Ally Oop Through the Ulysses Trees

by Lenny Everson

  The CBC wasn’t much help. For years the government-run broadcaster had aged right along with its listeners, boomers and folkies. But someone noticed that the audience was dying off, or becoming senile and forgetting how to turn on the radio. So the afternoon show was changed to target a slightly younger audience, say, those in their forties, or even in their thirties. Cope suspected that it didn’t work, that the younger people didn’t want the mix of commentary and music offered.

  He didn’t mind the commentary all that much, but he'd never acquired a taste for some of the current music.

  So he edged forward, and stopped, edged forward, and stopped. It was like real traffic, only in slow motion. People still switched to any lane that seemed to be moving better, and got scowled at, but it took much longer.

  Cope lived in hope, like thousands of others must have, that the traffic was just because of an accident or a ladder dropped onto the highway or something, and that it would clear up in a minute. He passed the time doing a crossword puzzle on the dash and checking the position of a truck with Chinese writing on it in the next lane over. Sometimes the truck edged a few car-lengths ahead of him, and sometimes he got ahead of it.

  At the moment, the truck had gained a bit, and a green SUV was slowly stuffing itself behind the truck to his right, coming from a lane even further towards the edge of the highway. Cope’s lane moved forward a bit. He followed, stopped, and picked up the crossword again.

  Cope filled in “opted” for the clue, “Made a decision,” and turned down a soft-rock-country song that had not the faintest pretension of originality, unless it marked a new record in clichés. When he looked up and checked the mirror, the SUV, a Nissan, was almost beside him.

  That’s when he recognized one of the two men in the Nissan. He’d seen that round face in Paris, France, three years ago. For a second blood drained from Cope’s face, and the guy behind him honked when Cope failed to move.

  They say seatbelts save lives, but the fact that Cope had undone his – it hadn’t seemed like much of a risk at this speed – turned out well for him. He threw himself out of the door just as a passenger from the SUV got out and came around the front.

  Jag landed hard, just avoiding falling under the wheels of a beer truck edging forward. The abandoned rental car was the last of his worries, and he didn’t give it a thought as he scampered under the beer truck, his knees hurting from the pavement and the heels of both hands with asphalt embedded in them. On the other side of the beer truck was the concrete median separating the eastbound lanes from the westbound lanes, and he went up and over it.

  For some reason, the westbound lanes were moving substantially faster than the eastbound lanes he’d left. Actually, he thought, the Sebring would have bumped into the car ahead and if the other guys had left their Nissan to come after him, traffic would come to a complete halt for a few hours.

  Traffic cameras on top of the light-masts would spot the problem eventually, and doubtless a dozen people were phoning other people, including the police, to report some funny business on the 401. Not that the police could do much in a hurry. Not that they weren't used to car thieves abandoning their prizes on a regular basis.

  He hesitated, figuring his chances of crossing eight lanes of traffic were pretty small, when someone in a small van saw him, swerved a bit, and hit the back fender of a Honda Accord with eight people in it. Both came to a halt pretty quickly, and the cars behind them slowed and stopped, blocking three lanes. Like magic, the other lanes slowed and filled with almost-stopped cars. Cope ran for it.

  He went between a couple of cars, and when that looked too dangerous, slid up and over an older white Ford. On the other side of the Ford he looked back to see a determined man coming after him through the traffic. The other guy wasn’t waving a gun, but Cope simply assumed it was in a shoulder holster. Cope crawled under another 18-wheeler and ran for the edge of the highway.

  The 401 is separated from the real world by a very high cement fence, so Cope had to follow an exit lane a way before spotting a gap. The city provides access to the freeway for firemen to connect a hose to the nearest hydrant, and that was good enough for Cope. Red-faced and puffing, he reached a city street and, out of breath, ducked into a Tim Horton’s coffee shop.

  There were a couple of dozen people in the shop, five of them lined up to buy coffee, donuts, or lunch. The chain started by the now-dead hockey player had branched into lunches and seemed to be doing very well in the business. Cope looked behind him, hoping his pursuer would turn back rather than do anything rash in a place full of potential witnesses.

  On the other hand, this was north Toronto, and a shooting in a coffee shop wasn’t going to turn the city upside down.

  Cope didn’t really know what he was going to do. He thought of locking himself in the washroom but there were three men already in the line for that facility. A cell phone; he thought. I’ll borrow someone’s cell phone. He made a mental note to get another cell phone and join the twenty-first century again.

  “Can I use your cell phone?” he asked the man ahead of him in the line. He wasn’t sure why he was standing in line, since buying any fluids that might subsequently leak out of him through bullet holes didn’t seem like that hot an idea. And, in line, it was harder to watch the street. Maybe it was just such a normal, Canadian thing to do; there was a comfort level to consider.

  The man ahead of him struggled with a Canadian politeness and willingness to help, then said, “I don’t have a cell phone.”

  Cope looked around; there were four teens, who should probably have been in school, talking on cell phones, maybe to each other. He tried to decide which would put up the least resistance. The line edged forward and the guy ahead of him put in an order for fifteen jelly donuts. Part of Cope’s mind pegged the guy as someone who worked in an engineering office; engineers are powered by donuts.

  But Cope’s eye fell on the man in the light-brown suit who appeared at the corner of the coffee shop outside, looked inside at Cope, and headed for the door, one hand reaching into his pocket.

  There was only one door, not counting the door to the kitchen. There were now four guys waiting for someone to unlock the men’s washroom. Tim Horton’s places always needed more washrooms, he thought. For God’s sake, they serve coffee, don’t they. Coffee always stimulated Cope’s digestive system.

  As the man came through the door, still moving quickly like he had something to do in a hurry, Cope reached forward and grabbed the box of jelly donuts from the counter. He dumped them into the space between himself and the door. The guy in the suit came in, began a long slide towards the counter, and spun his arms like windmills.

  Cope sidestepped the man, slid like a skateboarding pro to the door, and yanked it open. He bowled two people over, one of which yelled after him, “Don’t dis me man!”

  But there was no more shooting as Cope turned a corner and then entered a convenience store. Cope stopped, took a twenty out of his pocket and held it towards the Korean fellow behind the counter. “Twenty to use the back door?” Cope offered. Without speaking, or showing any sort of surprise, the man took the bill and pointed to the back. “Thanks,” Cope said and ran past cases of pop and out the back door.

  He followed the alley, past smelly bins of garbage, until he got to another street, then walked slowly into a department store. He was in the washroom, in a stall, sitting on the toilet, for maybe half an hour before checking that the washroom was empty and leaving. On the main floor he found a phone and called his office.

  “Cope here,” was all he could say when a woman with a kid’s voice picked up the phone on the other end.

  “Mr. Copeman,” the voice said at once. “Problems?”

  Cope explained, not completely coherently, about the events of the last hour.

  “No problem,” the voice said when he finished. “We’ll take care of it. We’ll have a car for you at the nearest corner in twenty minutes. It’ll be a blue van with "Personal Health Care" on
the side. We suggest you have a coffee and not be there too early.”

  Cope had a coffee at the store’s restaurant. It wasn’t as good as Tim Horton’s coffee, but, he noted, he was more likely to survive it. So he had a salad to go with it. He called Paula. After she'd expressed her dismay at their daughter's recovery and listed a few things that had gone wrong at the home. Then she actually asked how he was doing in Brighton. "Pretty dull," he assured her.

  At the table, watching the door, he wondered just which group had decided he’d be better off away from Brighton for a while at least. Did that mean that someone was after whatever object was in the bay? In that case, why kill him? No, he thought, this is someone who wasn’t expecting to get the object and wanted to make sure no-one else did.

  ****

  High Bluff Island

  Out in Popham Bay

  Two days after Button Day

  Laura and Tom drove through the park and around to the section of beach nearest to High Bluff Island, Tom making notes on every car they passed and watching the road for something, possibly improvised explosive devices. When they got to the shore, Clyde Books was attaching a small old motor to the back of a square-end canoe. He looked up, surprised.

  "I'm Laura Singer."

  "Ah, yes. We talked by phone. Hi, Tom; good to see you. I'm glad to see the bad guys didn't get you."

  Tom looked at Clyde. "How many around?"

  Clyde shrugged. "Looks like the whole place is full of spies and other government agents, not to mention our friends the aliens over there." He waved in the direction of High Bluff Island. "Assuming they're hiding out in the bush there."

  "Seems likely," Laura said. "Are you going out there? Can we come?"

  "Ah…" Clyde pointed at the boat. "Are you sure you want to? This is a pretty small boat for three people, and the waves are getting up."

  "You've got a motor. I went out there in a canoe without one, and the canoe wasn't this big."

  "Sure." Clyde scratched an ear. "But you probably went when in the morning when it's calmer, and this motor's a three-horse Johnson, vintage 1967. Besides, you don't have lifejackets. Even an extra paddle would help, if a wind comes up or the motor quits. " He smiled. "It's no fun being known as the guy with the smallest Johnson on the lake."

  Laura didn't seem to get the joke. She looked into the boat. There were several packages, one paddle, one cane, and one lifejacket. And a small can of gasoline. "Hang on." She got her long-handled shovel from the Jeep. "I can paddle with this if I have to." She faced Clyde. "And I want to go out there. I want to talk to these guys." She turned to Tom. "Will you wait here, or do you want to drive back to the cottage?"

  "I'm too easily ambushed at the cottage," Tom said. "I'll go with you two."

  Clyde rolled his eyes. "Help me get this thing into the water." They slid the canoe down the grass, over the rocky beach, and into the waves slopping against the rocks. Laura and Tom pushed away from shore until the water was deep enough for Clyde to get the motor going. They moved towards the islands, leaving a faint trail of blue smoke behind them.

  It took almost ten minutes to get close to the island. As they neared the shore and cormorants rose from a dead tree, Clyde stopped the motor and Tom and Laura paddled the boat inshore. Tom leaped out into the shallow water to get the boat onto the beach.

  Together, they dragged it up far enough to be out of wind and waves. Laura pointed ahead. "There's where the Daniels' boat came in," she said. There was a trail of crushed vegetation ahead of them.

  They found the Daniels boat, turned over and propped up. Underneath, the two men looked out at their visitors. Jack looked a bit dazed. "Welcome," Jim said. He looked around. "I recognize the two men who helped us escape the cottage, and Laura, of course. Why are you here?"

  Tom looked around carefully. "I was hoping to hide a while."

  "Why?"

  "In case they're out to get me?"

  Jim shook his head. "Considering the fact that some people might be after us, you might be in the wrong place."

  Tom merely said, "Shit."

  In the silence that followed, Clyde spoke up. My name is Clyde Books."

  Jim and Jack stared. Jack said, "Shit."

  "What's the problem?" Laura asked.

  "Clyde's a member of Alien Hunters International," Jack said. "They try to find aliens like us hiding on this planet and kill them."

  "Shit," Laura said.

  "Maybe we can talk," Clyde suggested. "I brought some sandwiches."

  "Food?" Jim seemed interested. "We brought nothing but condensed soup in cans and a can opener."

  "I'll be back." Clyde walked towards his boat.

  "Funny;" Laura said, "that line doesn't make me any more confident."

  But Clyde came back with a couple of big bags, which he opened. He put a small tablecloth on the ground and put out a bunch of sandwiches. "Some are just vegetable sandwiches," Clyde said, looking around. "I wasn't sure if you were vegetarians or not. The rest are salmon and ham."

  The Daniels took the food closest to them, unwrapped them and started eating. Clyde joined them, and said to Tom and Laura. "Go ahead. I brought lots, in case I was going to be here a while. And bottled water." He turned to the Daniels again. "Why should I be on your side? Is there any reason I should help you?"

  "We're leaving." Jack took another sandwich and a bottle of water.

  "Leaving?"

  "There are eleven of us on Earth. If all goes well, we're getting into our ship and getting the hell out of here as soon as we can, probably in the next day or so. Sounds like that should be one of your objectives."

  Clyde paused in his eating. "It is. Can I trust you on this?"

  Jim shrugged. "Just wait a couple of days. Watch the bay."

  "It's out there?" Clyde looked out over the bay towards the cottages.

  'It's out there. The truth is out there."

  "And people are trying to stop you from getting there."

  Jim nodded. "Other than Alien Hunters International? We think so. We don’t know for sure."

  "What happens to the bodies you're in? The Daniels brothers."

  "We leave them behind. They'll be healthy, and glad to get rid of us."

  "Not traumatized?"

  "But that can't be helped, can it? Oh, we expect they'll be pissed off and shook up. We've kept the hosts in pretty good condition, but…"

  "So if I help you….""

  "You'll be known as the guy who helped get an alien infestation off the planet."

  Clyde turned to Laura. "You trust them?"

  She shrugged. "If they're lying, I don’t think anything we can do would be to the good of the planet."

  "Maybe if we kill them we save the planet."

  "Only if they're alone. And the others don't find out about it. Otherwise…."

  "That's what I was thinking." Clyde broke out a package of cookies and passed them around. "Jack. You're not saying much."

  Jim spoke up. "Jack broke his right arm yesterday."

  "What?" Laura took a closer look at Jack.

  "We've immobilized the arm," Jim said, "and given him a sedative. We're fixing it from the inside."

  "How long will that take?" Clyde backed off a bit, and Tom stood up.

  "Human bone's not the quickest stuff to heal. We figure it'll take at least four days to be usable, and another week to heal completely." Jim picked up a carrot stick.

  "Will that be a problem?"

  "Well, we can probably get to our – spaceship, I guess you'd call it – right from shore, but we'd prefer not to. We'd rather start from right above it."

  "Can't swim that far once you've left your host behind?" Clyde asked.

  "Can. We're not speedy, but we can go long distances."

  "Then?"

  "You've got some big fish out there." Jim nodded towards the water. "I don't trust them not to take a bite or two out of me. I remember one of the bigger channel catfish scaring us as we came out. Straight down is the s
hortest route."

  "Can't carry a weapon?" Laura wanted to know.

  "We're symbiots on most planets. We get our partner to carry for us. We're only good for schlepping little loads, and not for any great distance."

  "You're not parasites?"

  "Symbiosis is easier. We're welcomed in many places, for the benefits. Got me inside you, you'll live longer and healthier. And have a friend you can talk to."

  "Doesn't seem to work as well, here on Earth." Clyde shifted to sit on a less-knobby part of the ground.

  "Humans are a little wild yet for such a partnership. It's just rider and unwelcome host. Maybe after humans have had social networking hardware embedded into their bodies for a generation, they'll see the advantages. But now, well, there are some primitive fears still in play."

  "You've got that right," Laura said, taking a cookie. "I would have thought most cultures would have evolved to avoid parasites."

  "True, but eventually they realize parasites are normal. You, for example, carry thousands of mites in your follicles and under flakes of your skin. And symbiots – without the bacteria in your system, you'd die."

  "People still don't like to think about it."

  "They don't. Yet. When they get a phone the size of an earring, millions will wear them in style. When it can project images in front of your eyes so you can surf the web, people will gladly have an implant behind the ear. It'll have a personality and answer your questions."

  "That's still not an internal intelligent life form."

  "Not a big step, though," Jim said. "Offer someone a rider that will do all those things and make life better for you…. Control PMS and hangovers, prevent zits, shorten recovery time for tennis elbow, cure insomnia, remember where you parked your car…. And be your friend."

  "But you require something of the host, of course."

  "Of course, but negotiation is possible – except in emergencies. Eventually most beings have to decide between electronic implants, or us."

  Laura shook her head. "But you're ready to leave Jim's body now, I gather."