Cold Eyes (First Contact), page 24
The scientist is quiet verbally, but awash with stripes and shades, sharing this perspective with the others present in the room.
“How is it you can speak English?” Dali asks, still glowing with a sense of astonishment. This is First Contact, but it feels like the fourth or fifth time they’ve been in contact, at least from the alien’s perspective.
“We have studied your world for a much long time,” the scientist replies, stumbling through his words. “We have desired to unravel your thoughts.”
Dread washes over Dali at the implications of that statement. “Oh, God. You haven’t been watching TV, have you?”
“TV? Is that a noun?”
“It’s an acronym. Two letters spoken as a word. It’s the letters T and V.”
“Why are there none of your all-important vowels in this term? Is the V a pseudo-vowel being used to substitute for an E?”
Dali’s unsure where to start. How can he explain a flat panel that provides images from various sources? What will they think of the human desire for make-believe role-playing as entertainment? Damn, that’s going to be confusing.
“Ah, never mind,” he says, trying to keep the conversation focused.
“Never and mind don’t seem to go together,” the alien says. “Is this your mind you are referring to or ours?”
Dali holds both hands up and breathes deeply. There are so many underlying assumptions and idiomatic expressions forming the base of his thoughts that he’s baffling the alien scientist. He’s got to slow things down and be more precise.
“Who are you?” Dali asks, wanting to walk the conversation back to the beginning.
Bob interrupts, saying, “On our world, there are two—prowlers and drifters, spaceman.”
“We are the one,” the scientist says, which Dali finds confusing. At a guess, he means they’re the prowlers? The way Bob moved through the forest suggests his body type was once proficient at hunting.
“The cave. The cave,” Bob says.
The tall alien says, “Yes. Your Bob told me you have been to the cave of our ancestors.”
“I have,” Dali replies, relieved to get back to a simpler topic.
“You stood before the column?”
“The obelisk,” Dali says, hoping that by using the correct term, he’s helping and not hindering the discussion.
“You saw the drawings? A white creature in a helmet?”
“Oh, now, wait a moment,” Dali says, not liking where this is leading.
The scientist ignores him, saying, “The call of the cycle?”
“Cycle?”
“The turning of all things. The coming of the stranger. Life and death. Birth and renewal. The end that brings a new beginning. The cleanse. Now you are here, it shall be as you say.”
“What shall be?” Dali cries aloud, feeling frustrated. “I haven’t asked you to do anything!”
The Beebs around the room adopt the same pose Dali observed at the funeral pyre. They press their four clawed hands together, stretching them out in front of themselves, only they direct their motion at him. Although the tall alien describes himself as a scientist, Dali’s beginning to wonder if a better term would be priest.
Bob says, “The cave, spaceman.”
“I’m not—that’s not me,” Dali says, pointing over his shoulder in the general direction they approached the city. “That cave painting has got to be tens of thousands of years old. It couldn’t possibly be me.”
“The likeness is unmistakable,” the lead alien says. “Two arms. Two legs. It is you. It is not one of us.”
“No,” Dali says, speaking with slow deliberation. “It is very mistakable. It’s a stick figure. I’m short and stocky compared to you guys. That could be one of you—with your arms held together.”
“But the dome?” the alien says, pointing at Dali’s helmet. “The man in the cave painting has a dome like yours.”
“They could have been standing with the sun behind them, forming a halo,” Dali says. “I don’t know what you guys think is happening here, but it has nothing to do with that cave. I’m stranded. My spacecraft crashed. I’m not your messiah. I can’t help you with your renewal or cleanse or whatever the hell you call it.”
“You will bring renewal,” the priest says. Dali can’t think of him as a scientist anymore.
“No, I won’t,” Dali says. “I’m going to die down here.”
“You have come to command all things,” the creature says. “The future will be as you say.”
“Bob,” Dali says, appealing to his friend. “You must know. You must see reason. Think about this. Think for yourself. I’m not some supernatural being. I’m from another planet, not another plane of existence. You must see reason.”
Bob reaches out, touching the priest. “He speaks for reason. We should listen to what he says.”
“Yes. Yes,” Dali says, pointing at the priest, wanting him to pick up on Bob’s logic. “If I’ve come to command all things, you should listen to me. I know, right? I’m the one. And I’m telling you reason is your only hope, not past superstitions.”
“No, no, no.” The priest works himself into a trance-like state. Black stripes surge up his legs and along his arms, pointing at Dali. They grow in frequency, flickering on his skin.
“Bob, please,” Dali says, appealing to his friend, but he can see the young alien is as powerless as him. “This isn’t right.”
Around the room, the aliens gathered before him pulsate with identical dark stripes. Black pigment surges up from their legs, racing over their bodies and along their arms. Each wave seems to pulse out of their claw-like fingers, pointing at him. Symmetrical patterns come in waves, growing in intensity.
“Reason,” Bob says.
“Yes, reason,” Dali replies, speaking over the hum in the air. It builds along with the stark contrast in the pulsating stripes, “We need them to see reason.”
The aliens begin convulsing. Their motion is in unison. Whether they’ve coordinated consciously or are part of some hive response is unknown. Their legs flex with each burst of color. Their torsos bend in time with the surging patterns. Ripples run over their muscles and down their arms.
“I need to talk to the Magellan. I—”
There’s banging outside. The door to the apartment buckles. The floor trembles. Dali sees the compression wave a fraction of a second before the crack of the explosion reaches his ears.
Boom!
The air around him distorts, compressing with the blast destroying the door. He’s lifted off his feet by the force of a pressure wave hitting him. His hands are thrown outward, away from his body. He’s confused. There’s a flash of light as debris rips through the air. The explosion moves like a bubble expanding through the room, racing away in a heartbeat, pressing everyone back against the walls.
Dali’s thrown into the vast window behind him. Cracks run through the glass. His suit protects him from the impact, but the blast knocks the breath out of him. Static flickers over his heads-up display as it reboots. He slumps to the floor with his legs out in front of him.
“Wh—?”
Those aliens still on their feet rush at the gap in the door. Pulses of light are fired from the other side. Yellow flashes crisscross the room, leaving dark marks on the wall. Limbs are severed. Blue blood scatters across the artwork.
The scientist, or preacher, or whoever the hell he is, has been knocked over by the explosion. He gets to his feet and charges the door, firing some kind of weapon in response to the bolts of lightning ripping through the apartment. He makes it to the opening and appears to hit at least one of the attackers. Then his torso explodes, spraying the apartment with blue and black entrails. A severed arm slides across the floor and bumps into Dali’s boots.
Dali shakes within his suit.
Bob lies to one side. His crumpled body has ended up over in front of the window. Whether he’s unconscious or dead is impossible to tell.
White smoke billows within the room, but this is different. It hasn’t come from the breaching charge. It’s either to provide cover for the assault team or to gas the occupants—probably a bit of both. A few of the aliens keel over, clutching their torsos.
Dali’s ribs ache. It hurts to breathe. He’s sustained at least severe bruising from the blast, if not a few cracked ribs.
Aliens swarm within the apartment—only these creatures are different. They don’t have any legs. At first, Dali’s confused. Perhaps he’s not seeing clearly given the smoke, but this is an entirely different species. Like the sky-whales, birds and even the trees, these aliens use inflated bladders to drift above the floor. Tentacles hang from bulbous heads. Arms reach from broad shoulders. Deep, dark eyes peer through the gloom. It’s as though someone has dismembered a rotting corpse, removing everything below the ribcage. An inflated bladder rises from the back of the skull. Veins weave their way across the semi-transparent lining.
They’re armored. The chest of the lead alien is covered in thick black padding. A clear, transparent shield protects its head and flotation bladder, but it’s directional, only covering a frontal approach.
One of the thin blue/grey prowlers lunges at a passing floater or drifter or whatever they are. He’s been hiding beside the shattered door. Now that the assault team has exposed themselves, he strikes, lashing out with what looks like a spear. He’s aiming for the inflated bladder. The metal tip passes within an inch of its target, but he’s taken down by another drifter outflanking him. Yellow energy bolts cut through the smoke. They slice through the prowler’s body, killing him in an instant.
The assault team fans out, ignoring the fallen priest. They form a semi-circle with their weapons pointing at the bodies piled up on the floor. A few of the blue/grey prowlers are moving, but not with any intent. They’re in shock. They offer no further resistance.
From out of the smoke, another drifter approaches, only it lacks armor or weapons. It descends in front of Dali, coming to a halt barely a foot above the floor, just short of his boots.
“Are you okay, Dali? Are you hurt?”
“What?” he asks. “Who are you?”
The creature drifting in front of him ignores his question. “Come. We need to get you out of here.”
Dali’s head is thumping. He can’t think straight. The blast has left him disoriented.
“You know me? How do you know me?”
“I know your spacecraft crashed. I know you were captured by an extremist religious group. I’m here for your safety—your protection. Are you injured? Can you stand?”
“I—ah.”
“I have a medical team outside if you need assistance.”
“I’m fine,” Dali says, pushing off the floor and struggling to his feet. Even with his power-frame activated, he finds it difficult to walk. Dali limps toward the door, dragging one foot behind him in the oppressive gravity. Smoke swirls around him.
Royal Court
It’s unnerving to be surrounded by floating aliens. Their physiology is unlike anything Dali’s ever seen. Jellyfish with thin arms is the only approximation he can draw. Their bodies are almost transparent, allowing him to see what looks like a brain encased in soft tissue along with the folds of an intestine hanging below the creature. Tentacles trail beneath them, staying clear of the ground. Their eyes are dark, being mounted on short stalks. Most, but not all of them wear a tunic not that dissimilar to the prowlers, hiding their chests from view.
“This way,” the lead drifter says, but Dali needs a moment. He blinks, trying to take in what’s happening. The long, slender aliens that previously surrounded him lie scattered against the walls. They’ve been left cowering, unconscious, or they’ve crumpled face down in a pool of their own blue blood. Bob twitches. A drifter looms over him with a gun poised to shoot him at point-blank range.
“Don’t,” Dali says, turning and straying from the door, wanting to protect his friend. “Please.”
The drifter beside Dali, leading him to the waiting vehicle, pauses. A flicker of light rushes over its arms and body. The drifter looming over Bob backs down, floating away from him.
“We must hurry,” the alien says, urging him toward the door. The metal is bent and buckled. In some places, it’s melted. Tiny drops of steel have burnt into the carpet.
Dali’s in shock. His body is responding, but his thinking has all but shut down. It’s all he can do to focus. His natural instinct is to be repulsed by the drifters, but he’s aware of Kari’s admonition not to read into appearances. What looks monstrous to him could be benign. On Bee, a cute, cuddly puppy could equate to a ravenous tiger. These floating creatures have come to rescue him. Beyond that, he has no idea about their motivation. Being part of a religious ceremony, though, was unnerving. Wherever the drifters are taking him, it’s got to be an improvement, right? What would Sandy do if she were here? Or Helios? Or Kari? As much as Dali wants to mimic their behavior, they too would be in shock and unable to formulate much of a response. Humans just don’t do well when subject to blunt trauma.
Dali shuffles along with the floater.
The brain of the creature sits beneath a bulbous, inflated air sack. These membranes allow it to defy gravity in the thick atmosphere. Fins on either side of the alien’s head bat at the air, propelling it on. Muscular arms protrude from what little there is of its torso. Dark eyes peer at him with suspicion.
“For your safety,” the alien says, gesturing with its arms for him to enter a vehicle hovering by the entrance to the apartment. Smoke drifts past, being caught in the wind outside and whisked away.
Several drifters inside the vehicle beckon for him to approach. They’re wearing white tunics over their bodies, obscuring their tentacles from view while allowing their arms free range of motion. Their eyes don’t have a discernible pupil as such. Each eye is about the size of an eight-ball, being located on either side of the fleshy brain.
White clothing is an interesting choice. From what Dali can tell, they’re medics. White is practical on a darkened world. Like doctors and scientists on Earth, white implies cleanliness. It allows them to see any stains or contamination.
Dali steps on board the craft. He’s aware the assault team is closing ranks behind him. He can see a few of them out the side of his helmet as he turns. They’ve got their laser weapons pointing out, slowly backing in toward the open door of the vehicle. They’re protecting him. It’s clear they’re concerned about a counter-attack.
Unlike Bob’s car, there are no seats. The floor is empty.
“If you would brace here,” his strange rescuer says. The creature shows Dali how he can hold onto handles descending from the roof, resting his helmet against a padded headrest behind him. The door closes, leaving the assault team on the platform. Another craft pulls in to retrieve them.
Their flyer rises, peeling away from the spire-like building. The flight is smooth, accelerating gently. The craft is powered by what appears to be four outrigger turbofans pointing down at an angle. In that regard, it’s reminiscent of a helicopter or perhaps a drone. A clear dome over the cockpit provides a view of the city.
Fighter craft scream through the air, leaving vapor trails as they curl in a long arc, tracing their way over what looks like the outer suburbs. It’s only then, Dali notices the other spires. His perspective has been narrow. When Bob brought him to this spire, he was only vaguely aware of the other buildings. Now, he sees they’re war-torn. Large chunks have been ripped from them. Some floors are entirely empty, being little more than a burned-out husk, while others show what appears to be artillery damage.
Explosions rock the city, running in a line. A string of bombs has been dropped by the fighters. They hit a row of buildings down low, consuming them with a series of fiery blasts. Debris is scattered by a visible concussion wave rippling out from the heart of each explosion. Smoke rises into the air.
Several other similar drone-like aircraft join their craft, flying in formation. Weapons bristle from the sides, pointing down. They’re gunships. Flashes of light burst from barrels protruding from the fuselage. They’re targeting someone on the ground.
“What’s happening?” Dali asks, still dazed.
“Your presence,” the alien says, braced against a support opposite him. “It has caused much anger.”
“Anger?”
Dali doubts that. The damage he can see from the air is old. This city has been under siege for a long time. Any unrest he created didn’t cause this. He may have stirred it up, but his arrival didn’t start it. The muffled sound of another set of explosions reaches his ears. The craft rocks in the air. Whatever’s unfolding, it’s below and behind them.
The flight of the five drone-like aircraft descends rapidly, swooping above the forest outside the city. The inflated bladders reaching up from the trees sway as the various craft race over the countryside.
“Where are you taking me?” Dali asks as another creature floats in front of him with a handheld scanner. As unnerving as that is, so long as they don’t touch him, he can deal with it. The drifters appear to be making observations, peering beneath his suit with their medical devices.
“Somewhere safe.”
“Safe from who?”
“From so many on this world,” the alien says. “Dali, there is much for you to learn.”
For him, it’s a problem of trust. He’s helpless. He has to trust someone. He has no choice. But who should he trust? And more importantly, why? How does this creature know his name? As if it wasn’t unsettling enough to have two entirely different species addressing him in English, this one makes as though it’s known him for some time.
The aircraft descends.
“Who are you?”
“Me?” the bulbous floating brain with shoulders and arms and little else says. “The closest approximate in your language would be Rose.”
“You’re a woman?”
“I’m a layer, if that’s what you mean. Your biological distinctions don’t map to our world. I was named after a plant that produces sweet leaves.”
“Ah,” Dali says.
“I’m a member of the Royal Academy of Sciences. I’m here to help.”
