Yngve, AR - Alien Beach Page 6

  "I have no questions for Bruno," Lazar told them. "I suggest we let him go, but someone must stay with him all the time. I need to work on this some more, Carl, but I'll compile a preliminary report for you - and for the President. Much later, that is."

  Carl nodded.

  "That's fine. I'll go to the communications barrack at once and get in touch with the university networks. The transfer should be made as fast as possible. I'll say Bruno suffered from heart trouble, and that's what you tell anyone who asks. Is that understood?"

  Lazar's face wrinkled as he frowned, and he said: "Soon, you know, there might be no point in lying anymore. About anything."

  According to the timetable, the Sirians would appear again at noon. What lay beyond that, would have to be made up as they went along - the U.N. treaty was not too specific.

  Chapter Six

  DAY 54

  Suva, Viti Levu Island.

  The soldier stepped off the airliner and put on his sunglasses.

  The weather was sunny with drifting clouds. The airport of Fiji's capital, Suva, was crowded to the full with passengers, and military guards were posted at every exit. The soldier had changed wardrobe and discarded his old army fatigues for good. He now looked just like any of the other crewcut, tanned tourists, journalists, fortune-seekers and other pilgrims to the South Pacific. Among the crowds, the soldier spotted something that stood out. He took off his shades to see better... Buddhist monks?

  A quartet of people in crimson-red robes were gathered in the main hall, chanting in chorus to each other... an ear-grating noise, like that of a happy-go-lucky retard. One of them, a bald woman, was handing out pamphlets to passers-by under the watchful eyes of the military. The soldier walked up to the pamphlet-carrying woman - like her friends, she had had her eyebrows and hair shaved off, had her eyes painted to make them seem larger, and might be a European from any country. She must have arrived recently, for her skin was getting badly sunburned. The woman gave the soldier a serene smile, looked him in the eyes with her own eyes half-shut, and stuck a pamphlet in his hand before he could ask for it.

  "Good morning, greetings, welcome," she said in a lofty voice.

  "Good morning. Say, you're not Buddhists are you?"

  The woman laughed, as did her friends.

  "Some of us were, before they saw the light. Are you also here to seek enlightenment?"

  They could see it on his face. Like them, he was looking for answers. And maybe half the crowd in the hall was, as well.

  "Do you happen to know how I can get across to Alien Beach?"

  The bald woman in the crimson robe shook her head sadly.

  "The U.S. fleet is surrounding the area. Nothing save our telepathic prayers can get through. Join us in prayer to the Sirian tribe, so that Ranmotani's flock will come across to us."

  The cultists resumed their chanting, and the soldier excused himself. While he left the airport hall, he glanced at their pamphlet:

  THE CHILDREN OF RANMOTANI WELCOME YOU

  Good morning. Greetings. Welcome. Those were the first words of the Sirian gospel, that...

  The soldier crumpled the pamphlet and tossed it away. Bunch of starry-eyed fanatics, he thought angrily. He grew even surer now that he needed to rent a native boat, or get onboard that CNN cruiser at least, if he'd have a chance of meeting a Sirian face-to-face. It was several days by boat from Fiji to Alien Beach...

  He saw the taxfree-shop entrance nearby, and his thirst grew. No, he shouldn't be falling back into his bad old ways, not now! He popped an aspirin and drank half a bottle of water, but his tongue still felt dry as sandpaper. The soldier understood too late, how comparatively easy it had been for him to avoid booze in a Moslem country - and here he was, surrounded by tropical bars, alcohol advertisements, and taxfree shops... it wasn't fair! He gestured to catch a taxicab, and jumped in while he still could resist the urge to buy booze.

  "To the cheapest hotel," he told the driver.

  The driver - a dark, podgy man with a thick Afro haircut - nodded and drove. As the car nudged its way through the congested traffic crawling to and from the airport, the driver cast the soldier a questioning glance.

  "You out looking for cone-headed aliens too, mate?"

  The soldier clenched his lips together and looked out the window; the driver, who sounded more like an Australian than a Fijian native, grinned into the rearview mirror.

  "You'll get your chance soon," he said.

  The soldier's eyes darted back at him.

  "What?"

  "I'm just a poor taxi-driver, with three children and an old mother to feed..."

  The soldier handed him ten dollars.

  "If I take you straight to the American Consulate now, you can take part in the lottery. Five civilians can be squeezed in on the ship when it sails back to guard Alien Beach, and there're many who are prepared to pay. But if you were a journalist, you would of course have to bribe your way on board the CNN cruiser..."

  "Ship? What ship?"

  "The U.S.S. Powell. It sails this evening. You won't even get near the three-mile perimeter on a civilian boat."

  "Okay, take me to the Consulate right away."

  The driver swerved his car and took a new route.

  The soldier said: "I heard from a couple of American travelers, officials or scientists or something, that the Sirians are soon going to make little excursion trips outside Alien Beach. What do you know about that?"

  The driver said nothing more for a few seconds but made a knowing face, until the soldier tossed dollar-bills in his direction.

  "The word is, mate, that the aliens will travel in discrete little groups, never out in the open. See the world. Then they'll meet the world leaders, whenever the aliens feel ready for it. I like the idea - putting the politicians in their place, y'know? 'Course, I could be misinformed... Don't know if they'll wear disguises, but how can you hide those bloody coneheads of theirs? Imagine them walking among us, in top hats and sombreros, bunch of bloody David Attenboroughs from space. Ask me, they should've stayed at home and not started messing with our affairs..."

  The driver laughed loudly. When the cab stopped, the soldier thanked the driver with a generous tip and stepped off at the Consulate. A multitude of people were already waiting or standing in line at the reception hall, next to an intimidating sign:

  ANY ALIEN BEACH MATTERS THIS LINE ONLY.

  OFFICIAL PERMITS FOR THE U.S.S. POWELL CRUISE TO ALIEN BEACH CAN ONLY BE GIVEN HERE. UP TO 5 CIVILIAN U.S. CITIZENS ARE ALLOWED ON THE NEXT CRUISE; TICKETS WILL BE DRAWN FROM THE APPLICANTS PRESENT HERE AT 1700 HOURS.

  Any attempt to approach Alien Beach without permit from a U.N. membership state will be stopped by U.N. forces.

  The U.S. Consul of Fiji

  The soldier cursed to himself, but saw no other choice than to join the line. He was starting to get real hungry, and regretted having skipped lunch in his eagerness. There had to be at least thirty people standing in line before him. Among them, he spotted two bald-shaven figures in crimson robes; that cult was getting quite a following. Behind him, after just a minute, another two people filled in the ranks. One of them was a teenage girl, in ordinary clothes - but her head was shaven bald too, except for a Mohawk mane of hair at the top of her head, dyed gray. Her skin was dyed a dark-gray hue, as were her arms and legs - and her eyes were painted to make them appear large and ovoid, like a Sirians' eyes.

  What the hell was going on here? He felt annoyed and insulted, as if the girl's fashion statement had cheapened his unique vision. But he was afraid of saying plainly what he knew, and this wasn't the place.

  Looking quickly over his shoulder, he told the girl: "Haven't you heard? Punk is dead."

  The painted teenage girl glared angrily up at him. Her companion, an adult man in a light suit, glowered at the soldier's neck. On the man's fingers were several gold rings, the soldier noticed in the corner of his vision.

  "You watch it, fella," the man warned him with barely c
ontrolled fury. "You make any trouble, none of us get our permits. No one messes with me, you hear?" The man squeezed the girl's arm, and added with a chuckle: "Don't worry doll, I'll get us both a ticket. You just gotta know how to oil the wheels of bureaucracy..."

  The soldier kept his nose turned in the direction the line was moving, and ignored the man. Then, five seconds later, he suddenly started backward and deliberately stepped on the girl's foot. She screamed loudly, alerting the armed security guard at the door.

  "Sorry! I didn't mean to -"

  "You damn well meant it, you -!"

  The girl's angered protector reached out at the soldier who feigned complete innocence, but the girl stood in his way - and suddenly the guard was pointing his rifle in the man's direction.

  "You! Get out of here! Yes, you with the rings! Now! Or I'll have you arrested!"

  The man with the gold rings turned red under his too-even suntan, but obliged the armed guard. Still cursing and threatening the soldier, he dragged the painted teenager with him, out through the open entrance and into the sunshine. The soldier smiled inwardly; at least those two derelicts of humanity weren't going on that ship.

  It took a long wait, but he finally came to the counter. A tired clerk asked for the soldier's passport, asked a few questions about his background and purpose of the visit, and wrote some data into her desktop computer. Then she gave the soldier a slip with a number and a seal of the United States Navy.

  "Be here at 1700, when the five numbers are drawn."

  "Can I try for the next cruise too?" the soldier asked quickly.

  "No," the clerk replied flatly. "Next!"

  He walked outside to catch some air, and moved into the building's shadow. The waves roared nearby, past a grove of palmtrees and planted bushes. Airplane vapor trails streaked the sky here too - he could recognize some of the shapes as military craft. And all across the horizon ships, ships, ships. There might be others who had had the same visions forced upon them, just like him. But how could he separate them from the vast mass of lunatics out there? He squinted up at the blinding, bright cloud-puffs.

  Please let me meet them before some madman starts another war. That's all I ask for -

  The headache took him by surprise this time, sharp as a nail driven into his right hemisphere.

  "Gaahh!"

  The soldier clutched his head, staggered into a shadowy corner, hoping he wouldn't be seen - and struck something cold.

  He was leaning against a wall of gleaming ice and rock. The sun had instantly shrunk to a speck of blue light, too faint to warm the frozen sea that spread out before him. An entire ocean, frozen into cracked, jutting blocks of unimaginable size, black and lifeless. The sky was very dark, though the shrunken sun was shining. It grew darker still, and a gray haze began to form above him.

  From the haze fell snowflakes - first a slow, drifting fall of feathery flakes, then a faster fall that lasted longer, then a hailstorm. And then there was no atmosphere left - all the air had settled in a layer of white snow upon the frozen sea. The sky was completely black and riddled with stars. The soldier looked down upon his body - it was covered in a red metallic spacesuit. There were other spacesuit-clad figures crowding up around him. Their faces were sad or grim... Sirian faces. At the horizon, a bright yellow light was born. The ground started to tremble under their feet. The frozen ocean rippled - without a sound - sending cascades of ice up into space. The light at the horizon became a flame, shooting up, up into the sky at a low, outward angle. The tremors increased, and the group of figures fled into silvery vessels that sank down from the sky.

  He understood then, that it was their homeworld that was being frozen. And that they had to abandon it temporarily, before it was hurled away from the sun. The pillar of flame continued to burn, pushing their world away from the sun, into the night between the stars. The others called for him to join them while there was still time. Pieces and blocks of ice were starting to crash into the ground, exploding silently around him. He could hear himself breathe, feel the tremors in the ground, hear the voices and calling-signals of the others through his helmet. Yet he stood there like a fool, mourning all the animals that had frozen to death in the oceans. Some would survive even that long period of freezing, like his kind had learned to put itself in stasis. But most of them were dead for good. When their world would come close to another double star and the oceans would begin to melt, the stench of rot would suffuse the seas.

  Then life would return to their world again, as it had so many times before. He finally found the will to move toward his waiting ship and safety. Life and light would return again. Something hard struck him - a chunk of ice maybe - he was hit again, and he fell onto his side.

  The man with the gold rings glared down at the soldier, kicking him.

  "Hah! Told you, sucker... no one messes with me!"

  The soldier was too dazed to really feel the pain of the blows. Suddenly the teenage girl shouted a warning; the man ceased his assault and ran off. The soldier heard a car start and roar away; a uniformed man crouched down next to him.

  "Are you all right? Can you stand up? Careful, now."

  With the guard's help, the soldier got on his feet - now he noticed the cracked rib. He pressed his lips together so that he wouldn't scream.

  "Hey, hey!" the guard said. "Where do you think you're going?"

  "I'm going in to get my ticket," the soldier responded in a strained voice.

  "I can't allow that - you're hurt. I'll get you to the consulate doctor, right away. You're a U.S. citizen, aren't you?"

  The soldier wanted to lie down and wait for that guy to come back and kick him some more - preferably in the head, where it might do the soldier some good. He blew it, just when he had had the chance! There had to be another way.

  A half-hour later, his ribs bandaged, the soldier was escorted to a waiting taxi to take him away from the U.S. Consulate. He slumped down in the backseat, hurting in his ribs when he did so, in spite of the painkillers. He didn't look at the driver until he recognized his voice.

  "Bad luck eh, mate? Y'can't win the lottery every day."

  "Piss off, mate."

  The driver merely grinned.

  "Be cool. For a modest sum, I'll show you a better way to get close to those pointy-headed fellows..."

  "I'm not paying until I see it."

  "Ah, but this is fail-safe! All you need to do is get yourself a new hairstyle and a more local appearance..."

  "What appearance?"

  "You've got to learn how to look like a native. Then you can rent the passport of a relative of mine, who lives on one of the islands near Alien Beach. They are allowed to use their boats in the area, because they have to. If you can pass as one, you can take a boat as near as... why, practically a step away from Alien Beach!"

  The soldier gave it some thought. An offer this stupid - it just had to be a scam.

  "Deal," he said.

  Chapter Seven

  DAY 54

  The meeting took place out in the open, with four poles and a canvas for a roof - there was no barrack large enough to comfortably house a dozen people in the hot weather. Carl stood up from his deckchair and scanned the group: sitting or standing, mostly men and a few women of all ages thirty and up. He noticed Ann Meadbouré standing to herself in a corner, wearing sunglasses; he had been too busy to talk to her in a while. It worried Carl, but he didn't yet know for what reason. As the crowd's murmuring died down, he spoke up.

  "Good morning and welcome to the daily briefing, everyone. You might have heard rumors of what happened to Bruno after our beach-party the other night. I assure you he's feeling fine, physically speaking. He used the thought-recording helmet, as did others, and they have reported no side effects. But Bruno has expressed ethical concerns about the use of recorded dreams, and I want this matter settled once and for all."

  Stone Pound, the American astronomer who Carl didn't know well, interrupted loudly.

  " Hey Carl! C
ome clean about Bruno! Why are you sacking him from the team? You'd better have a reason good enough to tell us!"

  Others murmured agreement; Carl raised his voice slightly. An odd fatigue was starting to drag his spirits down.

  "Please, everyone! It was Bruno himself who demanded to be taken off the project, for personal reasons all his own. I promised him to respect his privacy. No one has seen his private dream recordings - they and the device are his personal property, a gift from the Sirians."

  The scientists fell silent a little too quickly - his words had hit a nerve. Carl hadn't recorded his own dreams, but he knew. And they knew he knew. They just weren't ready for this kind of technology and its implications yet, and they felt a collective defeat. And this was just the beginning, he realized. Could it get worse?

  "You keep your gifts, people. You do with them as you find best. Any more questions regarding Bruno? No? Fine. His replacement has already been chosen from the waiting list of candidates. It is..." Carl checked his papers. "Bishop Edmund Soto of the South African Anglican Church. You may have seen him on TV a few days ago, when he discussed the studying of alien religions. Bishop Soto arrives with the U.S.S. Powell in a few days. He will take over Bruno's old quarters... any questions?"

  There was confusion in the group for a short while; Ann Meadbouré spoke up.

  "So far we have seen no sign of religious rituals among the Sirians. Shouldn't we ask Ranmotanii before we bring a priest here, who might step on their own religious taboos?"

  Carl looked at his wristwatch, and answered: "Which brings me to the other important subject - Ranmotanii told me they'll come out of their ship and gather on the beach this evening - and they didn't want to talk. He was vague as usual, but it just might be some ritual they are about to perform. We are welcome to watch, he said - if we keep a distance."