have to hide from.’ She helped him up, draped the sweatshirt over his head for safety and walked behind him to obstruct the view. Another vehicle might come, or the farmer return. If he did, she would just leap in the car and go.

  His power wasn’t unlimited. They’d have to be more careful.

  ‘Shall we find somewhere quiet for a picnic?’ she said, dreading it.
<
br />   ‘Home now,’ Cory said.

  She found tears coming. That had been too close and she wasn’t safe yet; she mustn’t give way, but for two minutes she sat and gripped the steering wheel, shuddering. Maybe they’d noted the licence plate? They’d surely ask questions.

  Bad Men? They were surrounded by people who’d betray them in an instant, but to call them Bad Men was unkind; there was a danger in good, kind men too, who’d do the wrong thing out of duty. That handsome soldier would have obeyed his orders and let them take her son away because he’d believe it to be the right thing to do.

  She turned the key and prepared to turn the car round. Her voice trembling, she began a song.

  CHAPTER 17

  The day of the Moon landing

  The landing would be late that afternoon; Molly guessed she’d have to ration the television, otherwise they might do nothing else all day. Cory was wriggling like a sack of frogs with excitement. Today was history, and it was the moment Gene had been waiting for since he found the first tattered comic with a rocket splashed across the cover.

  ‘Big day for the silly old human race,’ said Molly, yawning. ‘I hear Cory’s people fixed hunger and war before they went to their moon.’

  Gene grunted, which she translated as, It’s Sunday. Too early to talk.

  ‘Eggs please-please breakfast Cory help.’

  ‘Okay, Cory, just give me a minute.’ Molly didn’t think much of television; she’d given in to Gene’s pleas to rent a set, but she censored much of it. Cory was easily upset by violence and most of human history turned out to be surprisingly difficult to explain. But even she wanted to watch this story unfold. Now she knew that people lived and laughed and had babies out in space, somehow the whole exercise was less ridiculous.

  Cory helped Molly, whisking eggs in the bowl. Tick-tick-tick. From nowhere he announced, ‘Cory dads live on moon. And space-city, big and spins.’

  He’d said dads before and Molly had assumed that theirs was one of those cultures which threw titles around; every grown-up was an uncle, that sort of thing.

  ‘Yes-yes very big city.’ Cory waved his arms. ‘Underground. Saw new spaces being melted into rock. All-so-exciting. Waited for big ship finished. Run-run-run because gravity low.’ He started jogging on the spot and waving his arms; it might just catch on as a new hippy dance. ‘Big run wheeeels then ship to new planet. Big excitement.’ He kept waving his arms.

  It was no good pressing Cory about his home in case it plunged him into sadness, but sometimes, when he offered things up, she could nudge him to say more. But this time, Cory was on a roll. ‘My world green, and plenty oceans. No ice at poles. The new planet des-sert, dry-dry, air thin. Go build city by only-one ocean. Burn tunnels and houses out of rock. Glass houses for food. Thou-sands pioneers, like Cory. Take Earth-year to get there.’

  ‘How big was the ship, Cory?’

  Tentacles danced and hands gesticulated. ‘Big – bigger Amber Grove. Trains inside.’

  His sadness suddenly came into the room, like a shadow. That was enough; any question about family or the flight that ended in disaster could flick him into grief. They just had to be gentle.

  The vessel hidden in Two Mile Lake was just a run-around, like a lifeboat, maybe, compared to the main ship.

  ‘Big ship called Dancer on the Waves – big joke, ha-ha-ha! Name from old story . . . but all gone. All gone.’

  What happened, Cory? she wondered. What went wrong?

  Gene emerged, damp-haired and still half asleep, carrying cereal boxes and tinfoil. ‘Want to build a Moon rocket, Cory? But I think we ought to go for a walk first, check the woods are still there.’

  *

  In the big room, the television flickered grey, the sound off. Gene and Cory needed to explain it to her, though at least Gene looked apologetic as he did so. They’d built Eagle, the Landing Module, and Columbia, the main craft that would bring the three men home, from card and paper and foil.

  The model held together by Gene’s long fingers, Cory narrated, ‘Rocket giant firework! Take-off!’

  The kitchen bucket was Earth, wreathed in green and blue paper, and the waste-paper basket was the Moon.

  ‘This is where we are now,’ said Gene. ‘Eagle and Columbia separate. Mike Delgardo in Columbia stays in orbit and Eagle with the other two descends.’

  How odd Fate was. Neil Armstrong was the man destined to walk first on the Moon, until an elderly driver had a stroke and sideswiped the astronaut’s car. Armstrong, trained to travel further than any man in history, would be watching it all on TV, sitting there with a broken leg. Add the outbreak of gastro­enteritis, and it meant three different astronauts would be walking into history.

  Random happenings. On Meteor Day, Molly could have gone to look for Gene, to offer first aid in the middle of town, and they might never have met Cory, who had changed everything.

  Molly clapped as Cory held the homemade Eagle and let it land while Gene kept Columbia in orbit.

  They gathered on the couch with Cory in the middle and watched it all happening on the television, step by step.

  Gene, smiling, said, ‘I knew we’d do this since I was knee-high. But just think: for Cory’s people, their moon is like a quick trip to Pasadena.’

  ‘Big-big day for humans. Draw Cory-people moon-landing!’ Cory said, scooting frantically out of the room and coming back again with paper and crayons. ‘Draw humans-landing too.’

  As the time approached, even Molly felt nerves in her stomach; the tension in the room was real. Columbia was filming the Eagle, floating independently in space, revolving slowly on the television screen like an eager bride to show that it was whole and safe. Then the tiny spaceship like some strange metal bug dropped towards the grey scarred Moon. It did not look far, but it would be hours before the two men landed.

  They’d chosen Walter Cronkite, America’s favourite newscaster, the wise old moustachioed uncle. For all the drama, she could do without endless talking heads, so she sighed and addressed the long-overdue basket of mending. Countless millions across the globe devoured the tiny, grainy pictures, watching film of the Earth pioneers, the Russians and the Americans, then Neil Armstrong gave a gracious interview.

  A little later, the images changed to the dead grey desert of the Moon as seen from the Eagle. Bit by bit the Moon ceased to be a far-off world and became a landscape. The rocks grew larger and larger, the craters clearer as the Eagle came into land. Gene’s arm was around Cory’s shoulders, his gaze rapt. She put down her sewing.

  Walter Cronkite could barely hide his excitement; it looked like he was finding it hard to breathe. He explained the descent; how soon two men would make history while the whole world was watching. They cut to the calm, masculine voices from the landing craft giving numbers and check-words. If the astronauts felt any nerves, they were hiding them well.

  Then, with a sudden flash of light, the images vanished and the screen plunged into swirling grey.

  For a moment, Molly assumed the television had decided, this day of all days, to expire – but no, the sound was still on, because Walter Cronkite said, ‘We’ve lost contact.’

  The room felt like ice; she couldn’t breathe. Two worlds fought in her mind: the TV room and a nightmare pouring into her mind. All around her was chaos: the death of Cory’s people’s mission, all floating corpses and purple blood and pain in breathing. From somewhere she heard a giant inhuman scream and something silver twisted and poured through a doorway. And there were others like it, things like metal snakes as long as a giant truck, with utterly alien snouts at either end. They moved swiftly and with purpose, spouting fire, burning through walls and ceilings and floors.

  Only now did the fractured images from past dreams make sense: these silver-scaled monsters were the killers, the destroyers of Cory’s ship.

  In a dark sky of blazing stars, a vast vessel d
isappeared behind her, silver threads swarming over it like maggots on a corpse.

  In an instant, the dream-images vanished and she was back in the front room. Beside her, Gene was gasping desperately for breath; he had seen it too. It had happened in an instant, only a few heartbeats, but Cory had disappeared.

  ‘Cory, Cory!’ she called, shaking. She hadn’t known he could share nightmares awake.

  On screen, Walter Cronkite kept talking. ‘We’ve lost contact with Eagle, but this could just be a communications fault, or just possibly something else has happened.’ Behind his glasses, the genial face of the nation’s favourite TV man showed his anxiety. ‘Let’s not jump to conclusions. We’ve lost contact before. If you have just joined us, the landing module Eagle was making its descent, but we have lost contact. For all we know, the module might be safely landing on the Moon, in the Sea of Tranquillity. Did we see a brief flash of light before we lost contact?’ he asked.

  A flash of white light . . . Yes, thought Molly, there’s no question. No one could have missed it.

  On screen, a second man began his ponderous analysis.

  Unannounced, Cory was back. The three of them hugged each other tight.

  ‘Maybe something hit Columbia,’ Gene said, after minutes of silence. ‘Or maybe Eagle broke up . . .’

  ‘Like Cory ship, all-dead. Metal things hunt,’ Cory whispered. ‘Bad machines, sowl-jer machines kill everyone.’

  ‘Oh love,’ Molly said. Summer rain was drumming on the roof.

  ‘Four of thou-sands dead.’ Molly and Gene felt the grief and confusion come off him in waves as he whispered, ‘Now hu-mans.’

  Molly rested her head on Gene’s shoulder as Cronkite, ever professional, kept going. ‘Lengthy periods without radio contact are not unknown.’ The strain in his voice was clear now. ‘I think we mustn’t jump to any conclusions. There are protocols . . .’

  When Gene spoke, his voice was gentle and low. ‘Those things from your nightmare, Cory, was that . . . ?’ He stopped, trying to form the best words. ‘Was it those bad things that attacked Eagle?’