9 Tales From Elsewhere 6

by 9 Tales From Elsewhere

  “There’s no mention of that. Your fiancé should be okay for now. But the U.S. economy is slowly collapsing. All trading on the stock exchanges has been frozen at the prevailing prices from a week ago, and they won’t let you withdraw more than a hundred dollars per day from your own bank account.” Jag figured that Melanie would get by somehow but knew that it would be a struggle for her to care for her elderly parents under these conditions.

  When morning report ended, Jag began packing the aircycle with a variety of specimen containers and enough food and water for the day’s work. He planned to cover an area that was flatter and less rocky than their immediate surroundings, believing it might be ideal for crop cultivation when the first colony was established. In addition to the usual plugs of soil, he planned to return with water samples and specimens of fish from multiple streams and lakes. He would also evaluate the ultraviolet intensity over a period of hours in multiple locations to confirm the safe levels measured by instruments on board the ship.

  After reaching an elevation of five hundred feet, Jag activated the aircycle’s autopilot and took in the view of what for him was the new Eden. What a beautiful, pristine place this is. Melanie will love it, if I can ever pry her away from her parents and sisters in Kansas. He anticipated earning an honorable service designation from the AIC, which would give him and his immediate family relative priority in the emigration schedule. Although he currently had little in the way of immediate family, he and Melanie hoped to marry soon. All he had to do was complete his role in the mission. So far, every aspect was going well except for his recreational use of the purple mushrooms. If he were caught, all bets were off.

  Spotting an unusual area on the ground off to his left, Jag took manual control of the aircycle and headed toward it. He was still several miles from his first planned destination point, but there was plenty of time for a slight diversion. Jag slowly descended, saw that it couldn’t be a village, but wondered if it was a natural formation of some type. It was several hundred feet long, ellipsoid, and reflected sunlight. Then he recognized it and felt like a complete fool. It’s your own damn ship! Can’t you even program an aircycle?

  But there was something odd. Some of the edges of the ship near the ground were obscured by trees and shrubs, and tree branches blown free by a storm were scattered over the upper surface of its hull. Jag had witnessed no storm since their arrival, and they hadn’t been here long enough for the semi-tropical forest to encroach upon the ship’s periphery in this manner.

  He set the aircycle on hover and lowered himself to the ground on a winch. When he approached the ship’s main hatch, its panel slid open immediately, and Jag stepped inside. He sniffed the air several times and relaxed a little. It smelled clean and felt cooler and less humid than the outside air. Still, he wished Wilson and Cruz hadn’t refused his request for a sidearm.

  He called out to both of his shipmates as he searched inside, but all was silent other than the hum of machines. His suspicion of something amiss was confirmed when he queried the main computer.

  “Computer, what is the current location of Captain Wilson and Lieutenant Cruz.”

  “I have no record of either of those individuals,” it stated in a flat masculine tone.

  “That’s impossible,” Jag responded. “When did you last perform auto diagnostics?”

  “Auto diagnostics were completed at 0812 hours this morning. All functions were within acceptable limits.”

  “Computer, what is the current location of crewman Jag Blake?”

  “I have no record of crewman Jag Blake.”

  “If there is no crewman by that name, why are you speaking to me and responding to my questions?” Jag had some familiarity with the security systems, enough to know that the computer shouldn’t respond at all if it had no record of him as a crewmember.

  “The transponder you are wearing reacted appropriately to my initial interrogatory signal and could only have been issued by the Interplanetary Corp. Now identify yourself.” Jag answered quickly.

  “I’m Jag Blake, the lowest ranking crewmember on this ship. Three of us arrived on this planet as a scouting patrol for possible colonization. This is day fifteen of the mission. We left Earth on September 20, 2065.”

  “Your information is incorrect. This ship left Earth on May 15, 2065 with two crew members, Captain William Higgins and Ensign Carla Rodriguez.”

  V

  About to begin shaving on the morning of day sixteen of the mission, Jag glanced at himself in the mirror above his sink and dropped his razor. The normally white sclera of his eyes were tinted light purple. He leaned into the mirror and pulled down the lower eyelid of his right eye and then his left. Everything else about his eyes looked normal; he could still make out the tiny blood vessels in his sclera in spite of the purple coloration.

  He remembered from his teenage years that when his father had become seriously ill from alcoholic liver failure, his sclera and skin turned light yellow. Liver transplantation was out of the question for someone who had no desire to live without a bottle, and his father barely made it to his forty-fifth birthday.

  Jag carefully examined his own skin, but it appeared normal. When he arrived for morning report in the wardroom, he wore tinted UV glasses to deflect unwanted inquiries until he could run some diagnostics on himself in the medical bay.

  “Good morning, Jag,” the captain greeted him from her usual seat at the head of the wardroom table. “Would you bring the coffee over?” She had set the table with only two placemats.

  “Certainly, Captain. Where’s Ensign Cruz?”

  “He left early to work on the survey. I told him I wanted it completed soon so that we could return to Earth two days from now, on schedule. Your sampling process is nearly complete, right?”

  “Yes, Captain. In, fact, I expect to finish by late this afternoon.” When Wilson asked him if he’d had any luck cultivating the purple capped mushrooms he’d mentioned previously, Jag had a moment of panic, suspecting she could see right through the tinted lenses. “No, Captain,” he said, keeping his voice steady. “I’ve tried a variety of growing media, temperatures, and humidity levels. They simply won’t germinate. The natives must have some specific techniques of cultivation. There’s no other way to explain the perfectly small rectangular patch I found growing dead center in that clearing.” Captain Wilson appeared to accept his explanation.

  Jag had spent much of the previous day mulling over his discovery of the other ship. As he saw it, Wilson and Cruz must have been informed of the prior unsuccessful mission before the three of them had left Earth, yet they had kept him in the dark. It meant that the current mission was decidedly more dangerous than he’d been led to believe. And if the two crewmen of the first mission had met their demise at the hands of a category C native population, sending him out daily with no weapon for protection suggested that he was regarded as expendable. The fact that Jag had almost no family members to call for an investigation if he became a mission casualty also lent credibility to this line of thought.

  He was a convicted felon in an overcrowded prison system that an imploding economy could ill afford. It was clear that the mission planners, didn’t want him capable of any violence, even in self-defense. Use of a weapon might elicit reprisals from the native population. Why trust a felon with a weapon in any case? If all this were true, there wasn’t much point in discussing his discovery of the other ship with the captain. He simply wasn’t a trusted and valued member of the crew. And the unwillingness of Wilson and Cruz to share their classification of the native population seemed to confirm this.

  On the other hand, what if I’m wrong? What if Wilson and Cruz don’t know about the failed first mission? By revealing his discovery of the other ship, Jag knew he would earn the good will of his superior officers. Both Wilson and Cruz should be grateful for the information if additional precautions were deemed necessary. And any factor that increased the likelihood of a successful mission was to the good for all concer
ned.

  Jag was on the verge of sharing his discovery with the captain when the masculine voice of the ship’s computer interrupted morning report. “Attention Captain Wilson and Crewman Jag Blake. I’ve just received a signal from Ensign Cruz’s transponder. The ensign’s vital signs have dropped to critical and unsustainable levels. He requires immediate assistance. It will take eighteen minutes to arrive at his coordinates by aircycle.”

  “What is the cause of his condition?” Wilson asked.

  “Unknown. Only vital sign monitoring was active. Be prepared to treat for injury, poisoning, or anaphylaxis.” The possibility of an injury severe enough to suppress vital signs meant that Wilson and Jag would have to carry a considerable amount of equipment. While they hurriedly packed the aircycles, Wilson cursed as she realized they might be jumping back to Earth just before all the mission objectives could be achieved. Cruz was probably going to need an ICU and a medical team to survive, assuming she and Jag could keep him alive that long.

  VI

  Ten minutes into their dash atop the aircycles and with the pyramid near the large village coming into sight above the forest canopy, Wilson received a second message from the ship’s computer. “Attention Captain Wilson: Ensign Cruz’s vital signs have ceased.” She eased her speed, and Jag, also hearing this transmission on his radio helmet, did the same.

  Reaching the general area of Cruz’s transponder several minutes later, they circled at a height of a hundred feet and located a clearing large enough to land the aircycles. After walking in a pattern of widening circles for several minutes, Wilson and Jag located Cruz’s body. He had fallen flat onto his back but appeared to have no major injury or bloodstains on his clothing. Then, going down on one knee for a closer inspection, Jag found the cause of his death.

  “Captain, there’s a dart in the side of his neck!” Wilson quickly came to the side of the body where Jag knelt and saw a short thin wooden shaft embedded in Cruz’s neck. She took hold of the shaft and tugged, but it wouldn’t come free. Wilson stood and made a quick visual sweep of their surroundings, all senses on high alert, her right hand grasping her sidearm.

  Well, that makes three Jag was saying to himself when something flew by his left ear. Still on one knee, he turned to look around, but saw nothing to explain it. “Captain, I….” He stopped in midsentence when he saw Wilson. A thick wooden arrow was embedded in her upper abdomen. Wilson sagged to her knees and then fell to the ground.

  Jag threw himself on the ground next to her, searching his surroundings in full-blown panic. Can I make it back to one of the aircycles? In moments, he had his answer. They were approaching him from multiple directions, carrying clubs and axes.

  Jag frantically climbed over Wilson to find her gun, not knowing if she was dead or alive. Finding and taking hold of the gun, he discarded his tinted glasses, picked out one of the oncoming males, and took aim at the wide space between its eyes. Even without weapons training, Jag knew he should aim for the chest or abdomen, but his visceral reaction toward a charging opponent with the face of a frog buried all rational thought.

  He pulled on the trigger, but it wouldn’t budge. He cursed and pulled harder, but the gun was programmed to fire only when Wilson held it. And then they were upon him.

  A blow to the side of his head knocked him to the ground. Then two of the males pulled him to his knees. Their strength of their grip was as inhuman as their visage. A third male approached and lifted his axe high into the air, preparing to bury the blade into Jag’s skull. Jag stared at his executioner in wild-eyed terror, and waited for the inevitable. But sometimes, even the inevitable doesn’t happen.

  His would-be executioner lowered the axe and stared back at him, slightly shifting his head from right to left, using one eye to confirm what the other eye saw. Another member of the group, an older male, was called over to examine Jag, and in moments, an argument erupted between the two.

  Finally coming to a decision, they bound his wrists behind his back, cut off his uniform, and removed his boots. Placing Jag in the middle of the group, they began a trek in the general direction of the pyramid. Even in Leavenworth, Jag had never felt so alone, abandoned and helpless.

  VII

  It wasn’t until day four of his captivity that Jag had any insight as to why he was still alive. He awoke just as he had the previous mornings, strapped flat on his back atop a stone altar, able to see little more than the hemisphere of sky above and around him. His captors had taken care to place something soft under his head, back, and legs, and they periodically gave him food and water. He could lift his head, but nothing more. At dawn and dusk, small curious lizards climbed onto his chest and abdomen, got comfortable, and stayed to soak up his body heat. They did no harm, and after a while, Jag lost his fear of them. If anything, they kept the insects off for part of the day. At sunset, a young female came to bathe him but this may have been as much ritual as necessity since there was no canopy to shelter him from rain or sun.

  Upon first arriving at the base of the pyramid several hours following his capture, his feet bruised and bloodied, he had been prodded up the steps to the structure’s truncated top. Over two hundred feet tall, the pyramid resembled those built by the Aztecs, and Jag wondered if it was used for human sacrifice. His worst fears seemed to be confirmed when he saw the small stone temple and outdoor altar on the flat terrace at the top of the pyramid.

  Shortly after sunset on the first night of his captivity, his first bath just completed, he found himself surrounded by three females. Each carried a wooden bowl, but Jag, tied flat on his back on the altar, couldn’t see the contents of these. After murmuring a prayer, one of the three withdrew a gleaming metal dagger from the bowl she held, and Jag began to plead with them, the entreating tone of his voice conveying everything his spoken words could not. The tip of the dagger pricked the skin of his right shoulder and was then slowly pushed in to make a small incision, causing Jag to wince and clench his teeth. The second female reached into the bowl she carried, and withdrew a tiny object with the tips of her thumb and index finger. This she placed into the small incision. The third member of the trio used a small silver spoon to transfer a thick yellow gel from her bowl into the incision. Jag had observed a variety of hymenoptera during his explorations, and he wondered if this gel was similar to honey. If so, it might prevent the incisions from becoming infected.

  Concluding that they hadn’t come to kill him, he was able to unclench his teeth and hands somewhat, even with the pain of the incision. Then he felt the dagger piercing the front of his left ankle, and the rest of the bizarre ritual ensued.

  By the time the trio had finished with him, well over twenty spots on the anterior surface of his arms, legs, abdomen and chest had been incised and treated the same way. He was moaning and writhing, feeling as if they had set his skin afire.

  The female who had used the dagger removed another object from her bowl and approached the head of the altar. Only when she held it directly in front of his eyes could Jag determine that it was a narrow flask. She removed its stopper, gently propped up his head so he could drink from it, and brought it to his lips. Because he sensed that this was being offered rather than forced upon him, Jag drank from the flask. Within minutes, his pain began to subside. Shortly afterward, he fell asleep.

  The next three days passed uneventfully. He was allowed several sips of the elixir at intervals of about four hours, and it continued to suppress his pain and restlessness. But on the morning of day four, he had an unexpected visitor.

  The queen or high priestess wore a long purple robe, and she approached him closely. Bending over him and shifting her head from side to side to let each of her eyes examine his, she couldn’t conceal her fascination. And Jag was fascinated to see the purple tint in her eyes.

  This is why they didn’t kill me! But what does it mean? Do they think I’m the fulfillment of something in their scriptures or legends? Do they expect me to become her consort? Maybe they regard me as a sacred ob
ject, knowing that I must have ingested enough of their sacramental mushrooms to give me this purple jaundice. Other than the high priestess, all of the natives have white sclera. That means only she experiences the visions.

  When night descended, a new wave of pain swept over Jag. It started on the front of his left thigh, piercing him like the point of an icepick. By the time the moon reached its zenith, the entire surface of his body that was bathed in its light was on fire again. The female caring for him that evening coaxed him to swallow much more of the opiate-like elixir, and this allowed him to doze intermittently. When he awakened at dawn, Jag lifted his head to examine himself. Small purple stems had sprouted from his incisions.

  VIII

  On the morning of the sixth day of his captivity, his pain and despair gave way to a gathering euphoria. More important was a new sense of purpose that gripped him, experienced not as a burden, but as a relief. Yet he did not wonder of this. It seemed entirely fitting and long in coming, as if summoned by fate. Jag believed it was the reason he had been brought to this new Eden.

  When the female guardian who had comforted him during the night saw the transformation in him, she called others to the top of the pyramid. Jag was transferred onto an ornamental stretcher and was gently carried to ground level. He was then placed at the front of a procession, alongside the high priestess, and they carried him into the forest. The flutist began a bright and spirited melody.

  The members of the entourage, hearing his vocalizations, knew him to be in communion with the gods who ruled their world, for by now, even his skin had a subtle purple tone. But as the implanted organisms flooded his nervous system with a profusion of neurotransmitters, it was Melanie with whom he conversed.

  “Jag, they’re preparing another ship, and it’s going to be packed with marines who will unleash holy hell on these savages. Just hang on a little longer. It’s all going to end soon, and we’ll be together here on Earth.” But Jag saw it all very differently.