Life on Mars

by Jonathan Strahan (Ed)

  “I was.” He paused. He frowned as more tears began to dribble from his eyes. “I . . . I’m sorry.” He rubbed his temples. “I don’t think you’re human.”

  “I don’t think you are either.”

  We were standing at the door. Inside the shuttle, the walls were plush red and busy with buttons, small blank screens, and other things. To the right, the corridor went well into the ship. Ahmed sobbed loudly. He turned to the side, pressed a finger to his left nostril, and blew out a large amount of snot. “I’m sorry,” he said, looking distraught again, his voice strained as he tried to hold back more sobs.

  “Ugh,” I said, turning to the side. I couldn’t look at him anymore. “Look . . . I’m going in, are . . .”

  Ahmed had stopped weeping entirely. I frowned, turning back to him. He looked as if he was seeing a ghost. He grabbed my hand. I turned to the door just as something large and red slammed me to the ground. Hot glass! Hot glass! I frantically thought. Ahmed hadn’t released my hand and was thus yanked back as I fell. I could hear Ahmed yelling but all I saw was a layer of red and all I felt were pain and heat. It was as if the world was submerged under soft ripples of red tinted waters. I could see a wavy red sun, the ship, and Ahmed kicking and kicking at whatever was on top of me.

  I heard it hissing in my ear. A creature with a heavy solid body like glass. Dry, hot, and buzzing. No, not buzzing. Vibrating. I could feel it, down deep inside me. I struggled to understand. But it was pressing on my throat. A part of me could only think one thing: Look into my eyes! Please look into my eyes! If it was a thing, a creature maybe . . .

  I was looking through . . . its head. Oblong but empty. Then I was falling. Shaking. Vibrating. Falling. Into. Red. The CoLoRs it knew and loved. The CoLoRs of HoME. Where everything was all kinds of RED. Until it was fOuNd. For VIbRAtINg too much with CuriositY. I fell deeper. Beyond myself. I have no words to describe it. But it was alive. Not in the same way that I knew life, but it was alive.

  As its weight lifted off me, my entire body flared with pain. Nevertheless, I lived. And I knew why. I knew what the creature was. I knew many things about it now. I tried to laugh. Instead I coughed hard and everything around me throbbed red.

  It stood before me. Too heavy now and sinking into the sand. It looked like a crude glass bipedal grasshopper. It was impervious to Ahmed’s attacks. Kicking it was like kicking transparent stone.

  “From Mars,” I breathed as I got to my feet. My neck ached painfully and I had to bend forward. “It’s a . . .”

  It suddenly turned to Ahmed and sent out so much vibration that I could feel it in my chest. I coughed, pressing my hands to my chest. Then it leapt at him.

  “No!” I croaked. “Stop, wait!’

  But Ahmed was ready. He jumped back and shot into the sky. The creature fell forward and started sinking fast into the sand. I shielded my eyes, searching for Ahmed. The creature had sunk halfway into the sand before Ahmed returned. “What is it?” he asked, hovering several feet above my head.

  I laughed, rubbing my neck. I was beginning to feel a little better. “It’s an alien.” Then I sat down hard on the sand.

  In a matter of minutes, I’d gone from fighting off a racist windseeker armed with a rock to fighting off a Martian alien. As I sat there contemplating this, I stared at the door.

  “You know why it didn’t kill me?” I asked, rubbing my temples and shutting my eyes. Ahmed sat beside me, anxiously looking at where the alien had sunk.

  “Why?” he muttered. He hacked loudly and spit to the side. He was done crying.

  “Because I’m Nigerian,” I said.

  “What?” Ahmed said, frowning at me. “How would it know that? Why would it care?”

  “It was held captive, and the only person to treat it with any respect before it managed to escape was a man named Arinze Tunde, a Nigerian.”

  “How do you . . .” His eyes widened. “You read an alien?”

  “It read me more,” I said.

  “That cursed thing could read genetics or something?”

  “Guess so,” I said. “That’s what the vibrating was. You felt it, right?”

  “Yeah, like being touched by sound.”

  I got up and waited a moment to make sure I was steady. Ahmed got up, too. For a moment, I felt dizzy, then everything stabilized. As I dusted off my dress, I said, “And you know why it wanted to kill you?”

  Ahmed shrugged.

  “Your grandpa was the one who captured it.”

  He stared at me blankly as I quickly walked to the ship. I turned to him. “Come on!” I said. “The passengers are locked in some room. We need to get everyone off right now. The alien is going to make the shuttle take off again.”

  “My grandfather?” Ahmed said as I ran inside. “Alien? Didn’t it just sink into the sand? There’s another one? ?”

  The soft humming was continuous and the lights flickered as we walked down the narrow corridor single file. The padded walls added to the narrowness. Everything was spotless, no dust or dirt in any corners. And everything smelled like face powder.

  “I don’t like this,” Ahmed said, moving faster. “Not at all.”

  I smiled. Windseekers hate tight places. “Inhale, exhale,” I said. “We’ll find the passengers and then get out. Relax.”

  As he loudly inhaled and exhaled as he walked, I took a moment to look behind us. So far we’d moved in a straight line and I could still see the sun shining in from the open door. I felt a little better. If it was a trap, the door probably would have shut. Eventually, the corridor did break off in three different directions. We took the one in the middle and came to a large metal door with a sign on it that said CONFERENCE ROOM B. Ahmed was about to touch the blue button beside the door. I grabbed his hand.

  “What?” he said, accidently looking into my eyes. He quickly looked away, squeezing his face as if I’d stuck a pin in his arm.

  “Don’t start that again,” I snapped.

  “It’s your damn eyes!”

  I rolled my eyes. “Let’s knock first.”

  “Fine,” he said, gritting his teeth. He knocked three times. The sound was absorbed by the hallway’s padding. We stood there, listening hard.

  I sighed, “Maybe, we could . . .”

  “Arinze?” a woman called from behind the door.

  Ahmed grabbed my arm, and I stepped closer to him.

  “Please!” a man shouted in English, banging on the door. I couldn’t place his accent. “Open up. Just . . .”

  “Is that English? What are they saying?” Ahmed asked me in Arabic. “I can’t understand.”

  “They want us to open the door,” I said. I stepped up to the door. “We’re . . . we’re not him!” I responded in English. I turned to Ahmed and switched back to Arabic. “I told them we’re not Arinze.”

  “Let’s open it,” he said.

  “Okay.”

  He was about to and then stopped. He turned to me, looking guilty. “You should step back.”

  I understood. My eyes. Who knew what they’d think? And I didn’t want anyone looking into them.

  “Okay,” I said, stepping behind him. “Makes sense.”

  He touched the blue button and there we were facing about thirty sweaty dirty people all crammed at the door. Hot air wafted out. It reeked of sweat, urine, feces, and rotten fruit. Ahmed and I coughed.

  Ahmed stood up straight. “We’re here to—”

  “Take her down!” a man shouted in English. There was a mad rush as they all tried to lunge for me through the narrow corridor. I stumbled back as Ahmed jumped in front of me, using his body to block the way. Five men tried to shove him aside but he somehow managed to remain lodged.

  “Stop it!” he shouted in Arabic.

  “We can handle her!” someone said in Igbo. “Just get out of the way!”

  “We’re getting off this damn shuttle!” another said in English.

  “Stop!” Ahmed screamed in Arabic, pushing them back with all his might.
“She’s not—she’s human!”

  No one listened or maybe they didn’t understand. Everyone started shouting at the same time. Sweat gleamed on Ahmed’s face as he fought to keep himself in the passageway. I ran back several feet but I wasn’t about to leave Ahmed.

  Suddenly, out of nowhere, a blast of wind flew through the passageway. It knocked me off my feet and I slid several feet back. Then everything went silent. I slowly sat up. Everyone in the passageway had been blown back into the conference room. They murmured as they sat up, rubbing their heads, arms, confused.

  Only Ahmed remained, hovering, his seven long thick braids undulating as the windseeker breeze circulated his body. The passengers stared at him. I smiled broadly, though once again, I was shaking all over.

  “She, we are not . . .” Ahmed switched to French as he landed on his feet. “We are not whatever you’ve been dealing with! Does anyone understand me? We’re here to get you out!”

  “How do we know that?” some woman asked in French from behind everyone. Good, I thought. Someone understood.

  “Speak in French,” I said. “I can speak that, too.”

  Ahmed looked at me. I winked. I can speak six languages, Arabic, Hausa, French, Igbo, Yoruba, and English. My father liked to call me the daughter of Legba—the Yoruba deity of language, communication, and the crossroads—because I picked up languages so easily.

  “Why else would we unlock the door?” Ahmed snapped. The woman translated for those who couldn’t understand.

  Silence.

  “Stupid,” I muttered, stepping closer to Ahmed.

  “This is Fisayo and I’m Ahmed,” he said. “We’re . . . Do you know what’s happened on Earth since you left?”

  More confused murmuring. The general consensus was that they knew something bad had happened but they weren’t sure what.

  “She and I have been . . . affected. We’re not aliens. One of you is my . . . my grandfather. Zaid Fakhr Mohammed Uday al-Rammah.” Before the woman could translate for the others, Ahmed repeated himself in Arabic, listing his name, his grandmother’s name, and his village. There was a soft gasp from near the back and the crowd slowly parted, allowing a tall wizened man to come forth. He was about eighty and wore blue garments whose armpits were dirty with sweat, and a deep blue turban.

  There was a long pause as the two stared at each other.

  “Why do you look like a punching bag?” Ahmed’s grandfather asked in Arabic. He motioned to me. “Is this girl your wife? Have you two been quarreling?” A few people chuckled.

  “Uh . . .” Ahmed said. “We’re . . .”

  “Come here,” his grandfather said.

  Ahmed slowly stepped up to him and the old man looked him up and down. “You don’t look like my son.”

  Ahmed scoffed. “The last time you saw him he was about four years old.”

  I held my breath. Then I let it out with relief as the old man smiled and laughed softly. “You are really my grandson?”

  Ahmed brought a picture from his pocket. “This is you, Grandma, and my father just before they left for Earth.”

  His grandfather stared at it for a very long time.

  “That . . . monster will let us out now?” someone impatiently asked behind them.

  Ahmed’s grandfather was crying. “I haven’t seen this photo in . . . such a long time. It’s why I came back.”

  “There’s one more of us,” an African woman said in Igbo, pushing to the front. She wore jeans and a dirty purple sweater. Ahmed looked back at me and I stepped forward. The woman hesitated, glancing at and looking away from my eyes and said, “He’s being held captive in the cockpit, I think.” She pointed behind her. “It’s through the conference room.”

  “Arinze,” I said.

  She nodded.

  “Troublesome sellout,” Ahmed’s grandpa mumbled. “Nigerians.” He spoke the name of my people like he was spitting dirt from his mouth. I frowned.

  The women who’d spoken Igbo sucked her teeth loudly and deliberately. “Keep talking and see wahala, old man.”

  Even when they lived and were born on Mars, people were still people.

  Ahmed’s and my eyes met for a half second. Then he looked away. “I’ll go,” I said.

  “I’ll go with you,” the Igbo woman said.

  “It’s okay,” I told her. “I know what’s going on. Just . . . wait for him outside.” This time, I was the one who didn’t want to meet her eyes. I switched to English. She spoke Igbo with an English accent, so I suspected she’d understand, as would more of the others. “You all need to get off. There isn’t time. This shuttle is going to take off soon.”

  “What!” a man said. “Impossible! There can’t be any fuel left. . . .”

  People started translating for each other, and there were more exclamations of surprise.

  “Who cares,” a woman said. “Show us out of here! I can’t stand being on a shuttle any longer!”

  Everyone began pushing forward again. As they crammed past me, I told Ahmed, “Go with them. They need someone who knows . . . Earth.”

  “Okay. But hurry out,” he said, taking and squeezing my hand. His other was holding the hand of his grandfather.

  “I’ll be all right.”

  I watched them all file down the corridor. Then I walked into the conference room to attend the strangest meeting of my life.

  The conference room was spacious with a high ceiling and windows the size of the walls (which were currently covered with the ship’s protective white metal exterior). Near the back were shelves of books and three exercise bicycles. This large room was probably normally beautiful. But at the moment it was filthy and stinky. There were plastic tubs brimming with urine and feces and sacks of garbage. Had they been allowed to leave the room for anything? How long had they been trapped in there? I hurried to the door on the other side.

  It easily opened and led into another passageway that was even narrower than the other one. It went on and on. I passed sealed doorways on my left and right. I frowned, realizing something. Maybe the creature was allowing the doors to open. Maybe it had opened the door to the outside so that Ahmed and I could come in and rescue the people. I had so many answers, yet I had even more questions.

  Finally, I reached a small round door. It felt like metal but it looked like wood. Nervous, I took a deep breath, tugging at one of my long braids. Suddenly the door slid open and I was standing before a tall very dark-skinned Nigerian man. Behind him was a round sunshine-filled room. The cockpit window must have been recently opened, for I hadn’t seen this on the outside. Every inch of wall was packed with virtual sensors, small and large screens, and soft buttons.

  In the middle of it all, manipulating the ship’s virtual controls, was the . . . thing. It looked like something out of the deep ocean. Wet, red, bloblike, formless. I imagined that it would have fit perfectly into the glasslike thing that had attacked Ahmed and me outside.

  It smoothly pulled its many filamentlike appendages in, rose up, and molded itself into an exact replica of my face, shifting and changing colors to even imitate my dark skin tone. I gasped, clapping my hands over my mouth. It smiled at me.

  Terrified, I looked up at Arinze, who was still standing there. “I—”

  His face curled, and he grabbed me. He pushed me back and slammed me against the wall. For the third time in the last hour all the air left my chest. I grabbed at his hands and dug my nails into them. His grip loosened and I seized the opportunity to slide away.

  My eyes located a wrench. I grabbed it and raised it toward one of the screens. Arinze froze and the creature melted from my shape back into a blob.

  “I swear I’ll . . . I’ll smash this!” I screamed, utterly hysterical by this point. “May the fleas of a thousand camels nest in your hair!” I was hurting all over, shaking, full of too much adrenaline and there was a red alien in the middle of the room with appendages snaking out in multiple directions like some sort of giant amoeba! I strained to keep the tears
from dribbling for my eyes. The last thing I needed was for my vision to blur. I focused on the alien, sharpening to a molecular level. . . . I immediately pulled back, further shaken. I hadn’t seen cells; I saw something more like metal balls.

  “Please don’t break that,” Arinze said in Igbo. His accent was vaguely Nigerian, Yoruba. But not quite. How long had he been on Mars? He had to have been born there. He looked about thirty. Yet he had three short vertical tribal makings on each cheek. So they were still practicing that tradition even on Mars?

  “We need that to navigate properly,” he said.

  “You just nearly killed me!”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I was . . . I thought you were going to hurt it. It’s . . . it’s like a snail without a shell until it makes a new living shell.”

  I didn’t lower my wrench.

  “That’s . . . that’s why it attacked you,” he said. “Then we realized a lot of things.” He paused. “What are you?”

  “I’m human. A shadow speaker.” I shook my head. “It’s a long story.”

  He stared at me. I knew he was making up his mind. I’d made mine up. If he tried anything, I’d smash the screen and then smash his head. “Arinze,” I said quickly. “I know who you are. I know you have befriended this creature. You understand each other.”

  “How do you know?” he snapped. “What can you know?”

  The creature stretched a narrow filament and touched Arinze’s forehead. Affectionately. Arinze seemed to relax.

  I felt a pinch of envy. I was constantly getting attacked because of what I looked like. This creature had no shape and could look like anything it wanted. And then it could create an exo-skin that it could wear or send to do what it asked . . . at least until it sunk into the sand on a planet with stronger gravity than it was used to. I wondered why it had chosen to make its exo-skin look like a giant bipedal grasshopper.

  “It ‘reads’ things through vibration,” I said. “I am similar. I read things by closeness and focusing. I read it as it read me. You know I’m right. It has told you. Trust it.”