House of the Galactic Elevator

by Gerhard Gehrke

  “Hold up,” Jeff said. “Oliop, what can you smell?”

  “Lots of Earth stuff. And lots of Galactic Commons citizens were here, at least a while ago.”

  “How long? Are they gone? Did they all arrive here?”

  Oliop shrugged. “Faint traces. Nothing fresh. Except one.”

  “It’s safe,” the Grey said. “Let’s get indoors. The door?”

  The metal door squeaked when Jeff pushed it open. The Grey shoved in behind him, clearly in a hurry to get out of the light, one of the Grey’s hands slapping Jeff on the back.

  “And now we know the door isn’t booby-trapped,” the Grey said as they moved inside. “Hello, fellow Commons citizen!”

  Jeff closed the door once Oliop entered. He gave himself a moment to adjust to the dark. Light spilled in from a broken skylight, but the majority of the hangar was gloomy. Long workbenches lined much of the walls, with trash liberally sprinkled about in piles like snowdrifts. A pair of engine hoists stood nearby. A row of fiberglass sheets with drilled holes along the edges leaned against one wall. The hangar smelled of dust and mold and something else that reminded Jeff of unwashed laundry.

  “How many refugees were estimated to have been sent to Earth?” Jeff asked.

  “Around two thousand,” Oliop said, smelling the air. “And they were in here.”

  Jeff examined some of the trash piles. In between crumbled drywall and scraps of wood were a variety of overlapping footprints in the dust. The impressions were hard to make out, but appeared to be of a variety of shapes, widths, and lengths. Some marks had been made by hooves or looked like continuous lines or other marks never made by any human foot. But this was proof positive of a crowd of Galactic Commons pedestrians milling about on a dirty floor.

  “Anyone home?” the Grey called.

  Something scurried about in the furthest corner of the hangar, a drumming sound, soft, yet insistent. Something clattered. Then all was still.

  “If you don’t come out now, you won’t get to go home,” the Grey said.

  Jeff gave the Grey a shove. “Please come out,” Jeff said. “We need to talk and find out what happened.”

  They waited. The Grey shook its head. “Behold. Your typical Commons citizen,” it said.

  Oliop called out, “We just came from the Galactic Commons.” Oliop stepped forward so that he stood in a beam of sunlight that descended through the broken roof. His shiny brown fur showed streaks of grease from his earlier work, and a cowlick above one temple curled up like a horn.

  “But the Bunnie are there,” came a tentative voice from the shadows.

  “They did come,” Oliop said. “They are all locked up now. The city’s safe.”

  “But you have a human with you.” There was a tremble in the voice.

  “He’s okay,” Oliop said.

  “I promise I won’t hurt you,” Jeff said.

  The Grey chortled. Jeff shushed him.

  “But that’s what one of the humans here said before they took everyone away,” the voice said.

  A shape approached, moving into the lighter shadows. It appeared long and narrow, keeping low on the ground until it stopped and reared up. Now it stood tall. It had a segmented body and many small legs or arms.

  “I’m Jeff Abel,” Jeff said. “And this is Oliop. We’ve just come from the Galactic Commons with an elevator. Tell us what happened to you.”

  “You came in an elevator?” the figure in the shadows asked.

  “We did.”

  The shape jumped forward like a spring, leaping over Jeff and the Grey. It landed on a worktable, almost knocking it over as its many feet kicked off, launching it towards the door. Oliop had to jump out of the way. The creature hit the door at full speed, knocking it off its hinges with a loud bang. Jeff saw the hindquarter of the creature snap out of sight as if the back end were attached by elastic cords to the front.

  “Well,” the Grey said. “That shows you the character of your typical Commons citizen.”

  Oliop and Jeff gave chase. They saw the long millipedoid already at their elevator. It vanished inside.

  As they got closer, Jeff heard the creature crying, “Why won’t it work?” over and over.

  Oliop leaned in the doorway and said, “Because it’s broken.”

  “How do we fix it?” The creature banged on the console with several of its thin legs. It soon tired and looked up at Oliop with its two eyestalks.

  Oliop shrugged and said brightly, “We’ll figure something out.”

  The creature drew itself up into a bundle as it saw Jeff.

  In his most cop-like voice, Jeff said, “We’d appreciate it if you came out and back to the hangar. You can tell us what happened here. And then we can figure out how to get you back home. Now why don’t you tell me your name?”

  Jeff was surprised when the thing nodded, began to unwind itself, and slowly emerged from the elevator.

  “I’m Kwed,” the millipede said. “You promise that you can get me home?”

  “He promises,” Oliop said. “He’s a human. They can do anything.”

  ***

  The worm that the Grey had placed on Jeff Abel knew what to do. Simple, clear instructions were best, as it could execute these directives with certainty. The creator had given all of its brothers the same basic coding as well as a new program, which filled so much of its memory. The worm had to understand little of it, and the program didn’t preclude the most simple directive that propelled the worm forward.

  Unless prohibited by a command, install. If being held by an authorized user, wait. And always obey the creator.

  The Grey that had been holding it was a new authorized user. Once the Grey let go, there were no other commands. Thus, install.

  It clung to the human’s uniform and climbed towards his neck where the null-space pouch and the translator resided. The human didn’t notice. If it did, the worm would have continued anyway. When first manufactured by its master, back in time outside of its current memory, there only was one place for it to go. Inside the elevator console to perform its sole task.

  Now it had a secondary set of commands, which it would perform without hesitation. First it would have to enter the null-space pouch. Then it would drill. Then it would be able to fulfill its primary function, which was to install. All of this could be accomplished in seconds.

  It was a happy worm to have such meaningful work.

  CHAPTER 12

  “It all started when,” the millipede-like Galactic Commons refugee said as it began its tale. The sound that came out from between Kwed’s mouth appendages had made sense earlier, yet now those four words morphed into an audio puzzle that Jeff’s brain accepted then dismissed as nonsense.

  There came a tingling sensation down Jeff’s spine. His ears heard the words “It all started when,” but now his brain kicked in, weighed the components of the sentence, and broke it down into syllables and vowel sounds. Perhaps he had heard “When it all started.” Or “Started it all. When?” Or “Ted Nguyen awl it start.”

  Jeff worked his jaw, rubbed his head. His mouth was dry and sticky. His head felt full. He tried to say something but just made a low noise with his mouth as if confirming that his voice still worked. He plugged his nose and blew gently, trying to get his ears to pop.

  The room before him began to swim, the sunlight inside the hangar getting brighter until all before him was white. The light had shape and form, a being with two arms and two legs and one head, someone refreshingly human that wore white and was standing in front of a desk. Other colors and shapes settled into place: a desk, a lamp on the desk, a blue tie with Marvin the Martian on it that the man in white had on.

  The man leaned back on the desk, his arms crossed. He looked down at Jeff. Jeff shook his head, blinked several times.

  The man spoke. At first he said, “Win. Ted. All. It. Start.”

  Jeff said, “What?”

  “What” came out as “what.” That was something. A starting place f
rom where it could all start. If Ted Nguyen didn’t show with his awl, Jeff would be disappointed but would get over it. He felt sad, or like he had been sad but wasn’t anymore. He also felt numb and drained, like he’d just had a good cry. His pasty mouth made his tongue feel like a leather wallet coated in wood glue.

  “I asked you, ‘When did it all start?’” the man in the white coat said. “Have you always believed in aliens?”

  Marty the Martian stared at Jeff from the tie with a disappointed look, his big white eyes bright on his black, spheroid face, his centurion helmet tilted forward slightly. Would we call that a rakish angle? Jeff wasn’t sure. But we mustn’t disappoint Marty.

  “I…I’m sorry. What?” Jeff looked around, but didn’t see Oliop, the Grey, the millipede, the hangar, or the broken beams of sunlight.

  He sat in an office in a cushioned chair. Six other chairs were empty, all placed in a semicircle in front of the desk with the man in the coat and the Martian tie. A broad leaf fern grew large in one corner. A window with mostly closed blinds let in diffused light.

  “Jeff?” the man asked.

  The wall behind the man was painted a tasteful sage. A triptych of diplomas matted together shared one long frame. Nothing else decorated the wall. On the desk, Jeff saw a few framed photos all facing away so the man could no doubt look at them when seated in the plush burgundy leather swivel chair.

  Panic came slowly, yet came indeed, coursing through him like a tide. Jeff sprang up from his chair. He noticed he wasn’t wearing his Galactic Commons Security uniform, but rather an off-white set of pajamas with an elastic waistband and slippers. Jeff couldn’t make out what the guy in the white coat said next. Jeff lunged for the window, raised the blinds. The office was on the second floor, looking out over a lawn area criss-crossed by concrete walkways. A dozen people walked about the yard, most dressed in similar pajamas. Two wide steel bars ran horizontally across the glass frame. There was no latch or other mechanism to open the window.

  Jeff, now firmly in freak-out mode, banged the glass.

  “Jeff,” the man said, “calm down. Please sit.”

  He saw the only door out of the office. The man in white saw it too, but only crossed his arms when Jeff ran for it. It was locked. Jeff jerked the door. It barely rattled. Twelve small black buttons and a card reader were mounted on the door, like what you might see in a high-security office building. He gave the door one last tug. Nothing. He looked back at the man.

  “Jeff, you’re in control of your feelings and actions,” the man said. “You can choose to sit down again and catch your breath. Don’t you want to do that?”

  He trembled. His breathing came short, like he had just run a mile. He stood numbly for a moment before the man approached him, put a hand on his forearm.

  “Let’s sit down.”

  Jeff allowed himself to be led back to the chair. He sat, staying at the edge of his seat, ready to jump up if the man in white looked at him strangely. He took a breath. Even the air tasted different. It was cool, definitely air conditioned. There came the trace aroma of disinfectants and sweat, maybe his own.

  “Who are you?” Jeff asked.

  “I’m Doctor Carol. You can call me Bud. Do you remember any of our previous session?”

  Jeff could only shake his head. He shut his eyes, willed this place away, listened for Oliop, reopened his eyes. Doctor Carol still was there, looking at him with an irritatingly patient expression. The man was very well groomed, his hair a uniform length, brushed back, dark with hints of grey. An ID tag hung twisted from a pocket of his coat.

  Jeff sprang up and grabbed Doctor Carol. Doctor Carol reared back, pushing at Jeff, but Jeff was stronger. He snatched the doctor’s name tag and pulled it free.

  “Help!” Doctor Carol yelled.

  Jeff examined the card. It had a long number, the man’s name, a scan bar, a picture of the man claiming to be a doctor, a watermark in a rainbow of colors, and the words “Ross County Psychiatric Hospital” in bold letters.

  Help came in the form of a big man in a grey sweatshirt. The man sported a muttonchop beard but was shaved bald. He said nothing as he strode into the room. With a few quick, long steps he was on Jeff. Two hands clamped on Jeff’s shoulders, gently yet firm.

  “Drop the card,” the big man said.

  Jeff hesitated. The hold on the shoulders tightened. Jeff wasn’t small, but this gorilla made Jeff feel like an infant.

  “I said drop it.”

  Jeff dropped it. He spread out his hands in a sign of submission.

  “I just want to know where I am,” Jeff said.

  “It’s okay, Albert,” Doctor Carol said. “Jeff, you’re here at the hospital in Ross County, California.”

  Jeff shook his head. Big Albert wasn’t letting go. If he did, Jeff felt as if he might collapse. His legs felt wobbly and his head spun. The doctor took one of Jeff’s hands. The doctor’s hands were soft and felt like they had hand cream on them.

  “How did I get here?” Jeff asked.

  “Rangers at the state park found you out in the woods. You’ve suffered a mental breakdown. You had wandered off from your job at the school. Do you remember the school you worked for?”

  The Miwok Road School. Where Jeff had worked as a caretaker and where he had first had contact with Oliop, then Jordan, then the Grey and the Bunnie wearing their human disguises. The best job he had ever had before being swept up to the Galactic Commons.

  “Jeff, are you here with me?” Doctor Carol asked.

  Jeff could only nod.

  Big Albert’s hands on his shoulders were real. The doctor’s hands on his were warm and a bit clammy. The floor under his feet felt solid. The glare from outside hurt his eyes. The doctor’s breath smelled of coffee.

  “Tell me where you think you are,” Doctor Carol said.

  “I’m here,” Jeff said. “I’m sorry I grabbed you.”

  “Do you know how long you’ve been with us?”

  “No.”

  “You’ve been here for the past three months under observation. We’ve had over a dozen sessions together. That’s where you’ told me so much about yourself. Me and Albert and the rest of the staff are here to help.”

  But what about the refugees? The broken elevator? Where was the Grey? If the little bugger was out of sight, he could get into all sorts of mischief.

  “Jeff? Are you here?”

  Jeff shook his head and asked, “Where’s Oliop?”

  ***

  Off-white pajamas with drawstring pants comprised the evening attire at the Ross County Psychiatric Hospital’s patient dining room. The rest of the day had been less a blur than an abstract smear of events that made no sense. He didn’t want to trust his eyes or ears, tried to shut everything out so when he opened his eyes and looked around he would see the hangar and Oliop and be back where he had once been. Yet the old reality eluded him, replaced first by a small patient dorm room with little but a toilet and bed and chair. A television set was mounted on a bracket high up in the room. Metal mesh surrounded it. The screen looked like thick plastic and the images flickering past appeared hazy. Some doctor had a woman standing on a scale, all in front of a studio audience. The doctor walked the woman to a table piled high with vegetables. The bottom of the screen read, “The Diet That Will Save Your Life.”

  Jeff didn’t remember leaving Doctor Carol’s office, didn’t know how long he had been in the small dorm room looking at the muted television, couldn’t recall leaving there to come to supper. Yet here he was. Jeff looked around. About thirty other patients sat at round tables, four or six to a table, all men. Six orderlies placed plastic trays with food and plastic cutlery wrapped in a paper napkin in front of each diner.

  “Can’t wait to get started, eh?” said one of his table mates.

  The man looked large and pale and fleshy, with stringy hair that hung limp and looked damp. Warts or moles or chicken pox covered much of the man’s face. The other two at the table sat listlessly,
bored, heads low.

  “They’ll get to us soon enough,” the man said. “So how was your session today with the doctor?”

  “How long have I been here?” Jeff asked.

  The man shrugged. “The duration. Longer than me. You’re the alien guy, so you’ll be here after I leave.”

  “How do you know me?” Jeff checked under the table. The tables were bolted down. The flimsy chairs looked like the cheap, plastic stackables you’d buy at a discount hardware store.

  “You kidding me? You’re famous. You made the papers after what you did to the owner of that school.”

  Jeff shook his head. “Tell me. What happened at the school?”

  The man shushed Jeff. “Let’s not spoil dinner with inappropriate talk.”

  An orderly put a tray in front of Jeff. The plastic plate was loaded with a square of pale protein matter with a clear yellow sauce heaped over it. Little green orbs were scattered in the sauce. Three lengths of asparagus were arranged on the side of the plate. The tray also had a carton of milk, a small salad in a maroon plastic bowl, and a self-contained half cup of ice cream with a paper pull top.

  The man across the table took his plastic fork and knife in his hands and said, “Stomachs, stomachs, stomachs a-plunder, pizza, cake, and french fries asunder. How much more will I eat, I wonder? Now please stand back before I chunder.”

  “Just eat your dinner, Mr. Zachary,” the orderly said. “No chundering here.”

  Zachary rolled his eyes, sighed, and ate. So did the other two patients. Jeff watched the orderlies finish serving. The dining room was large, with a set of swinging doors to the kitchen. The windows let in dimming orange light from the outside. As in Doctor Carol’s office, bars ran horizontally across all of them. He also noticed Big Albert standing at the wide portal to the rec room, leaning against the wall, looking at Jeff. Jeff didn’t want to stare but couldn’t help it. Albert gave him a nod. Jeff looked down at his food.