Yngve, AR - Alien Beach Page 11

  How exactly did one spend one's life in a culture so advanced? Did they have an economy based on money, or services? Did they breed naturally or through genetic engineering? Did they feel, they way humans did, or were they just faking emotion as a courtesy?

  Did they all hate him like Namonnae did?

  Takeru took a sleeping-pill before going to bed, just like he had been doing almost every night since he first talked to her. The pills helped blotting out the dreams and the anxiety.

  Chapter Eleven

  DAY 63

  It was late morning, air drying up, temperature climbing slowly.

  The soldier palmed Norman the agreed fee in U.S. dollars and gave George back his passport. George argued with his brother, asking him to accept less. Norman reluctantly gave the soldier back one-third of the sum and walked away without saying goodbye, still bickering with George as they headed back to the boat. So much for their cunning scheme.

  The soldier picked up his threadbare canvas bag and walked across the tiny concrete pier of the two brothers' home island. He had been neglecting his light disguise during the journey, and erosion had faded down his skin and hair color to a dirty, speckled hue that hardly rang true. Yet, here he did indeed blend in. The small island, with its tiny fisherman population, was now teeming with paler visitors. The soldier halted when he first saw a group of bald-shaven people in crimson robes. It was that cult again - so close to Alien Beach and so soon? How come the authorities hadn't chased them away? And that awful retarded chanting again - the soldier winced with recognition.

  Now he understood it: the worshippers, dancing with their arms raised in undulating movement, were actually trying to sound and move like the aliens shown in the media.

  He took a wide path around the dozen robed cultists, past the back-alleys of what passed for Main Street: rows of low ramshackle houses and worn-down old colonial-style buildings side by side, remnants of old times surrounded by the cheapness and junk of modernity.

  A pack of dogs rooting through garbage cans, sniffing him out and begging with their eyes.

  A dirty native boy, perhaps ten years old, swooshing past him on a pair of shiny new rollerblades - hogging the concrete pavement because the rest of the island was just sand.

  Clusters of crimson-red tents, everywhere.

  Swarms of buzzing insects hovering here and there. And over everything, the stench-cocktail of a collapsed waste disposal system, calculated for much fewer than the hundreds of cultists gathered on the island.

  As the soldier strolled out of a wide alley, he glimpsed a group of local police officers at a shop, wearing khaki uniforms and assault rifles. He stopped, turned and took another detour. A small miracle the cops hadn't spot him at the pier. The soldier went cold with paranoia. They could pin just any excuse on him for kicking him off the island, pushing him farther away from his goal. If he had another fit and they saw it, it was over for him. Before they might spot him, the soldier slunk into the nearest red tent. Inside, he nearly stumbled on an assembly of four cult members who were sharing a late breakfast of rice and lentils.

  "Sorry, I didn't mean to... I thought this was... do you know where I can find a bathroom?"

  One of the cultists, quite sourly, pointed out the row of Port-O-Lets in a palm grove thirty meters off. The soldier excused himself and went over to use it. Afterwards, he sought out the main street marketplace and shopped for supplies. Everywhere around the place he spotted men and women in red robes - and something else familiar. Teenage girls mostly, but also a few boys were walking about with their heads and faces painted gray, hair cut Mohawk or bald, makeup around their eyes to make them seem large. And no clothes except Bermuda shorts and - gray diving-flippers, cut to amphibian foot-shape.

  It took the soldier about one minute to grow tired of ogling all the topless women - diving-flippers just didn't do anything for him. Contempt? No, he admitted to himself, he didn't simply despise the cultists and the fashion-conscious youths - he also envied them their community. Maybe he was alone in his genuine visions; he was also alone with them. Surrounded by the chanting, herd-following crowds who wished just as much as him to meet the Sirians, the need to talk to someone, anyone overwhelmed him. If he could only beat his fear of being called a madman, if there was any other human he could share his experience with...

  "Hey! I remember you from the airport!"

  He started at the voice - and saw a bald young cultist standing next to him in the marketplace, grinning at him.

  "What?"

  "You asked me for a leaflet about our church! How wonderful to see you made it across here! Isn't this a wonderful place to be?"

  The soldier said just the opposite of what he thought, taking a sniff of the less-than-pure air: "Yes, a wonderful place. How great to see all these people gathering in the quest for higher understanding... Sorry, I forgot to ask your name the first time we met."

  "Patty." She suddenly seemed to recall a procedure. "Good morning, greetings, welcome." Patty made an obscure hand-gesture and gave him a much more artificial, tight-lipped smile than her first one.

  "My friends call me Coffin, or just Soldier."

  "Are you here alone, Soldier?"

  "Yeah... I'm looking for a place to stay, actually. A cheap one."

  "Come with me, Soldier. I see what you need."

  Patty tugged him by the arm with a firmness of grip that belied how gaunt she was. The soldier meekly followed, expecting nothing good, on the lookout for suspicious police or military. A fifteen-minute walk took them to a cluster of crimson tents surrounding an open place with a stage... like the setup for a rock concert, minus the band. Patty led him past it, to a shack labeled MEMBERSHIP OFFICE.

  He didn't try to resist, or think up ways to resist the subtle brainwashing techniques that he knew would follow; he was grateful to them, to Patty. These people, at least, would listen without prejudice. And he would be safer among these large numbers, close to Alien Beach. The soldier was welcomed in every way possible to the Church of Ranmotanii; the only things they asked him to check at the door were his old clothes and freedom of mind.

  Papua, New Guinea.

  The Osprey aircraft went down to a few hundred meters above the green, steaming hilltops. Below the aircraft stretched miles upon miles of rainforest valleys, where the Sirians had asked to land and study the environment. They found a relatively open space on the top of a slope, and the Osprey rotated its engines upward for a vertical landing. The air was hot and sticky, with a burnt scent to it - burnt grass from the landing... and something more. A nearby village lay in a lower grove, almost invisible from the air. From the straw houses in the distance came excited shouts.

  "Wait inside!" Carl told the seven Sirians. "Let the official talk to the people out there first."

  Carl and an official from Port Moresby, plus an armed officer, exited the landed aircraft and descended carefully down the grassy slope. In the fresh grass were scattered blackened tree-stumps and roots - the area had recently been cleared for primitive farming. About two hundred meters down the slope, where the rainforest began, a line of dark-skinned men began to gather and ascend to meet them.

  Carl shouted after the government official, who was considerably younger and faster: "I thought there weren't any isolated tribes left?"

  "We have many isolated valleys like this one!" the official replied without turning around or slowing his steps. "One can still find a handful of tribes that have never seen a white man... or don't watch TV! So they know nothing of space aliens... they may not even know anything exists outside this valley!"

  The thought of the Sirians meeting really primitive humans unsettled Carl profoundly. He would rather have the Sirians seeing some sympathetic Australian Aborigines, but that opportunity had been splendidly missed. Apparently, the dry Australian air had deterred the Sirians from pressing for a mainland trek - something about Ranmotanii's old age had been hinted. This encounter was also completely unprepared by humans - but now t
here weren't even any police or army around to protect the Sirians. The line of natives began to wield their shields and spears; they definitely looked and sounded hostile.

  "Don't shoot!" Carl called out desperately to the officer, who was fingering his rifle. "If you have to, shoot in the air! We must not make a bad impression in front of the Sirians!"

  To his credit, the officer did not shoot. He told the official something, and moved ahead of him. The officer stopped thirty meters away from the line and shouted some words in a local tongue Carl didn't know. The native warriors stopped at a shouted command from the village, and another man came marching up to meet the newcomers - a chief or witchdoctor, judging by his ritual head-gear. He had a brief conversation with the officer, who seemed to know their language or its closest equivalent. Carl looked at his watch, then up the slope at the parked Osprey, not entirely unlike a big white bird and probably being mistaken for one by these natives. Carl wasn't merely nervous, but embarrassed. This wasn't the face of mankind he had wanted to show his wonderful guests.

  The official waved for his attention.

  "Mr. Sayers, we're lucky. The chief of the tribe happens to have been outside this valley when he was brought to school, so he knows a bit of the language apart from his own. And he happens to own a battery radio. So he knows, vaguely, about the visit from another world. Yes, he very much wants to see them, even if his tribe is scared to let any aliens near the village.

  "These are not educated people, Mr. Sayers. When they see something they don't understand, they react in predictable ways - they turn and run, they attack, or they start a new religion. We will avoid violence, as you and our government don't want an incident... but I cannot guarantee the safety of the Sirians if they come here. You do understand that?" Carl nodded, and used his cell-phone to contact Lazar in the parked VTOL plane. "Give me Ranmotanii," he said.

  Lazar's voice receded over the phone, as he explained the matter to the others. Then the oldest amphibian's voice sang into the phone, a bit loudly, asking if they could come down and visit the human habitat. Carl tried to explain the special risks involved. Ranmotanii talked in his own tongue to his fellows. They replied, and Ranmotanii declared over the phone that they estimated the risk as acceptable.

  Carl looked up the green slope and cursed - the Sirians were already starting to walk downhill from the Osprey. And worse still, the local natives had spotted them. Their shouting turned into uproar and instant panic - most of them fled into the village or the forest. The chief of the tribe, a blocky man with long hair, a bone through his nostrils, and an impressive penis-horn covering his private parts, stood wide-eyed and shouted at his tribe, attempting to pick up his scattered ranks. A few brave, trembling men stood by their chief, while the women and children hid indoors.

  Suddenly Carl recognized the situation, and had to smile. In the frightened natives, he saw what he himself must have looked like - less than two weeks ago - to the Sirians. A trembling, cowering native who bravely overcame fear by the power of his curiosity and intellect. He had no right to call these men primitives - in this company, all humans were. His embarrassment receded, and he stepped aside to let Ranmotanii face the staring tribal chief alone.

  The natives were short and stocky, but the amphibians made them seem like pygmies. Two shaking warriors raised their spears; their chief barked at them to step back. The chief held his distance for a minute, intensely studying the seven cone-headed, gray-skinned aliens. The seven amphibians stood very still and silent, as if they instinctively understood the importance of staying calm. Ranmotanii tried a tight-lipped, enigmatic smile. The warriors reeled back one step; the chief stiffened with fear. Very slowly, Ranmotanii stretched out both arms, showing his stalk-like hands to the chief. There came a collective gasp from the natives, and some muttered words.

  Ann, Lazar, and the British linguist arrived late and out of breath. They joined Carl at the edge of the scene. None of them dared to speak up in the tense atmosphere. Neither humanoids nor natives seemed to be bothered by the humid heat; unlike Carl's group, the natives did not sweat. The only indication that the Sirians were too warm was that their big, flat feet were darkening.

  Suddenly Ranmotanii, his arms rigidly held forward, turned his head slightly and uttered a name: "Mnmnonns."

  The youngest-looking female with the slight hair made a squeaking noise of approval. Ranmotanii said something; Mnmnonns produced a thin wand-like object from her metallic jacket. She slowly put it to her thick lips, soft fingers curled around it, and blew air into an opening.

  With her flute - a gift from mankind - she played the first notes of "Yellow Submarine". Ranmotanii tried to sing the words, awkwardly because he stuck to the exact speed of the original recording.

  "Inn th' towwn whrr I-wa boornn,

  Livvd a-maann who sail-to-see..."

  The scientists grimaced with bewilderment. What was this? The other Sirians took up singing as well, not doing very well but trying hard. The tribal chief began to grin, and hum along knowingly... he had heard the tune before! Ranmotanii's eyes moved onto Carl's group. They joined in too. Only the official and the officer remained in silent confusion. When they finished singing, the chief was laughing happily, and finally dared to touch Ranmotanii's hand for a greeting-gesture.

  An hour later, the meeting abruptly ended. The Sirians took farewell and unceremoniously began to wander back up to the waiting plane, while the tribe sang Yellow Submarine after them. Carl tried to ask the Sirians what the hell had happened.

  Moanossoans explained it thus: The Sirians' vests contained measuring instruments to record electromagnetic wave patterns from the surroundings. They had already been measuring the patterns emitted by Carl and other humans, during their time together. But facing very simple cultures, the Sirians could use the measurements as a kind of simple interpreter - reading the mood of the natives by comparing it with known patterns in familiar humans. The music turned out to be the safest known way Ranmotanii knew of making friendly communication and calm the chief down - sonic manipulation, as it were.

  Their purpose of the village visit was to gather as much measurement data as they could, which then could be used to construct a model of the mental and cultural processes of that small tribe. All they needed were some shifting moods and images to record, and in a simple culture that was quickly done - there wasn't very much to record or analyze.

  Lazar cautiously asked them how much time they reckoned was needed to record and analyze the entirety of human cultures.

  Moanossoans immediately responded, surprising them: the Sirians weren't really going to record all human cultures - only the ones they found personally interesting, or happened to meet on their way.

  A little later, when he dared to, Carl suggested to Ranmotanii that their methods of survey seemed arbitrary rather than systematic. The old Sirian reacted quickly, raising his deep singing voice to drown out the plane's engines.

  "Buut I aapoloogizzeee... Nott nnooww Carll Saayerrs... Nnnow too earllyy. Buut I waant explaain llaterr. Waant beecausse... I waant. Cannnot trranslllate."

  Carl nodded, and gestured for a handshake. Ranmotanii shook it, as was the custom he had learned.

  "Yes, Ranmotanii. Later is good."

  But "later" seemed anything but good.

  He referred to himself as the church's "Regional Elder" and was called "Tanii" by everyone else: a fat, ruddy, jovial man in his forties resembling a bald, bearded Santa Claus not using enough sun-lotion. He talked for a long time to the soldier, alone. After two hours alone with the jovial man who never stopped talking, the soldier looked for something to drink and an escape route, but there was nothing to drink and Tanii urged him to hear him out.

  After another grueling two hours - Tanii must have had a camel's hump concealed somewhere in his robes, for he seemed able to talk forever without so much as a drop of water - the soldier dozed off on the straw mat where he sat. But they shook him awake, and let him hear another two hours of Tani
i's endless gab. Three more times they had to shake him awake.

  The soldier started to feel giddy, and his head went light as if it were filled with air. He hadn't suffered any headaches for the whole day, and no sudden visions. He didn't reveal the visions to Tanii, though - not that Tanii seemed interested in any visions but his own. The gist of the leader's monologue was that Ranmotanii was telepathically linked to the highest members of the cult; they would share their cosmic enlightenment with their cult disciples, but only in small portions so as not to overwhelm them. Also, outside influences were considered a distraction and should be avoided. No cult member was allowed access to newspapers, magazines, radio, TV, cell phones, cameras, or the Internet.

  Then, suddenly, the session was over. Patty led the soldier to an outdoors dinner party where at least a hundred other cultists gathered.

  All wearing the same red robes.

  All chanting that terrible warped nonsense.

  All eating rice and lentils and beans.

  All looking a bit skinny under their suntans.

  All loving each other.

  He was served a bowl of food... Rice and lentils again. The soldier was exhausted, and the meager food failed to sate his gnawing hunger, but he wasn't alone or afraid any longer. He felt he might soon be ready to share his experiences with Patty.

  His legs were starting to get badly bitten by sand flies, and soon the itching was annoying him constantly.

  Chapter Twelve

  Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam.

  The Sirians had seen the Vietnam War on TV, along with newscasts stretching back to the 1950s.

  After having concluded their brief visit to New Guinea, they asked to see the country that had been mentioned so often in human broadcasts - broadcasts that were more recent to them, given the long distance to Sirius. The Vietnamese government aired a few objections to stall the unexpected visit, but the U.N. Security Council could clear the group in a few hours.