by Peter Ness
‘Well. You’d better tell him then,’ Fred Thurman raised his bushy eyebrows and flicked his wrist at Tom.
‘They’ve been digging at it for several weeks, so should be close to finished by the time we get there,’ Tom explained. ‘What’s the weather like outside?’ He looked at Nancy.
‘It’s minus fourteen Celsius,’ she replied. ‘That’s the average for this time of the year.’
‘Which is minus six degrees in Fahrenheit, folks,’ Fred added. ‘Tom. How long will it take you and Patrick to fly us there by chopper?’
‘How far is it?’ Tom asked himself, and then scratched his head once more. ‘It’ll take about an hour to get there, but we have to be back by dark. I’ll talk to the pilot and the engineers to check whether it’s safe to fly in these conditions.’ He headed for the doorway, calling a name ‘Patrick! Wait up! I need your expert advice. Which of your helicopters are licensed to fly in this weather?’ Kirin heard mumbling in the corridor, and then Tom’s voice became clear once more. ‘So, how much notice do you need before she’s ready to go?’
#
Two hours later:
A group of six men and two women stood peering down the rim of the excavated ice-rimmed crater.
‘What do you make of that Kirin?’ Tom Fargo asked, pointing down at the two engineers standing on top of a metallic disc-like fin. They were hunched over it, analyzing a circular saucer-shaped hatch several yards wide. Blocks of meteoritic rock fragments floated in the loose piles of bulldozed ice in the pushed up crater rim.
‘Well. That’s interesting,’ Kirin replied. ‘The craft was hidden, camouflaged inside an asteroid, it seems.’
‘Yes. That would explain all the meteorite fragments,’ Fred Thurman replied, kicking at the dirty ice with his boot.
‘We weren’t supposed to find it,’ Kirin added. ‘I’d say it’s a beacon and you should get your men out of the crater ASAP. Look! You’ve gone and activated it. It’s flashing.’
‘Get out of there now!’ Fred ordered the men in the crater.
‘The red flashing light,’ Tom cried down at them. ‘Quick get out, and away from the crater.’ The object in the crater began to hum then to roar now, like the turbine of a jet engine. Then it began to slowly rise up from the base of the crater, fracturing the ice at the base and creating a large surface rift as it vibrated wildly from side to side.
‘Get down behind the snow plough!’ Kirin yelled, and they all began running towards it. The first engineer had reached the summit of the crater. He held his hand out and pulled the second man up behind him.
Too late!
The object shook violently mid-air, slashed around in a spiraling circle out of control, and then just as it reached the crater summit it exploded in an orange and blue flash. They all dove for cover as a sheet of ice, rock, metal and flame rolled upwards in a small dark mushroom cloud. At the same time a surface blast roared outwards towards them, propelling those still standing many tens of yards into the air. When the noise died down, they all clambered to their feet, counting numbers.
‘Good. Well, at least no one’s dead,’ Fred said, relieved. ‘So, what was that thing anyway?’
‘It’s a subspace beacon,’ Kirin said, climbing back to his feet. And, then he rotated around slowly, looking up, seemingly searching for something in the air, all the while rubbing at his earlobe in deep thought.
‘It’s probably related to the Black Knight satellite,’ Goto suggested, referring to a satellite that has been circling our planet prior to the launch of Sputnik, and which conspiracy theorists claim has an extraterrestrial origin.
‘If that’s the case, then others will come now to find out why it’s stopped transmitting,’ Kirin said prophetically, ‘and we need to be prepared.’
Chapter 3: The Town we called a City
Two months later. Town we call a City: Monday, January 20, 1969
Hi! My name’s Heni, Heni Hani. Well, it was Heni Kruger but now it is Hani. You know, Hani — pronounced honey — like honey from a bee in a bottle. Like the brown sticky stuff you put on your bread, then cover it with cream and eat it. The name Hani originates in Finland, but they call it “Hanni” over there. Somewhere along the way the Hanni’s emigrated to Australia and some convict stole an “n” when they weren’t looking, I guess. You can never trust the locals; they’ll steal the shirt off your back. Well, some of them will. Anyway, you get the picture. And, I’m telling my story. Or, am I? Maybe the Prima[2] is telling parts of my story, or maybe not. Everything is relative, right? But, who or what is a Prima? Don’t worry. I will tell you a bit about the Prima later on. Or, maybe the Prima will. Just not right now.
Once upon a time I was young. You were young. We were all young. My childhood memories are mostly devoid of color. The splash of a jaded maroon-red jumper, a flash of blue jeans passing by, the fleeting glance of a dull green roof, or blades of olive-green grass peek — cheekily — through the black and white images of my mind. I see monochrome images cut by the occasional dull and faded hues of grey, sliced in half by black rolling lines of static. The bright blue sky in the photo on the mantelpiece doesn’t match my memory.
‘Hey! Can someone turn on the Telley?’
Splash!
The world suddenly turned to multi-spectrum color in the 1970’s.
In those days we lived in a city. Only, it wasn’t really a city at all. It was just a large country town strung out along the coastal plain below the hills, stretching back from the coast a few kilometers. We liked to call it a city though. It was big enough at one time, but that is no longer the case. Things change, for better or worse. By the 1970’s our city was just another large hick country town in an otherwise un-noteworthy southern Australian state. But, we were progressive. Back in the early 1900’s this was one of the first places in the world to let women vote.
Our city — we still call it a city and that is all that matters — our city was famous for three things.
Firstly, a famous writer once lived, and died, here. They built a statue on the top of a hill. It overlooked the city, commemorating his fame, honor and achievements. Well, they did in my story and that’s all that counts, right? The towns’ folk came out in force, watching them engrave the writer’s name on a plaque at the base of the statue. Everyone clapped loudly. At least, that’s how I remember things.
This statue stood with outstretched arms, preaching knowledge to the world. The pigeons covered it with a slimy liquid paste of putrid shit, long ago. Over time those droppings cemented into a hard, dry, thin, white crust. Even today, the pigeons still perch on the nose and face, and on the outstretched bronze arms of the statue. They wander about aimlessly, frolicking about at the statue’s feet, cooing and begging for food from the increasing supply of tourists, while shitting on the ground.
Watch out! You might step on one. Too late! Oo, Yuk!
Back then, we called the tourists, terrorists. This was long before just holding a different — often no — opinion, got one locked up in Guantanamo Bay detention camp near Cuba.
A grey-haired beggar man lived there. I heard that he slept in a cardboard box under the statue with the pigeons. He threw scraps of food to them on a daily basis. His hair was long, down to his shoulders, and unkempt. It stunk like a mixture of pig’s manure and dry-reach vomit, but hey, I’m just being nice. The man incessantly cussed, saying ‘Jesus’ this ‘Jesus’ that and ‘Jesus’ the other. Thus, for want of a better name we called it the Jesus statue. But, he is just a bit player in my story.
#
London: July 2012
‘Wow, this story sounds so cool,’ Peter interjected.
‘Yes, but you don’t need to interrupt all the time,’ Andrea replied.
‘Well—, I wanna hear more anyways. Get on with it.’ Kick!
‘Hey! Don’t be rude, and stop kicking me or I’ll punch your lights out,’ Andrea said angrily. ‘Sorry. Where were we?’
#
The Town we call a City: Mond
ay, January 20, 1969
‘Jesus, it’s hot today. What in god’s name are you looking at kid?’ the man said. It was a rhetorical question; he was sick and tired of this lifestyle. He needed to move on.
‘Oo, Yuk! That man smells like road kill,’ the small six-year-old brown-haired girl said, wanting to get as far away as possible. Small children are often like that: blunt.
‘Shush. Jo. You might offend him,’ the twelve-year old boy — that was me poking my sister, with a rare glimpse of political correctness touching my heart.
‘No, Heni, he does. Really,’ she said looking into my large dark brown, almost black, eyes. Our Australian accents had a definite British edge about them. South-Aussie accents usually do; mainly because most free settlers who arrived came from England. They weren’t convicts, and there were fewer Irish or Scottish to dilute the accent.
‘Are you talking to me? Hallelujah. Jesus, boy you look like a frigging runt.’ The grey-haired Jesus man’s head rose slightly sniffing, raising his voice. ‘And—, what’s that I smell?’ Jesus poked his nose up into the wind. ‘Ah — gotcha!’ Holding it with two fingers, he pointed at me. ‘Sorry kid. What’s your name?’
‘Heni,’ I replied. ‘I thought everyone in the world knows me.’
‘Well, Heni. I don’t. You might think I’m stupid,’ he thought, ‘But I’m not. Stop! Hold that thought.’
‘Why?’ I asked, innocently.
‘You can smell it yourself Heni. Try it. Do this—,’ the Jesus man said.
I hesitated for a while, not sure what he meant but eventually copying him.
‘Did you piss your pants or did your mommy spray you with her perfume made from whale piss?’ the Jesus man spat out, nodding insultingly. ‘Yes! That’s what it is. And—, you people think that I stink!’ That out, he felt a lot better.
Adults can be even less tolerant and ruder than children — but, unlike children, they cannot claim ignorance. Ignoring his rudeness, I held my hand up to cover the glare of the sun. The questions started to pile up, overloading in my pea brain.
‘So, do you live here, mister? Is this your home?’ I asked, amicably, sniffing. And, what’s that horrid stench? I bit my lip. The man turned. Whew! What a horrid breath. Coughing, choking from the smell of stale beer on his jacket, I staggered backwards, almost tripping over.
‘Yes, that bit is true Heni. I do live here. And—, sweet holy mother of Mary, Jesus, what a view from up here — looking down at the raw beauty of the white caps snapping at the cliffs, and the white dotted rows of grave stones in the cemetery below,’ the Jesus man said. ‘They pump raw sewage into the ocean — then you swim in it.’ Grinning at me, he displayed his yellow tobacco-stained teeth. ‘What do you think of that?’ Then, he opened an imaginary window with his hands. His eyes flickered back upward to the side, as the image formed in his mind.
‘Here. Take a look through my window, from my humble abode, from the top of the world. From way up here I can look down at god’s miracle below,’ he said.
I cocked my ear. A motorbike buzzed past emitting a loud harping and coughing noise, which tailed off as it rounded the next corner and then clicked up a gear. The engine hiccupped, missing a beat. Now, that didn’t sound much like a miracle to me.
The man scratched his ear, noting my reaction. Then he moved sideways, grinning at his broader audience wickedly. Making way for me he opened another imaginary window, leaning out on the window sill. Standing, he slammed it shut in my face and I recoiled backwards. Moving to his right now, Jesus opened, and then walked through another imaginary door. He made the appropriate sound, sliding the grating door shut behind him. Then he stood staring into space, flashing his arms open to the heavens, mimicking the statue. Timed to perfection, the sun slid out from behind the clouds. Its brilliant rays splashed down, draping over Jesus’s shoulders. In the distance a rainbow formed. People stepped back in wonder and awe, clapping, pondering this genius sleight of hand.
I snorted. He didn’t fool me. In any case, my attention was drawn to a group of three men standing next to a dark green EH Holden in the parking lot. Two of the men were military. One officer was older and much higher in rank than the younger and lanky brown-haired officer. The third, tall slender man in blue denim jeans had a rock hammer dangling from his waist. At the time, I had never heard of Tom Fargo or of Kirin. I didn’t know who they were, or what they looked like, and I certainly never knew their agenda — why they were here. Catching a glimpse of them out the corner of his eye the Jesus man quickly reached down, picked up his camera, turned and zoomed in on them and snapped several photos. The younger military officer, a major, glanced across and pointed at us. Jesus shuffled on his feet a tad nervously. And then deliberately ignoring them now, he smiled and began posing for the tourists. He slid his camera deftly out of view behind a nearby knapsack. When I turned back a few seconds later, the men and their car were gone.
‘Wow! Look at that! Isn’t that amazing?’ someone was saying, shooting a photo.
A few of the tourists, pointing excitedly, took photographs of Jesus now. His miming was clearly superb. Jesus grated open the imaginary window again then slammed it shut with a rapid jerk. The window shattered. He looked at his audience, mouth open, feigning shock. Then, carefully stepping around the crunching fragments of broken glass with ‘Oo ah Oo ah’ he picked up an imaginary broom, swept up the tinkering glass, tossing it clashing into a bin. Facing the crowd he bowed. People began to clap for an encore, tourists stopping in their stride to drop coins. It was like taking candy from babies.
Ping! Ping! Ping! Coins piled up in his cap, which lay upside down in the middle of a pink flowered woman’s scarf, near the knapsack and camera. A photo of his wife and son was laid out neatly in front of the statue’s plaque, like one would at a funeral. Some of the coins were foreign currency, which made little sense.
‘Are you a preacher, mister?’ I asked, questioningly.
‘What do you think? Brother of Mary and Joseph. What gave you such a stupid idea boy? No. Heni. I’m a retired journalist — just tired really — but is there a difference? But, I’m on to a ripper of a story now. It could impact the way we view the world. Hold that thought—.’ He stopped, licked his finger, held it up into the breeze and nodded. ‘Yes. I feel a prophecy coming on—. Yes, I do. It — It’s — It’s going to rain — halleluiah!’ he yelled, smiling as a small cumulus cloud passed in front of the sun. A few people laughed. Most of the small crowd groaned, disappointed. One-by-one people shook their heads, turning, walking away. The guy was a fraud, a clever conman playing with their minds. And then it rained, for all of ten seconds as a few large spots splashed down. Everyone looked up astonished, gasping. I held my small hand up and a splot landed in it. Then it stopped, the sun came out, and the crowd began to disperse.
Meanwhile, the Jesus man used the distraction to flick a concerned glance back at the parking lot. Blast! They were gone. Yes. It was time for him to move on as well. And, he sniffed his jacket: the alcohol was just a distraction; he had a story to chase.
The Jesus man swung around now, ramming into me. ‘What’re you still hanging around me for?’ he snapped. ‘For crying out loud, go hang around someone that gives a shit! Questions, questions — always — more questions. Gee whiz, you terrorists sure know how to tick someone off.’ The kid was still hanging around, like a blowfly.
‘I’m a local!’ I stated emphatically, holding my ground.
‘Yes! I know. And local yokels can tick me off as well. Off with you now. You heard me? Tick off. I need my peace. Look. I’ve got stuff to do.’ The man stumbled now falling over and clambering to his feet. He waved his hands, mumbling to himself — to his flock — and to his god. From time to time he bent down, lowering his hands for small birds to hop onto. Then he posed — a few remaining camera shutters snapped — he moved on. All eyes focused on him, with morbid disgust, as he rummaged through the garbage. ‘Ah, here’s a few scraps.’ He opened the oily paper, tossing a few p
otato chips to the birds and then licked his fingers, seemingly savoring the flavor. A dark-skinned local girl turned away and began to dry-reach. Ignoring her he stood up, praised the lord, and moved on. Every so often he would stop, continuing his miming. Each time a small crowd would gather; people watched, cheering, notes dropping like feathers, coins tossed jingling into his hat. From time to time though, the Jesus man would search the crowd and the parking lot his eyes scanning for the men we had both seen earlier.
‘Come away from him Heni Kruger! Leave the drunk alone,’ a teenage girl called in a strong Scottish accent. ‘Get in the car,’ she ordered as I approached. ‘Your mother expects us back at the café by 1:00 p.m.. If we’re late, she’ll be rightly chuffed!’
Scrambling into the front of the Holden Monaro, I clunked the door shut. Clunk!
‘Hey! You two,’ the teenager yelled at my sisters. ‘Jo! Teresa! Get in the god-darn back seat. And—, put your blasted seat belts on. Buckle up.’ It was Fran, a seventeen year old part-time worker at my grandparent’s café. Her long, curly, red hair draped over her shoulders. That cheap perfume was a little too much so I wound the window down more.
Fran sported a rather large tattoo of a red-back spider on her exposed shoulder, plus a small blue butterfly tattoo on her buttocks. I saw it the time we went swimming together. She thought it made her look cool. I thought it made her look cheap.
Fran was baby-sitting, not me, my younger sister Jo. Of course, I know it’s obvious, but I just want to clarify the situation in case you are confused. I don’t need babysitting. I’m no pussy. I was just along for the ride, and what a ride it was. My sisters were squabbling about something, food, probably.
‘And—, where’re your god-dammed sisters, Heni? Oi! Jo. Teresa Kruger. Get in the car—. Right now! Or—, we will leave without you!’ Fran ordered.
I stuck my head out of the half-open window.
‘Jo, Teresa — bloody well get in,’ I yelled at them, ‘Now!’