Fiction Vortex - November 2013

  They were both careful enough to wipe their shoes, partly unbuttoning their jackets but keeping their briefcases beside them on the settee like loyal but indulged dogs.

  “Tea? I was just making a cup.”

  “That would be lovely.”

  “Yes, lovely,” agreed Anthony. When they were resettled, tea poured and complimented, Michael sucked up a it’s-a-pity-but-we-should-get-to-business breath.

  “Well, Marion. If we could see the artifact in question?”

  “Oh. Of course. I wouldn’t want you thinking I was one of those cranks. One of those mad women who have got imaginations bigger than the moon.” She left them to fetch it, a secret little thrill that she was about to share her find vying with the expectation of $5,000.

  ‘An encounter with aliens or alien technology? The UFOlogy Institute pays up to $500 for your stories, $5,000 for physical proof and artifacts. Telephone or email to speak to one of our operatives. We take you seriously because we take our business seriously.’

  She’d seen a link to their page when she’d gone online to try and find out exactly what the thing was.

  “I always go up onto the hills this time of year to pick blackberries. They’re wonderful in pies, or just mixed with apple and eaten with a dollop of sour cream. I know it’s terrible and probably forbidden…” She paused and they made the necessary noises of forgiveness and understanding. “But I wanted just a small clipping for my garden and when I saw what it was like inside… Well, you can see for yourself.”

  She handed the length of stem to Michael and he took it reverently, being careful where he placed his fingers. The blackberries still attached were huge and ripe, the leaves still pert and green. They should have wilted quickly after being cut from the main bush. Evidence enough there was something unique about the sample.

  But when one looked at the stem’s cross-section…

  “I saw something similar mentioned on your website. That’s what convinced me to get in contact with you.”

  “Yes,” said Michael, after he’d passed it to Anthony to examine. “We found posting examples made people far more willing to come forward with their finds.”

  “Have there been others like it?”

  “Unfortunately, I can’t officially confirm anything — we guard the confidence of our clients very strictly. But, well, between you and me, we’re very excited by your discovery.”

  Marion beamed.

  “What’s it for?” she asked then, startling the men. “I mean, I can see there’s some kind of electronics inside because of the wires poking out. But the fruit is real because I’d already tried some. Delicious, in fact. It’s why I took that particular cutting in the first place. I figured it must have something to do with the thorns.”

  “Really? Why do you say that?” Michael’s voice was oddly flat, but Marion thought it was probably just professional pride that she might have out-guessed their own conclusions as to what it was.

  But she’d had time to think, do a bit of examining herself.

  “The thorns have a wee little hole in their ends. I looked. I even broke one off and saw where a tiny wire threaded into the stem.”

  Anthony nodded, pointing at the gap for Michael to confirm a thorn was missing. “I figure it must be to either inject something into an animal that scratches itself on it, or to take some of their blood. I think people would notice dead animals lying about, even though we’ve had our share of Myxomatosis with the poor rabbits up there. So it’s probably the latter.

  “When I went to give blood, they took a tiny sample by pricking my ear. Not even what you’d call a drop. This plant could be used to collect samples. Maybe to work out their DNA. Better than dragging people off to their spaceships and doing those strange experiments on them with probes and suchlike. No one would ever know, and the fruit would attract them no shortage of specimens.”

  “That’s a very astute supposition,” Michael said, his smile high on his cheeks as if pegged on a washing line strung far too tight. “And why would they do that?”

  “Research purposes, databases, maybe even to — I don’t know — make their own versions of the animals they found?”

  Marion let out a tribbling laugh and Michael and Anthony both paused before coughing out their own echoing versions.

  “Well, if you could find the thorn that you removed. And, of course, we’d need to know the precise location. I think we can safely say your find is of interest to us.”

  “Really? Oh, I am glad…”

  “I can write you the check for $5,000 now. Once you tell us the location, I think we can double that.”

  “I’ll get the map from the kitchen and mark it for you.”

  “That would be…”

  The doorbell sounded. Michael and Anthony exchanged glances.

  “You haven’t contacted anyone else about this? You do know we require exclusivity in these matters.”

  “Well, I wasn’t sure if you’d respond, so I did write to another place offering something similar. The ALIentomology Bureau? If it’s them, I’ll tell them the matter is already being handled.”

  “It’ll be them,” Michael said. “If you’ll allow me? Anthony will assist you with the other matter.”

  He went to the door whilst Marion, flustered more by her faux pas than someone else answering her front door for her, went to the kitchen to show Anthony where she’d made her remarkable find.

  ~~~~~

  “Michael,” said the woman standing on the doorstep. He looked behind her, saw she was either alone or her companion was somewhere waiting in the car or — more likely — van. The Bureau always preferred vans.

  “You’re wasting your time. It’s one of ours.”

  “You wouldn’t be lying to me, Michael? We both know what the Accord says. We are also both old enough in this game to know people lie.”

  “Not this time. It’s just a cell sampler.”

  “Ahh, one of your biotec butt-scratchers.” She smirked. “When will you scientist-types learn to catalog where you place your equipment?”

  “The same moment you military-types learn to fly craft without crashing them.”

  “Touché.” Her face abruptly turned grey, like the sky. “How much does she know?”

  “She’s not a security risk,” Michael said, avoiding answering the question directly. She stared at him. Hard.

  “We’ll decide that.” She flipped her chin, indicating over his shoulder and Michael frowned in confusion.

  “Anthony?” he asked, now realizing what was being inferred. She winked. He turned back as he heard something that sounded like a tea cup shattering on linoleum.

  Jez Patterson is a British teacher and writer, currently based in Madrid. Recent stories by him have appeared in Daily Science Fiction, Perihelion SF and (forthcoming) Stupefying Stories. Links to his thoughts and things with his name at the end can be found at https://jezpatterson.wordpress.com/author/jezpatterson/.

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  Signed, Sealed, Delivered

  by Edward Pearce; published November 22, 2013

  It was a comfortable suite. Just a couple of rooms with a separate toilet and shower, but spacious enough. And, of course, a screened-off area for Al, his escort, as they liked to call him. The furnishings were of good quality and the decor tasteful, if a little muted. A huge wafer TV hung on one wall, and on the sideboard was a lengthy menu with meals that Darren knew were excellent. He’d had three of them already, and regretted slightly that he wouldn’t get round to trying all fourteen. All in all, however, that was a minor concern.

  Beyond the window lay a view of considerable beauty. The rolling downland, trees and hedges, patchwork fields, and distant river that glinted every now and again were quintessential English country landscape. He noticed how the cows in one field and the sheep in another moved about during the day, forming into little groups and huddling together as the light began failing, before it got too dark to see any more. He’d watched it for tw
o days now, on and off, through the toughened glass. The afternoon scene was peaceful. It was one fifteen in the afternoon. Did sheep and cows take a nap at lunchtime too? They weren’t doing a lot, and he didn’t feel very active either.

  Al was making little or no noise. Darren wondered what he was doing, and how he managed to fill the time. The one thing he was sure of was that Al would be keeping a close eye on him, but there must be other stuff for him to do behind that screen. He supposed there were monitors and a link to a control room of some kind. Darren couldn’t go in or see in, but Al had a belt enabling him to pass through the electronic barrier, as he’d explained to Darren on the first day.

  Darren liked Al. His big, black presence managed to be simultaneously friendly, reassuring and authoritative. That was his job, after all, to act as companion and guard for a few difficult days, and he had to admit that Al did it well. He’d said as much to him on the second day, and Al had accepted the compliment graciously whilst kindly but firmly blocking off further conversation along those lines. Yes, if Darren were in charge of this operation, Al was the kind of person he’d employ, and whatever Al was being paid, he deserved it. It couldn’t be the easiest of jobs. Perhaps his Christian faith was a help, because Al clearly believed in the rightness of what he was doing.

  He hadn’t asked “the question” since first thing in the morning and Al hadn’t volunteered any further information since, so now was probably not a bad time to raise it again. As casually as he could, he called out over the top of the screen “Any more news, Al? Do we have a definite time yet?”

  “Hold on a minute, Darren,” and Darren heard Al busying himself with something before coming out from his cubicle. He had his usual smile, friendly and reassuring without being familiar or patronizing. He’d begun by calling Darren “Mister Holdsworth” but seemed quite happy to change to “Darren” when asked. “I’ll play it whichever way suits you, Mister Holdsworth, I mean Darren!” and they’d both laughed.

  “They did get back to me, within the last few minutes, as it happens. Looks like being tomorrow some time, as we thought. All the main arrangements are made, just a couple more things to put in place and then they’re ready.” The smile didn’t exactly disappear, but it flattened out a little. The eyes were kind, yet resolute and without weakness.

  “Good. I’ll be glad when it’s all done and dusted!” Darren tried to sound as if he meant it, and in a way he did. Yet some things are impossible to rationalize away, and every now and again a dark blob would threaten to rise from the pit of his stomach and overwhelm him. Don’t think about it, he told himself, just think of how you’re helping those you care about instead, and be strong. It’s not long now.

  “Would you like another game of chess, Darren?” Al said. “I know you’ll beat me again, but I feel I’ve improved my game a lot in the last two days.” But Darren didn’t feel he could focus on chess at the moment.

  “What about the view? Want me to change it?”

  “Nah, it’s fine, this one. Nice and restful.”

  The light over the hatch came on. “Ah, dinner!” Al said. It was his job to collect food and drink from the hatch. He brought Darren’s tray over and laid it on the table in front of him, went back for his own and they sat down together. Darren’s meal was fillet steak with onions, mushrooms and Duchesse potatoes. Al had chosen sea bass with new potatoes and seasonal vegetables.

  “Damn plastic cutlery!” Darren said. His fork wobbled and almost broke as he cut into the steak.

  “I know. It’s the one thing they can’t get right. It is annoying.” Al’s expression was apologetic and Darren did his best to smile, embarrassed at the implied criticism of Al and his employers in matters they could not control. Under the circumstances, plastic cutlery was understandable – inevitable, even. It was the same as chairs fixed on sliding tracks, locked windows, and the absence of a door. But never mind about that now, Darren thought.

  “This steak’s damn good,” he said. “That’s one heck of a chef they’ve got working here!”

  “Yeah, the food certainly is one of the perks of the job. Nobody cooks a sea bass like this guy.”

  Darren wondered how many times Al had had the sea bass, and how many other contractors he’d escorted. Contractor and Escort were weasel words, of course, but the people in charge were doing what they could to make things tolerable, and all things considered, they managed it well.

  He ate the rest of the meal in silence. Al did likewise, pushing his paper plate away at the end with an appreciative “Mmm!” They both had tarte au citron with fresh cream for dessert.

  “You know, I think I will try that change of scene,” Darren said after they’ve finished.

  “Sure, what would you like?”

  “What have you got?”

  Al laughed. “Hey, I’m forgetting you don’t know them! Let’s see, there’s New England in the Fall, Red River Canyon, Himalayan Foothills, Cityscape, Black Forest, European Woodland, Headland Bay, Seychelles Beach, and there’s one other, can’t think of it. Oh yes, Gentle Meadow.”

  “You know them off by heart, then?”

  “Sure do!” It was said with the same kindly, yet unbending, look as when he’d asked if the time was fixed. We’re not pursuing this theme any further, the look said.

  “I think I’ll try the Himalayas, Al. I’m in the mood for some grandeur.”

  “Good choice, I like that one. Just let me nip out and fix it,” and Al disappeared behind his screen. A moment later English Pastoral disappeared and white, majestic mountains appeared in the window, behind a fast-flowing river where deer were drinking. Darren wondered for a moment what really was on the other side of the glass. Almost certainly a blank wall, but he knew better than to ask, and instead looked out with mild interest upon the new landscape.

  Al sat in one of the chairs, watching the TV that was quietly on in the background. Sometimes, when his services weren’t called for, he’d sit in his cubicle, but sometimes he sat with Darren in the suite. He somehow knew when his presence was welcome and when to disappear, but he always stayed in the background unless Darren initiated a conversation or some other interaction.

  “Do you have family, Al?” Darren asked.

  “Yes Darren, I do. I have two boys.”

  “That’s nice. How old are they?”

  “Let’s see, one of them’s eleven, and the other’s six. He’s a handful! I think he’ll turn out all right in the end.”

  “Want to know how I ended up here?”

  Al didn’t seem fazed by the sudden change of tack. “Sure, if you feel like telling me. They do give us some of the details, you know.”

  “So I suppose you know I lost my wife and my own kids in that plane.”

  Al nodded. “Yes, I did know that. It’s real bad luck, Darren, and I do feel sorry, really I do.”

  “You’re a family man, of course you understand. I hope you never know what it feels like, but you can probably imagine how it, sort of, changes things. I didn’t want to carry on after that. My cousin and her husband died a couple of years ago in a house fire, left three kids of their own behind. I thought the family might have had its share of bad luck, but no. My aunt and uncle look after them, they’re getting frail now. My job barely made enough to keep me alive. That’s why I did what I did. I don’t much care about me, but I do care about my own flesh and blood. I did it to take care of them and I haven’t regretted it, not for one second.”

  Al didn’t say anything, just lowered his head and looked at the floor. Darren looked around the suite, wondering for the umpteenth time where the door was. There were no handles, keyholes or lines in the wall. He’d known better than to ask Al about it, or about any details of the process itself. He felt a completely detached, academic interest in the whole business, but there were certain obvious questions to avoid. That day when the plane had gone down, he’d been numb and he’d stayed that way ever since. After the initial shock wore off, he’d thought about this opportunity, and
once the statutory minimum year was up he’d applied, going through the one-month cooling-off period with the same unchanging cotton wool in his head and the same feeling of not minding.

  The only thing that bothered him about being stuck in the suite was the lack of anything purposeful to do. At home there were enough chores and cleaning to keep him busy, and there was the voluntary work that hadn’t given him a new sense of purpose but which he continued with anyway, just to fill in the hours. Here, everything was done for the Contractor: cleaning, cooking, an escort, like Al, constantly on hand. Darren could read, watch TV or go on the Web – only passively, of course – but there was only so much of that he wanted, and that point was reached sooner than one might think. He’d mention that this evening, as a suggestion to pass on for how things could be improved still further.

  The light over the hatch went on again. Al went over and came back with coffee, one blue and one red mug. “Here you go, Darren. Mine’s the blue one, got sugar in it!”

  The coffee was good, like everything else here. The one thing they didn’t give you was alcohol, not that he cared about that. He drank the coffee, then went over to an armchair and dozed for a while. Then he woke up and watched some more TV in a vague, disinterested way. Al sat in the other chair, also watching the TV.

  The buzzer on Al’s belt went off. “Wonder what they want now?” he murmured, half to himself and half to Darren. He unclipped the buzzer and examined the screen, then looked over at Darren. “They need me outside for a couple of minutes. Darren, I’m sorry about this, but you know I have to strap you in. Regulations is regulations!”

  Darren sighed. He’d been comfortable in that chair. “All right, Al, it’s not a problem.” He got up slowly, walked over and sat down in the high rubber-padded plastic seat by the wall, resting hands and feet in the slots provided.

  “Let’s just get you comfortable first,” Al said. “Clothing not rucked up or anything?”

  Darren shook his head.

  “Ok,” Al said, reaching over to the side of the chair back out of Darren’s view and pressing something. Four wide grey plastic restraints clicked out of the chair and secured Darren’s arms and legs. Al reached over unexpectedly, cupped Darren’s forehead in a large hand and gently moved his head back, as a barber would move a customer, pressing it firmly into the padded back of the chair. Now there was another click and Darren found, to his surprise and annoyance, that he was unable to move his head.