The Lying Planet

by Carol Riggs

  “Of course I am. I can do this safebox thing during the day. Like, this morning. Although Saturday might be a bad time to try it. Mr. Redmond or his kids might be home, even with his wife working at the medical center.”

  “Nope,” I say. “He does fence construction eight days a week, and the kids go to work with their mother on Saturdays and Sundays.”

  “Great. Then let’s go there now.”

  “Fine.” I’m not letting her take this risk by herself.

  “You guys are suicidal.” Leonard’s voice cracks on the last word. “I’ll meet you later at the dairy.”

  I clap a hand on his back and let him walk off down the road. Peyton and I head in the opposite direction. We cut across a field. Despite the nerves thrashing beneath my skin at what we’re about to do, I’m hyper-aware of Peyton’s lean legs beside mine, the nearness of her bare arm, and the faint woodsy scent of her hair. I add some distance between us.

  No distractions needed on this mission.

  When we reach Mr. Redmond’s unit, the surrounding dwellings are quiet. Mr. Redmond’s UHV is gone. We let ourselves through a side gate and peer into windows to verify his wife and kids aren’t home. Peyton grabs my sleeve and pulls me toward a big outbuilding in the back yard. Without a sound, we slip inside.

  We dodge a tall metal cabinet, stacks of kogawood planks, and bins of nails. Mr. Redmond keeps things abnormally tidy. I follow Peyton through a doorway arch and into another room. Thick gloves and a pruning device sit on a workbench, along with a lud-powered drill. The long crescent of a scythe hangs on pegs on the wall, and I lightly touch my finger to the blade. It’s sharp. One wicked-looking, prehistoric weed-slashing tool.

  “So where’s this enigma safebox you’re going to break into?”

  Peyton moves to a compartment above the workbench and slides out a gray metal box. “Right here. I hope I remember how to access it.”

  “I’m not going to be any help.”

  “Yes, you are. Moral support.” She winks and shakes the box three times. A tiny click comes from a raised square on the top. She turns the box, end over end, two times. Another tiny click.

  “Sounds promising,” I say, admiring the shape of her nose and the curve of her lips.

  Next, she tips it to the left twice and to the right three times. The raised square clicks again. At the same time, a scuffing noise happens farther away inside the shed, a low sound that stands out in a not-good way. What was that?

  I take a few steps toward the other room to check it out.

  “Got it!” Peyton throws open the safebox lid, reaches in, and lifts out a laser pistol. “Now we can kill us some vermals, and maybe a few creepy alien parents, too.”

  A movement catches my eye to my left. I spin toward it.

  My heart forgets to beat.

  Mr. Redmond stands in the doorway across from me with a hydro-wrench in his hand. Judging from the stunned look on his face, he heard everything Peyton said.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I freeze in place. Glowering, Mr. Redmond strides forward, his hand clamped around the wrench. He starts to speak, but Peyton activates the laser pistol. The shot slices out in a brutal red line.

  Mr. Redmond jerks backward. He cries out and slaps one hand over a long gash seared across his chest. The image of a furry snout flickers on his face like it’s superimposed, along with the bulge of beady black eyes.

  A garbled roar erupts from his throat. He lunges for Peyton with his mouth open, baring his fangs.

  Peyton shrieks, fumbling the gun.

  I twist to the wall behind me, snatch the scythe, and swing it as hard and fast as I can. The blade whistles. The creature’s head severs from its still-human body. Both parts tumble to the floor.

  A sickening thud hits my ears.

  I drop the scythe onto the floor with a clatter as Peyton bolts across the room to me.

  “I had to shoot,” Peyton says with a gasp. “I’m sorry, Jay, I had to shoot—”

  I reach over and grip her hand. “I know. And I had to finish him—it—off. I hope there wasn’t time to send a telepathic message like I think they can do.”

  Peyton swears, trembling. “We have to escape Sanctuary today. Or at least hide until we know if we’re in danger.”

  I try to gather my wits. This isn’t the time for me to lose it. We have to stay rational and fix this. “First, let’s get this body out of here. Fast.”

  We look down and shrink back. What lies there isn’t Mr. Redmond anymore. A crusty lobster shell and a snouted head lie on the floor, hairy ears jutting out, ten spiny legs protruding from the body. Brownish sludge oozes from the neck stub. The body is the height of a twelve-year-old, but definitely not human.

  “He lost his disguise when he died.” I snatch the pistol from his belt. “It must take a conscious effort to hold their human forms. No wonder they drug us at night while they sleep.”

  “Gross.” Peyton grabs a plastic tarp. I help her spread it out near the carcass. We work quickly, using our boots to shove the body onto the tarp. The alien head smears brown gunk in its wake. The stench of the blood is bitter, and I gag.

  Peyton gags, too. My hands are clumsy. This creature is not the man I grew up with, worked with, respected. I have to be calm and keep my hands steady.

  I can fall apart later. Not now.

  Peyton tucks the pistol into her waistband, under her shirt. I clean the scythe with a rag and replace it on the wall. We wipe up brown sludge, splash the floor with citrus cleaner to mask the smell, and toss the sludgy rags onto the body. We roll everything in the tarp and lug the bundle to the door. It’s oddly lightweight, nowhere near as heavy or solid as Mr. Redmond looked in his human form.

  Peyton peers out the door. “Should we dump this in the lake?”

  “That’s too far away, and it might be too light to sink. Or the ground-swells at night might churn it back up. Let’s bury it in the fields by the sable trees.”

  Peyton grabs a shovel and tucks it in the roll. We hustle across the yard and into the field. Both of us are panting by the time we reach the taller grasses around the trees. We tuck our bundle into the clammy shade, where gnats swarm us, and thrust our load partly under a bush.

  Peyton wipes her arm across her forehead. “My hands stink like citrus cleaner.”

  “Better than smelling like alien blood.”

  Collapsing, we lean against each other at the base of a tree, hidden by the grasses.

  “That was way too close,” she says, her words warm and wilted on my neck.

  “It’s not over yet. After we bury this thing, we have to find out if he told anyone our names before he died. Or if anyone has noticed his mind is missing. They might not figure it out until they try to send a message to him.”

  She doesn’t say anything, just breathes. I breathe with her. What have we done? Something monstrous, something irreversible. We’ll be in serious trouble if Mr. Redmond told the horde we know their identity. Even if they didn’t get a message, they’ll at least discover he’s missing. Will they know he’s dead? Will they suspect their human slaves had anything to do with it?

  I hope Rich’s discovery doesn’t factor in and make them extra suspicious.

  Peyton’s hand trembles. I cover it with mine, and hear her swallow. She curls against my side, not crying, but she’s shuddering, as though the full impact of what we’ve done is finally hitting her. The warm curve of her body against mine isn’t sensual or romantic, but it feels like it belongs there. I wrap my arm around her shoulders and let her cling to me.

  Or maybe it’s me that’s clinging to her.

  The stray edges of her hair stir in the breeze and brush my chin. I hold her until she stops shivering and our teeth stop chattering.

  “There’s one good thing about this,” I mumble into her hair.

  “What’s that?”

  “If this doesn’t force us to escape, it’ll go a long way toward getting us banished.”

  Peyton grunts. �
�Maybe me more than you, since I shot to kill. You were trying to protect me. Thanks, by the way.”

  “You’re welcome. Too bad we can’t eliminate all of them that way.” I close my eyes. “Although I don’t think I could do something like that again.”

  She edges out from under my arm and lets loose a heavy sigh. “Yeah. Let’s finish this and go find Leonard.”

  We dig in silence, taking turns with the shovel. Luckily, the ground is soft from the ground-swells, shaded and kept damp by the thick foliage of the sable trees. We bury the alien shell and its head about one meter deep and fill the hole back in. I scatter a layer of groundcover across the area.

  Peyton flings the shovel into the tall grasses. We set off for the dairy, keeping low. Halfway there, we spot a UHV patrolling the inside of the perimeter fence.

  Guards.

  We duck down until the UHV passes. When we reach the dairy, we sidle up behind the farm unit. The low vibrating whir of an even bigger vehicle reaches my ears, and I glimpse the weekly garbage hovertruck pulling away onto the road. I don’t see Misty’s mother anywhere.

  Or Leonard.

  I nudge Peyton, and we sneak across the compound. No one seems to be around, human or alien. Beyond the barns and a stretch of fencing, the Holsteins stand, chomping on aqua grass. Peyton and I dart to the milking barn and peek inside. Harrel and Misty are mucking stalls with another guy, but it isn’t Leonard. I wrinkle my nose at the smell. The cows have already been milked, and it looks like the rest of the workers have left. The workers won’t return until the evening shift.

  Peyton pulls me into the nearby hay barn. “Keep a lookout,” she whispers. “I’m stashing the pistols here until I can transfer them to our hideout at the cattle compound.”

  I hand her mine, and she retreats into the bale stacks. After another minute, I look out the crack by the door and spot Leonard. I groan. He’s racing around in the field next to the worrel enclosure, using a slender branch to herd cows toward an opening in the far corner. Why is he doing that when we’re supposed to meet him? We don’t know whether it’s safe for adults to see us yet. When Peyton rejoins me, I jerk my thumb at Leonard.

  She lets out a dismal sigh. “I’m so not in the mood for this kind of stupidity.”

  We slip out the door, jog to the Holstein fence, and hide by a greshfruit tree.

  “Psst, Leonard!” I wave to catch his eye. “What on Liberty are you doing?”

  He stops switching and runs over. “I’m doing some late mornin’ cattle rustling. Saw that in a history reader once. Or maybe I’m scattering more than rustling. Anyway, it’ll be an astral-league hassle for the aliens to round them up. Everything counts when we’re doing it with a rebel attitude, right?”

  “Yeah.” Peyton tosses a glance over her shoulder toward the mucking barn.

  “How’d the burglary go?” Leonard asks. Our expressions must not be reassuring, because his forehead crinkles. “I knew it. Does it have anything to do with what I overheard Misty’s mom say to the trash guy about Mr. Redmond going missing? They’re afraid he got knocked out somewhere and lost his human looks. The guy whispered ‘he’s gone silent.’ It gave me extreme chills, I tell ya.”

  Peyton fills him in on our disastrous weapon run as Leonard’s words sink into my brain. Thank the infinite stars, we’ve lucked out. Mr. Redmond didn’t have time to message anyone before he died.

  At the end of Peyton’s rundown, Leonard gives a weak whistle. “You sure we shouldn’t hike out of here tonight? You got a pistol. We just need meds and first aid stuff.”

  “We can’t try that,” I say. “We’d be dead before we could blink.”

  “Only if we’re caught,” Peyton counters.

  “Forget it.” My words snap out. “The timing’s bad with Rich and now Mr. Redmond. We’re safe for now. I’m not swapping a small risk of death for a certain one.”

  “You don’t know if you can really get banished!” she says. “Escaping is a better option.”

  Leonard waves a hand and lopes away from us. “You two squabble. I can’t swipe guns or behead aliens like you guys, so I’m gonna finish my cattle scattering. Join me if ya want. Or better yet, let’s scatter worrels. They’d be more of a hassle to round up.” He aims for the worrel pen.

  Peyton’s gaze skitters my way. She doesn’t look ready to do anything more today, and I can relate.

  “Where’s Misty’s mom?” I call to Leonard.

  “In the farm unit brewing up some broth. She’ll be there a long time.”

  He unlatches the worrel gate and slips inside.

  Peyton frowns. “I guess we should help him before he gets caught.”

  I hiss out a sigh and follow her into the enclosure. When I unclip the fiber mantle on one worrel, it nips me with its beak.

  “Ungrateful fiend,” I mutter, and fling it skyward. Its shiny bronze wings unfurl. Its pebble-textured neck stretches into the wind. Freedom. Long ago, the creatures used to be wild, before they were trapped inside this fence, destined to be butchered.

  Like the cattle we keep. Like the entire human population of this zone. We’re killed by alien creatures that look like Mr. Redmond’s true form. In my mind, I see him snarling again and lunging at Peyton.

  With my teeth clenched, I leap over to the next worrel and release its wings. Another one follows, then another as we unclip and toss worrels into the sky. The ones we liberate land in the long grasses beyond the dairy fields. A lone worrel actually takes flight a second time and makes it over the razor wire of the perimeter fence, a half kilometer away.

  Go. Be free. I shout in my mind, urging them to their freedom.

  “That’s enough, let’s go,” Peyton says. The words are barely out of her mouth when someone yells behind us.

  “What’s going on over there, with all those worrels in the air?”

  The voice sounds like Misty’s mother. I spin toward the milking barn, but I don’t see her yet—only Harrel and Misty. They’re gaping at the worrels in the sky and in the far field.

  “Scatter, quick!” Peyton cries.

  We take off in different directions before Misty’s mother can see us, vaulting fences and dodging cows and grounded worrels. I beat an escape route over uneven hills and clumps of grass.

  The whirring hum of a vehicle reaches my ears a split second before I glimpse the front end of a UHV through the underbrush. Oh no, not already—Misty’s mom must’ve sent a telepathic message to a patrol that happened to be close by.

  The UHV halts, its reverse air thrusters whining. A guard bursts from the vehicle’s door with a tranq rifle and takes aim. I yelp and change my route.

  Not fast enough. Pain lances my left shoulder and knocks the wind from my lungs. I reel sideways, lurching to catch my balance, fingertips raking the grass. My mind spins. Tingling waves pour through my shoulders and arms.

  I flounder back up. My feet feel heavy, thick. I run a few meters before my legs buckle and give out. This time I crash. My face slams into the ground and white spots flare before my eyes. In a few more heartbeats, my vision goes fuzzy. The world goes dark at the same time I can no longer feel my body.

  Chapter Nineteen

  My eyes open to an expanse of gray. I blink, woozy. A wall stares me in the face, and the faint smell of worrel manure drifts into my nose. I groan. My left shoulder feels as though someone has chopped it up and served it as hamburger.

  Where am I? The last thing I remember… Oh yeah, I got shot with a turbo-action tranq rifle. Those flippin’ darts work fast.

  I stir, trying to move my legs. It’s like they’re made of overcooked pasta. A bitter taste sits in my mouth, and whatever I’m lying on isn’t comfortable. I look down at a thin mattress. A lumpy pillow is bunched under my head. I blink again.

  After a few minutes, I sit up, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. A generous blob of worrel manure is smeared on one of my boots. That explains the odor. I look up at a row of vertical metal bars. Beyond that lies an empty hallwa
y lit by one pathetic overhead lud-light. A zone hub cell. Incredible. They’ve locked me up for setting a few worrels free.

  I gulp. Unless they’ve discovered what happened to Mr. Redmond.

  “Hey!” I shout. “Anyone home?”

  No one answers.

  Muttering, I get to my feet and stumble around until my leg muscles remember how to work. A toilet and a small sink are the only other things in the cell. I take off my boot and rinse it at the sink. After a while, a heavy door slams, followed by the thumps of footsteps. A bald guard with a curly beard comes down the hall. I think his name is Rourke. He wears an iron-hard expression and a moss-green uniform.

  “Lunch.” Rourke thrusts a sandwich and a cup of water onto a horizontal ledge set into the bars. “Eat up before the commander comes to see you. If I were you, I’d be composing a really good apology for what you did with those worrels.” He knocks his knuckles on the bars for emphasis and strides back down the hall.

  I collect my lunch and take a fierce bite from my sandwich. It’s a good sign Rourke didn’t mention anything about Mr. Redmond, but I don’t want to tell Farrow I’m sorry for anything. Yet I’ll probably have to. In order to get out of here, I’ll have to do some serious boot-kissing and ego-stroking. Yes, whatever you say, Commander Farrow. You’re right, Commander Farrow. I’ll never do it again, Commander Farrow. It makes me sick to think how diligent and attentive I used to be, how sincere I was about it. An obedient slave, a blind sheep.

  All in the name of the community’s supposed greater good.

  I finish my sandwich and scrub my hands over my face. If I hadn’t spent my whole life trying to get such a high score at my ceremony, it wouldn’t be as hard to get banished. Maybe Nash was right. I was trying to reach superhero status. It was a personal challenge to see whether I could earn a cloudskimmer and beat everyone else’s score.

  Right now, that sounds petty, selfish, and prideful. I close my eyes. Last month I would’ve never guessed I’d be sitting in a confinement cell. Yet even before the perimeter fence began to be built, I was in confinement of a different kind. Almost eighteen years of a prison restricted by rules, lies, and shame. It makes me want to hurl.