Aliens In My Garden

by Jude Gwynaire

  ‘You keep it all,’ she said. ‘Up in your mind, so you can watch it again, any time you like. That means you have to take good mind-pictures. The shades, the smells, the everything of things. You’ll get used to it,’ she assured him, getting up and offering him her hand. ‘Besides, you’ll be coming back, won’t you? But only if you get your disgraceful self into the engine room and stop annoying Zirca. You’re not the only Gardener in the fleet, you know.’

  Ven chuckled again, taking her hand and letting her pull him up. ‘No, but I’m the best,’ he told her, grinning. ‘I doubt Zirca would have even been able to see the leaf-growth that led us here, let alone make it flower.’

  ‘Maybe not, but he’s still the commander. I’ve no doubt you’re a genius in your mind, Venny, and maybe you are in the real world too, but a little humility would serve you better than throwing your genius in his face and flouting all the rules, all the time. Look at you now, keeping him waiting, to look at worms.’

  ‘Worms are more interesting than Zirca,’ muttered Ven, and, leaving his sister scandalized and shaking her head, he strode forward, calling out ‘I’m here, fans. Don’t panic, life can go on,’ as he marched up the ramp and into the ship.

  ‘Switch to POV Character-Ven,’ said Celeste. ‘Forward, speed by six.’

  ‘Wait,’ gasped Alditha, but the world didn’t—it marched them through corridors on the ship and into an indoor jungle. Plants, pools, a miniature forest, a compost heap. Creepers and vines and an explosion of colour and green. They marched with Ven’s confidence down one leg of the pathway through the jungle, to a central point, where sat...

  ‘Wait, what?’ Alditha demanded.

  ‘Hello again,’ said Ven, stroking the rock-like fronds of a large, square stone hedge.

  11

  To anyone watching, it wouldn’t have been quite clear whether Odiz was asleep or dead. He slumped in his harness of black binding weed and thorns. Skoros hadn’t been lying—the Blackheart Bindweed had punctured the mage’s skull, dug thorns deep down, to know if he was even thinking magical thoughts. But Odiz was neither asleep nor dead. He was somewhere in between, in a state of meditation. To a mage, his most important weapon wasn’t in his fingers or in his books, but in his mind, and Odiz, in an effort to keep as much of his mind as safe as possible, had rolled his eyes back in his head, packed up his mind in the equivalent of a small suitcase, and gone on a mental vacation, to think about the situation he found himself in, without actually thinking about it. Right now, while his body was sagging in its harness of black binding weed and thorns, Odiz’ mind was laying on a sun-lounger somewhere by the sea, with a mug of mead in one hand and a sausage sandwich in the other.

  Sadly, the moment you enchant something, you lose some control over what it does. Odiz’ mind might be off having a fine time, but his beard was among the least happy beards in the history of magic. It crept slowly sideways, investigating the bindweed that was keeping the mage’s right hand bound and spread, unable to form the finger-movements needed to fire anything beyond a level three fireball. The beard tickled his fingers, but there was no reaction. It curled like wisps of smoke between his chubby thumb and the stringy, rubbery bindweed-strands.

  Odiz’ beard wasn’t stupid—it had been attached to the greatest mage in the Garden for too long. It knew it had made a mistake whole seconds before the trap was sprung. It felt the vibration in its hairs, felt the shift in the bindweed.

  It didn’t see the vines of the Maze twist together behind it.

  Suddenly, the bindweed holding Odiz snapped taut, a trunk-like intertwine of vines forming in front of the unconscious mage. It yanked, and his arms were pulled painfully wide. Odiz’ mind packed up its sun-lounger in a hurry, and his eyes shot open, staring into something that wasn’t a face. It was the sort of thing that black, slick, sticky evil-minded vines would make if they were trying to make a face, but it wasn’t enough of a face to warrant the word. The vines parted, and a sticky, black stamen waggled, like a tongue in a decrepit man’s mouth. It oozed a black, tar-like nectar, dripping down the vines, and extended towards Odiz’ face.

  ‘This is a fine mess you’ve got us into,’ muttered the mage. ‘You’re more trouble than you’re worth, you enchanted hairball.’

  ‘Hold.’

  The voice, sharp with its importance, was unmistakable—Skoros had returned. The bindweed slowly, almost reluctantly, shrank back out of Odiz’ face.

  ‘And what have we here?’ Skoros sneered. ‘Trying to escape? Oh Odiz, I’m really quite disappointed in you.’

  ‘Blow it out your beard-hole,’ growled Odiz, still annoyed at having had his meditation interrupted.

  Skoros smiled at the insult.

  Oh, that’s not good, thought Odiz.

  ‘And there was I, coming to tell you about my day. Coming to offer you your freedom, for just a little information. Tut tut.’

  ‘Were you dropped on your head as a child?’ asked Odiz.

  ‘No,’ said Skoros, still sneering.

  ‘Want to give it a try sometime?’

  ‘Funny man,’ Skoros replied. ‘But I wanted you to know that you gave me an idea. Big Red? I captured him not long after I left you. Sagar will take more orbs, I should think, but soon, I’ll have more. Tonight I take care of Alditha. Join me, Odiz. Join the winning side, be a part of my bright future.’

  ‘Big words for a beardless boy with a lot to do.’

  ‘Foolish words for an old man who likes breathing.’

  ‘Raaark. Err, boss. Really? Is this, y’know, wise? In any way?’

  ‘Just tell me what I want to know, Odiz. That’s all I ask—not much for your freedom, surely? Tell me what the symbol means.’

  Odiz sighed. ‘And then you’ll “let me go,” will you?’ He made small twitchy speech marks in the air with his fingers, and the bindweed hissed at him.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Let me go as in release me, let me go home and get on with my life, or let me go as in kill me because I’m no further use to you? Sorry, don’t mean to sound suspicious, but you’re not the first megalomaniac I’ve encountered. I knew your father, for one.’

  ‘Help me, and you’ll be free to walk out of the Maze, if you can find the way,’ said Skoros, fixing Odiz with a dark stare.

  ‘Aha. So that’s how it’s going to be. Okay, I can work with that,’ said the elder man. He sucked his teeth, seeming to consider. ‘ Well, far as I know, the red star with wings is the mark of the EngineSeers.’

  Skoros frowned and nervously rubbed his chin.

  ‘Okay...’ he said slowly, with the faintest hint of understanding. ‘And who are the EngineSeers, pray tell? Come on, mage. I have to know.’

  ‘Ancient magicians. Highest magicians. Higher than any mage who ever lived. None of ’em left now of course, though your orb thingy looks like it might have been made by ’em, I’ll give you that. They combined blacksmithery and magic. Metal and nature—brought ’em together for the ultimate power. You know the local legends about Ven Whatsisface, the Great Gardener?’

  Skoros nodded. The legends went back further than anyone could remember. There had always been Hallowe’ens in the Garden, and the ritual of Ven Tao had been performed, as far as anyone knew, back to the first of them.

  The girl. The girl was an EngineSeer, like Ven Tao? Like the most powerful magicians in the whole of history? Like a god?

  But what was he if not a new EngineSeer? He’d made his wand, hadn’t he, combining blacksmith-work and magic. He’d made the orb work, when his CyberBats had dismantled it. He had the understanding, he had the skill.

  He’d been right—the girl was crucial. He smiled, a thin, sudden, brittle smile with barbs on.

  ‘Thank you,’ he purred. Then something occurred to him and he frowned again. ‘How do you know this? I’ve seen the ritual of Ven Tao performed many times—the symbol was never a part of it.’

  ‘There’s a book,’ said Odiz, breathing heavily against the tightness of the bindw
eed. ‘Legend says the Manual of the EngineSeers holds all the secrets of their arts and how to work ’em. Good luck looking for it, though. It’s eluded even the most insane of mages for thousands of years.’

  Skoros stared into the distance, his mind working overtime, then grinned. ‘But of course it has. That makes perfect sense. It’s been keeping itself hidden. Secret. Waiting for its natural owner. The one who will bring their secrets back to the Garden.’

  ‘Annnnd that would be you, would it?’

  Skoros kept his grin in place. ‘Me. Yes.’

  ‘Ohhh, brother. Is this the part where you do another stupid laugh and “set me free” then?’

  ‘No laughing, Odiz. Not this time.’ He put his thumb and forefinger in his mouth and gave a sharp, whiplash whistle.

  ‘Knew it. Y’know, for a would-be EngineSeer, you’re not imaginative, Skoros.’

  Skoros flashed him a smile, then turned and began to walk away.

  The bindweed round Odiz’ wrists tightened, sliding into thin strands, razor-sharp and thorn-toothed. They twitched, and Odiz groaned and screamed as both his hands were severed. He fell forward onto his knees, his beard quickly forming itself into a pillow to protect his head as he fell.

  Skoros paused, grinned. ‘Imagination’s overrated,’ he said to himself, then kept on walking.

  __________

  ‘He’s got a Stone Hedge,’ Alditha pointed out. ‘What’s he got a Stone Hedge for?’

  ‘Pause,’ said Celeste, and the world stopped. ‘It’s not a Stone Hedge,’ she explained. ‘It’s a primitive dimension drive.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Alditha matter-of-factly. ‘And that would be?’

  ‘A dimension drive. Back in the early days, Astarian explorers used things like this to find the cracks in dimensions, and slide through them.’

  Alditha blinked. ‘Is that what they did? Really?’ She sniffed. ‘So glad I asked.’

  ‘It’s a tree,’ said Celeste, ‘only it’s a special tree.’

  ‘I know, yes—certain times of year, it lights up and dances and everybody goes all gooey,’ Alditha agreed, nodding.

  ‘They go gooey?’ Celeste frowned. ‘Never used to have that effect on matter when we used them.’

  ‘No, I mean they—oh, don’t worry about it.’

  ‘Most of the time, it’s inert.’ Celeste looked over at the witch. ‘It does nothing,’ she simplified. ‘But it’s sensitive to points of dimensional contact. When dimensions come close it-’

  ‘Does a happy dance, right?’

  ‘-reacts to that closeness. If you have the right tools, you can prune it at those times, and get it to extend its branches into other dimensions nearby. And it can pull you with it. Fascinating technology, really. Ancient now, of course—we’ve been using a holographic quantum matter version for thousands of years.’

  Alditha looked at her. ‘You do know that people only understand about half a teaspoon of what you say, don’t you?’

  Celeste smiled at her sweetly. ‘Play,’ she said, and the world started moving again.

  Ven felt a few stone fronds, examining them carefully. It felt strange to Alditha to suddenly know that he was checking the quantum harmonics of leaf-growth.

  ‘Delta Six, confirm nutrient levels,’ said Ven, frowning. ‘Jazper 5-9—to me, please.’ A book was thrown across the engine-room by an unseen operative and Ven caught it in one hand. It was a well-used book, with a faded symbol on its cover, though Celeste and Alditha were unable to see it clearly. As the book reached his hand, Ven closed his eyes and colour began to pulse, through the dimension drive, through the book, and through Ven himself, as though the three were connected.

  An area of space that had looked for all the world like a patch of shadow in the jungle resolved into a spindly figure with a bulbous head like an upside-down egg and large, black eyes. It stepped out of the shadows.

  ‘Checking,’ it said, in a voice that was half robotic, half something else, something more like Ven’s. ‘Nutrient levels at twelve percent of optimum,’ it reported.

  ‘What?’ Ven ran a hand through his spiky hair. ‘Why so low? We’ll never achieve transference with levels like that.’

  ‘Analysis shows unanticipated nutrient leak through root system. Additional: root system has become entrenched in planetary bedrock. Postulate nutrient leak into local environment.’

  ‘Not good, Delta. Not—not even close to good. I’m never going to hear the last of this from Zirca.’ He took a communicator from a holster on his belt. ‘Gamma Thirteen, initiate...’

  He stopped, watching as the dimension drive, glowing with a hundred rainbows, began to unstiffen, to melt, to bridge the gaps between dimensions.

  ‘Please complete instruction, Gardener Ven Tao,’ said the bio-mechanoid on the bridge. Ven swallowed, knowing what his instruction would mean. ‘Initiate hibernation protocol. Inform Commander Zirca the dimension drive has suffered a major nutrient leak, and cannot achieve dimensional branching at this time. All crew and bio-mechs should report to their assigned cryo-pods. Fleet Command are to be informed immediately. Oh, and personal note to Mineralogist Peridot. Sorry, Peridot. Look after my worms for me.’

  ‘Acknowledged,’ said the bio-mech, but Ven wasn’t listening anymore. He put down the communicator and pulled his Probability Shears off his belt. Normally, this would have been the highlight of the trip for him, his moment to shine, to look at the dancing dimension drive, to feel its rhythms and its growth, and to prune it precisely so it reached into the right dimension and pulled the ship with it, to start them on their journey home. Now though...

  He swallowed again, knowing what he had to do. If the hedge branched now, it would rip the ship apart trying to push through to its home dimension, and fail, and maybe take the planet with it. He had to prune it more savagely than he’d ever done before, stop it stretching out its branches till everyone was safe in their pods. And he had to give them a chance, a way of using it when they finally came out of their sleep chambers.

  Alditha and Celeste both felt it at the same moment—the punch in the heart of knowing what that meant.

  I’m going to die here.

  Now.

  On the outskirts of his attention, Ven knew his faithful engine room bio-mechs were moving, heading to their assigned pods, where he should be. With a moan of desperation, he threw the small manual he was holding as far away as he could from the vicinity of the hedge. It landed on the edge of a nearby crevice, then slipped down its side and was lost.

  Now he had both hands free to finish the job.

  He switched on the Probability Shears and made his first cut. The hedge screamed, a noise of electricity and pain. It flared blue and pink and angry red. He lopped another branch, as he heard machinery doing what it had to do—punching holes into the earth, burying the cryo-capsules like weird triangular seeds. The hedge flared purple and turquoise, writhing and lashing out at his hands as it had never done before. A branch caught him, and the pain shot up his arm as he felt the flesh burn cold. He heard machinery shutting down beyond the whining screech of the hedge.

  One more, then, the final cut.

  He reached towards the centre of the hedge, plunged both his hands into its golden glowing heart, felt the agony of its fightback, and forced the blades of the shears closer together.

  Alditha and Celeste felt the screaming pain, felt the roar of his agony and his need as it shot up his throat like vomit.

  ‘POV EXTERNAL,’ said Celeste through the pain—just in time to see the scout ship vapourise in a blinding flash of white, flattening everything around it for a mile. Ven’s worms, caught in the blast, would have been atomized in an instant. Celeste fell to her knees, crying, and Alditha, too, felt a weakness in her legs, but she gritted her teeth and stayed standing.

  The Sleepers were buried. Ven Tao, the Great Gardener, had died, saving them. And there, horribly recognizable in the middle of their field of vision, was the same Stone Hedge Alditha had always known, had
played on as a girl, and watched every Hallowe’en.

  It was cold, and grey, and motionless. It looked like it was waiting. It looked like a killer.

  12

  Skoros felt the call of Destiny.

  He was skipping down the corridor of the ancestors, with Razor and the orb in tow.

  ‘Blast it,’ he ordered, and the orb shot a bolt of angry orange energy at the portrait of Radzack The First And Only, leaving only a smoking black hole where his face had been.

  ‘Melt it,’ he instructed, and the orb sent a beam of heat towards the portrait of Salu-Valek The Merciless, till the paint bubbled like cheese on a pizza, making Skoros giggle. It was the sound of someone who’d never been entirely happy to play well with others, finally slipping free of convention, and society, and everybody else’s expectations. It sounded liberating, but not sane.

  Quite a long way from sane, in fact.

  He moved on down the line. Malcontent The Peaceful had been his oddest ancestor, but as a young boy, Skoros had liked the old duffer. He had seemed to have not a care in the world, and despite being locked away in the topmost tower of the castle by his son, he was placid and happy with his lot. When Skoros had been allowed to go up and see him, Malcontent had called bluebirds from the forest in through his turret window to land on his arms, and squirrels to play and peep through his beard at the boy.

  ‘Just...’ Skoros paused. ‘Just the eyes. Melt the eyes, so the old fool’s not looking at me all the time.’

  The orb sent out its beam, and Malcontent’s eyes melted to dribbling tears of hot paint that ran down his face. Skoros moved on.

  ‘And then there’s you,’ he grunted, staring at his father with a defiance he’d never managed when the man had been alive.

  Subracken The Broody sneered down at his son from dark, clouded eyes above a beard like a Blackheart Bindweed hedge.

  ‘You require the personal touch, I think.’ He chuckled. ‘Though not touch, of course. Never that.’ He pointed his wand at a ceremonial two-headed battleaxe that hung on the wall down the far end of the corridor, and it rattled. Then with a scraaaach, it tore itself off the wall and hurtled end over end towards Skoros, who laughed a loud genuine laugh.