by Eliza Green
Dressed in the same blue suit in which he had arrived on Earth, he sat in the large recreation room filled with rows of plastic tables and chairs, trying to fit in with the humans there. The sound of chatter filled the air and echoed around the dome-shaped ceiling. Curious eyes sought him out. The borrowed black Stetson sat poker straight on Stephen’s hairless head, its rim now irritating his skin. He sat on his hands to stop himself from adjusting it. Fiddling with his hat would only draw attention to the parts of his arms where the silicone skin had become noticeably patchy. He felt the heaviness of the brown filter contact lenses that protected his sensitive eyes from many forms of light. The filtration device, in position at the back of his throat and nasal passages, strained his lungs as it struggled to deal with the air on board the ship. Ironically, he had felt most comfortable on Earth where the humans struggled to breathe, even with their gel masks to help. A rechargeable filtration unit hung from his waist, concealed from the eyes of others.
Without Anton’s added protection, Stephen was forced to rethink every movement he made. It took him three days to realise that his best defence was not isolation but company; he needed to blend in with the crowd. At the times when the ship’s maintenance robots locked him out of his sleeping pod, he forced himself to sit in the recreation room. The uneasy glances from the others were obvious at first, but after a while, their scrutiny of his appearance lessened. His skin crawled at his proximity to their sweaty bodies. He could smell their musky odours. He had no rapport with the humans on board the ship. Genetically, they shared a bloodline, a fact that was difficult for him to come to terms with. But he didn’t feel the same way with Bill Taggart and Laura O’Halloran. He would never forget how they had helped him board the ship as soon as possible so he could warn his kind of the dangers to come.
Stephen watched silently as a couple of men at one of the tables scuffled with each other until their fight became a free-for-all. He stood up and moved to a table further away from the action. Others followed suit. Two officers in black uniforms and carrying Buzz Guns entered the room, and the air crackled with electricity. Stephen shoved his hand into the right pocket of his jacket. The static eliminator he carried felt hot to the touch as it continued to absorb his body’s static and the new electricity from the officers’ weapons.
What could the Indigenes possibly have in common with these animals, he wondered. No amount of genetic similarities would change the way he felt about the majority of them. The journey home was difficult for that reason, and for another.
As the officers disabled the fight and handcuffed the main instigators, Stephen’s primary concern shifted rapidly to his own safety. But never far from his thoughts was Anton, now in the hands of the humans who had captured him. Stephen replayed in his mind the scene in the docking station. Could he have done anything to protect Anton? Had he used his friend to secure his own freedom? He was afraid to answer that question. The memory of the time the humans had captured one of their Evolvers flooded his mind and the current situation suddenly became clear. The truth hit him hard: he might never see his friend again. Stephen pulled the blue jacket tighter around him as a new chill crept up his spine and through his already-too-warm body.
The officers left the recreation room and curious eyes no longer sought Stephen out. The energy in the room had become flat. He took advantage of the new calm and hurried to his sleeping quarters, the only place he felt truly safe. He struggled with the realisation that there was nowhere to hide, even in the darkest recesses of the ship.
Lying on the bed inside the dark coffin-like structure that was his sleeping unit, he did not attempt to fall asleep. His dreams had become too vivid. At first he hadn’t paid them much attention, but when they became strange and more intrusive, they played on his mind for much of the day. He lay motionless and tried to decipher their meaning for the hundredth time. The dreams were confusing—always set inside a room, but where?—always a strong sense of loss. His attempts to solve the mystery gave him a deep ache inside his head. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the pain, breaking it up into smaller, more manageable parts and dispersing it to other areas of his body. He felt his arms and torso sting as they received the pain, far more manageable and not like the hard throbbing that had just hammered against the inside of his skull.
He opened his eyes and drew in a number of uneven breaths. To dream was normal; he knew that. What wasn’t normal was for the subject matter to be the same each time. As the pain dissipated and his mind finally settled, he was able to concentrate on the smaller details of the dream. He always came back to the same thing: the room never changed. He could see large shards of rock piled up around him. Was he supposed to know this place?
Over the next few days, Stephen carried out the same routine, sitting in the recreation room when it was less busy and retreating to his sleeping pod when the maintenance robots had completed their work. At night, the recurring dream taunted him, as if it was pointing a long finger at the clue: Look, it’s right there, can’t you see it?
Stephen didn’t know of any Indigene who had the ability to control dreams. With no easy explanation forthcoming, his efforts to understand the phenomenon left him feeling bitter and uneasy. The scientist within him could always explain everything. He considered the insane possibility that some external force was trying to control him.
On one of the nights, Stephen finally gave in to sleep, his eyelids heavy and uncomfortable, his body eager for repair. The dream came again: the same room, the same feeling of loss. He opened his eyes and spent the next hour staring at the curved ceiling of his sleeping pod. Without sleep, his body weakened and he began to contemplate some of the more ridiculous explanations. He turned onto his side and forced his eyes closed again. Were the dreams trying to tell him something about the future, something that he could alter? As soon as he tried to think about this possibility, his head throbbed. Forcing the dream to reveal its purpose didn’t work. He had to change tack.
Next time he had the dream, he would allow his thoughts and feelings to unfold naturally. Perhaps he would understand them better, see something else in the room that would help him figure it out. He wondered if the dreams were projections of events occurring in real time. They felt real enough, as if he shared some kind of connection with them.
He had his last dream aboard the ship just twenty-four hours before it reached Exilon 5. A sudden feeling during the dream gave him cause for concern, and he couldn’t explain the overwhelming desire to steer it along. A series of wildly lucid images gave him the sense that he could. But as before, trying to control the dream’s trajectory didn’t work. Instead, the confusing imagery swelled and crashed inside his mind, teasing him with some unidentifiable message. Frustration replaced his concern as he attempted to identify or recognise something—anything at all.
As the ship’s journey neared its end, Stephen feared he was just beginning his. There was something undeniably sinister about the path he felt he was being forced to take by a strong and unyielding presence, a path that he sensed had the capacity to significantly change his life.
Mid June 2163, near Exilon 5
The passenger ship glided softly through the blackened space, momentarily disturbing sleeping stars where their paths collided. The stars, unfazed by the interruption, returned to their usual spots where the universe allowed them to exist. Naturally occurring space debris bounced effortlessly off the ship’s exterior, posing minimal threat to the force field that protected the vessel. Exilon 5 drifted into view.
Stephen had not been able to look out the window when he and Anton had made the journey to Earth, spending most days hidden from sight. But now he realised that it attracted less attention to do what everyone else did as they neared their destination. There were five planets in that part of the galaxy; Exilon 5 was immediately recognisable by the double moons that orbited its rocky mass. As Stephen gazed out at his home, he wondered about the humans’ initial search for a planet to which they could trans
fer the Indigenes, and how much consideration they’d given to the other four planets. He shuddered violently as he thought about how his race had come into existence.
Exilon 5’s surface looked strange from space, almost alien and, for the first time, he could see the extent of the terra forming that had occurred on the planet. Six minuscule blots on the landscape represented each of the human cities. Roads that snaked outwards left tracks in the earth like blood-filled veins. Areas of recently disturbed land meant only one thing: they were preparing to transport more humans to Exilon 5.
The ship arrived in the dead of night and Stephen was grateful to have both cover and coolness. The final leg of the journey to District Three would be aided by the light of the moons. The cooling packs inside his jacket had helped to regulate his body temperature so far, but their effectiveness was diminishing and he felt warm and uncomfortable in the restrictive human clothes.
He waited in the ship’s hold to board a spacecraft destined for New London. As the craft descended rapidly to the planet’s surface, he planned his escape. Minutes later, it was hovering above the magnetised landing plates at the docking station from which he and Anton had set off. As the passengers filed off the craft one by one, Stephen found it increasingly difficult to remain still. He took a step forward, and then had to step back when the person in front failed to move as quickly as he would have liked. Stephen readjusted the Stetson on his sweaty, itchy head, and had to work hard to resist the urge to whip the hat off and fling it across the floor. The queue seemed to move more slowly as his desire to break out of the pretence of being human strengthened. His heart thrummed rapidly in his chest while he watched the officer scan the passengers’ identity chips ahead of him. His confidence was at an all-time low; his judgement was compromised.
Stephen tried to distract himself by thinking through the most direct route out of the main entrance of the station. The temptation to make a run for it was strong but a foolish thing to attempt, as he imagined how the authorities would react to his sudden movement. He continued to shift his feet, feeling the panic rise from deep within and swell to fill his entire being. His stomach was doing somersaults; the breathing device strained his throat. He could sense every single one of the humans. Their heartbeats sounded like a runaway train—duh duh … duh duh … duh duh—their thoughts a series of muffled sounds.
Stephen needed to remain as anonymous as possible, not only for his own sake but for the Indigenes as a whole. He felt guilty about Anton too, and didn’t want to do anything to make things worse for his friend—if he was still alive. So, he calmed his stomach and allowed his mind to control his feet, one step at a time. The movement was awkward, almost as if he was working his legs with an invisible rope. When he passed through the identity verification area the alarm stayed silent. A sense of relief surged through his body. Then he passed by the attending officer, who was wearing a sky-blue uniform and holding a DPad.
‘Did you enjoy your visit to Earth, sir?’ the officer asked.
Stephen stopped and abruptly turned to look at the officer. ‘Is something the matter?’ he said too quickly and in a rehearsed way.
‘I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to alarm you.’ The officer smiled. ‘Are you returning from a break? Although I wouldn’t call Earth a haven right now. You’re better off here, if you ask me.’
Stephen’s attempts to smile like a human were off the mark—he could feel it in his face. It had been too long since he’d practised their gestures.
The officer eyed him more closely. ‘Are you all right, sir?’
Stephen struggled to find the right words. His head ached. ‘Apologies. I am just tired. Thank you for your kind words. I am indeed rested from my break, and happy to be home.’
The officer frowned. Stephen attempted a second smile, his stomach knotted up—his language was too stiff; humans talked in a more casual way.
The officer shook his head and looked bemused. ‘Okay, well, have a good journey.’
As Stephen moved forward, he felt something fall out of his coat. He didn’t dare risk turning around. He walked on a little more quickly.
The officer bent down to pick up the item. ‘Mr Stipple?’ he called after him.
Stephen stopped and turned around slowly, cautiously. His heart hammered in his chest.
‘Mr Stipple? I think this belongs to you.’ The officer turned the item over in his hand, examining it. It was one of the cooling packs.
Stephen went back and retrieved it from the officer’s hand. ‘Oh, thank you,’ he said. ‘It must have fallen out of my pocket.’
The officer smiled weakly; Stephen gave him no chance to question him about it. He kept moving forward with the other humans to the area where the transport for the city of New London waited.
As they approached the vehicle, Stephen peeled away from the back of the group and strode quickly towards the flatlands. When he was sure he could no longer be seen, he peeled off each shoe and pumped his powerful legs. His bare feet glided across the surface and left shallow imprints in the soil beneath him. As soon as he’d cleared the immediate area, he dug the chip out of his thumb and crushed it between his fingers. By the time he’d reached his top running speed the gash had healed over. But he was tired, and even when there was no longer any wind to hold him back, he noticed his speed dropping. He shook off the psychological barriers that impeded him and focused on his stride. He needed to reach the city before the transport vehicle did, or before someone saw him running.
He hoped Pierre and Elise would realise he was back on Exilon 5. The communication stone he carried with him should have activated the minute he stepped onto the planet. He needed to reach the underground environs of District Three, where he lived and where the elders would be waiting for him, as soon as he could. He had important information to share with them. The Indigenes were in danger and could no longer live out their existence as they had done. They needed to change and adapt again to survive the new threats to their society.
Fresh thoughts about the recurring dream haunted Stephen as he ran. The room in his dream, a large unwelcoming space filled with broken rock, was picked clean of any identifiable markers. He’d tried to move about, to leave the room, but he felt trapped and his legs wouldn’t carry him anywhere. Feeling tired from a lack of sleep, his mind came up with the strangest explanations. He wondered if the dreams were some kind of telepathic link to Anton—the trapped feeling representing Anton’s inability to leave. How was this possible over such a vast distance? Slivers of clarity had started to emerge in the most recent dreams, as though he was watching a story slowly unfold. The more he thought about it, the more difficult it became for him to think straight. He desperately needed sleep, a synthetic protein pack and time to unwind after his journey. Only then might he be able to figure it all out.
The New London streets were eerily quiet, except for the few people that always seemed to be out late at night. A wolf howled in the distance. Stephen’s mouth watered and saliva dripped from its corners. But he forced himself to keep up a constant speed, to keep going, especially because a few people had noticed him rush past. ‘Hey!’ he heard one person call out; to humans, his motion must have seemed strange, like a gust of wind on a calm night.
All of a sudden, he felt differently about Exilon 5, as though the humans there had already worked out what he was and were deliberately keeping their distance. His solitary exposure on New London’s cobblestone streets put Stephen at great risk, but it was the safest and most direct route to the tunnels from where he could access District Three, located directly beneath his feet.
On the way to the nearest bullet train station, Stephen tried to avoid making comparisons between the Indigenes and the humans, but his thoughts were involuntarily pulled in that direction. He struggled to imagine his elders once living in a city such as New London. The Indigene environs were more accommodating and dynamic, designed to enhance their emotions, and to amplify and control the raw energy from the planet’s vari
ous rock types. They had learned early on how best to harness the rock’s strength by creating a network of tunnels out of it.
As Stephen passed by large parks and grey brick buildings, it was clear that all the Earth engineers had created there were sturdy structures and open spaces. Humans craved the stability that Exilon 5 could give them. It was somewhat ironic that he had felt more comfortable on Earth, his elders’ home planet. But Earth was not his home. He was a second-generation Indigene and did not come directly from the human bloodline.
A digital library loomed up ahead, its bright pink neon sign testing the strength of his eye lenses. An advertisement blinked overhead:
GET YOUR DPAD DOWNLOAD OF
NEWLY DISCOVERED CHAPTERS
IN EXILON 5’S HISTORY
He wondered how much of what they shared were lies manufactured to protect their bastardisation project. Then there was the evidence that preparations were underway to bring more humans to the planet. Things were set to improve for one race, and it certainly wasn’t the Indigenes.
Stephen moved briskly through the streets, using his peripheral vision to scan the surrounding area. Eventually he reached the Victoria underground station where he easily bypassed the electronic panel that controlled the automatic doors. He fishtailed his way through the labyrinth of tunnels towards home, with its air-controlled environment in which he would feel comfortable once again. He followed the well-worn path leading back to the door of the containment area, and struggled to overcome his thin patience as he waited for the safety procedures to complete before the inner door of District Three opened.
A month’s travel on the passenger ship and just two days on Earth had left him anxious and eager; he was sick of the filtration device controlling his breathing and tired of the artificial skin that changed him into something he was not. Everything slowed, his patience stretched almost beyond endurance. Unwilling to wait for the door to open of its own accord, he jammed his fingers into the door’s crevice and forced it open. As he jumped inside the district, his Stetson fell to the ground and was crushed by his foot as he focused on yanking the filtration device out. With what little strength he had left he ripped the jacket and shirt from his body and clawed satisfyingly at the silicone skin that was stuck to his face and arms. Clumps of the pigmented membrane fell to the floor, while the rest clung desperately to his clammy skin in great ugly patches.
