Stolen and Seduced

by Christine Pope

  It was Dad and I against the world back then, after he became famous in our little village. All thanks to an episode of ‘Outta Space.’ A popular wacky tv show that had somehow gotten wind of dad’s alien encounter.

  The tv crew went to great pains to paint Dad as a likeable, if slightly eccentric, alien expert. When the tv show aired, my life in Ballycannon changed overnight. The kids in school made my life hell. Dad lost most of his friends, apart from Jacksy and a few of the other local conspiracy theorists. But space tourists flocked to see the site of the alien encounter, and Dad decided to capitalize on it.

  So ‘Jupiter Recognize!’ was born, a weird little alien souvenir shop high on the cliffs of Ballycannon. With its alien keyrings, flying saucer cup holders, little green men teddies, probes that lit up, and alien paraphernalia of all kinds, it was hard to ignore smack bang at the edge of rural Ireland. Most infamous of all was the ‘Rock of Ballycannon’. A big chunk of grey rock that Dad swore blind was given to him that night by the alien. A signal to be used if he ever got into trouble. A gift for the saving of a life. It looked suspiciously like any other rock to me, and Dad seemed to have no clue how to use it, if it was ever needed.

  Dad had been walking one evening in the rain, which seems to be a bit of a family trait. That night, the night it happened and after an argument with my mother, he’d walked the beach looking for driftwood. A storm had pelted the southwest coast for two whole days, and my mother liked driftwood, he said. I don’t know those parts of her, I don’t even remember her now. I like to imagine that someone who loves and collects driftwood is a decent person.

  That night, the squall was dying down and the waves were starting to soften somewhat, but the sky was still slate gray and angry. My father said he couldn’t stop staring at the sky, ominous and looming large above him. He wanted to turn back, to return home to the safety of the open fire, crackling and spitting flames in the hearth. Something about the colours of once familiar things seemed to be skewed that night.

  Then he saw it, shining like a beacon in the water about half a mile out near the rocks.

  “And that’s when I took the boat out, Orla. I know it sounds like your old dad has gone crazy. Putting my life in danger like that, but the pull of the water was so strong. Some visceral need to move forward drove me on, through the waves and through the rain. My arms aching from the effort of rowing against the tide. Picture it, Orla. That freezing driving rain-razor sharp-like teeth biting into my cheeks. I still shiver when I think about it. It took me nearly an hour to get to it, this silver shining thing glimmering like a shoal of fish just beneath the surface of the water. It didn’t look anything like any boat I’d ever seen before. It was smooth and round, like a giant silver marble. I couldn’t see any doors or windows, just a round sliver ball. I got close enough to touch it and tried to steady the boat over it. It was just there, at my fingertips, I could see it plain as day! Dipping my fingers into the water, I reach out to touch it, but couldn’t feel it! Every time I thought I could touch it my hand just glided through the water. As though it was there but wasn’t at the same time. An illusion, I thought. You know, like an oasis in the dessert that turns out to be a mirage. Go home, Mick! I shouted into the wind. Go home, this is madness! And then I saw him, Orla. I swear on my life, I saw him. The big green man lying on the rocks.”

  My mother left us not long after the TV show aired. Off for a holiday and a rest, my dad said, it turned into an extended holiday as the years passed. Twenty years later, I reckon she must have a fabulous tan by now and be well rested.

  I heard through the grapevine that she’s married again now, living in London somewhere. I wonder if there’s a beach nearby with driftwood. I guess the little shoreline under the cliffs, and a husband who talked about aliens wasn’t enough for her. I guess we weren’t enough for her. Dad and I muddled on, earnings from his little shop enough to feed and clothe us. We had each other, that was always enough for me. I never really believed his story about his alien encounter. It perplexed me though, my dad was a trustworthy person. I don’t know why he’d lie about it. I shake my head and snap out of my daydream. Jesus, Dad! At least make it believable for Christ sake! Irish people may have a penchant for folklore and fairies, but aliens might have been pushing it a tad.

  Orla

  This time last year, the cliffs were packed with tourists. They’re a main attraction in the west of Ireland, the Ballycannon cliffs, with ten little shops nestled into the cliff face selling everything from Irish lace, handmade silver jewellery, artwork, and knitwear by local artists. And sitting at the end like the little oddball it is, is our shop. Jupiter, Recognise!

  Dad had rented the shop space from his friend Jacksy, Freddie’s father, who I’m sure thought it would be hilarious to let a cat among the pigeons. And that it did. The villagers take their tourist haven very seriously. The shop was the thorn in the side of their vision for the perfect Irish tourist attraction.

  Looking around the little cave-like shop that has been in my family for over twenty years, I bite my lip and inhale deeply. It hurts my heart is see this little space go to someone else. Pushing my hair back off my face I search in the drawers for a band or hair tie of some kind pulling out bits and pieces roughly.

  “Son of a bitch!” I shout, slamming the drawer closed. My head is starting to pound with the stress of everything.

  It’s been one month since I last saw Freddie, the end of a summer that should have seen us through to next year financially. I’ve opened everyday hoping for a miracle, but I’ve had zero sales. The cliffs have been quiet, no tourists, just the odd local out for a ramble. Looming stoic and grey against the Atlantic sea, the cliffs are the only constant in my life. The pandemic means nothing to them, people mean nothing to them, the cliffs have seen us come and go for tens of thousands of years. Nothing ever changes for them. They will not miss me, nor question my absence. I’ve rented a small cottage down the road for a week. Just to sort out my affairs before I leave Ballycannon for good. One of the other shop owners has promised to look after the stray cat I’ve fed for the last two years, and water my little outside garden if needs be. When I lock the door this evening, I’ll pop the keys in through the letter box and that’s it. The end of the little strange shop on the cliffs.

  Who will even miss you, Orla?

  There’s a sadness to it all that runs deeper than just losing the business. The shop was the only thing left of Dad, after the fire that took everything else. Our home, every photograph and every piece of my history gone. And none of it as important as the loss of my dad. They reckon he fell asleep on the couch-cigarette in hand- and that was all she wrote. Five years later, once again my world feels like it’s ending. Like I’m losing him all over again.

  The shop is in darkness, I don’t switch the lights on. Instead I pick up the grey Rock of Ballycannon, from the wooden cradle my dad made especially for it. Passing it from one hand to the other I try to feel my father’s essence through it. My hands are where his hands used to be, and I long for any connection. The rock is warm, and then suddenly hotter.

  Is it getting hotter? No? Surely not. I drop it onto the counter when it burns. “Ow. Fuck!” Turning my palms over I blow puffs of cool air onto them. Why is it so hot? I press a tentative finger against its surface and frown at its now silky coolness. I could have sworn it was... I am losing the plot.

  Putting the rock into my tote bag, I take one last look around the shop, mentally photographing it to my memory. Taking a deep breath, I nod into the room and exhale loudly before pulling the door closed behind me. Popping the keys through the letter box I walk away, fighting the urge to look back.

  Goodbye dad.

  Minutes later, I’m making my way along the cliff-walk, the rain pelting down and my heart heavy. Where am I going to go long term? What will I do? I have no qualifications; the shop has been all I’ve ever known. I have no real friends here; any I did have were few and far between. They’ve all left now, headed to ci
ties, for bigger and brighter things. Not many children wanted to sit with the weird alien kid. By the time I was older, and kids got sick of the teasing, I wasn’t interested in friends. Instead, I made the garden outside of the shop my friend. Growing and cultivating plants and flowers became my passion. Plants and flowers are simple, you feed them, water them and nurture them and they reward you by blooming. It’s a simple transaction. Love without pain, without rejection, without fear of loss. My kind of love.

  It’s a typical late Irish summer, rain that seems to fall sideways drenching you in seconds, and greying skies changing to black in minutes. I growl in annoyance when tears smart behind my eyelids.

  Cut that shit out right now, Orla Quinn. Fuck the world right now! Fuck this virus, fuck Freddie and fuck it all! Taking the rock out of my bag, I hold it close to me for one last time before walking toward the cliff edge and launching it straight into the swirling waves of the Atlantic Ocean. I lose sight of it on its decent-the sky darkening by the minute-before wrapping my arms around my waist in a hug. The wind whips around my ears, sending wet tendrils of black hair slapping against my cheeks. My head feels so heavy, such a strange buzzing in my ears. Looking around me into the shadows of the inky night air, I shiver. I’m being silly, I know this land like the back of my own hand. Each footprint measured and remembered. Then why does it feel so different right now? The ocean is darker than normal, the stars brighter and bigger. Something is happening.

  Rubbing the heel of my palm against my forehead, I sway. What is that noise? That buzzing in my head. Why does everything feel so heavy? Like electricity and pressure. Looking down into the sea swirling and crashing against the rocks, something catches my eye. A green glow.

  What is that? Hundreds of feet below me, something is in the water. Is it the rock? It can’t be, that thing was just a grey lump. Stepping closer to the edge, I peer down. Whatever is in the water pulls me closer to the ledge, like a magnetic field drawing me in. I disturb little fragments of rock and gasp as they give way beneath my feet. A shower of dust and pebbles dropping into the darkness below. Still it glows. Somewhere deep beneath the ocean it glows and pulses. My foot moves of its own accord, dangling precariously over the edge. Shaking my head, I mumble.

  “No. No.”

  It comes out as nothing more than a whisper into the wind. And then I fall. Down, down, and down. Swallowed up by the deep gaping mouth of the sea.

  Axion

  Our destiny is awakened.

  After ten planetary cycles, the signal has been activated.

  She falls, my queen. My mate. Crashing and flailing towards the waves. I feel her fear, shimmering and pulsing though her veins. The darkness of the deep, is an open wound pulling her in. My hearts jump in my chest. I feel all three of them beating, furious as dragon’s wings against my body plate. Pounding and pounding.

  They’re coming for her now.

  I close my eyes and concentrate on my bonded mate. The K’VaRconn Federation. They have reached her before me. King Xi’an and his crew. Beasts and racketeers all. Space pirates, ready to take what they can, to use, to abuse, to destroy and sell on. Why the human female? What could they possibly want with her, with my queen, my mate? I clench my fists at my sides. No one will harm my queen. I will kill or die before I allow such dishonour to befall her.

  One of the worker drone crew of our Naaman ship stands beside me. His fingers move furiously across the control panel activating the video shield in front of us. A technological mastermind, he is programmed to be precise, flawless in his execution. This is his purpose, the only purpose to his existence. To serve my brothers and me. To bring our queen back to our homeland for the breeding to begin.

  “My lord,” he begins. I told up a hand silencing him immediately.

  “Yes. I know, Orban 7. They come for her. Our enemies, the K’VaRconn. Who activated the signal?”

  He frowns at me.

  “Your queen did, my lord. When she released the sacred rock of Gneanti into the sea, she called into the universe. The K’VaRconn, they were within range of the Milky Way galaxy, hunting and scavenging. The signal reached them first. It is an unfortunate development.”

  “Indeed, a development they will not live to regret if my queen is harmed in anyway,” I spit between my teeth.

  “Ten cycles, my lord. The prophecies, they were true,” he replies.

  I ignore him, I will not discuss the prophecies with anyone other than my four brothers. Certainly not with a worker drone, no matter how much I value his expertise.

  Drones map our path toward the green and blue planet called Earth where the humans are housed, I inhale deeply. Time is of the essence.

  “How long until we reach the K’VaRconn Federation ship?”

  “It will take the K’VaRconn one light year to reach their home planet, my lord. We may not have time to return to the mother ship, gather the army and still intercept them. If they reach the outer bounds of their home planet, the treaty forbids us from taking back the female, until they have tried to mate with her,” he replies.

  My fingers grip the screen of my visual unit so hard it cracks under the pressure, before crumbling in my hands. Drones do not often show emotions, even though they’ve been programmed to show and feel them on a base level. I’ve no doubt confused them by my unfamiliar display of anger. Silence blankets the room, no sound apart from my heaving breathing. The human part of my DNA requires the basic human function of breath. Unlike our created artificial AI drones, the Orban, my brothers and I carry 50% human genomes. It makes us slightly more vulnerable than our army of drone warriors back home on Naaman 1. Our human-like appearance, and coloured skin, is also a visual representation of our royal bloodline and status.

  We are the Lords of Naaman, the ruling class of 20 males from once great families. Now out mission is to breed and repopulate our planet, this is our primary function. To hear the laughter of children on Naaman 1, again. To feel the warmth of a female. To copulate, to desire, to love. I yearn for it. For the touch of my queen.

  I turn to one of my drones, Orban 1. He flicks out his tongue, a nervous reaction. His scaled skin flushes bright green, and his scales stand up on his neck. A dead giveaway of the anxiety he is obviously feeling.

  “We will take her from them, by whatever means necessary. Fuck the treaty,” I snarl. His eyes widen.

  “Yes, my Lord Axion. Should I plot course to return to Naaman to gather the army?”

  “No. I will go alone. Instruct the guards, ready me a shuttle.”

  “But, my lord,” he replies his tone anxious.

  “Alone,” I repeat.

  “Should I report back to your brothers?”

  “No. Thank you. Plot a course for the K’VaRconn Federation ship. Turn on the cloaking device.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  This is the day we have waited for. These past ten cycles roaming the galaxy waiting for my queen to send the signal. For my queen to show herself. For the prophecy to finally be fulfilled. Only when I mate with the queen can the others of our species attempt to reproduce with the human females. So it is written in the sacred books, the females from our own species having been wiped out by the deadly virus that swept through our home planet eons ago.

  My brothers and I, the only survivors of our bloodline have roamed the universe, ageless, timeless always waiting. Thousands of years waiting for the humans to evolve fully, in order to mate with the Naaman. And then the last ten agonizing cycles waiting for the signal from a human female who would be our queen. Can it be true? I didn’t dare believe fully, before.

  Excitement ripples through me, mixed with impotent rage. The marauders have taken her to their Federation ship. What they want with her is uncertain, a bargaining tool maybe, or do they want her for themselves? They lost their females too, in the Great Ending. Our galaxies close enough to have both suffered the loss of our females when the virus swept through the universe taking our most precious treasures. Our mothers, sisters, wives and
female children. I close my eyes and breathe in through my nose and try not to picture my mother and sisters dying, suffering. The K’VaRconn Federation have had little success finding females to breed with successfully. Their desperation might override their loyalty to the treaties that allow us to live side by side in relative harmony. They are forbidden to breed with human females, it has been written. It looks like they may be willing to start a war in their desperation to repopulate.

  “Give me the information,” I demand, standing up to my full height. It’s an unnecessary intimidation tactic. I don’t usually abuse the fact I am head and shoulders taller than my crew. But I’m angry, and I need every species and creature who encounters me to know I mean business. My mate is out there. Alone, and maybe frightened. From my research I know that humans are weak, defenceless. She must not come to harm. Our race depends on her.

  “The K’VaRconn Federation ship is in the Gamma quadrant, we will not reach it for at least one hour,” the drone replies.

  “Fuck!” I hiss between my teeth.

  Orla