by Rob Mclean
The ambassador stooped down and effortlessly helped Akil up. “Fear not, brother,” he repeated and again Akil felt his worries dissolve as the man embraced him.
“I am sorry,” Akil said. “I should be welcoming you to our planet.”
“Do not be sorry,” said the ambassador, “it is we who have come to welcome you to the rest of the galaxy.”
Then putting his arm around Akil’s small shoulders, the ambassador turned them both around and steered Akil towards his vessel. “Come,” he said, “there is much to discuss.”
Once inside the ambassador’s vessel, the stairs and the handrails melted into a liquid pool and flowed upwards to cover the doorway. Akil felt a twinge of fear as the outside world was blocked off as the hull resealed itself.
The ambassador still had his arm around Akil’s shoulders. He indicated to Akil to sit. As Akil watched, a seat extruded itself from the interior wall of the vessel and formed before his eyes.
“Fear not,” the ambassador repeated and Akil wondered if he could sense his rising sense of distress. As soon as he sat, a bar, made of the same hull material, emerged from the wall and ran across Akil’s waist, holding him snugly in his seat.
“I am sorry, friend,” he said to Akil’s worried expression, “but it is for your safety.”
Akil hoped his instincts were right about this alien. He tried to work out how it would be if the roles were reversed. He figured that the alien ambassador wouldn’t want any harm to befall Earth’s envoy, so he would ensure that he wore a safety belt. He chuckled at that thought. In fact the whole situation had a surreal quality to it, for here he was, on board an alien vessel, with an alien, being mistaken as the envoy for the whole planet Earth. Akil felt he should straighten things out, but wasn‘t sure how to go about it.
“Are you human?” Akil asked. “You look human.”
“This body is a copy of a human body. It is well suited for this planet.”
Akil wondered what the alien-man meant. Had they cloned a human for this encounter? Did that mean that they had been to Earth before and abducted someone to copy? Or maybe they just sampled somebody‘s DNA, he reassured himself. Then, whose DNA had they used and how long ago was it done? The alien-man was certainly a mystery.
“Your English is good,” Akil ventured.
“Thank you,” said the ambassador. He had stood facing a panel of controls.
“Have you studied the language especially for this meeting?”
“No.” The ambassador turned and waited for a seat to materialize from the wall opposite Akil, then sat down. “I can understand all languages,” he said without a hint of pride. “Would you prefer we spoke in your native Arabic?”
Akil remembered his video camera running and quickly decided that the footage would fetch more in the English speaking countries- if he survived this encounter.
“No,” he quickly replied, “English is the most common language on Earth. That is why I speak it.”
“Very good…” the ambassador began.
“If I may interrupt,” Akil held up the video camera. “Do you mind if I record this? I am only a reporter. I hope you don’t think I am anything more.”
The ambassador nodded his consent. “We know that you are not the spokesperson for this planet,” he raised his hand to forestall any more interruption from Akil, “but we hope you may help arrange such a meeting.”
“Of course,” said Akil, “I would be honoured, but why me?”
“You stood apart from the rest,” he said simply. Akil remembered how he had wandered in front of the media scrum and had stood in plain clothes amongst the military uniforms. He also wondered if it was because he was filming the crowd rather than the alien lander.
“So what is it you need from me?” Akil asked.
“If there is one constant across this great galaxy, it is the delicate politics of the emerging worlds.”
Akil smiled. “This planet would be no exception,” he said.
“Previous encounters have shown that it is essential to go through the correct channels.”
Akil thought about the ambassador’s words for a moment. He could well see that on a planet with divided nations, such as this one, all the other nations would be incredibly disadvantaged if the alien was to only communicate to one. Even the weakest of countries would become a world leader with the help of the fantastic alien technology. In a world with many nuclear armed nations, teetering on an uneasy balance of power, this encounter could easily be a trigger for a global war.
Akil felt an onerous burden had been placed upon him. His influence with the alien ambassador could decide the fate of humanity. Surely they couldn’t be relying solely upon his knowledge? It seemed incredible to believe that the aliens knew so little about the world they were visiting. ‘Are we just one in a long list of planets that they have scheduled to visit?’ thought Akil. The words ‘previous encounters’ conjured up visions of other planets destroyed in a frenzy of native competition brought about by the visitors’ botched attempts at diplomacy, despite their best intentions. Akil felt sick with the responsibility.
“I am really not the best person to be asking these sorts of questions,” he said uneasily.
“But you are the one here now,” the ambassador said. His face showed concern for Akil’s discomfort. “Do not worry. We are aware of how delicate the balances of powers are on this world. We wish to address the people of this planet and would simply like you to use your local knowledge to arrange it for us.”
Akil breathed a deep sigh of relief. His shoulders fell and his whole body relaxed. He hadn’t noticed how tense he had become. He smiled. This was a job he could do. His mind raced through his contacts, the possibilities and alternatives. He patted himself down, searching for his phone. “So you just want me to make a few calls and set up a venue?”
“That is correct.”
“The United Nations in New York would be the place to address the representatives from all the nations of the world,” Akil said.
“We know, but that would imply a tacit endorsement of one power bloc over all others.”
“So you chose to land here in Egypt?”
“It is at the juncture of several land masses. It is therefore central and we hope, politically neutral,” was all the ambassador would say.
Akil felt a stirring of national pride that his country should be picked by the alien-man for their encounter, but then understood that it was the same typically human territorialism that had made the visit so tricky in the first place.
“There are delegates and media from all over the world just out there. Why don’t you just go out there and talk to them now?” asked Akil.
“We want you to arrange a suitable place with enough time so everyone will be ready.”
Akil thought he understood. The ambassador wanted the occasion to have the full ceremony that should be accorded to a visiting ambassador, but for their own politically expedient reasons wanted it to be held in Cairo. A thought sprung to his mind. “How about the Stad El-Qahira El-Dawly?” Akil asked.
“The Cairo International Football Stadium?” said the ambassador as if recalling it in his mind. “Yes, that would be fine.”
“Have you been there?” Akil’s face wore an expression of disbelief.
“No, but you have,” answered the ambassador. “If you think it is suitable, that it shall be.”
“It should hold as many dignitaries as you want and has full media access,” continued Akil, remembering the ambassador could speak Arabic. It would also be much better than the dusty car park outside, he thought.
Pulling his phone out of his pocket, Akil said, “I’ll make a few calls,” but he frowned when he saw the screen.
“No service,” he announced, showing the phone to the ambassador. Then seeing his blank face, explained, “My phone can’t send its signal out to the city’s network.”
“Ah,” said the ambassador. He stood and turned to what Akil took to be the control panel. Ak
il watched the ambassador’s hands move over the surface. Suddenly, next to his seat, Akil saw a dimple appear in the wall. The depression grew before his eyes until a hole appeared. It irised open further to form a circular window of transparent hull material.
“Try now,” said the ambassador.
Akil saw that he now had full reception. He started to dial, and then he looked out of the window. He gasped in amazement when he saw the flat expanse of the underside of the mother-ship now hung ominously close above. Far below, the media and military circus looked like small, busy insects. They must have taken off and moved to be in position to dock with the mother-ship, but Akil had felt no movement. His call to his agent’s office connected and he forced his attention back to his duty.
“El-Wahabi, please,” said Akil, slipping back into his native tongue. He asked to be put through to his editor. He pictured the rotund and sweaty man behind his cluttered desk, smoking a cheap cigar, his office filled with the stale smoke.
“Is that you, Akil?” his gravely voice strained.
“It is. You wouldn’t believe…”
“Where are you?” he blurted. “I saw you go into that alien ship.”
“I’m fine…” began Akil.
“Hey, is that you I can see at the window of the little spaceship? asked El-Wahabi. “Wave at me.”
Akil felt a little foolish, but as he waved, he realized that the whole world would be watching him on television. He made the peace sign with his fingers, then the ‘thumbs up’ signal, hoping to convey some goodwill.
“Ho! It is you! You son of a goat herder. Look at you! What a story! They will pay a princely fortune for your tale.”
“Let’s not count our coins yet,” said Akil, sneaking a look at the ambassador. “It isn’t over yet.”
“No, you’re right,” said El-Wahabi. Akil could hear the concern in the man’s voice. “May Allah protect you.”
“Ha! You just care about the story. Did I mention I have my video camera with me?”
“Holy Mother!” exclaimed El-Wahabi. “May Allah and all his heavenly angels…”
“Yeah, yeah, listen to me,” Akil cut him off. “The ambassador wants us to organise a venue for him. He wants to make a sort of welcome speech.”
“Okay…”
“We were thinking the Stad El-Qahira El-Dawly, or maybe the Borg El-Arab stadium?”
“No, the Borg El-Arab is boring and sterile. It has no history. The El-Dawly is where we beat Cameroon for the African Cup in ‘86 and Ivory Coast in overtime in 2006. It’s where we qualified for the World Cup in Italy in 1990. It just can’t be any other.”
“Of course, sure. What was I thinking?” said Akil, his sarcasm lost on the football fanatic.
“Okay then, I’m on it,” said El-Wahabi.
“Maybe tomorrow midday?” Akil asked, looking to the ambassador for approval. He nodded.
“Sure…leave it to me,” El-Wahabi said. “Do you know when you’re getting back?”
“You mean if I’m coming back,” said Akil with a sudden flurry of doubts. He glanced at the ambassador, who appeared to be doing something with the control panel again. Akil hoped they weren’t going inside the mother-ship. It occurred to him that he might never see his family again.
“Inshallah! You’ll be fine,” said El-Wahabi. “When you get back, you’ll be famous. They’ll be queuing up to interview you. You’ll be so famous! You’ll be so rich! Don’t forget who your agent is.”
“None of it will happen if you don’t get off this phone and make the calls,” warned Akil.
“Okay, okay. Keep in touch,” he said and was gone. Akil turned to the ambassador.
“It is done,” he said and told him of the arrangements.
The ambassador turned to Akil. His face wore an expression of sorrow tinged with pity. He held his arms forth with his palms open in what Akil saw was a pleading gesture.
“We wish we could communicate to you that we don’t want to cause you harm, but you are worried. Your mind is closed, and we will not force it to see the truth at this time. Instead we thank you for your help and we will take you back to your people.”
He went back to the controls and again moved his hands above the panels. The small window grew in size and spread sideways as more of the hull material became transparent. Akil watched as a panorama of his home city was revealed.
Already the vessel was descending, more quickly this time. Below he could see the lights of his beloved ancient city twinkling amid the smoggy haze.
His sightseeing was cut short as the same spotlights shone down upon them from the mother-ship as they descended. This time the hovering human helicopters added their glare to further obscure the view.
As Akil watched, the window grew still larger by working its transparency trick towards the floor. He didn’t like the idea of being able to see through his chair and the floor to the ground far below. His feet tingled and his stomach lurched at the thought.
“We thought you liked to see out,” said the ambassador with a small smile. “But not too much?”
Akil nodded and the window stopped its expansion, much to his relief.
They continued their descent in silence. Akil watched as the media and military grew to more realistic dimensions. He couldn’t help but feel a little sad that his joyride was coming to an end, and he hoped to see the envoy again. Akil felt nothing as the vessel came to a rest in the same spot to the north of the Sphinx. The hull door section melted again and formed the steps. The ambassador walked him to the steps.
The media surged forward in a frenzy to see. The flashes of the cameras seared his eyes. He had to blink against the spotlights. The media shouted a confusion of questions at him in many languages as they surged towards him. The soldiers struggled to hold them back.
The ambassador urged him forward with a pat on the back and a paternal smile. Akil shook his hand and said his goodbye.
Akil walked down the steps. His feet touched the dusty road. His legs trembled and he felt like kneeling down and giving thanks. He turned just in time to see the hull seal up and watch through his video camera as the vessel silently lifted off.
Looking back to the crush of media, Akil could see five or six giant, yellow figures pushing their way through the crowd towards him. Their large domed heads wobbled in an exaggerated way as they walked awkwardly closer. When they got in front of the soldiers, he could see that they were in space suits of some kind.
Through the clear faceplates of their helmets he could see their grim, determined expressions. He stood, dizziness and confusion fixing him to the spot as they approached.
In a coordinated fluid motion they surrounded him and grabbed him firmly. Overhead Akil heard a military helicopter descending. He looked up to see it had a red crescent on the side.
Someone took his camera and put it in a snap lock plastic bag, ignoring his protests. His hands were pulled behind his back, and he felt bands being fastened around his wrists and ankles. They frisked him and took his phone, keys and money, putting them into plastic bags as well. He managed a grin when he saw their look of disgust as they took his wet handkerchief as well.
When the helicopter landed, the yellow space-suited men marched him in and sat on either side of him and with three facing him. The door was slammed shut barely before the blades powered up again, and they were lifted into the twilight.
It dawned on Akil that he wouldn’t be on Letterman anytime soon.
Chapter 20
John arrived at Angela’s home a little early. It was a little before six-thirty and the shadows were beginning to lengthen. He checked the house number again and parked the beast. Angela’s was a modest, two-storey, brick and timber house in a leafy street in Claremont. A concrete driveway ran up the left side of the house and an open veranda along the front. The front door was in the middle of the porch with a window on either side. The left one was a bay window, probably the formal lounge, or sitting room, he surmised as he saw the lace curtain fall b
ack into place.
He had bought a real tie, not an elastic one, after work especially, and it felt tight and uncomfortable around his neck. He killed the engine and tugged at his collar for the umpteenth time as he opened the car door and walked with a bottle of white wine to the door.
A pair of small, golden elm trees guarded the pathway to the front door. Smaller branches hung so low that he had to duck and weave amongst them. He could see that the path to the front door was rarely used. The wooden steps up to the front porch were starting to warp and nails were beginning to work loose. The steps creaked as he climbed them and crossed the porch.
Before he could decide to knock on the door or ring the dusty ornamental cowbell hanging next to the handle, the door was opened. A white tabby cat darted out from behind a pair of thin old lady legs. John quickly worked out who the frail woman must be.
“Mrs White? I’m John Hunter. Your daughter Angela…”
“Yes, of course,” she waved him in. “You can call me Clarice. Mrs White makes me sound so old.”
He was shown into a short hallway with a room opening off both sides and a staircase ahead. She called up the stairs for Angela and smiled briefly when there was no answer.
John saw that the hallway was lined with a profusion of photographs in frames. They were in an assortment of sizes and an apparently random selection of styles. The only commonality was the severe and sober-looking subjects in the photos.
He offered her the bottle of wine, hoping that the guy at the bottle shop knew enough to make up for his own lack of expertise. She smiled politely as she took it, and thanked him for it, but didn’t make any other comment or examine it before he was ushered into the room on the left with the bay window, which was, as he suspected, a formal lounge.
An upright piano dominated the room, with a floral lounge with many straight-backed chairs arranged to face it. Many small coffee tables were scattered amongst the room.
“We hold our house church in here,” Clarice said as she watched John taking in the room.
A small cough drew his attention to the far side of the room. In front of a window that faced the driveway were two big sofa chairs. From the depths of one of the large, cushioned recliner chairs a thin, withered hand waved. John was shocked to see that the man it belonged to was even frailer than Clarice.
