Melinda bowed her head, overcome with a conflicting array of emotions.
. . .
Several hundred chilloks were crawling over one another, crowding around the myrmecam, singing at the tops of their voices:
"And I like it, I like it, I like it, I like it
I li-li-li-like it, li-li-li-like it
Here we go
Rockin' all over the world"
Occasionally the song would give way to repeated chants of 'Behold the mirror and smile!' The discordant voices, high, piping and wavering like a damaged cassette tape, drifted out into the cloisters where Melinda, nipkow4, polkingbeal67 and yukawa3 had assembled to take stock of the situation.
"Let bygones be bygones," said yukawa3 for no particular reason except that he thought he should say something. "Oh heavenly days! If you think everything is coming up roses, well it is. And I hope that answers your question. You are my reflection and I am yours! Behold the mirror and smile!"
The frown on Melinda's face knitted her eyebrows together like a pair of caterpillars kissing. "You have no idea what that means, do you?"
"Yes, I do," said yukawa3 defensively. "It means: if I look in the mirror and I'm not smiling, then if the reflection is smiling, well, it would be yours but I would think it was mine because it's, y'know, a reflection."
The other three looked at him and then turned to each other. "Are we really out of the woods now?" asked Melinda. "I mean, is the war over?"
Nipkow4 sucked in some air, rolled his eyes and shook his head. "No, no, no, nooooo!" he said. "Well, yes, it is, as such, in the literal sense, but sometimes solving one problem creates two more. You see, I think the chilloks have interpreted polkingbeal67's words as a paean to some kind of sun-dappled utopia - a hippy-like, power-sharing fantasy that can only mean one thing to them."
"That, deep down, they really want to be peace-on-earth-property-is-theft-tree-hugging dropouts?" asked Melinda.
"No. It can only mean this: they are persuaded that we are happy to surrender sovereignty of our planet. If chilloks had nostrils they would have been overwhelmed with the smell of weakness."
Polkingbeal67 sought to clarify his remarks. "Ultimately, civilisations have to be judged not only by how they help the most vulnerable and disadvantaged people in their societies, but also by how they deal with the most obnoxious and loathsome in their midst. All I was saying is that pan-galactic respect, freedom, equality, dignity and fairness, underpinned by access to education, are the core values we should all aspire to."
Nipkow4's jaw dropped in disbelief. "Dangerous nonsense!" he exclaimed.
"Wait a minute," said Melinda, still struggling to rationalise a range of conflicting emotions. "Earlier on, you were dissing my people for being ignorant and having no empathy with other species, while you Mortians have been collaborating and harmonising and whatever. So, what's going on here? Have you changed your tune?"
"Being interested in other species is one thing," nipkow4 expostulated. "Living with them is an entirely different thing! This is tantamount to treason! Do you think we should just roll over and let the chilloks take over our planet?"
"The time for alienating people is over," polkingbeal67 contended, smiling beatifically. "We have to get over our notion of being the centre of the cosmos. Their planet. Our planet. It doesn't matter any more. What matters is celebrating our connection to the great web of life. My philosophy is to avoid harming any creature regardless of size, species or any other characteristic. I know that won't be easy."
"Damn right it won't!" Nipkow4 was becoming apoplectic. "It's sheer lunacy! If you're attacked by stinging insects, won't you swat them? Since time immemorial, the natural balance of ecosystems has always been controlled by territorial conflict and the demands of the food chain."
Polkingbeal67 was unmoved. "There are times when we have no choice but to kill, but we should always try to respect and celebrate every life."
"I've got something important to say about all this," yukawa3 announced. After satisfying himself that everyone was paying attention to him, he coughed, forgot what he was going to say, coughed again and said: "If I was stung by an insect, I would think about it and celebrate the life of the insect and then, when it gets too painful, I'd swat it like a bothersome, no-good, er, insect."
The other three looked at him and then resumed their debate.
Meanwhile, the euphoria among the chilloks in the Grand Hall had abated and their thoughts turned to the implications of sharing a planet with another species. Although moving from their home planet on a permanent basis would resolve the problem of the Muqu-Naaffab conflict, it would expose them to the hazards of co-existence with other species. Having the ability to take over the brains of Mortians was a significant factor in their favour, but there were also earthlings on the planet – people who could not be braintuned. And, in any event, chilloks still managed to get eaten, poisoned or squashed by just about all the other life-forms they encountered. It was a sobering thought.
Eventually, matters came to a head when the issue of braintuning came to the fore. Members of the cerebrum ambulans caste fell out spectacularly with chillok neuroscientist workers and the dissension began to seriously destabilise the entire chillok network communication system. The powerful dynamic of their shared intelligence was breaking, disintegrating. As their vital sixth sense diminished like a sputtering candle, they vanished from the hall in some disarray, individually and in small groups; and those that remained became more and more disconsolate. Looking distracted and fatigued, the senior ambassador attempted another chorus of 'Rockin' all over the world', but it was all in vain. By the time he got to 'Here we go', the hall was deserted except for him and the Mortian leader, who had been left behind, forgotten, still puffing meditatively at his seaweed cigar.
. . .
The halls and corridors of the leader's palace echoed with a long, desolate howl, full of woe and despair, such as one might make on missing a favourite programme by recording the wrong channel. A microwocky flew out of one of the palace windows like a wingless bird, contributing to the debris decorating the ground below. It was like a scattering of synthetic conkers fallen from an invisible tree. Unable to operate the devices and convinced that they were faulty, the planetary leader was frequently observed tossing them through the window of his private chamber.
Melinda and yukawa3 stared at him with a mixture of curiosity and pity. The brain that had once been as sharp as a coral reef was now little better than a clump of the rotting seaweed he loved to wrap himself in. He insisted that he still had a firm hand on the rudder in such matters as foreign diplomacy and the domestic economy, even though he was considered to be the catalyst for three of the last four Mortian wars and he had, by his own admission, nay, by his own proud boast, forecast eight of the last three fiscal crashes. According to his memoirs, smolin9 had died on three separate occasions and Melinda had originally been abducted to check the plumbing.
Winding a frond of seaweed around his arm, he glanced at Melinda with a look of serious disappointment and disapproval. "So you want to leave?" he asked.
Melinda had announced this intention after a great deal of soul searching and deliberation. "Yes, I've decided to go back home, back to Earth." It was not a decision she had made lightly, but, following the unexpected emergence of polkingbeal67 as an enlightened and statesmanlike figure on the intergalactic stage, she was convinced it was the right one. She had stretched the skin of her comfort zone to breaking point and had enjoyed the experience, but the social cohesion of the entire intergalactic community was now at stake and she felt she had to give way to altruism, reason and the lure of Glastonbury High Street.
"Earth?"
"The Pale Blue Dot," Melinda corrected herself.
Peering at her with dim, sullen eyes, the leader inquired, "But I thought you had your heart set on being the next leader?"
"Yes, I know. I did, but I've had a change of heart."
"Ah, I remember. You've g
ot polkingbeal67's heart."
"Yes, no, that's not what I meant."
"So what do you mean?"
"Mm, I mean, the thing is, I've, uh, changed my mind and I'm, well, I’m going back to my home planet."
"Well, you understand you can't be deputy leader, or my successor, if you're not going to be resident here?"
Melinda was fully aware of the provisions of the Mortian Code relating to the designation of a planetary leader. "I know," she said. "What I'm saying is - you'll need to appoint someone else."
"But who?"
Given the traumatic fallout from the Niffis crisis, Melinda was unsure how to broach the subject of polkingbeal67's credentials. "Well, while we're on the subject of hearts..."
An enlightened expression flashed momentarily across the leader's face and he lifted a quivering finger. "Polkingbeal67 has your heart!"
"Yes," said Melinda encouragingly, "and I think he's matured into the perfect natural successor to yourself. It's all happened very quickly and I suppose you'd have to consider him a work in progress, but he's transforming himself into a true visionary with a passion for undertaking missions relating to, uh, human advancement. Totally."
"It is spoken," murmured yukawa3 solemnly.
The leader suddenly looked up beseechingly at Melinda. "We rejoice when the eagle soars, but I fear our skies will grow dark without you. Will you reconsider? What you do now will shape all our destinies."
Melinda nodded. "I think my destiny is no longer here. Literally."
"Take care lest you are simply fleeing to avoid it," the leader advised sternly. Then his voice softened. "If you pursue happiness too vigorously, it may slip from your grasp."
"No, I'm not avoiding or pursuing anything," said Melinda earnestly. "I can't believe all the stuff that's happened to me here. It's all been so erratic! And I've loved it all. But the time has come for me to create my own destiny and allow others to fulfil theirs."
"It's true," said the leader, surprisingly lucid and now resigned to losing his prodigy. "If we fail to control our futures, others will do it for us."
Yukawa3, eager to contribute a philosophical insight of his own, added, "Yes, like if we want to, uh, not appear fat, then we must avoid mirrors and weighing scales. That way, we can control the, uh, shape, of our, uh, destiny. I'm going to stop and think about that." He forgot to start again.
Melinda and the leader embraced. This was a rather disagreeable experience for Melinda, who smelled of pungent oils and seaweed for hours afterwards. Nipkow4 arrived and they all discussed arrangements for a ceremony to mark both her departure and polkingbeal67's confirmation as leader-elect.
Two days passed. The certainty and profound peace of mind that had enveloped Melinda when she had announced her decision to leave the planet had disappeared in a fog of doubt and uncertainty, made worse by spending considerable time with polkingbeal67, with whom she had developed a strong spiritual attachment. Cruiser rides across the magnificent, wild Mortian terrain, while a reflection of the double sunset stretched over the placid waters of the lake at nefeshchaya, were also sure to make her feel a pang or two of indecision and regret. It should come as no surprise, then, that she spent the opening part of the ceremony close to tears.
Assorted exotic beasts, abducted from various planets across the galaxy, were slaughtered for the feast. Splendid culinary creations adorned with truffles, prawns, bonbons and whirls of champagne cream were arranged for the visual delectation of the guests, none of whom, except possibly Melinda, would actually eat them. The walls of the Grand Hall were decorated with the utmost extravagance. Based on research of the most luxurious residences in the galaxy, gilded magma carvings, silks and ornamental structures of stylised flowers bordered the colossal mirrors and imposing portraits of Mortian heroes. A drape of peach-coloured silk concealed a new portrait, rumoured to be that of Melinda herself. At the far end of the hall, a band plucked, blew and hammered away at a motley array of graphene, wire and silicon instruments, creating a sound akin to finger nails on a blackboard in a ship's engine room. Strange ululations gave rise to sporadic displays of headbutting as polkingbeal67, resplendent in his ceremonial robe, eye patch and sherg-encrusted helmet, made his entrance. The helmet did not fit as well as it used to before he had acquired smolin9's body, and he had to steady it with one hand lest it should fall to the floor. "Is everything okay?" he asked Melinda, noticing the tears welling up in her eyes.
Dabbing at her face with the back of her hand, Melinda nodded. "Yes, of course," she said. "I'm just, y'know, in different places emotionally right now. Literally." Just as one should never test the depth of water by jumping in with both feet, so it is with emotions. Having taken the plunge of publicly declaring her intentions, the bitter pang of heartache at the prospect of parting from these people now seeped into her soul like the leading edge of a tidal wave. Nipkow4 seized polkingbeal67 by the arm and dragged him away for an urgent conference, leaving Melinda and yukawa3 to make nervous, stilted conversation, made all the more awkward by the realisation that it could be their last.
"So, what do you think about all these lavish decorations?" asked Melinda, determined to avoid lapsing into emotional incontinence.
Yukawa3, who had ingested a little more vitalmados than was good for him, felt ill at ease but was keen to avoid giving the impression of mental torpidity. Whether or not he succeeded in this is debatable. "Well, the carvings are quite bendy," he remarked, nodding judiciously, "with some pointy bits." Observing a small rotating, circular platform, flush with the floor, containing a spectacular cake on a marble stand, he said, "Look, it's going round. Round and round. And, uh, round."
The new portrait, a stunning likeness of Melinda and polkingbeal67 together, was unveiled. Then, a dizzying succession of presentations, passionate speeches and emotional tributes, interlaced with musical performances and bouts of headbutting, morphed into a wild and tumultuous commotion that lasted for several hours, at the end of which Melinda, sobbing openly, said her final farewells. As the guests started to leave, she folded polkingbeal67 in a prolonged, fond embrace, kissed him on the cheek and whispered, "I’m leaving the planet in good hands. I'll never forget you." A pained sigh broke loose and the tears fell freely. Neither of them noticed yukawa3, on his back, spinning slowly on the circular platform, intermittently yelling out "Verily, we're all in this alone!" Executing the yukawa3 tripod dance in the physical form of a penguin was difficult enough; attempting it as a humanoid crossing onto a revolving stage had proved completely impossible.
Legend has it that, on that night, the stars arranged themselves into a slowly spinning likeness of Melinda and polkingbeal67, exactly as they appeared in the portrait. They say you can still see the image forming in the night sky today, from Earth as well as from Smolin9. Like many such whimsical fabrications, I am sure the power of repetition has elevated it to a level of credibility out of all proportion to the truth, but I still find myself gazing up at the sky on a clear night and checking, just in case.
. . .
And so ends that particular chapter of my mother's life. She returned to Glastonbury and continued with her career as a life coach for a couple of years before meeting and marrying my father.
From the perspective of the end of the twenty-first century, it is interesting to reflect on many aspects of her story, not least her decision to shroud the whole thing in secrecy. For me, even publishing it now, decades later, represents a difficult judgement call, but at least now it does not matter if people believe it or not. If she had come out and revealed these events at any point in her lifetime, she would have opened herself to scorn and ridicule so great that her life would not have been worth living. As far as I am aware, I am the only one privy to her experiences with the Mortians. None of it was disclosed to my father, who would certainly have feared for her sanity had she seen fit to tell him. Of course, she was not the only one who had had a story to tell and, for whatever reason, elected not to. The no less illustrious names of
Queen Elizabeth II and American President Barack Obama feature on the list of people who had had first-hand acquaintance with smolin9 or polkingbeal67 or both. Certainly, the CIA and the British secret services will have had in their possession highly confidential documents relating to the demise of Sophia Gonzalez. But perhaps the most remarkable conspiracy involves the extraordinary appearance of the Voyager 1 space probe on the south lawn of the White House and the impressive cover-up orchestrated by the FBI, the CIA and various branches of the Department of Defense at that time, much to the chagrin of the intergalactic community.
Obviously, polkingbeal67, yukawa3 and any number of other Mortians may have returned to Earth following the incidents involving my mother, but, if they did so, I have no knowledge of their visits. Almost a century further on, we still have no real understanding of wormhole travel or parallel universes or some of the advanced technology my mother was exposed to. Of course, we have the equivalent of microwockys, magnetic propulsion cruisers and jetboards at our disposal, but mutators and myrmecams continue to be the stuff of science fiction. As for the chilloks, there were the devastating insect swarms of 2047 in Nebraska, when the sky turned black with billions of mysterious ant-like bugs - could that have been some kind of attempt at an alien invasion by the phenomenal creatures from Oov? Who knows?
And that brings me to the most disturbing aspect of the whole thing, namely what evidence is there that any of it actually happened? Among the most prized of my mother's possessions are a battered yellow sou’wester and a few photographs that bear witness to her account of things, including one extraordinary shot of her holding a penguin on a ship presumed to be the Malvinas Explorer. I have seen for myself the memorial bench dedicated to the memory of Sophia Gonzalez. And, of course, there has been no resolution to the mystery of the ‘escaped’ prisoners. But, no surgeon ever had the opportunity to examine my mother's heart and discover its incredible derivation, and, at the end of the day, all the evidence that remains is purely circumstantial or inconclusive.
Through The Wormhole, Literally Page 34
