Yngve, AR - Alien Beach Read online

  Chapter Ten

  DAY 60

  It was a slightly cloudy day, for the Pacific Ocean.

  Bishop Soto led a small morning mass on the beach, attended by a handful of scientists. After mass, a group of Sirians were on that beach, waiting as a big U.S. Navy helicopter hovered down to pick them up. Each member of this group wore bermudas and what resembled soft metal vests covered with small round knobs - without doubt wearable machinery. Among them were Oanss and Ranmotanii; as she had pledged, Namonnae had chosen to stay at Alien Beach. For health reasons, the elderly Oanorrn had also chosen to remain at the base camp.

  The seven cone-headed tourists had no fixed route planned - the U.N. Security Council had agreed to a very discreet mode of travel to avoid terrorist attacks or public panic. Joining the Sirians as guides and mediators were an ECT linguist from England, then Takeru Otomo, Ann Meadbouré, Lazar Mahfouz, and Carl Sayers. Stone Pound would lead the group on Alien Beach in Carl's absence.

  The chopper thundered down on a wide carpet of canvases that would minimize the dust thrown up. The group shielded their eyes as they made their way up into the passenger cabin. A few remaining Sirians and human scientists waved them goodbye, and the helicopter took off toward the carrier. Inside, the Sirians blinked nervously as they sat in the narrow cabin seats, keeping their tall heads down to avoid hitting the ceiling.

  "No, I don't think they were thinking of amphibians when they designed this thing," Carl joked to the other scientists.

  The noise inside seemed to cause the Sirians more distress than the humans - they quickly did something with their metal vests, and small gobs of black, clay-like substance popped out of them, which the Sirians put into their ear-holes. They soon relaxed a little.

  Aware of the need to give Ranmotanii some privacy after hassling him almost constantly, Carl now concentrated his attention on Oanss. He tried to ask Oanss about his other fellow travelers, whom Carl had not really talked to before. Five males and females of varying ages presented themselves, all taller than humans, all males being bald, all females having long manes of hair on the back of their heads. Carl could barely pronounce their names...

  Oanss and Ranmotanii he "knew," stretching the term; the two sat next to each other, conversing in clipped Sirian phrases. Sometimes it seemed they were exchanging information using their vest devices, but Carl wasn't certain how they worked.

  Mnmnonns , a young-looking female with slight hair and an air of shyness about her.

  Aonasann , a blocky, narrow-eyed male with a few lines of age on his thick throat, who said and did little - his nasal ridge ran thick along his face and sloping forehead. Some of the silvery, blob-like devices he was carrying were sticking out of his ears.

  Moanossoans , a quite tall female who smiled a lot, shielding the top of her head with her soft arms, talking rapidly in her alien tongue, and doing the odd clicking laugh at every new sight she saw.

  Snaoosnee , an aged female - thinner than her younger sisters, her breasts had sunk into her chest and virtually disappeared, making her the most androgynous member of the group; her mane had a near-translucent sheen.

  Tmmtenaa , a male of slightly fatter build than Oanss, mostly gazing out the portholes of the vessel, holding an extension of his machine-jacket to his head - whatever he was recording or measuring, it seemed intriguing enough to keep him out of touch with any other beings.

  Only now did Carl see, how different from each other the aliens were.

  He grew aware of the tension from the military personnel at the pilot's end of the cabin, and said aloud to the officer at the door: "Don't stare, soldier - they won't bite."

  "Sorry, sir!"

  The naval officer ceased staring at the alien passengers and barked some orders to the pilots in the adjacent cockpit instead. The aircraft carrier came closer; the chopper went down to land on its deck. Rows of onlookers stood waiting at the edges of the deck. The chopper touched down and was secured on the deck; quite suddenly, a heavy rain-shower started pouring out of the clouded sky.

  The Sirians seemed happy for getting wet, and stepped out to wave at the rain-soaked crewmen and passengers. From less than sixty meters off, the battlecruiser U.S.S. Powell sailed by, scores of people waving and pointing from its decks and rails. The seven Sirians and five scientists waved back until their arms ached. This part of the tour was just showbiz, and Carl impatiently demanded that their jet would be cleared for immediate take-off. Only an hour later could the group enter a converted V-22 Osprey VTOL plane and lift off for Australia. They would later continue toward Asia, Europe, and America. Unsurprisingly, the Sirian travel committee had announced to Carl that they wished to travel along the course of the sun - from east to west. Even aliens disliked jetlag.

  From the little yacht, the soldier watched the aircraft carrier through his binoculars. He saw the Osprey aircraft take off in a westward direction. He had come too late to even catch a glimpse of the aliens boarding their plane.

  Norman put a hand on his shoulder and said: "Hey, Coffin - there must be some of them left on Alien Beach. You could wait in the vicinity, and they'll show up eventually. You'll get your chance."

  The soldier wavered where he stood, absentmindedly scratching off some of the light-brown skin-dye from his thin face.

  "Do you by any chance know where they'll land?" he asked, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the vanishing aircraft.

  "Australia, that's for sure. And what with these conehead mates being amphibians, they'll stay close to sea. You could go after them, but so will everyone else."

  The soldier peered after the vanishing Osprey, and realized with a chill that the recent rainfall had ended abruptly, just before the Osprey took off. As if someone was controlling the clouds... did the military use rain-crystals here? Was the whole affair so staged, that nothing was left to chance? If so, would the men in charge allow the Sirians to get close to ordinary people? The generals had been running the whole show from the outset, flashing their guns to show who was The Man.

  The soldier whispered to himself: "I... hate... all... officers."

  He would wait. As long as the visions wouldn't stop coming, he would keep waiting. George and Norman told him something about stopping at their home island, two day's journey off. He barely listened; they clearly sensed that he was a man possessed. And if the soldier had been less self-absorbed, he would have seen that they were growing afraid of the absent stare in his eyes when he had one of those sudden visions. The soldier's acidic irony and wisecracks could no longer hide how remote he was becoming - he responded to the world around him with indifference, if at all. Strangely enough, this didn't alarm him now.

  For each nautical mile closer to Alien Beach the boat had brought him, the more calmly he had received the recurring visions... until he could see them while standing up, just freezing still as his eyes glazed over. They came in irregular waves by now, short bursts of vivid, full-sensory hallucinations followed by up to an hour of normalcy - then, maybe, might come a long waking-dream that he would sit through for several minutes. For a brief moment he could be seeing empty space around him, specked with stars, or he could spend what seemed like an hour swimming in a flock of Sirians through a freezing-cold green sea - lit by a faint sun above his head. Emotions also forced themselves upon him with the other impressions, but no abstract information beside that. And the memories of the visions stayed, as vividly as real life. The soldier had almost forgotten to ask what it all meant; it was easier to just lie back and enjoy the ride. Even the accompanying headaches were getting less intense.

  In a moment of clarity, as he helped the brothers pull in a fishing-net from the yacht's stern, the soldier thought: Why not keep waiting? Why bother with why the Sirians are doing this? Could be an accident, after all. The visions might go away the moment they leave this planet. And then I'll be stuck here again... No. No, there's got to be a way! Listen, whoever you are who keep sending these visions into my head. If you can read my mind, ple
ase help me. What should I do? Is there anything I could do?

  The lukewarm breeze blew in his brown-dyed face, playing with his black-dyed hair. A distance away in the wake of the yacht, a dozen dolphins came leaping up and down, chasing the vessel for scraps of fish. In a few moments, a flock of noisy gulls and a lone, drifting albatross joined in the pursuit. At the horizon, the strange clouds appeared to deliberately shield the lagoon and island from the sun - silent, never quite concentrating enough to form a rainfall, but never spreading out too thin to hold together. A slowly swirling galaxy of clouds, specked with smaller spiral patterns. Every few minutes, patroling aircraft flew through them effortlessly, like arrows through mist.

  There came no answer to the soldier's plea. No insane "voices" in his head either. Yet, he knew what to do.

  "Hey - Coffin. Don't jump in the water again. There's a patrolboat watching us there - we shouldn't risk them boarding us."

  "I'm not going down again, George."

  The soldier took his stand at the rail, stretched his arms up into the sky and faced up at a cloud, ignoring the aircraft, cleared his throat.

  And shouted loudly upward, with the alien intonation of his first vision: "Chiis... chiskr-r-r-r, chiis, chiptl, mmer-r-r-rlleeee!"

  And again. And again.

  George and Norman came up behind him, grabbed his arms, and forced him back onto the fiberglass wall of the pilot-cabin.

  "You're bleeding mad, mate!" Norman hissed fearfully at him, as the two brothers dragged him down into the cabin. "You want us boarded? That disguise might work from a distance but up close they'll get you."

  They locked him up in the cabin - he didn't really try to fight them - and resumed their work, trying to keep up appearances for the approaching patrolboats. The soldier felt nothing, no frustration, no anger with the others, no worry. He thought he knew why: he had given up, and it was about time. The visions would end. The Sirians would move on. And his life would remain as it had been; without meaning, aim or hope.

  From outside, he heard the two brothers curse him loudly. He felt a bit seasick - that was new. The boat rocked heavier all of a sudden... the jet aircraft rumble in the sky was smothered by rolling thunder, and the soldier peered out one of the dirty portholes. The cloud system over Alien Beach was thickening. How could that be? The last moment he'd been looking, the breeze had thinned it out. As he watched, the breeze grew into a gale, tugging at loose strands of rope that hung from the boat's railing. The voices of the brothers outside sounded more upset. There was a clatter of things falling onto the deck, and the roar of the boat's engine being cranked up to full power. They were moving out from the island at full speed, the boat's bow rising and falling in the angered waves; the first flash of lightning hit the island.

  The soldier checked his wristwatch. It was no later than noon. Now at last he understood the meaning of the alien phrase he had spoken in the first vision. It was a call to something beyond human control, something that was out there. Something real, and it had heard him! He made for the cabin door, pounding on it until they let him outside. The wild-eyed soldier rushed out like an animal released from captivity, and leaned along the railing, starting to laugh with uncontrollable joy. He stared up at the dark clouds, overcome with gratitude, and the mask of superior irony fell like the worthless cover it was.

  "Thank you! Thank you! Thank you..."

  When the first heavy drops of rain hit his face, it was already wet.

  "Where'd that storm come from? I was sure they'd board us, but then the weather forced them off our backs -"

  "Shut up, George. I'm taking her to the home island and I'm never going near Alien Beach again. That atoll is cursed!"

  The boat skimmed the foaming waves, seeking out a safer harbor.

  DAY 61

  Sydney, Australia.

  No real preparations were made, no elaborate welcome was planned, and no publicity was allowed. Of all the Australian authorities only the government cabinet had been informed, half a day in advance. The U.N. Secretary General and the U.S. President, the only two persons with unrestricted access to Carl Sayers' coded cell-phone number, had pestered Carl incessantly with anxious calls from the start of the journey across the Pacific: What are they doing? Who are they talking to? Are you being followed?

  Before the Osprey had landed at a secluded military airfield in Sydney, Carl had tried to explain to Ranmotanii the dangers of moving openly in crowded human cities - not to mention the pollution and smell. Smiling inscrutably, Ranmotanii had nodded and ignored the warnings. He had expressed complete faith in superior Sirian technology to protect him against disease or accident. Then he once more had explained that he wanted to see land-humans in their natural environment, whether it smelled or not. Yet, at the last minute, the amphibians had (reluctantly?) agreed to let their hosts determine the route of their first excursion outside Alien Beach.

  Now, the group exited out onto the sun-baked airfield, where a handful of Australian cabinet members greeted them; behind them stood a platoon of armed soldiers. The politicians, too afraid to shake hands, merely bowed awkwardly to the taller guests; the Sirians, trying to follow custom, bowed in return.

  "We understand your stay will be very short, then?" the sweating Minister of Defense asked Carl as the group was escorted to the waiting bus.

  Carl, squinting in the dry heat, more worried about how the amphibians would take the local climate than for himself, gave the politicians a wrinkly grin.

  "They will stay as long as they want to. There is no set schedule, apart from the agreed one-year stay on this planet. It's all in the original treaty."

  "But our surveillance expenses..."

  "Would you rather have the rest of the world's leaders having the Sirians all to themselves? Who knows what opportunities you'd miss? Tourism, trade agreements?"

  The Minister of Defense nodded nervously, as if afraid to upset anyone. The group, save for the soldiers, entered the bus, which had been fitted with special windows that prevented people from seeing the Sirians inside. The air-conditioned interior was spacious enough even for amphibian heads, and several rows of seats had recently been removed to create space for their legs. Carl noticed no open nervousness from the aliens, though he sensed that they put more trust in him and his three fellow ECT members, than in the tense locals.

  "What happened to the laid-back, cool Aussies I've heard so much about?" he quipped to Ann and Lazar.

  "They will never even know the Sirians passed by. Ironic, no?" said Lazar.

  "This tour is a joke - but it's a start," Ann muttered with a guilty glance toward the seated Sirians. This wasn't what she had wanted.

  Sighing, Carl declared: "Okay, gentlemen - give us a slow tour of the city."

  On the command of the Minister of the Interior, the busload of aliens moved and, escorted by security cars, drove out into the outskirts of Sydney. It was late in the afternoon, and the city lights were beginning to come out.

  The bus drove around most of the city in one sweep. The Sirians stared at everything they saw and took records - not entirely unlike ordinary tourists, though much quieter. A few outside pedestrians looked after the passing bus, as if they suspected what was behind those reflecting windows - but no one outside saw the Sirians. Three hours later, the bus took them to their "hotel" - a large house at the beach marked as government property, which was sealed off with barbed-wire fences and watchdogs. When the Sirians stepped off the bus, watchdogs on the other side of the fence started barking briefly. The Sirians looked them in the eye, and the dogs fell silent and cowered in obedience, or fear, or both.

  Ranmotanii was now showing signs of exhaustion, so much so that humans could discern them; his skin was starting to lose its luster, and his feet were dark from excess heat. The other amphibians led him toward the secluded part of the beach that belonged to the property, and helped him to rest in the surf for a while. Other Sirians soon joined them, and they eventually disappeared under the waves to sleep.
Only Ranmotanii and Snaoosnee - the oldest ones - returned from the sea to sleep on land, indoors. The two seniors, keeping their vests on, gathered on the carpet in the living-room that overlooked the beach. They cuddled together and bid Carl's team goodnight.

  Carl asked them why they wouldn't join their friends underwater. They explained that they were too old, their lungs too weak to breathe water for extended periods. The older the Sirians grew, the more they became "land-humans". Ann wanted to ask more, but Carl stopped her - he suddenly felt a special bond with the resting couple, a kinship of age that Ann yet lacked...

  He suddenly desired to talk to Lazar; Lazar was old and wise, understood everything and judged no one. But the old Egyptian asked to be left alone to sleep, and he was carrying the dream-recording helmet with him in a small bag wherever he went. What was he dreaming? One day, Carl thought, he would gather the courage to ask Lazar to see one of his recorded dreams - one day when his strength of mind wasn't so dispersed.

  "Carl," Takeru began to say.

  "Not now, Takeru, please. I gotta sleep."

  Takeru had intended to ask permission to study the Sirians sleeping underwater, or at least put some underwater cameras in their vicinity. The security measures appalled him; that, and the lost opportunities to observe the Sirians at all times. There was so much Takeru wanted to learn - and, just maybe, emulate...

  Were the Sirians cyborgs, unable to sustain life without the aid of their machines? How was their social hierarchy constructed? Was the nuclear energy that fueled their lander craft based on hydrogen fusion or anti-matter reaction?