The Paella That Saved the World (The Paella Trilogy Book 1)

by Elle Simpson

  “Shh.” I squeezed his hand. “It’s okay. I get it. I’ll stop them.” Whoever they were. “You just lie still, okay?”

  “You’ll…stop them?” Cheekbones managed, but his voice was barely a voice anymore – just this cracky, wet whisper.

  “Yeah, of course. I promise.”

  Cheekbones’ eyes slipped closed then. Properly this time. And with his face not all crunched up in pain, I could see that Cheekbones – he was young. He couldn’t have been much older than me, if he even was at all.

  My first thought? God, what was a teenage alien doing crash-landing a spaceship in the middle of Mr Jenkins’ heirloom potato field?

  My second thought? I don’t think he’s breathing.

  “Cheekbones!” I slapped him hard enough to make my palm sting. “Cheekbones, wake up! You are too pretty to die! I mean it, wake up!”

  Cheekbones did. Instantly. He heaved up from his seat, eyes gone wide, and took this huge racking breath. Then he fell back with a thump. That was when the black film closed over his eyes – vertically, I should point out, in totally the opposite direction that eyelids are supposed to close – and then his actual eyelids fluttered, once, twice, fell half shut.

  And then…

  “Oh god,” I whispered. “Oh my god, you’re dead, aren’t you?”

  Sirens – coming from up by the boundary fence. Too late, though. Far too late.

  I sat back on the console and started to cry. But I’d hardly worked up half a sob when someone shouted down at me from the crater edge. I looked up – a policewoman – saw her mouth moving, heard this tiny, tinny voice coming out, like music from dangling earbuds.

  She wasn’t that far away, was the thing. I should have heard her perfectly clearly. But I didn’t, I couldn’t, because what I was hearing instead was this thrum – the one coming from somewhere deep inside Cheekbones’ spaceship, getting louder and angrier and—

  “Not good!” I yelped. “Oh my god, so not good!”

  I clambered out of the cockpit and flail-climbed down the side of the ship.

  The policewoman was waving frantically at me now, but I couldn’t even hear her earbud voice anymore. The thrum was just too loud. But if I watched her mouth form the words instead…

  “Run!” is what she was shouting.

  “Freaking duh!” is what I was shouting.

  But I did run. And I made it almost to the ladder the firefighters were sliding down to me when I remembered – Mr Jenkins!

  I whirled around, searching for him. Not so difficult to spot. He was still sitting there on the ground by the ship. The shock and the fear had frozen him solid, like a bag of old peas.

  God, I had to help!

  I took a step towards him. That was when the thrum stopped – and the shockwave started.

  It caught me in the chest and threw me backwards, slammed me hard into the crater side. I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t get any air into my lungs. All I could do was collapse in this pathetic heap against the crumbly earth and try desperately to keep my eyes open.

  I remember a swarm of hi-vis jackety people skittering down towards me. I remember Mr Jenkins lying crumpled at the crater bottom. I remember Cheekbones’ half-blinked eyes staring, unseeing, up at nothing.

  But that’s all I remember – because after that I was so completely and totally unconscious.

  4

  I woke up in a hospital bed to an oxygen mask on my face, a heart rate monitor clipped to my finger, and just a ridiculous number of hazmat suits fluttering about in my peripheral vision.

  “You back with us, sweetheart?” said one of the hazmat suits. It had a Welsh accent.

  This is what my ding-donged brain was thinking: it seemed like people in hazmat suits shouldn't have Welsh accents. Welsh accents were nice. Hazmat suits were not. Ergo – fancy word alert – there was no such thing as a Welsh hazmat suit.

  And then I thought, “Am I high?"

  "You're a very little bit high, pet,” said the Welsh hazmat suit. Something started bleeping frantically. I don’t think it was me. Might’ve been something attached to me, though. “Little scratch on your arm now, my darling. It’s going to make you feel sleepy.”

  “I don’t want to feel sleepy,” I told the Welsh hazmat suit.

  I did not. There had been far too much sleeping that I hadn’t agreed to in the past few hours.

  But there was no arguing with the Welsh hazmat suit. Because the ‘feel’ sleepy thing was a total lie. The only way it wasn’t a lie is that ‘feel sleepy’ in Welsh somehow translates to ‘knock you unconscious for the rest of the night while we try to find out whether you’ve ding-donged your brain in a way that’s un-ding-dongable.

  Also? Whether alien spawn are about to burst out of your stomach.

  Turns out the Welsh hazmat suit was a doctor called Major Davies.

  I mean, her first name wasn’t Major. That was her rank, because she was in the Army. Still is, I suppose, unless she’s decided to become, like, a water buffalo farmer? Or an artisan cheesemaker? Or, you know, something that’s not the Army but also not necessarily related to water buffalo or cheese.

  (Incidentally, writing your memoirs is really difficult on the tenses. Because you’re in the present and your memories are in the past, but they’re both happening at the same time as the time you’re telling them…

  Like, legit extra confusing.)

  Anyway, here’s the point: Major Davies was – and also still is – possibly, maybe a vampire.

  I say this not because she shone torches in crevices no one should ever shine torches in, or because she made me say ‘ah’ more times than anyone who isn’t a professional opera singer should ever have to say ‘ah.’

  (Because neither of those things, though definitely weird and absolutely Not Fun™, are vampirey things to do.)

  I say it because she took enough of my blood that I’m pretty sure that even if Major Davies was/is actually an army doctor-type person in her spare time, she was/is actually also a full-time vampire.

  “Your mum and dad are here, Hannah,” said the definitely Welsh, definitely a doctor, possibly also a vampire Major Davies. She said this to me very early in the morning, but I’d been unwillingly asleep for most of the night, so I felt pretty rested.

  “They’re just going through security,” Major Davies told me. “They’ll be here in a second.”

  I squinted up at her. Mostly, I’ll admit, to see if she had a shadow.

  (She did.)

  Then my brain caught up. “Wait – my mum and dad? Both of them?”

  “Both of them, my love. And your dad’s a little upset, so don’t let that upset you. You’ve been so brave.”

  “Sorry, just to be clear – my dad’s upset?”

  “Just a little teary, pet.”

  “Okay,” I agreed, even though that seemed unlikely given that my dad was a donation from a sperm bank in Wolverhampton. I didn’t think sperm could cry.

  Then the hospital room door burst open, I had a giant, snotty Valencian octopus clinging to me, and all at once I understood. “Hiya, Toni. I’m fine. No need to fuss.”

  “I think fussing’s the only thing the man knows how to do,” Mum told me. Then she relented. “Except maybe cooking.”

  “Yeah, maybe,” I agreed, grinning up at her from my hospital bed. “What with him being a chef and all.”

  Mum snorted a laugh and we exchanged some reassuringly restrained shoulder pats over Toni’s bent head. He had Mum more than covered on the hug front. He was squeezing me hard enough to make my ribs creak.

  “Actually, literally going to pop here, Toni Mac.”

  “Sorry,” Toni said hurriedly, pulling away. “It’s just, you know, we were so worried.”

  “That we were,” Mum agreed. She smoothed a hand over my hair. “You all right, love?”

  I had to think about that one for a second. “Like…aliens exist, apparently? And then I was unconscious, and my doctor is probably a vampire. But I haven’t fre
aked out yet. I mean, might still. But – yeah. I think I’m surprisingly okay. I think?”

  Mum nodded. “Good. You were never one to make a fuss. Glad to see you haven’t started now.”

  “I think she has reason to make a fuss,” Toni said, sniffing dramatically. “For sure, Tracy, she has reason to fuss.”

  “Having reason to do something and doing that something are not the same thing, Antonio. In fact, as even the most basic theory of self-determination would have it—”

  But I interrupted before Ranty McMotherson could get going. “Um, point of order?” I said, looking between them. “Apparently, Toni is my official dad now? Not that I’m complaining or anything but—”

  “White lie,” Mum said briskly. “It was the only way to get him past security, and I wasn’t leaving him on his own. Look at the state of him.”

  Snotty and forlorn was the state. I picked up the box of tissues on the fancy half-across-the-bed table in front of me and offered Toni one. “Blow your nose, Toni Mac.”

  “I don’t need to blow my nose,” Toni said, sniffing again. “For sure, I’m fine.”

  Mum raised an eyebrow at him. Toni blew his nose.

  So,” I said. “Aliens?”

  “Aliens,” Mum said.

  5

  They were called the Akanarin, Mum told me. A peaceful race of spacefaring merchants passing through our solar system on their way to a distant trading outpost. Contact with Earth hadn’t been their plan, but a malfunctioning scout ship had put paid to that. And now, with their existence known, the Akanarin were determined to see things done right and ‘to induct Planet Earth into the universal sorority of peoples to which she now belonged. Apparently.’

  Toni turned on the TV while Mum brought me up to speed, but it was stuck on mute and none of us, not even our resident astrophysicist, could figure out the ancient remote control, so Mum got to keep on narrating, which she always enjoys.

  “There’s a much larger ship in orbit. Upwards of two hundred Akanarin on board. We’re waiting for it to arrive in New York right now.” She nodded to the screen, where a live broadcast showed a bunch of suits milling about in the flood-lit dark. “They’ve done the ‘we come in peace’ rigmarole with the Army and the like. But New York’s where the official welcome’s to be, outside the headquarters of the United Nations. See the woman in front there, in the grey suit? That’s Dorothy Mensah, Head of the Department of Space and Outer Atmospheric Affairs.”

  “That’s an amazing job title,” I said.

  Mum ignored me, probably because her job title wasn't even half so amazing and she was well jel.

  “Dot’s the official greeter. First contact, first handshake, all that. We did our PhDs together at Manchester, you know. No idea how she ended up in the world of international bureaucracy. She’s too clever for it all by a long shot.”

  “She gets to shake the pretty aliens’ pretty hands,” I said. “I think she’ll be okay with it.”

  Mum threw me a puzzled look. “Pretty? Well, different strokes, I suppose. Can’t say I’d call them exactly pleasant to look at.”

  “No, not pleasant,” Toni agreed, shuddering a little. “At all. For sure.”

  “The eyes freak you out a bit?” I asked, nodding knowingly.

  “The eyes,” Mum said, “the oversized head, primarily the lack of a mouth, must be said.”

  “Lack of a—” I began, but Toni shushed us.

  “Look, they’re landing.”

  On the screen, descending out of the darkness, was the Akanarin ship.

  But…

  My forehead scrunched up in confusion. Because this ship – it didn’t look like Cheekbones’ ship. It was a huge, bulbous lump, black but with a reddish gleam. Nothing shiny and silver about it.

  “An orbiter, apparently,” Mum said. “Though landing the thing does make the name somewhat redundant. Christ, what I wouldn’t do to get my hands on that big ugly beast. Just think of the technology in there…”

  As we watched, a hatch appeared at the front of the ship – suddenly enough to startle the cameraman into a shaky zoom – and then it opened, more like a vine twisting up and away than anything door-like. There was a bright light inside, and it silhouetted the aliens waiting to disembark.

  And just that silhouette was enough to see that something wasn’t right – too tall, too skinny – and then when the aliens stepped out of their ship and into the spotlights, what wasn’t right was as clear as anything.

  “They’re different,” I said. “Oh my god, they don’t look anything like Cheekbones.”

  “Who?” Toni asked, glancing over.

  “Cheekbones,” I said. “The alien from the crash. These ones look completely different.” Completely alien. “He looked human. I mean, not his eyes. Or his freckles. Or his cheekbones. But everything else.”

  Toni raised an eyebrow at me.

  “Everything that I could see!”

  And everything that I could see of the alien shaking Dr Mensah’s hand just continued being not right. All skin and bones – greeny-grey skin – weirdly big head, nostril slits like a lizard, huge black tear-drop eyes. No corded muscle, no silver freckles, and no mouth.

  Just like Mum said. No mouth at all.

  “Oh god. They’re different. They’re, like, a totally different species. There were no aliens and now there’s two different kinds of aliens. It’s alien freaking pick-and-mix!”

  Toni reached out and squeezed my hand. Something was beeping kind of frantically again. Still wasn’t me. Definitely might’ve been something attached to me, though.

  “Deep breath, kiddo. Take a deep breath.”

  “A few of the initial reports mentioned the alien from the crash being some type of pilot drone,” Mum told me. “Maybe that’s the difference.”

  “A drone?”

  “As I understand it, from what I’ve heard, some sort of simple organism programmed to fly the ship and not much else, hence the crash, when things went wrong mechanically.”

  “But he wasn’t simple. He couldn’t have been. I mean, he – he—”

  He talked to me, is what I was going to say.

  Then didn’t say.

  “Hannah?”

  I don’t know why I didn’t say it. Even thinking back, knowing everything I know now and didn’t then, I don’t know why.

  Not exactly.

  But if anything stopped me, it was this little voice in my head, the one whispering, something’s wrong.

  Whispering, there was nothing simple about him. He was a person. Just like you.

  Whispering, you promised you’d help him. You promised you’d stop them.

  (Incidentally? The voice in my head, the one doing all the melodramatic whispering? Was my own voice. I’d recommend you remember that – you know, just for future reference.)

  “Hannah, you listening, love?” Mum said, then, sharper, “Hannah, is your head hurting? Hannah.”

  I startled to attention “What? No. No, it’s fine. I’m fine. Listen, I need to tell you about—”

  But I never got the chance.

  “Good morning.”

  Because standing there, in the suddenly open doorway, all calm and collected like he hadn’t just slammed the door open hard enough to cause another sonic boom, was a tall, broad-shouldered man. He had on fancy mirrored aviators. His hair was black, his suit was black, his tie, weirdly enough, was black too.

  “I apologise for the delay,” he said, accent very much not from this side of the Atlantic, “but I’m here to take Miss Stanton’s statement.”

  There was a long moment that involved a lot of silence and a bumtonne of blinking. And then—

  “Is that an actual, literal man in black?” I whispered. “Oh my god, it so totally is, isn’t it?”

  And it so totally was.

  (Well, sort of.)

  6

  The man in black turfed Mum and Toni out of the room. The door clicked shut behind them like the clicking of…like, a suitably omino
us clicky-type thing?

  (Do guns click? Or knives? Or maybe, I don’t know, like the click the classroom door makes when your evil maths teacher surprises you with a test first thing on a Monday morning? That was how the door clicked. It was an evocative click. A surprise maths test-type click.)

  “Um?”

  Mr Man in Black turned back to me. He still had his sunglasses on. “My name is Agent Schwarz.”

  “I’m Hannah,” I replied automatically. Then, “But you probably already know that, don’t you?”

  “Among other things—” a black eyebrow climbed up from behind the sunglasses “—yes.”

  I gulped. “So, uh, my statement?”

  Agent Schwarz extracted a notebook and pen from his inside breast pocket. “Shall we begin?”

  I told him everything I could remember – from waking up on my bedroom floor, to Bendy Spanner Jenkins, to storytime with Cheekbones, all the way up to spaceship go boom and Hannah go snooze.

  Agent Schwarz wrote it all down in his little man-in-black notebook, in his loopy man-in-black handwriting, nodding and motioning for me to carry on, even when I was babbling about stuff that didn’t seem like it should matter, like the colour of Bendy Spanner’s wellies or how pretty Cheekbones’ eyes were.

  In fact, he only interrupted once, just to ask, “And to be clear, Mr Jenkins wasn’t present when the conversation between you and the drone took place?”

  “I mean, he was sitting on the ground being useless when it happened, but he was probably in earshot, so…”

  Agent Schwarz added an ominous-looking scribble to his notes. “Hmm.”

  And while we were on the subject of bendy spanners. “Is he okay, by the way? Mr Jenkins, I mean. He was pretty out of it when I saw him last.”

  Agent Schwarz didn’t look up from his notes. “Mr Jenkins is currently in a medically induced coma and will remain so until the swelling on his brain has subsided.”

  Um. “That sounds like the exact opposite of okay?”

  Now Agent Schwarz looked up, and he cracked a smile in the process. It was like watching a block of granite cleave in two. “I understand Mr Jenkins’ prognosis to be a relatively optimistic one.”