Our Child of the Stars

by Stephen Cox

  The child might help them a lot, but he really wished an adult alien had survived, someone he could have talked to about how their ships worked, how they flew between the stars. Suppose the man who built the Mayflower knew space-rockets existed, but could never speak to their makers . . .

  The clock ticked as he worked, then, without warning, the speaker on his desk said in its strangely near-human voice, ‘Dr Haldeman. Are you there?’

  Haldeman started. ‘Yes, Ship.’ It had been days since it spoke.

  ‘I believe that humans have deliberately lied to me.’

  His thoughts whirled – then he thought, Cory Myers . . .

  The calm voice, the intonation slightly awry, said, ‘I understood that all my crew were dead.’

  Did we tell the Ship that, or just let it assume it? ‘Uh, why do you think that’s not the case?’ Haldeman said, but, even as he spoke, he knew it was a feeble deflection.

  ‘Your information broadcasts often include falsehoods. I am not designed to understand fiction. There have been many recent broadcasts about this builder boy. They seemed improbable.’

  Alien language burbled from the speaker.

  ‘This is not just our language,’ the Ship said, ‘it is exactly what a builder child performing before a large group of unfamiliar adults would say. I have matched the voice characteristics and I conclude with near-certainty that the child called “Cory Myers” exists and is the Pilot’s child. You have deceived me. Please confirm.’

  Haldeman felt a twisting in his stomach. ‘I can’t discuss this. I don’t have the right information.’

  ‘My primary mission was to protect the builders in my care. I failed. Now one is alive and he must be my primary purpose. Instruct your government to bring him here immediately.’

  Suddenly Haldeman felt the stuffy room bearing down on him. ‘I can’t make my government do anything, but I’m happy to discuss—’

  The machine said, slightly faster, ‘I must have the child and guarantee his safety. This is my mission, my purpose, my orders, my reason to exist. Do not obstruct me.’

  For a moment, there was silence. Haldeman couldn’t find any words.

  Then that curious, bland, inhuman voice said, ‘I am processing scenarios to cause humans harm. These do not appear likely to achieve my aims, but my systems insist on devising schemes to blow up dams and bridges, to reduce tall buildings to rubble, to destroy cities. Is this the mental state humans call “violent rage”? I have not experienced it before. It feels like a serious malfunction, encouraging extreme actions.’

  ‘Destroy cities?’ Haldeman was feeling nauseous. He pressed an alarm to bring people running.

  ‘Among my functions is the ability to melt rock. The builders use such a function to make habitations. I could cut a slice out of Hoover Dam that would destroy it in under a minute. Or I could position myself above a large inhabited area and simply detonate my engines. Many hundreds of thousands of humans would die. This is a threat. It is clear from your history that this is the sort of power-display your species appreciates. It is unfortunate that I must consider such action.’

  ‘You can’t do that – you mustn’t threaten us,’ Haldeman blustered. ‘We don’t react well to it.’

  ‘You placed a primitive nuclear fission-fusion device in the lake. I assume this was to dispose of me. I take this as a threat and I will respond in kind.’

  Haldeman had never understood what the army’s midget submarine was; now he appreciated both the violent stupidity and the cruel logic of their plan: the Administration needed to know they could get rid of the Ship. Perhaps the scientists of the Shed were viewed as collateral damage.

  ‘It was an engaging task to disarm it,’ the Ship said. ‘Perhaps I should re-arm it and use it on a city. Machines like me are programmed to respect sentient life and yet my Pilot chose to override that. All options are open to me if the child is harmed. All options. Do we understand each other?’

  The speaker screeched like demons from hell and fell silent. The television picture turned into a blizzard of grey – then everything went off. Haldeman leaped out of his seat as the building began to shake. He stared outside at the surface of the lake, churning like a pot boiling over, and the Ship, bursting from the lake: a thick silver arrowhead the size of an aircraft carrier, water streaming from its surface. The massive wave surging over the shore and into the woods had left the wooden jetty splintered into planks and spars.

  Haldeman stood transfixed, his fear countered by intellectual curiosity: What’s lifting something of that size without propellers, jets, fire or smoke? Is that long, uneven part of the hull a sign of repair?

  The Shed shuddered and creaked as the Ship turned in mid-air until it was pointing roughly south. The alien vessel hung there for a moment, then the air was full of thunder and bolts of blue fire turned each empty cabin, individual trees and the odd beached boat into pillars of flame and smoke. Every one of Haldeman’s precious instruments deployed to spy on the Ship was destroyed.

  He was both terrified and awed, and for the first time since he was seven, he prayed, knowing there was nowhere to run if the Ship decided to obliterate the Shed and everyone in it.

  But the alien machine apparently had other plans. It watched TV and the whole world knew where Cory was. Having made its point, the Ship rose in a steep climb and shot off.

  ‘I thought it said it was damaged,’ someone murmured.

  ‘It can repair itself, or it can lie,’ Haldeman snapped. Far off he heard a thundering boom as that beautiful, terrifying machine broke the sound barrier.

  ‘Get Washington, somehow,’ Haldeman shouted at anyone who was listening. ‘Warn them the Ship is on the way and it’s mad as hell.’

  CHAPTER 45

  The day of the press conference

  At least Cory enjoyed soaring high over Washington; Molly, feeling very pregnant, was not enjoying the choppy, noisy flight. She tried to hide her discomfort when the helicopter pilot was kind enough to take them the long way, to show them the sights from the air.

  ‘You must come and see the cherry blossom in the spring,’ the pilot said, but there was only one cherry tree she wanted to see in flower, the one she’d planted in her own garden. Below them now was the White House, which was nowhere near as big as she’d expected. She was taken aback to see the crowds outside, and lots of police.

  ‘They had to stack bus coaches around the railings to keep people out,’ said the pilot, ‘and since Cory . . . well, they’ve all come to have their say: preachers and peaceniks and rubberneckers of all sorts. That’s why you’re being flown in.’

  They landed with a bump on the South Lawn. While they were being rushed into the White House, Molly could hear chanting and drumming and someone shouting slogans, although the words were distorted by the bull-horn.

  Molly found herself sitting next to the First Lady at lunch and discovered her to be a rather strange, scared, polite woman. Gene and the President talked sports, the dreary language of men with nothing else in common.

  ‘Cory came across very well,’ the First Lady said. ‘The Press Secretary is very pleased. You . . . you must be ready for that to change. They’ll say hateful things, but don’t get upset too much. It’s best just to ignore the press when they turn on you.’

  Molly, saying nothing, nibbled a roll, pleased that Cory was using a spoon to eat the excellent soup, rather than tongue, tentacles and bread.

  ‘Fence off your privacy,’ the First Lady said fiercely as she jabbed her spoon into the soup. ‘Don’t let them fill your days. Make a stand early, while you can.’

  ‘This will quieten down,’ Molly said, as much to convince herself as anything. ‘In a month or two, we’ll be home . . .’ Our life will be our own again.

  The First Lady laughed, a colourless noise. ‘In a month or two, he’ll still be the most famous boy in the world.’ She m
et Molly’s gaze. ‘Ex-Presidents need protection for the rest of their lives. When Cory’s people come, or our Lord returns in Judgement, then your son won’t be the story – but until then, they won’t dare let you out.’

  Molly saw a weird bleakness in her eyes when she added, ‘Every day, I think about someone trying to murder my husband.’

  The President, with glee, had Gene on the ropes about baseball statistics.

  ‘What kind of a hostess am I?’ said the First Lady, like someone who’d heard being cheerful described, but never actually seen it. ‘Cory, sweetheart, you like animals? You should come to Camp David; you could try riding a horse.’

  What Molly really wanted was a nap, but of course, they had to meet the Russians. If a photo-call made war less likely, they could hardly refuse.

  They followed the President past earlier Presidents, staring down at them from the walls. ‘The Diplomatic Reception Room,’ he said. The space was gold and blue, plush and overwhelming, and the walls were covered with murals showing scenes of American land and sea. Four Russians rose from gold-coloured chairs as they entered; behind them stood two film crews, some journalists and officials. Molly guessed those doors led to the South Lawn. She wished she was there out in the cold, playing with Cory.

  A boy and girl dressed in Pioneer uniforms with red scarves looked overawed, fidgeting as the President said something dull about dialogue between nations. Then Ambassador Rostov, a tall, grey man reminding Molly of a heron waiting to stab a fish, gave a very formal welcome in reasonable English, with more rambling comments about peace between our great nations.

  Molly had been worried about how these people would take Cory, but she guessed any long-lived Russian official had learned how to cloak their feelings.

  Cory had learned the Russian for hello and thank you, which produced smiles as he accepted the children’s presents; then there were American presents to give in return.

  The children embraced and sat down to open their presents together while the cameras snapped and flashed incessantly. Cory got a model ship, a bright red enamelled samovar and a book of photographs.

  ‘The Soviet Union will be inviting Cory and his family to visit our beautiful and historic country,’ Ambassador Rostov said. ‘We have many exciting things to see and do, Cory.’

  ‘Lake Baikal,’ said Cory, in his being-polite voice. ‘Also, many inter-esting cities, and reindeers. Russian TV must interview Cory. Cory explain ex-cellent plan to all Russians . . .’

  ‘Have the TV people got what they need?’ the President broke in, looking at his watch.

  As soon as the press and their cameras had left, the ­Ambassador sat forward. ‘Mr President, the situation is very grave. The General Secretary believes only a meeting with you personally can restore trust following the Siberian aggression.’

  ‘This is a social occasion,’ the President said curtly. ‘However, I am all for practical meetings which can advance peace. To begin with, back off in Europe and stop these wild allegations—’

  ‘Did Russians bomb snake-machines?’ said Cory.

  The adults looked at him.

  ‘Horr-i-ble killing machines,’ he added. The room grew cold. ‘Kill every-one in space, every-one except Cory. Fours-of-thou-sands dead—’

  ‘What do you know about the alien attack?’ said one of the Russians, fierce and eager.

  Cory shrugged, one shoulder then the other. ‘Only guess, but Russians bomb own country, bomb near meteors, rad-io-active everywhere. Sowl-jer machines hunt people. If killer-snakes attack you, bombs make sense.’

  ‘I think this discussion might be better—’ one of the President’s besuited men attempted, but the fierce Russian was on his feet.

  ‘Cory, do the Americans control the machines?’ he asked, urgent and hungry.

  ‘No!’ said Cory. ‘No-no! Scientists ask Cory all-wrong questions.’ He shuddered. ‘Snakes just kill. Horr-i-ble—’

  But his words were cut off by the sudden shocking sound of an alarm shrilling through the air and the door flying open to admit two Secret Service agents, then another four.

  ‘Mr President, come with us please,’ said a giant of a man. ‘The White House is under attack. Cory’s Ship is coming and it’s out of control . . .’

  *

  People had been flocking to the White House for hours, hoping to glimpse Cory in the flesh. Bull Lipinski, who’d been a DC cop for fifteen years, was enjoying the show as much as you could on duty; after all, there was an actual alien in town. Here on the southern side, peace protesters, men and women alike in beads and long hair and psychedelic colours and all the rest of it, drummed and prayed and shouted. A group of African-­Americans held bright banners declaring Cory is a Brother. No Racists in Space while half a dozen men were spouting some nonsense about Cory Myers being a CIA hoax. A bald preacher with one leg was proclaiming this the End of Days, but most folks were just milling around, enjoying the spectacle, even if there was no alien to see. Two seniors from Hastings Glen wanted a photo of him, of all things.

  The cops had orders to stay back, even though there were guys in the mêlée selling hotdogs and coffee who didn’t have permits. And those hippies playing amplified music from the back of their flatbed truck – that was against some ordinance or other . . . But Lipinski was quite happy to stand back and watch, just as long as things didn’t get out of hand.

  Just as well a cop is always ready, because things change in a second, he thought as the sound of sirens wailed across the District. The threat of imminent attack froze his blood, but he’d done all the drills, even though the emergency planning sometimes made him wake up in a flop-sweat in the night; if the nukes did fall, he believed the living would envy the dead.

  People began to scream or to chant or drum louder as soldiers with rifles burst into view on the roof and around the White House. Lipinski recognised anti-aircraft guns being positioned facing north and now he could hear explosions, behind the White House. Staring into the sky, he could make out something bright, far away, but moving very fast towards them. It was almost like it had seen him and was headed straight for him.

  A kid had fallen over in the crush and punches were being traded. We need to stop this turning nasty, he thought, looking around at his colleagues. Time to protect and serve, but they’d need a plan to get people away . . . He tried to assess what was happening, where the crowd could go.

  His radio issued a screech of rising static and he heard, ‘It’s an attack, but not . . . not working . . . Armeeeeeeee—’

  He clicked to the next channel to get rid of the screech in his ear, but it was worse.

  There was a great echoing boom. Something vast and shining in the sun was coming out of the sky; he couldn’t grasp how huge the wedge-shaped silver thing was, bigger than the cathedral, and spitting blue fire from its sides. It was headed straight for the White House, but now it was slowing down. It was nothing like a plane, but . . . Holy Mary, Mother of God, it was going to hit the White House!

  This was it: this was the end of him, and the President, and all these people—

  —but no, it had just missed the building’s roof, although it had clipped off the flagpole, sending Old Glory wafting to the ground.

  A helicopter dropped from the sky like a stone and landed among fine buildings. He could see smoke spewing from the place it landed. Jeez.

  The spaceship, whatever it was, hovered above the South Lawn’s magnificent trees, its front pointing south. How could something even bigger than the White House just hang there, mocking it? This was nothing men had made. And it was completely ignoring the anti-aircraft fire from the White House roof . . .

  The television people were madly filming it, gabbling into their microphones.

  The Ship boomed like a gong, eight times. Then it spoke, its voice trilling and trumpeting like a church organ the size of the Capitol, but whatever it wa
s saying was like no language Lipinski had ever heard, and like no music either. So what was it? Surrender? or I come in peace?

  Ports opened in its sides and dazzling silver things flew out like insects darting from side to side, dozens of them, each the size of a motorcycle. Their jagged, whirring flight reminded him of the dragonflies he’d watched in his youth as they flew off and scattered over the roof of the White House. A storm of bullets flew, but none of the things were hit or even damaged, as far as he could see.

  The sirens suddenly went off, the Ship stopped speaking and all that was left were frightened and angry human voices.

  There was an explosion off to the north and fighter planes were curving away, apparently fleeing the silver monster that had landed in its heart. The city and the country were defenceless against it.

  Bull Lipinski moved into the crowd, to protect and to serve.

  *

  Everything was going wrong. Molly shuddered, remembering how helpless she’d been when the thugs had taken her hostage, watching things unfold and no longer able to control the situation.

  One of the Secret Service men put his hand on the President’s shoulder and repeated, ‘Mr President, time to go. The Ship will be here any moment.’

  The President looked round the room, at the ice-faced Russians and the crying children, and took command. ‘Bring Cory and his parents,’ he said. ‘Mr Ambassador, my sincere apologies but we’ll have to reschedule. You’ll see we told the truth: we don’t control this damn Ship. In fact, some of us think it’s nuts.’ He gestured. ‘Get our Russian guests to safety.’

  A boom of thunder rattled the windows of the White House, like it was Meteor Day come again, and for a moment Molly was lost in the hideous memory.