* * *
The four figures approached as Alton struggled against his bonds. Alton glared as the leader stepped in close enough for him to smell the alien’s strange body odor, like damp straw beginning to mold. His skin sparkled with a gold hue complementing the gold-yellow of his hair. However, the most striking feature was his pitch-black solid pupils. Alton felt uncomfortable looking into those depthless eyes. “Don’t bother to fight your restraints. I can assure you that you will not escape them.” At somewhere near eight feet, he was easily the tallest of the four, but even the shortest, a woman on the far left side, was easily seven feet tall.
Alton forced himself to relax and the leader nodded. “Very good. Now we can proceed.”
Trying to regain control, Alton barked, “What gives you the right to swoop in here and hold me? I’m just a scout for humanity, searching for a suitable planet for my people. This planet appeared abandoned, so I was investigating. I didn’t do anything wrong!”
“And what were you doing in the control node to begin with?” Asked the man to the right of their Gold leader. This man had a much whiter tinge to his skin, with matching white hair in a short, spiky cut.
Alton blew out a frustrated sigh. “I was investigating a possible danger, based on our early analysis.”
White nodded, steepling his fingers beneath his chin. “You mentioned looking for a suitable planet; suitable for what, exactly?” All four figures focused on Alton, waiting for his response.
Alton paused. How much should he tell them? As security for this city, they would view his intrusion as rude at best; trespassing at worst. However, they might also be his best chance of finding an alternate location in this area of the galaxy if their planet was not an option. He quickly made his choice.
“The passengers on my ship are the last of my species, and I’m responsible for finding a suitable planet on which we can make a fresh start.” He looked at all four beings, trying to gauge their reaction, but they were unreadable. “This planet seemed ideal; intact infrastructure with no inhabitants, so yes, I was planning on setting up here. But I understand now that this is your city, and I didn’t intend to trespass. If you let me go, I’ll be on my way as soon as my ship is ready.” He looked at them hopefully, “Although I would appreciate any information you can give me about possible planets that might be suitable in this galaxy.”
None of the beings moved for several minutes. Suddenly, Gold swooped in so quickly that Alton flinched within his bonds. “How typical of your species; refusing to take any responsibility for your actions!” Heat radiated off his golden skin as he pressed his face within inches of Alton’s. Sweat beaded his brow and he flinched back in confusion from Gold’s anger as the alien thrust a finger toward him. “You find something you desire and simply assume that you can take it for your own!” Small arcs of electricity crackled as he swung the finger to point at Alton with ominous finality. “Then you find out it belongs to others and expect them to point you to some other planet that you can plunder for yourself!”
Alton considered his next words carefully, “Look, as I told you, we scanned as much as we could, but found no signs of sentient life. I had no way of knowing that you still lived here, since you still don’t show up on my equipment. Now that I know you are here, I’ll be on my way. No harm, no foul. Just tell me what you want me to do.” He didn’t like the thought of being beholden to these powerful creatures, but with the invisible bands on, he didn’t have much choice. He unflinchingly met Gold’s angry gaze with the full weight of his responsibility, “I’m trying to save my species. I have to try anything.”
Gold replied with slightly less fury. “This is not simply about your actions today, Alton Ramses. This is the culmination of humanity’s inevitable march toward a final choice between evolution and destruction.”
White piped in again, “We have watched your species from the time we placed the first seeds of life on the planet you called Earth, as we have done with so many species on countless planets, for thousands of millennia,” the other creatures nodded as he continued, “but humanity was always different. The brightest and most resourceful of all our experiments, humans could have been our greatest triumph. Indeed, many of us hoped that humans would one day evolve and replace our race as the Guardians of the cosmos, but it appears that will never be.”
“Wait…experiment? You’re saying we are nothing more than a glorified science project?” Alton sputtered.
White gave a slight shake of his head, “No, you were supposed to be so much more. As I said, we hoped you would one day replace us. Yet from your earliest beginnings, you humans have consistently used your intellects to harm and destroy one another at every turn. As a species, you seem incapable of advancing beyond your base instinct to kill each other in the pursuit of power. Coupled with your complete lack of concern for other life forms, humans have become the single most destructive and deadly creatures in creation.” White’s quiet recitation of the sins of humanity left Alton stunned as he struggled for a response.
“Enough of this,” Gold’s voice vibrated with anger, “this isn’t a history lesson! Your actions today have demonstrated the continued disregard humans hold for all other creatures.” The planet rumbled as his fury grew, and Alton suppressed a shiver. “Humankind is too dangerous to be allowed to utilize the technology and capabilities of this planet.”
White raised a placating hand and spoke to the others, “Let us adjourn to discuss this further,” he gestured and the bands of power released Alton as the pedestal materialized again. “You will remain here until we reach a decision.” Nodding toward the pedestal, he continued, “This station will provide you with any food and drink you desire, as well as basic medical needs.” He waved a hand over the display and the alien symbols morphed into Standard English. “You will also have access the core education and entertainment databases if you choose to access them.”
“How long will I be--” before he could finish all four creatures shimmered, and then disappeared.
IV
Alton scanned the controls on the pedestal that White had left him. Ignoring the food and medical sections, he focused on a section labeled “Environment,” containing several subsections. He touched a symbol that looked like a small living room, and was rewarded with a holographic display displaying various furniture choices. Tapping the image of a chair caused a bright shimmer several feet away as a sleek recliner suddenly appeared. “Well, Nix, at least I don’t have to stand the whole time,” he muttered, “guess I’ll have to drag it over here, though.”
Phoenix sounded in his ear as he stepped toward the chair. “Commander, you need to be very careful with these beings. My analysis of the alien language has revealed some alarming information.”
Reaching for the recliner, he saw movement behind him and spun around. The pedestal had followed him, floating a few feet away, yet within reach. Grinning, Alton sank into the seat, which instantly molded to his shape, providing optimal support and comfort. Sighing contentedly, he watched as the pedestal floated to hover over his lap, lowering automatically so that he could easily read and use the controls.
Alton’s confidence returned slowly. “Relax, Nix. I admit that Gold guy is an ass, but we are the intruders here, you know. I’m betting the others will calm him down, and then they’ll come back here, pat me on the head like a good little pet, and send us on our way.”
Without waiting for a response, Alton turned his attention to the pedestal. Looking down, he saw an image of a book flashing slowly. “See Nix, they even left me some reading material!” he chuckled. Tapping the book, nothing happened for several heartbeats. Just as he was reaching for the symbol again, a voice spoke.
“Hello Alton,” a woman’s voice came from the far corner of the room, followed by a gradual shimmer as a form took shape, becoming solid within seconds. She crossed the room and he realized that she was the woman from the original four that had left him here. Tall and shapely, she radiated
power as she approached. As with the others, her hair, skin, and eyes shared a common hue; in her case, variations of green. Her skin shimmered like sea mist, while her hair resembled the dark fronds of a forest fern. Yet her eyes were what captured Alton instantly. Sparkling with power, their jade green depths glowed softly as she smiled at him. “I don’t have much time, but there are some things you need to know before the judgment is delivered, and this is the only way I can do so without the other’s knowing.”
Alton struggled to respond as her eyes kept him captivated. A weak “Huh?” was all he managed while pushing himself out of the chair.
Green floated over and gently pushed him back down. “Relax, Alton. As I said, time is short, and I need you to focus if this is going to work.” Her hands extended to hover on either side of his head, inches from his temples.
The move broke the spell and Alton recoiled, “What do you think you’re doing?” he barked, pushing her hands away and sinking further into the chair as he tried to get away from her. “How do I know you aren’t here to carry out whatever ‘judgment’ you and the other goons decided for me?”
“Alton, we haven’t given you any reason to trust us, but you need to believe me when I say that I am here on my own, and that I only want to help you.” Seeing the doubt in his expression, she came to a decision. “Very well, give me five minutes to explain, and I believe you will see the truth in what I say. Afterwards, if you still don’t want what I am offering, I will leave you alone.”
Alert for any tricks, Alton nodded, “You’ve got five minutes.” Despite his reservations, her voice drew him in.
“My people are known as the Mynalar. We are one of the oldest species in the universe. We traveled the stars for millennia before your planet existed, and the planet Talos Prime was the center of our galactic realm.” She saw the suspicion in his eyes. “Yes, that is where we are right this moment. As you’ve seen, Talos Prime is one of the most advanced civilizations in existence; it represents the pinnacle of our physical development as a race…”
Alton detected her hesitation, “But?” he prompted.
She sighed and glanced to the floor, “I am not proud of this, but it is important for you to understand what is to come. Before we became interstellar travelers, Myanlans were very similar to you humans in our desire for power and material wealth. We fought numerous wars, and came perilously close to extinction before we determined to travel a peaceful path. Our bloodlust nearly cost us everything, and it wasn’t until our people put it behind us that we were able to evolve as a species.” She looked up, “so you see, we will not do anything that could possibly aid a violent race.”
“And you see humans as a violent race, right?” Alton already knew the answer, and he couldn’t honestly disagree, given the history of humanity.
“Yes, although we still have great hope for your species in the future, your recent past indicates you are not ready for our aid right now. Regardless of your current good intentions, if you were to be allowed to settle on Talos Prime and use its technology, humanity would wind up using that power to expand and dominate their galactic neighbors.” She floated back to within reach of Alton. “That is why you must allow me to do this for you.”
He didn’t flinch this time. “What do you want to do?” he asked.
“The others have decided that your memory of your time here will be wiped, and you will be transported to a galaxy far removed from here, so that there is no chance of finding this planet again.” A small frown indicated her disagreement. “While I don’t think humans are ready for access to everything this planet has to offer, I believe that much of our technology can be utilized to make your quest to save humanity much easier. I want to implant a mental seed containing much of our technological database deep into your subconscious, so that it is only available once you are far from here, and the others have lost interest in you.”
Phoenix suddenly erupted in his ear. “Commander! You must not allow these aliens to tamper with your mind! We have no idea if anything they have said is true, and my findings indicate that they are actually--” Alton tapped his implant and the AI voice dropped like a cleanly sliced thread.
He knew his ship was trying to protect him, but he also knew that Green was being honest, he could feel it. And his gut told him this was the right thing to do. “How will I know when or how to access this information?” he asked.
“You won’t have any memory of anything we have discussed, or the information I will place into your subconscious. I will provide you with a trigger; an object that you will have when you awake from the memory wipe. You will feel compelled to protect and keep this object close, and when the time is right, it will trigger the seed.”
“What will it be?”
“I cannot tell you, or it could affect the memory trigger. I’m sorry.” She lost focus, as her eyes widened slightly. “They are calling for me. We must do this now, or it will be too late!” She leaned forward, but didn’t reach for him yet.
Alton sighed. “Fine. Let’s do this. If it will help me save humanity, I have to try. What do I need to do?”
Placing her hands on his temples, she whispered, “Nothing, Alton. Just relax.” She closed her eyes for a handful of seconds and Alton tensed in spite of her instructions. With a smile, she opened her eyes and slipped her hand down his cheek. “I see that I chose wisely with you, Alton Ramses. You are truly a good man. I know you will use this information wisely when the time comes.” Floating back, she began to shimmer. “I must go. Good luck to you, Alton.” Her deep green eyes were the last thing he saw before she disappeared.
V
Hours passed as Alton sat trying to access the memories Green supposedly implanted into his head. He didn’t feel any different, and he couldn’t fully believe that she had implanted some vast technology database in his head in a matter of seconds.
The familiar flash of light interrupted his attempts as the four Mynalan re-appeared in his room. Gold floated forward, his expression cold, but lacking the earlier hostility. “Commander Ramses, we have discussed your actions, and have come to a decision. Although your actions were rash exhibitions of poor judgment, we have decided they were ultimately harmless and not deserving punishment.”
Alton smiled and started to say something, but Gold cut him off. “However, the human race is not prepared for access to our technology, and we have therefore decided that you will not be allowed to settle on this planet. You will not be harmed, but your memories of this place will be removed. Your ship’s databases have already been cleaned of any data pertaining to your time here.”
“You don’t have to do that! I didn’t find anything here that could be dangerous! Just let me go, and I promise I won’t come back.” Even with Green’s warning, the thought of Gold wiping his memory left him queasy.
White replied, “We don’t doubt that you would not try to return, Commander. However, we cannot take the chance that others of your species would find the record of your time here and attempt to return. The power here is too dangerous. I’m sorry.”
Green floated forward. “I have been designated to carry out the memory wipe, Commander. Please relax, I promise you will not feel anything. Once the wipe is completed, we will return you to your ship, and you will be transported far from here. We are sending you to a galaxy that has several planets capable of supporting human life. You should be able to find a place for your people very soon.” She winked without the other Mynalar noticing, and placed her hands on Alton’s temples for the second time that day. “Goodbye, Alton Ramses.”
VI
Alton woke feeling better than he had in weeks. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so refreshed after a sleep cycle. “Nix, how are we looking?” he asked as he grabbed his uniform from the footlocker at the end of the bunk.
“All systems operating optimally, Commander. We are approaching the Yalneki Cluster, and should arrive at the edge of the system in seventy five hours.”
“
And our passengers?”
“All twenty cryo-pods are functioning at optimal efficiency.”
“Great. I’m going to take a shower, let me know if anything changes.” He crossed to the tiny bathroom as Phoenix turned on the shower automatically.
“Of course, Commander.”
Stripping off the shorts and t-shirt he slept in, Alton suddenly paused as his hand brushed something unfamiliar. Looking down at his chest, he picked up the silver medallion hanging around his neck and pulled it over his head to get a better look. A small gray mouse holding a seed of some sort in its mouth was etched into the silver. A slight tingle of confusion ran through him as he examined the piece. He couldn’t remember wearing a necklace last night, or at any time in the past year, for that matter. Turning it over, it slipped through his fingers, and sudden panic ran through him at the thought of losing it. Gripping it tightly as he stepped into the shower, he settled it back around his neck, instantly calming him.
Pushing the confusion away as he stood in the hot shower, Alton ran his fingers over the medallion as he prepared to find the next home for humanity. Obscured by the steam, two emerald green eyes watched over him from the mirror.
The End
THE CAT WORE ELECTRIC GOGGLES
Ian Hutson
AWOOGAH! AWOOGAH!
The klaxon seemed to bypass the human ear altogether and to burrow directly into the crew’s stomachs, filling each to capacity with angry, stainless-steel bees.
Turing, the Senior Radio Operator, had his feet jammed under the instrument console so that he could use one hand to hold his microphone and the other to tweak the Bakelite knobs and levers of the communication machinery. Needles in the many dials flicked back and forth or spun wildly in complete circles, and all were lit by a danger-red glow. Turing had no idea whether his message was even being transmitted, let alone received by Jodrell Bank.
‘M’aider m’aider m’aider! This is Her Majesty’s Space Ship Beagle. We have been hit by an electro-magnetic interference. Navigation and helm systems are malfunctioning. We are out of control and heading towards Planet 21ZedNA9. M’aider, m’aider, m’aider...’
Whereas the crew was just barely hanging on with grim determination, Captain Arthur Faraday managed to stride with dignity across the bridge to his chair. His reappearance there brought some assurance, and also the odd sensation that impressing the captain was every bit as important as surviving the emergency.
‘Somebody shut that ruddy klaxon off - I think we’re all aware that this is serious.’
HMSS Beagle ducked and dived as she plummeted towards exactly the planet in exactly the system that they had been sent out to investigate - in exactly the manner that they had hoped not to arrive. One moment her sleek metallic nose-cone was aimed at the planet - a body that had been sending out odd radio-energy waves - and the next moment she pointed out to the cold black of space. Tumbling randomly, her maneuvering thrusters and blasting rocket motors were quite unable to restore her former grace and poise. Scarlet red and emerald green navigation lights left twisted trails in the ionized gases as the ship hit the planet’s atmosphere and continued her dive.
‘Engineer - report!’
The Chief Engineer tried to stand to attention, to salute and to hang on to a cross-beam all at the same time.
‘Captain, we’re somehow stuck in the electro-magnetic radiations emanating from the planet. The navigation computer is inoperative; every capacitor, every potentiometer has been burned out. Helm is attempting to control our flight manually but the turbulence is almost tearing us apart.’
Beagle took an especially violent swing, and slide-rules, set-squares, protractors and paper star-charts were thrown from the tables. The ship’s cat, Mr. Babbage, sent a fingernail-on-blackboard screech through everyone’s ouch-bones as he was flung from port side to starboard side and the deck plates shone like new where his claws had left desperate tramlines. The moment the ship paused briefly in her aerobatics he resumed the aloof manner of a cat that had intended to slide arse foremost across the bridge and slam up against a bulkhead. When the captain ordered “brace for impact” Mr. Babbage decided that his cat-igloo was the place to be, and that he would also just incidentally take a nap in the foetal position with his paws over his eyes. He had six and a half good lives left and he didn’t intend to waste one here if at all possible.
When Mr. Babbage regained cat-consciousness his brain reported an odd concerto of ghastly silences on the outside of his skull overlaid with a painfully loud twelve kilohertz hum on the inside. His vision seemed less sensitive than it should have been and focus was a manual process requiring not some little blinking. In short; nothing that couldn’t be cured by a productive visit to his litter tray and then sticking one hind leg in the air for a damned good tongue-bath.
The human crew found themselves to be in similar states of health, although their diagnoses also included cuts, bruises, the odd broken bone and a diminished confidence in the crash-protection efficacy of sticking their backsides in the air and covering their eyes (one or two of them had woken in just such positions).
Captain Faraday, exercising the privileges of rank, was the first of the commissioned crew to see the light of day at the end of the concussion tunnel - and he was dismayed to do so through a gash in the fuselage through which he could also plainly see alien sky. It seemed that the more usual atmospheric safety tests before opening the outer hatch were now rendered superfluous. The Captain’s nostrils twitched and registered nothing unusual, except perhaps for a certain extra-meaty aroma drifting over from the ship’s cat’s upturned and litterless litter tray. Mr. Babbage appeared to be straining cross-eyed in some feline yoga stance involving all four paws in close formation, and a certain amount of tottering about was involved as his centre of gravity was upset by the movement of a significant proportion of his overall starting mass.
Faraday took advantage of his early recovery to adjust his uniform, slick down his Brylcreem comb-over and generally dust himself off - the better to greet his groggy and disheveled crew while also intimating that mere crash landings were no cause for medical or sartorial disturbance in a truly professional serviceman. By the time the lower ranks had begun to recover Captain Faraday was settled at his desk on the bridge, screwing the top back on his fountain pen after updating the ship’s log with a single, pithy entry: ‘The Beagle has landed.’
Planet 21ZedNA9 looked about as welcoming as an open-cast uranium mine. It was a rock covered in smaller rocks, with some of the rocks piled up into hills. Gravel made from broken rocks rounded off the corners. To be fair, some of the rocks were slightly different shades of the colour of rock and a river, of sorts, ran through the shallow valley. It was all a very drab affair indeed. If there were a sentient spark to be found here, thought Faraday, then it would be life but probably not as Mr. Darwin had ever known it.
Mr. Babbage stepped off his litter tray like a duke stepping down from a carriage, and he greeted the Captain’s now conscious ankles with a head butt and a purr. Then he pranced out through the gash in the hull to investigate the scenery. Nothing ate him immediately so he sought higher ground where he might undertake his post-poop wash and watch the antics of his crew.
HMSS Beagle’s hitherto elegant nose-cone had been concertinaed against a particularly large rock. A shower of smaller rocks ranging in size from a Morris Oxford to a Bird’s Eye frozen pea had been thrown over the main cylinder of the vessel. Her landing struts had collapsed in the impact, flattening one of her four fins and lozenging one of the stern jet cones into an oval maw. Wisps of steam and smoke were issuing from vents on the engineering deck and, as dusk fell, the lights behind the rows of portholes continued to flicker long after the new-fangled fluorescent tubes should ordinarily have warmed up and stopped clanking.
Mr. Babbage glanced to his left, disturbed by the flickering half-light of a shadow, and decided to go back onboard to see if the tin-opener had survived the crash. Twice on the short journey to
HMSS Beagle Mr. Babbage hunkered down, hissed and spat at the shadows. Tragically, it seemed that the tin-opener was in sick bay with a broken something or other. However, it only took a little wildly inspired ankle-worship and a plaintive meow to discover a healthy alternative who knew the neat trick with the wonderful tins of “Space-Kat” chomp-chomp chow. Better yet, this less experienced tin-opener had no sense of portion-control and erred on the generous side.
Repair crews bustled and the gangways were filled with hobnail booted footfall. Glaring torches and work-lights cast shadows everywhere, confusing the eye and upsetting the collective primal hindbrain in its constant quest to spot predators.
Twice Captain Faraday turned from his desk only to find no-one actually standing behind him. The Medical Officer was summoned on the respect-preserving pretext of hand-delivering a report of crew injuries. Discreet checks for the effects of concussion were then elicited behind a closed cabin door. The Captain’s skull was pronounced to be anatomically similar to that of a heavy-set bull-elephant, and to be wholly intact and quite uninjured. The entire crew was a little bit jittery according to the M.O.’s summation, but that was to be expected following the crash - nerves had been jangled.
Mr. Babbage, finding the Captain’s cabin door closed, leaned to one side as though accepting a pretend tickle from some kindly, unseen soul and then bounded away down the deck, on a mission.
Captain Faraday’s steward, carrying a supper of Cheddar cheese and Branston Pickle sandwiches, wished that he could be so easily amused by imaginary petting and pretend rodents. As he knocked and waited his eyes flicked to the end of the corridor, attracted by movement that wasn’t there. He silently prescribed himself another Aspirin, to be administered as soon as he could get to the crew bar for an ale with which to wash it down.
As the lights in operational parts of the ship turned red one hour later for the ship’s night watches Mr. Babbage tired of all the pretend attention he was receiving and retreated to his padded cat-igloo on the bridge.
Halfway through the night Captain Faraday woke in a sweat and a panic, forcing himself to reach out from the safety of his bunk into the pitch-black for a light switch, knowing that illumination would be the only thing to chase away his silly nightmare. In his dream he had been lying on his bunk, unable to lift so much as a finger and surrounded at close range by faces staring down at him, somehow draining the energy and the life from his flesh and bones. Only under the greatest exercise of will within his dream had he been able to force his eyelids to open, expecting to come face to face with someone or some thing. He swung his legs over the side of his bunk, glanced involuntarily at the shadows cast by the desk light, and held his head in his hands. Then he did something that he hadn’t done since childhood - he checked under the bunk, peering into the shadows there for he knew not what. Perhaps for some lurking remnant of his dream.
Faraday dressed and walked out onto the bridge, disturbing the night watch and causing them to snap to attention. It seemed that all was well, considering, although the whole crew remained jumpy and unsettled. The Computing Officers were reported to be still deep inside the machinery room replacing the burned out thermionic valves and some of the wiring. Even so, navigation systems would be ready to be warmed up and back on-line within the hour. The Captain noticed that the Officer of the Watch had moved his chair so that it now backed against a wall instead of being open to the various doors leading onto the bridge. Faraday’s experienced eyes also saw that such junior officers as there were on duty gravitated towards the bulkheads, eschewing their more customary positions in the centre of the deck and commuting back and forth when tasked.
Sensing the arrival of the Captain’s senior ankles and privilege-conferring lap, Mr. Babbage emerged from his igloo and began to stroll over. Half-way on his sashay to the Captain, tail in the air, he suddenly hunkered down, spat and hissed. Then he decided on a change of scenery, chasing an imaginary something out into the corridor. Faraday tried but couldn’t remember if the cat was one of those cross-eyed ones - its hiss had seemed to be directed into open space rather than at anyone present.
Captain Faraday decided to amble down to the Science Deck to see what progress had been made on identifying the odd radiations that had brought them to this system initially and had then brought them to their knees at the last by burning out the computer. Mr. Babbage caught up and tagged along. Who knew? The Captain might one day suddenly display the admirable skills of an Able Tin-Opener First Class, or some other really useful rank. As they walked through the ship she somehow felt busier than she ought to be in this off-watch, even given the emergency. Half of the vessel was still on jury-rigged lighting though, and that is never pleasant - all harsh glare and darkness.
The Science Deck, behind its latched and pressurised quarantine airlock doors, presented an odd combination of smells, sights and sounds. Liquids gurgled in laboratory glassware over hissing Bunsen burners as the pulverised remnants of large rocks, medium rocks and small rocks from the brutally-furnished planet were analysed. The unspeakably moist, over-intimate aromas of the previous planetfall’s biological investigations still hung about the atmosphere as a reminder that one of life’s primary indicators is to consume, to process and to then discard organic matter. The sadly non-sentient aboriginal “chimpansheep” of their previous encounter had proven especially adept at processing and then rather aggressively discarding organic matter. Such was first contact - a messy, hit and miss affair.
Thick wooden benches bore ugly stains as reminders that they had been soaked in the very juices of alien existence. Cream-enameled laboratory clocks ticked away the duration of obscure investigations and, at the far end of the room, sat Dr Newton, hunched over the half-ton mass of the ship’s portable atomic microscope. Newton turned to check behind himself as though expecting someone to be there, and then appeared surprised to see the Captain. He almost left his skin behind as he jumped from one startle to quite another.
‘Oh - there is somebody there. May I help you, Captain?’
‘Yes - you can draw me some ruddy scientific conclusions about this planet, and you can start by telling me why this bloody cat has taken to staring into corners, hissing at nothing and purring as though it’s being tickled by ghosts. The whole crew’s unsettled and when the crew is unsettled, so am I.’
Newton thought for a moment and decided against offering the results of the chemical analysis of the rocks. He brought his thought processes even further down, to the level of the almost totally non-scientific mind. Mr. Babbage, the “bloody cat” in question, was throwing some figment into the air, watching as it “landed” and then “re-capturing” it. Newton hitched up his white lab-coat and crouched down, the better to peer.
‘Domesticated felis silvestrus catis, a small furry, carnivorous mammal. Seems physically healthy and not to have been damaged in the recent uncontrolled landing exercise. Appears to be acting out classic post-hunting behaviour, pretending to play with its prey - the usual cruelty prior to consumption raw.’
Newton held out various nifty scientific probes towards Mr. Babbage who, being slightly offended by the examination, ignored him completely.
‘Radioactivity - nominal, allowing for the proximity of the engines. Temperature... oh that’s odd. There’s a steep gradient in a small volume in front of the cat. I’ve lost it - got it again - look, it appears to be moving as though the damned cat’s actually playing with it! Remarkable!’
Newton waved the probes around but he was no match for the cat’s antics and couldn’t keep pace. He slipped an electro-spectral magnetometer from his lab-coat pocket and panned it across the floor, causing a high-pitched whine such as that given off by a metal-detector running over a buried Roman coin. Then he set the apparatus on the floor - the pitch rose and fell as the cat repeatedly threw something into the air and then caught it.
‘He’s got a ruddy mouse! An invisible mouse! I swear it.’ Newton stood and put his chin in his hand; the classic scientist’s
pose signifying both “worthy of interest” and “damnably odd”. ‘Captain - in the locker behind you. The ground-survey backpacks, the electric goggles. Would you?’
Faraday opened the locker, reached in with both hands and passed one heavy backpack to Newton. Then he slipped into another backpack himself, pulled the goggles down over his eyes and pumped the priming-lever at his side. There was a delay of some few seconds and a slight hum as the circuitry warmed up and the goggles began to come online.
‘Give it a moment Captain. This is delicate apparatus.’
The eyepieces began to give off a bilious green glow and to feed highly processed data from the special cameras directly into the two men’s ocular organs.
Captain Faraday fell backwards and scrabbled a little to distance himself. Newton slammed into a cupboard on his side of the gangway, causing his ‘delicate apparatus’ backpack to whine and re-set.
Mr. Babbage, when viewed in the electro-magnetic spectra, could plainly be seen to be playing with something best described as an unholy cross between the ghost of a mouse and a scorpion. It apparently had the social dispositions and attitudes of a dockyard rat. A glowing outline representation in the goggles, the “mouse” arched its tail overhead and jabbed repeatedly in the direction of the cat.
Newton was fascinated. ‘Fascinating’ said Newton as though recording aloud the results of an experiment. ‘I think it’s spitting electro-magnetic poison at the cat!’ He tuned his own goggles to further-advanced technical settings unsuitable for civilians or even for ship’s captains.
The Captain seemed less than amused. He lifted his goggles and set about lighting his “serious thinking” pipe. ‘What about the analysis of the signals that brought us here in the first place. Any more detail on that?’
‘Yes Captain - the signals ceased once we were disabled and committed to landing.’
‘Ceased? Just ceased - no preamble or natural disturbance?’
‘Those frequencies just exhibit low-power grey noise now.’ Newton played a tape. It was as though a million young sheep were bleating randomly over a poorly-tuned walkie-talkie channel. ‘Is the signal important?’
‘I think it may be abso-ruddy-lutely crucial. I suspect that this changes everything.’
The Captain left the Science Deck at a reasonably dignified trot, puffs of tobacco smoke being blown out of his pipe as though he were a steam-locomotive under load. He needed to get outside. Rushing down the gangway, scattering the sentry and the sentry’s warming flask of mulligatawny soup, Faraday replaced his goggles intending to pan around the landscape.
The sentry helped the Captain back up after he fell on his arse, and was careful to not notice that he was doing so as he did so. It was better for lower ranks not to acknowledge some things that ship’s captains did. If the Captain wanted to jump out of his skin, stifle a very un-military squeal of shock and then fall down, then it was up to his crew to lend a hand and see nothing.
Focusing on the distant horizon through the goggles, Faraday had come literally face to face, nose to nose, over-sized eyeball to green-glowing goggle with a deep, churning, seething mass of alien life peering back at him.
Humanoid, certainly, but insubstantial and alive in ways that mankind was not. These creatures positively shone like beacons in the electro-magnetic while being of no material consequence whatsoever to the non-augmented human retina. Life more significant than “scorpimice” roamed the planet.
From being as good as alone and standing in the quiet night landscape, Faraday had found himself plunged into an unholy, crushing, heaving crowd in the quite literal blink of an eye.
It seemed that the horizon had rushed up about him on all sides and left him no air to breathe, no space in which to live. The barren rock was teeming! Positively swarming!
A bright outline of a head with huge puddle-like eyes pressed in over his right shoulder, eager to get a view of the goggle remote-control unit that Faraday had in his hand in a sweaty, vice-like grip. The first head was immediately jostled aside by another and another and the sensation of being surrounded quickly became unbearable - it was like being sniffed at and scrutinised by a million overbearing and yet invisible Gollums.
Faraday flipped the goggles off and felt a welcome return of exposure as his brain instantly placed him once again as just an isolated blip of life facing a bleak and barren landscape, empty from his toes to the far-distant horizon. The sensation was as though space-time itself had been snipped and spliced by a clumsy hand.
He took several deliberately deep breaths, fought down his discomfort and chased hot adrenalin back to whichever glands it had escaped from. Then, as he had known that he would have to, he slipped the goggles back on. There was a capacitor-whine from the backpack and in the fresh blink of an eye all of the spare room in all of the world was gone once again, filled to capacity with bustling, over-curious life that seemed to have no concept of personal space.
Just blue-white outlines seen through tear-streaked eyes, the creatures milled about, elbow to elbow, as insensitive to each other’s needs as the crowd in the public stands at Ascot. In an exercise in pure self-control, Faraday turned himself to look back at his ship. The gangway that he had marched down seemingly at his ease was packed from side to side, stuffed from top to bottom with a heaving mass of this other-life - as though it were the entrance to a fairground and HMSS Beagle the main attraction. Faraday forced himself to be calm and rational and pro-active.
The creatures used the gangway. They were crowding through the main hatch. That surely indicated that they either wouldn’t or couldn’t move through the hull material. He hoped it was the latter - oh above all, he hoped that they couldn’t. Had any of them walked through him? He couldn’t recall. Faraday forced his feet forwards in some semblance of a full stride - and the alien horde almost tumbled out of his way, as though he were a juggernaut pushing through smaller traffic. In the goggles it was difficult to maintain his balance; his view of the ground was utterly obscured. His breathing became laboured again. He felt that he urgently needed fresh, un-used air and open space and normality about him.
Forcing his way back up the gangway, Faraday reached the deck of his ship. To the sentry, the Captain looked to be moving very stiffly and awkwardly - just something else to not be noticed. Captains could be such odd creatures sometimes.
Having proven something important to himself about his ability to function in a pure hell of runaway over-population, he whipped off the goggles. With the naked eye the horizon switched once again from the end of Faraday’s nose to some several miles distant and, away and above, to the happy, human lebensraum of outer space. The deception was total.
Doubtless every inch of deck that hadn’t been behind locked doors would be over-run. How many had entered the Science Deck with him, sharing his passage through the quarantine airlocks? How many had showered with him earlier, before he tried to sleep?
Captain Faraday leaned hard on the big red-alert lever by the hatchway. He leaned on it as though he hoped to push it through the bulkhead plating. This was perhaps neither the most carefully considered nor wisest action of Faraday’s career, but it was the only action that would hold down the lid on the queasiness with which the pressing alien population had threatened to overwhelm his senses. Klaxons sounded again throughout the ship and a crew that had been unable to get comfortable anyway admitted that it was awake, dressed in seconds and rushed to man their posts. He issued orders to the bewildered sentry that further sightseers were to be denied access to the ship and then strode away, leaving the sentry wondering just why he was strapping on electric goggles in the deserted dead quiet of the tail end of his unremarkable night-watch.
When Faraday had travelled just fifteen paces he was very satisfied to hear a full-blown scream of surprise from sentry, who had presumably just donned the goggles. That should keep the blighter from blabbing about captains squealing and falling on their arses.
Throughout the vessel human crew-members unk
nowingly pushed through as-yet unseen aliens, causing eddies and backwashes in the crowd, while the Captain - striding for his bridge - caused the humans to dance aside and flounder similarly in his wake.
Entering the bridge Faraday barked ‘I will have my ship back, Mr. Hawking, I WILL have her back.’
The Officer of the Watch, misunderstanding, positively leapt from the Captain’s chair and released his command. Unseen aliens, misunderstanding even more completely, jostled to try on the vacant chair for size.
‘The ship is taken, Mr. Hawking, we have been BOARDED!’
‘Boarded?’ queried a confused Hawking, noting that the Captain seemed sober.
Faraday flicked a switch and his voice boomed out on the Science Deck.
‘Electro-magnetic goggles. How many sets? ANSWER ME!’
‘Er - twelve, Sir. Twelve in total.’
‘One set to the bridge, the remainder to the Master-at-Arms at the double-double.’
The Captain then flicked a second switch. ‘Master-at-Arms - all visitors to be put ashore immediately. Recruit any crew or officers that you need and report to me once done.’
‘Visitors Captain?’
‘Science Deck will be delivering some goggles to you. Just put them on.’
Faraday held up his hand for silence, making the officers wait with him for confirmation.
A minute later in the background of the open comms channel there came the earthy expostulation of a six-foot four-inch, two hundred and forty pound Marine who had just found himself surrounded on all sides.
Satisfied, the Captain flipped the comms channel off and waited a few more seconds for the set of goggles for the bridge officers to arrive. They were quickly passed around, causing the whole watch crew to break into a cross between the solo rumba and the ant-hill twist.
The comms beeped - the Master-at-Arms. ‘Captain - how do we? I mean has Science Deck found a way to...’
‘Cabin by cabin, Master, cabin by cabin and deck by deck latching every hatchway as you go and then search every cubby-hole, every ventilation and wiring shaft. Lasso them with electrical cord and throw them out of the portholes if necessary, but find a way to CLEAR MY SHIP!’
Faraday then barked for silence once more on the bridge, and the hubbub cut off as though someone had pushed the needle across a record on a turntable. Everyone was looking around like swivel-eyed loons while also desperately trying to remember that they were officers, standing at something between attention and near-enough, considering.
‘Chief Engineer - how long before we could take off?’
Chadwick seemed reluctant to open his mouth to reply, probably in case some alien were to peer in and poke about, gawping at human tonsils - after all, they were poking into everything else. He pulled himself together. ‘If we isolate the damaged sections still under rebuild and skip final testing of the engine recommissioning then we can take off as soon as the reaction matter tanks and the hydroponics tanks are refilled. We emptied them for repairs and we’re pumping water from the river right now - about another hour, two at the most.’
‘Make it faster if you can.’
The Chief Engineer’s manner was as comfortable as that of a young dog waiting alone in a veterinarian’s surgery and reading a magazine article about neutering through the ages. ‘Captain, I’ll get the crew passing a line of buckets if I have to.’
The Marines worked through the ship as a physical barrier sweeping the decks and ushering the “visitors” before them. Even as each section was confirmed cleared still no-one seemed comfortable in the middle of cabins and corridors, preferring to slide along the bulkheads to keep their backs protected. The crew wished that there had been enough electric goggles for one set each, and yet were grateful, in some animal way, that there was not.
Tanks filled, and with the last alien sightseer persuaded out and down the gangway, the main hatch was sealed and a countdown begun. Dials flickered and telltales began to glow as the reactors warmed through. The crew strapped themselves down as they had done a thousand times before, except that this time, to a man, they felt trapped and vulnerable rather than safely restrained and protected.
HMSS Beagle surrounded herself with clouds of vapour and steam. With her repaired atomic reaction cones angled downwards and her forward thrusters straining, showers of sparks sprayed through the fuel-mist feeds and suddenly Beagle created her own shadows, lighting the rocky wastes more brightly than the planet’s own sun ever did. The hull began to vibrate and then to heterodyne like the sides of an old corporation bus climbing a long, steep hill.
Those with goggles twisted themselves to portholes and mapped out a vast encircling swarm of alien life, with just a few of the brave or the foolhardy now dropping from the Beagle’s fuselage and fins and running for cover. Those without goggles tried to not obsess over the shadows in the corners of their cabins. Oddly, for those with a fear of crowds, even an empty cabin or room would never again be quite the antidote that it once was.
Out in the calm of space the crew began to relax a little, feeling the claustrophobia of the pressing alien hordes ebbing away with each passing tera-league. In the Ward Room a tension-relieving debriefing was held over a bottle of Jura whisky. Captain Faraday was generously explaining why he had ordered an emergency take-off, leaving full “first contact” to be handled by another expedition at some later date. Even aside from the horror of the aliens being everywhere all at once and quite without any sense of personal etiquette or human manners, they had put him in mind of nothing more than a rabble, almost a flock of mindless young sheep without a shepherd. He couldn’t bear the thought of Beagle gaining a reputation for bravely finding nothing but non-sentient alien species.
As the Master-at-Arms refilled everyone’s Waterford crystal glasses he confided that he had been surprised by just how easily they had been able to clear the ship. The whole operation had given him the impression that the aliens who had come onboard weren’t the brightest little lambs in the flock and seemed quite used to responding without question to the orders of authority.
The Senior Navigation Officer joked that maybe the alien shepherds had been stuck in traffic - if they were all made of the same insubstantial electro-magnetic bodywork how could any of them move about quickly in that mad crush of alien bodies? The ship had been careening around like a wild thing so their crash-landing site would have been difficult to predict. If the situations were reversed and, as someone had suggested earlier, aliens had landed in England in the crowded stands at Ascot, the effect would not be dissimilar. A delay would be inevitable before authority could push its way through the civilians to respond, and the aliens would find themselves initially surrounded by gawping, undisciplined idiots.
Silence fell in the Ward Room, like the silence after a joke at a funeral.
Everyone jumped out of their skins when Mr. Babbage leapt out of his Ward Room igloo, let loose a meow and strode into the corridor, on a mission. The Radio Officer’s ears heard the cat’s purring fading down the corridor.
Not quite knowing why, everyone rose and followed.
Mr. Babbage was rubbing up against the steel of the hatchway onto the Hydroponics Deck, bumping his head against the metal and purring more loudly than ever. The temperature, humidity and lux monitor gauges on the readout alongside the hatchway were fluctuating wildly, their needles swinging like compasses in an electrical storm.
Captain Faraday summoned goggles and a team of sober Marines. Only then was the hatch allowed to slide aside. Virtually every officer on the ship was crushed in behind the Captain, peering over his shoulders or ducking beneath his arms to get a view. They were doing a damned good impression themselves of a gawping, idiot crowd.
Lush plant-life was growing in serried ranks under strip-lights for fifty feet either side of the hatchway and stretching a hundred feet back. The ship’s crew depended absolutely on what was grown there during the months and sometimes even years between planetfall. Hissing water jets sprayed a fine mist tha
t was shot through with nutrient-rich, oily rainbows. Among the plants, and also in serried ranks, stood a thousand or more blue and white outlined aliens, inch-perfect and eyes front and centre.
A Marine spoke out of turn. ‘These ones look different. Sir, these ones have discipline.’
The Captain had difficulty finding his own voice but managed eventually to command what was almost a conspiratorial civilian whisper.
‘So, if the aliens we were surrounded by on the planet were rabble civilians, these would be the alien equivalent of what? Track stewards? The alien authorities? The ruddy SAS?’
‘When could they possibly have come aboard though Sir?’
Faraday’s brow furrowed. ‘Chadwick - what’s the diameter of the water intake pipes for the hydroponics and reaction tanks?’
‘Hell’s bells and buckets of blood Captain - we used the largest bore we had. It would be a tight squeeze, I suppose, but if these are the alien equivalent of the SAS and they can swim...’
‘Captain - if we can brush them out of the way like smoke then surely they can’t be any threat, disciplined or not?’ said a young rating, mostly to reassure himself.
The captain muttered. ‘The immediate questions are, gentlemen, how do we communicate with them and what are their intentions? Do we come in peace or shoot to kill?’
One of the foremost aliens reached out a long, thin finger and touched the tip to a plant. The plant glowed and seemed in an instant to thrive, to become more alive.
‘Life force?’ said the captain, brushing aside a proffered dog-eared pocket edition of Bradshaw’s A Rector Ut Omnium Translatione.
The alien in the next row along reached out a similarly thin, ethereal fingertip and briefly touched the plant nearest him. That plant suddenly became desiccated, browned and lifeless.
‘Death? Life and death. You have the power of life and death. Is that what you’re saying?’
A third alien still pointed to the Royal Space Service logo painted high on the wall - a beautiful blue and white marble wrapped in the silk of a St George’s Cross. Then he tapped his own chest and pointed again at the blue marble.
‘England’ translated Faraday, suddenly sounding weary. ‘We have the power of life and death over you, take us to England they say.’
Mr. Babbage, a cat of pragmatic character and six and a half remaining lives, trotted out and very sensibly rubbed up against a senior alien ankle.
Captain Faraday thought for a moment, chewed with unusual vigour on the stem of his pipe and then allowed the hatch to slide closed.
‘Mr. Chadwick, Mr. Hawking - to the Self-Destruct cabinet if you please. Ensure that the mechanism’s mainspring is fully wound and set it for a twelve hour countdown without chimes. Mr. Newton, Science Deck has just eleven hours and fifty-nine minutes in which to save me from having to blow this vessel, this crew and our guests to smithereens. One way or another, gentlemen, I do not intend tomorrow’s log entry to detail how HMSS Beagle carried an alien invasion force back to England.’
The End
THE SURVIVOR
J.C. Harker
With her nose full of the retched, burnt stench and her body scratched, bruised, and aching all over, she didn’t dare open her eyes. Instead, she fought against the headache blurring her memories.
She anticipated the familiar beat of Slavers’ drums to start any moment. But only the crackling of a fire and humming of wind filled the air. She couldn’t smell any burnt human flesh, either.
The stowaway blinked rapidly as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. A wide open, motionless human eye stared at her. She screamed, but unsure who else might be around instinctively she covered her mouth. Blood trickled down a young woman’s cheek from the fresh, and fatal, wound in the corpse’s temple. It dripped from the woman’s chin, pooling around the head and soaking the long, dark hair splayed on the ground.
The stowaway swallowed hard and tried to free herself from the material twisted and wrapped around her like a cocoon.
As she worked to release her arms something prickly crawled onto her already freed leg. Panicked, she kicked and shook the creature off and then untangled herself from the parachute.
There was something familiar about the dead woman. The elegant, blue dress resembled a night sky with tiny, studded crystals spread across it like stars. Such garments belong at a Master’s ball, not the middle of a forest.
The stowaway coughed, choked by the lingering smoke. The clouds above shifted and she gasped when the light of two moons clearly illuminated the wreckage.
The escape. The ship. The scouring below deck, stealing leftovers just to survive—it all came back in one headache-inducing stream. She remembered sneaking into the shuttle, crawling through a vent, cutting through cables to get to the capsule chamber, and finally wrapping herself in the capsule’s parachute. It all went well until the bang.
Another spark lit up and fizzled. Torn off branches littered the area. They must have broken my fall. She looked up. Enormous, leafy trees swayed high above.
“Where have I seen you before?” The stowaway stood up with a groan and looked down at the corpse.
She kicked aside the parachute she had cut off from the capsule—a decision that had saved her life but proved fatal to the unfortunate stranger.
The stowaway limped to the wreckage tipped at an angle against a tree. Exposed circuits buzzed and sparked at the front of the capsule. She focused on the middle section—a coffin like chamber with a broken glass door swaying on a loose hinge. When she stood on the tips of her toes to reach inside, her fingertips brushed against something soft and she pulled back surprised. Velvet? Here? She examined the inside further, but the only thing she found was a loose-hanging cryo breathing mask. A small display screen on the mask, faintly glowing in the dark, read “Fiana Hemille.”
Something sparked near the stowaway’s hand and she jumped back, tripping over the corpse. She turned to the dead woman and flipped the body onto its back. “Sorry Fiana, nothing personal, you understand.”
Fiana and the stowaway were actually very much alike. Both of similar age and height. Both skinny, though she presumed for very different reasons. With a trained scavenger’s eye she scanned the body. Anything she could carry and sell in the nearest town might prove handy.
A wide, silver bracelet glistening in the moonlight caught her attention. The jewelry slid off Fiana’s wrist with ease. Definitely silver, she judged, placing it in a pocket before patting down the rest of the body.
“Rest in peace.”
She waved her hand in a parting gesture and stepped aside from the wreckage. Surrounded by a thick wall of trees and undergrowth, the stowaway glanced up at the moons and turned to the treetops with a sigh. Without a map, she’d need to climb all the way up.
She picked the nearest tall tree with thick, low hanging branches. The stowaway grabbed one to test its strength, but pulled her hand back. Her fingers burned from the sticky muck covering the bark.
“Yuck.” She wiped her hand and examined the reddish marks. Was it poisonous?
With makeshift gloves made from parachute pieces using the knife stashed in her boot, she began the climb. Every muscle ached in protest and the pain in her ankle slowed her down. But fueled by adrenaline, she eventually reached the top.
Fear formed a knot in her stomach. The wild jungle spread all the way to the horizon. No lights, no towns or cities, not a single man-made structure in sight. Even beyond the horizon—just darkness. She knew she had boarded a colonist ship, but she didn’t expect them to be pioneers.
A burst of light in the valley below startled her and she grabbed a branch for support. A hover-light rose above the tree tops, then another and another. The sound of falling trees echoed in the distance as she witnessed the forming of a clearing.
Pioneers? The shuttle must have landed there. As she mused, a hover-light separated from the group and headed in her direction.
She squeezed tighter on the branch. “The fire!” The
y must have sent a rescue team. She judged the distance and the speed at which the hover-light moved. At best she had two hours before they reached her.
The stowaway slid down the tree and discarded the make-shift gloves. She didn’t know what the punishment was for crashing the capsule and she didn’t want to find out. The dead woman’s blue dress shimmered in the light of the growing fire.
Where had she seen it before? “No!” She covered her mouth, as the memory surfaced.
A photograph in a Master’s house commemorating a Navi visit. A girl in a dress just like Fiana’s walked onto a starship deck with her head raised high. The slave girl was the hero of a story whispered by women locked in Slavers’ dungeons. Special, unique, selected by the Navi, the girl waved to the slaves, ignoring the Slavers and even the Masters. But they overlooked the disrespect; the girl being chosen was an honor for the whole planet.
Hair stood on the stowaway’s arms and neck as she clenched the bracelet in her pocket. She lifted it up and traced the inside with her fingertips. As they passed over an engraving her breath quickened.
“Property of the Navigator Academy,” she mouthed.
Bile rose in her throat. She thought she could get away with her original crimes. She could try to disappear, whether she lived in a small town or in the wild. But a dead Navi? They would surely investigate and scan the place, and then find her DNA. Even if it weren’t her fault, just her presence at the crash site… She looked at the slashed parachute strings. It was her fault.
What could she do? The stowaway racked her brain for ideas, for any scraps of knowledge about the mysterious Navi women. They were rare. Rare enough that race, class, religion, and politics were disregarded in the selection process. Considered the pinnacle of the human gene pool, they didn’t mingle with regular people beyond fulfilling their duties as Navigators. She swallowed hard. There was no way she was going to get away with this. Unless…
The mask! The woman must have still been in cryo. Maybe the colonists didn’t know her. No dead Navi, no investigation. She twirled a lock of dark hair between her fingers comparing it to Fiana’s. “This could work.”
The gown’s sleeves stretched beyond her wrists, but otherwise the loose fit suited her well. The modest cut of the dress helped disguise the differences in their figures. She put on the white slippers last. They were tight, but almost a fit.
The stowaway wrapped the body in the parachute and dragged it to the burning wreckage, adding some dry branches for good measure. She hoped the eventual explosion of the cryo tank would cover up her tracks. Leaving the bonfire behind, she ventured into the wild and pressed on until she heard voices nearby.
“Help.” She dropped to one knee and leaned against a tree. “Help! I’m here!”
The hover-light scanning the area flooded her location with light.
“Please help me.” She shielded her eyes.
“Navi?” Someone responded close by. “Are you both alright?”
Both? There were two Navi? But the wreckage contained just one capsule and there was no room for two people inside.
“It’s just me.”
People gathered around and a man in uniform, towering over the crowd, reached his hand out to her.
“Navi...?” Did he not know her name? I might get out of this yet.
“Fiana, Navi Fiana.” She answered as if it were her name from birth. No pause. No hesitation. A natural born liar. “I was the only Navi there.”
He pulled her up and helped her stand.
“I’m Brynt, the colony marshal. You must be the apprentice then.” He glanced at the tablet in his hand. “I’ve got two Navi listed here, so your friend is still somewhere out there.”