by P P Corcoran
“It sounds great. But...when it’s over, I’ll be caught, arrested for conspiracy,” sighed Robert. “I can’t risk it, not with my family.”
“I’ll put my hands up to everything,” said Gary. “You knew nothing about what we were doing. You were completely innocent.” He glanced at Ingrid, then back to Robert again. “I’ll be honest with you, Rob. I’m ill. I’ve got cancer. My lungs. I’ve not got long, six months at best. I want to go out with a bang, understand?”
“Well, I’m sorry,” Robert said softly, somewhat discomfited better understanding Gary’s motivation.
“The prospect of imminent death confers a certain freedom on the victim,” chuckled Gary. “And Rob- even if you did get arrested- so what? Your family will be looked after- I’ll take care of that- and for you- there will be the sense that you’ve done something, stood up for to them, been true to yourself. That’s worth five years in prison, surely?”
Robert contemplated Gary’s proposition. He thought about his Shoma boss, the impossible, unreasonable demands. He thought about Becky, suffering without her pills. But most of all he thought about poor Dora, her dreams smashed when they closed her college. Robert knew now that the Shoma were invaders, not Friends, and it was his duty as a human to stand up against them, even if only in a small way. And what were the alternatives? Financial ruin, and further disgrace?
Robert gave a curt nod. “OK. I’ll do it. I’ll set it up.”
Gary and Ingrid exchanged smiles. “Good man.”
“But there’s just one condition.”
“Name it,” said Gary.
“For that last night- the night when you finish it- I want to be there with you. I want to paint the words. That’s my condition.”
“Accepted,” said Gary, and shook Robert’s hand.
#
That night, Robert slept soundly for the first time in months. And his sleep abounded with dreams, marvelous dreams of shimmering skyscrapers, around whose snow-topped peaks thousands of doves circled; and then of black craggy mountains, engraved with huge, stern letters of fire, forging words that he could not read or remember, but which dripped rivers of molten lava onto the heads of shrieking packs of demons below. Of course, it didn’t matter if he didn’t remember it; the message would write itself on the day, and although it might be obscene and childish it would become transformed in the minds of those who read it. Its meaning would escape the words themselves, to become a source of hope and liberation.
Awake now, he lay on his narrow single bed, ignoring the sleepless sounds of misery from Becky not far from him. The idea of the message grew and grew in his head. He could imagine the reaction of the human crowds as it appeared before them- first horror, then amusement, then delight- and then incipient rebellion. The Shoma wouldn’t like it- they’d be outraged, and immediate efforts would be made to shut down the message, to eliminate the offenders. But by then it would be too late. The message would have been seen and absorbed. The humans would now know that they didn’t stand alone, there were others like them who felt the same way, and things would change. There would be demonstrations, riots, as people saw for the first time the injustices visited upon them. It would be the beginning of a new movement- and he, Robert Pell, would be responsible for it.
At seven o’ clock in the morning there was a ring on his doorbell. He opened the door to find a shoe box on his front step containing twenty-five thousand pounds in large denominations, a hand-written note atop the notes read- More to come. Rob bagged up the money and set off for work, his heart soaring with excitement. Two hours later he’d made all the arrangements for delivery of the cleaning platform, a massive hydraulic rig that unfolded from the back of a truck. He rushed over to the company in Clerkenwell and paid them in cash. Then, thrilled with his decisiveness, spent his lunchtime planning for Dora to be enrolled at one of the most expensive colleges in London, where she could restart her Anthropology course, and then bought twenty courses of pills online for Becky, using his newly stoked up debit card. By the time he went home he felt he’d done more in a day than he had in a lifetime.
The day of the celebration grew nearer. Gary and Ingrid along with another couple of workers turned up on Friday morning in a van, dressed in matching blue outfits and equipped with all sorts of mysterious cleaning apparatus. Robert spent his lunchtime watching them from the sidewalk, as they crept up and down the sheer glass face, scrubbing and soaping industriously. Presently he was joined by his Shoma, who nodded with satisfaction.
“Any difficult task can be completed with the correct application of willpower, yes, Hoo-man Robert?”
“Yes, Friend Shoma.”
Robert smiled. If only you knew, you arrogant alien fuck.
When he got home that evening, Robert brought with him a plan of the North Face of the block and all its 1500 panes. He reviewed the twelve words that Gary had approved, and which formed a simple, obscene message. The next three hours were spent plotting out his wonderful design, and the best and most efficient route for the moving platform to follow during the ten hours available for the operation. When he finished, Robert sank back into his chair with a sigh of satisfaction.
Over the next few days, Robert took every opportunity to gaze upon the platform and its tiny occupants as it rose high above the city, the sun twinkling on its metal surfaces. He longed to be with them, to be above everything, to be part of the execution of their clandestine plan. Once- a Wednesday- he rushed up to the seventeenth floor and watched the five of them through the glass for fifteen minutes. Robert waved at them, but they ignored him, and he felt sad as the platform climbed up to the next floor, leaving him behind.
And sooner- sooner than he could have imagined- the cleaning was over, and the great task lay before him, that very evening. Robert was so choked with anticipation he could hardly think or speak, and it was with extreme difficulty that he managed to get through his working day without throwing up with excitement.
“Are you ready?” asked Gary, through the window of the van. Robert, dressed in the blue overalls he had been loaned the night before, had been standing in the basement car park of the block for two hours, so immersed in his fantasy that he hardly noticed them pull up. “Rob?”
“Yes. I’m sorry. Miles away. We’re doing it now?”
“Of course. Are you sure you’re OK?”
“Yes,” Robert replied, climbing into the back of the van.
“The platform’s all set up?” asked Ingrid. “You’ve got the keys? The window plans?”
“Yes, of course.” Looking around him, half-dazed, at the shadowy towers of paint cans that surrounded them. “That’s a lot of paint.”
“We’ve got a lot of work to do,” said Gary. “Rob, this is an all-nighter. You sure you’re up for this?”
“Yes. Yes. It’s just that- I can hardly believe it. At last, I’m contributing. To the struggle.” He rubbed his eyes; he was thinking he might cry. “I just wanted to say...”
“Mmm?”
“Thank you. Thank you for everything, the money, listening to me- and the opportunity. This opportunity.”
All was quiet in the back of the van; they jolted over a speed bump; an embarrassed cough from Gary. “Don’t worry about that. You just concentrate on what you’ve got to do.”
It seemed like a ridiculous remark. He’d pictured the moment a million times, it felt like. And soon, he would be up there, living it- high above the Shoma, high above the city, with his new friends, in their tiny swinging cradle- painting out a bright message of hope that would transform his life, and the lives of every human on Earth.
#
It was late morning . Robert was at his desk as usual, his momentous task complete. He had not gone home, having crept into the office at 5.30; he’d left his suit, shirt and tie folded in one of the reception rooms, and had even managed an hour of sleep curled up on the sofa before everyone else started turning up. Now he sat at his desk, unable to concentrate on this day’s humdrum tasks, bask
ing in the pleasant glow of exhausted achievement, his shoulders aching with the physical exertion. His imagination ranged ahead in time to when the lights would be switched on, and his fateful message would be broadcast to a grateful population. As he dozed, the images of the previous night fluttered through his sleepy brain; the moonlight glittering on the silver platform rail; the gentle nocturnal hum of the hydraulics; the murmured instructions from Gary; the rocking of the cradle, its soft jerks as they moved ever higher; the flashing of the torchlight on the blue plans; the sloshing of the silvery paint on the black glass. As they descended, the sun had peeped over the City’s skyscrapers, and the security guards who’d watched them all the way down didn’t have a clue. No one would know until the grand switching on tonight!
Robert had stood in the basement car park and watched the white van trundle away into the dawn light. Gary and the others had not even said goodbye to him. But of course, everyone was so tired, happy but tired!
#
The day passed all too slowly for Robert. He hardly noticed anything that was happening around him, unaware of the anxious buzz that pervaded his office that afternoon. He picked up on some vague talk about an ‘announcement’- but what did he care? It was probably to do with the celebrations tonight, celebrations that would be crowned with his wonderful protest! But as the afternoon drew on, he did admit to himself that people did seem to be louder and more emotional than usual, and by the time he resolved to finish his work and ask someone about it, the office was empty. He looked at his watch. Half past five. Usually the office would be pretty much full at this time. Only two hours before the grand switching on. He felt a surge of pride as he examined the translucent smear, like the trail of an enormous snail, weaving across his ninth-floor window. His own work, that. Strange, though, where were they all? Nobody here had been talking about going to the celebrations. Getting a little worried now that somehow his scheme would be foiled, Robert tried to ring Dora at home. No reply. However, she’d left an answer phone message.
Dora sounded breathless, stressed. “Dad? We’ve been trying to get you all afternoon. Have you heard the news? Ring us Dad, please! Mum’s in pieces!”
Robert left the deserted building. It was probably nothing. It wasn’t unusual for Dora to get a little over-emotional. He’d ring her again from his bar, maybe have a little something to eat, even though he felt far too excited to swallow anything. But as he marched along those familiar alleys, he became aware that something was different; people were running- no one walking- and the voices that rose from the murky twilight were screams, and sobs, and incoherent wails of despair. And another sound, a terrific roaring, distant, yet loud and persistent; Shoma voices, lots of them, a chanting that rose above the rooftops. There was a phone booth in front of him, and, hands shaking, he pushed a coin into the slot and dialed Dora.
“You’re back. What’s- “. Robert began only for Dora to cut him off.
“Dad, where have you been? They’re evicting us! Haven’t you heard?”
“What? But we paid the rent, they can’t- “Robert half stammered in disbelief.
“Not our family! Everybody! The Shoma are evicting us-humans- from the whole planet! They’re saying they were here first! We’re the aliens now! Dad! Dad!”
Robert left the phone swinging and rushed into the bar. It was empty- a few turned over tables, the signs of a recent commotion. On the television, a Shoma newscaster cheerfully delivered the headlines.
“To summarize the Marshall’s announcement- on this anniversary of First Friendship, the Government is pleased to announce that the repairs to all one thousand and thirty-nine Hoo-men starships have been completed, their hyperdrives restored. Hoo-menity is now ready to begin its long return journey to its home world. In one year’s time, this repatriation will begin, and our happy association will come to a sad end, both races enriched by their brief but fruitful encounter....”
The old First Friendship picture was on the screen again- but this time, the dead President was a shrunken dwarf, and the Shoma which beamed benignly down on him was a golden God - an Angel.
Robert remembered Dora’s words. We’re the aliens now. And then his message, the beautiful tidings that were due to appear in the next few moments, popped into his head again, resplendent in their awful, irresistible power.
Oh my God!
Rushing back to the phone booth Robert crammed in coins, dialed the number that Gary had advised him to ring in case of dire emergencies.
The line was dead.
And then he was out into the street again, dodging blindly through the rain, struggling through the screaming crowds. He had to get back to his block- before- before-
Oh Christ.
It was before him now, and across its glittering surface, dominating the skyline, dominating everything, in savage ten-meter letters of glowing green, was his message-
SCREW YOU ALIEN SCUM. FUCK OFF HOME AND LEAVE US IN PEACE.
In front of the tower hundreds and hundreds of Shoma danced and celebrated beneath his message; and there were more aliens on the building itself, on the balconies, above and below the cruel words, and all of them were chanting, and now he knew what it was he’d heard in the street earlier- FUCK OFF HOME. FUCK OFF HOME. FUCK OFF- On the fringes of the concourse, terrified humans fled into the shadows.
Robert ran the other way, towards the crowd, into the mass of shouting Shoma, pushing them aside. He had been tricked- somehow. “I’ve got to- I’m the caretaker- got to switch the lights off – “ He screamed to be heard over the Shoma.
A huge male alien grabbed his shoulder and hauled him backwards, off his feet, tossed him to the wet pavement. Robert sat up, dazed. They were all around him now.
“What are you doing here, Hoo-man?” One alien demanded.
“You shouldn’t be here. Shoma only.” Cried another.
“Hoo-man scum.”
“Can’t you read, Hoo-man? Can’t you read the words?”
Robert looked up as the vicious kicks and blows fell upon him, he could read the words, his huge green letters- but they were changing, just as his dream had foreseen, dissolving with every Shoma punch into a cataract of glowing alien sludge that swamped and drowned him.
#
Hours later, Robert found himself back in the Shoma’s office on the nineteenth floor. He was sitting down, and his broken arm had been roughly shoved into a cast, his cuts and wounds had been briskly patched up by a reluctant Shoma doctor. Now his Shoma was talking to him. There was something about its voice, something he’d never heard before. A quality akin to, but not entirely like, pity.
“It is very sad, Hoo-man. Very regrettable, that this foul racist message appears on what should be a day of happiness, final reconciliation. Some young roughneck Shoma must be responsible, one of those who attacked you. And this terrible slander appears to have inspired wider acts of violence against Hoo-men. I would like to apologize, on behalf of my people. It is not how guests should be treated.”
“Guests?” Asked Robert in confusion, looking up, too bludgeoned and exhausted to argue.
“We would like you and your family to stay here until the end. We need you to manage the block. You can leave in one of the final ships.”
“Those ships,” Robert muttered, “they’re saying they’re not flightworthy. They won’t even make it into space before breaking up.”
“Hoo-man defeatism! Hoo-man laziness!” hooted the Shoma, but with a little less malice than before, Robert thought. “You should exercise some of the determination that you demonstrated in cleaning the block,” it added artfully.
“And your planet- where you’re sending us- it’s destroyed, burned up. It’s why you came here in the first place.”
“You are mistaken. This is our planet,” insisted the Shoma.
Robert stood up. “I should go. Do you need me to clean off the letters?”
“No. There is no need. They can remain.” The Shoma stood falling into step beside Robert as he walk
ed towards the lift, dragging his aching limbs, his broken arm numb and useless. He passed a window that gaped invitingly open. Below he could see columns of humans being led by huge armed Shoma guards to the internment camps.
He could jump. Here and now. End it all. Death below right now, or death above, in one year’s time.
Robert sensed the Shoma watching him.
“Thank you again Hoo-man,” it said in a low voice, “For all your service to the Shoma people.”
Robert stood by the open window for a few moments before turning away, towards the elevator. Dora and Becky would need him, and he intended to be with them at the end- whenever that might be.
- THE END -
About A.N. Myers
Andrew Myers was born in London and educated in Reading and Oxford. Since completing a MA in Prose Fiction at Middlesex University, he has won and been shortlisted for several literary prizes, including Momaya, Dark Tales, and Hammond House International Literary Prize, and his short fiction has been seen in such publications as 101Fiction.com, Speculative66, and the British Fantasy Society bulletin. His gothic science fiction play Nineteen Hertz was recently performed by a radio theater company in San Francisco.
The Ides, his gripping YA science fiction novel, published under his pen name of A.N. Myers, is currently available on Amazon and through his website www.anmyers.com. He is currently writing its sequel, Open Locks Whoever Knocks, the second of the Fugue series. He is a member of Clockhouse London Writers.
Andrew Myers works full-time as a secondary school English teacher in East London and lives with his partner and two teenage sons.
Connect with Andrew here:
www.castrumpress.com/authors/andrew-myers
