Xenophobia

by Peter Cawdron

  “It’s disintegrating,” she said, noting that the alien pod was coming apart, and not just because it had been run over.

  The light from the setting sun caught the smoky, glassy resin, reminding her of the old dark brown medical bottles. Those had been tinted to prevent light from breaking down the complex chemical molecules within the medicine and she wondered if the same was true here. She doubted any of the attributes she’d noticed were purely coincidental. There was an alien intelligence at work here, but on a biological not a mechanical level.

  Goo dripped from the resin casing, running down the stick before dropping to the dusty ground. Sections of the casing slid with the viscous fluid. Both the texture and consistency reminded Bower of honey and treacle.

  Someone was tapping her on the shoulder.

  Suddenly, Bower was aware they’d been tapping her shoulder for quite some time, but she was too absorbed by what she was looking at and the sensation had only just registered. It was annoying. If they wanted her for something, why didn’t they just say so, why did they have to touch her. Touch was personal. Touch was privileged. She pulled away, deliberately ignoring them, hoping they’d get the message. The hand followed her as she shifted sideways and lay the broken resin casing on the ground.

  “What?” she said rather impatiently, wondering what could be so important.

  A shadow passed over her, blotting out the setting sun. As she turned she could see all heads facing in one direction. The refugees stood still, their eyes cast up. The soldiers stood silently facing the same way. As she stood, she got her first glimpse of a floater hundreds if not thousands of feet in the air.

  There were three of them, stretched out several hundred yards apart. One of the floaters cast its shadow on the truck as the creature drifted north. The sun blazing through the flicking tentacles trailing behind the massive beast.

  Bower was entranced. Whereas mankind flew in space in what amounted to tin cans, these aliens creatures were capable of spanning the depths of interstellar space, enduring a bitter cold vacuum and then making the transition to flying within a planet’s atmosphere. What were these animals?

  Each floater appeared to be hundreds of feet in height, like a blimp, only with a giant, semi-transparent purple bladder keeping them buoyant in the same way in which a bluebottle jellyfish floated on the waves of the sea.

  Beneath the inflated bladder sat a mass of what Bower could have only described as organic pulp. Despite her years of medical study and her interest in biology, Bower wasn’t prepared for what she was seeing. The mass beneath the presumably gas-filled bubble didn’t appear to have any differentiation. Bower was used to seeing biology as functional, practical, with insects and animals having segmentation, being divided into limbs and organs. The base of the floater, though, looked more like the ravaged, torn, raw wound of a gunshot. Behind the creature, a series of tentacles stretched out for thousands of feet, floating on the breeze, drifting lazily to one side then another.

  Another floater appeared from over the forest of acacia trees to the south of them. The massive beast looked like it was no more than a few feet above the treetops, causing panic among the refugees but Bower quickly realized this was an illusion of size. From what she could tell, the floaters were at least several hundred feet above the road. Given that their tentacles trailed below and behind them, remaining well clear of the ground, she figured they were somewhere around five or six hundred feet up.

  The floater passing directly overhead seemed majestic, strangely beautiful. The refugees cowered, taking cover, as did the soldiers, leaving Bower standing alone in the road staring up at the massive creature as though she were watching a Blue whale swimming within the ocean.

  “Bower,” Jameson cried, sheltering beside the truck. His voice was quiet, just a shade above a whisper as he beckoned her over to him.

  “They’re ignoring us,” Bower replied, not bothering to lower her voice.

  Smithy crouched low in the turret of the Hummer, making herself as small as possible.

  Bower breathed deeply, taking in the awe of the moment. Within a minute or so, the creature had passed overhead, leaving long strands whipping slowly back and forth in its wake. The tentacles, if they could be called that, reminded Bower of the elongated tail of a sauropod, slowly tapering to a tip so fine she couldn’t be sure quite where they ended.

  With the floaters having passed overhead, the refugees doubled their pace, pushing on, trying to ignore all that was around them. Were they making up for lost time? Bower doubted that, thinking it was simply the single-minded focus of Homo sapiens, the characteristic goal-driven instinct kicking in, pushing them on to what they perceived as safety, and not just from the rebels, but from these alien intruders as well.

  “What do you think they want?” Bower asked, absentmindedly, not really directing her question to anyone in particular. “There has to be a reason they’re flying through our atmosphere. And as for these pods, what’s their purpose?”

  Kowalski came up beside her.

  “Well, I’m just glad they weren’t after us,” he said. “Whatever they want, I’m happy so long as they stay the hell away from me.”

  Jameson joined the rest of the soldiers standing by the back of the Hummer. She could hear him talking with his troops.

  “Threat assessment?” he asked.

  “Scary as hell,” Smithy replied from up in the turret of the Hummer. “But no imminent threat. Not yet, anyway. They didn’t seem to notice us at all.”

  “My money would be on a squadron of F22 Raptors,” Elvis added. “As nasty as these floaters seem, they aren’t war machines. Couple of missiles and they’re beached whales.”

  “You really think we’re going to catch an evac flight out of here with these things in the air?” asked Bosco. “My money is on CentCom grounding all flights regardless. I think we are alone on this one now. All bets are off.”

  Jameson nodded thoughtfully.

  “Game plan?” he asked, and yet Bower got the distinct impression he already knew what he was going to do.

  “We’re fucked if we don’t hook up with someone,” Elvis offered. “We’re too big to hide, too damn small to fight. So long as we’re around government troops there’s a degree of safety, but I’d feel a whole lot better if we had US soldiers to call on. If we run into rebels or if any of these flying fuckers turned nasty, it’s going to be Game Over, Player One.”

  “Elvis is right,” Bosco said. “For once, the Southern Belle has a point. We need to hook up with those Marines in Lilongwe. Safety in numbers. Uncle Sam’s not coming back to Malawi, not with monstrous aliens floating overhead at home.”

  “Somewhere someone’s got to be taking the fight to these fuckers,” Elvis said. “Please don’t tell me the US is letting these Mo-Fo’s drift through our airspace without taking a few of them out.”

  No one offered a reply.

  “Lilongwe raises the issue of the chain of command,” Jameson said, looking for a response from his soldiers. Bower had moved closer. She figured she and Kowalski might not be soldiers, but they deserved a say in their future. Jameson must have picked up on that, as he clarified his point, opening the huddle to include her and Kowalski. “We’re autonomous at the moment. If we hook up with a larger force we’ll probably lose a degree of flexibility in decision-making. Regardless of the service, anyone ranking beyond sergeant will assume seniority in the chain of command.”

  “What he’s saying,” Elvis said, butting in, “is some panicked dweeb could get us killed with a stupid order.”

  “The more senior the officer, the bigger the asshole,” Smithy called out from the turret of the Hummer.

  Jameson softened the point by adding, “Officers can be idealistic, lacking common sense.”

  “Oh,” said Bower, not used to the idea of giving the responsibility of life and death to someone she didn’t know and trust already. “So what you’re saying is, once we hook up, we’re stuck with whoever we get?”


  “Lucky dip,” Bosco added.

  Jameson nodded, turning back to the soldiers. “We’re good for one, maybe two engagements, but Elvis is right. We’re too big to hide, too small to fight. Besides, the Marines will be in contact with CentCom, we’ll be able to report in and get some clarity around the situation.”

  Elvis spat on the ground. “I’m in.”

  “Yeah, not a lot of choice,” said Bosco, a hint of reluctance carrying in his voice.

  Bower admired the way Jameson worked with his soldiers. He had to know they had no choice given the circumstances. They were less than twenty miles from Lilongwe, yet for Jameson it was important to maintain a sense of unity even this far along the track.

  “OK, let’s roll,” he said, walking back to the truck.

  As they got underway, Bower looked out at the alien pods. They lay scattered in the distance, spread out hundreds of feet apart on the dry grass or caught in thorny Acacia trees. She didn’t say anything, as no one else seemed to notice and she didn’t want to be alarmist, but they were all broken, they were all leaking. The further they drove, the more sure she became, noting that not only had the fragile, white umbrella-shaped parachutes dissolved in the wind, leaving a brittle skeleton, but the resin casings had ruptured too. They were breaking down, their dark walls giving way and spewing thick, black sludge on the ground.

  What did it mean? What did it matter what it meant? Was there anything she could do about it? Had some kind of biological agent been released? Or was she being paranoid, reading too much into some unknown process?

  Sitting there, bouncing with the worn suspension of the truck on the rough track, Bower knew she was helpless and that scared her more than any giant creature floating through the sky. For the first time, she thought she could die, that the events unfolding around her could lead to her demise. Her life was out of her control. There was nothing to control, nothing she could change. And this was true for all of humanity.

  The floaters had gone, disappearing over the horizon to the north. They appeared to move roughly parallel with each other. In some ways, she preferred having them around. As jarring as they were, they held a sense of awe, but with their passing, Bower was left with a sense of fear for the unknown. What was next? As the sun set and Africa descended into night, she couldn’t shake a pervading fear of the dark.

  Chapter 08: Lilongwe

  “He says the Marines are holed up at the airport to the east of the city, but that there are Pakistani soldiers in the old UN compound in the city center,” Jameson said, climbing back in the truck after talking with government troops by a roadblock on the outskirts of Lilongwe.

  The city was in flames.

  A red glow rose over the horizon, lighting up the darkness, silhouetting the buildings of the capital. Sporadic gunfire erupted from around the city. Bower had no idea of the distances involved from the sound, but the soldiers didn’t seem too concerned. Can’t high-powered bullets travel upwards of a mile or so, she wondered, but it was a question she didn’t really want answered.

  “The captain reckons its easily eight miles,” Jameson added. “Bosco hasn’t been able to raise the Pakis on the shortwave, so we’re going to hunker down here for the night and move in with the dawn. Pull the truck up over behind the command post.”

  “Roger that,” Elvis replied, putting the truck in gear and driving around the side of a war-torn building. Bullet holes ran along the concrete. There was no glass in any of the windows, and no light from inside, but Bower was tired. Bad had become a relative term. With the advent of vast alien creatures drifting through the sky, it seemed the worst the civil war had to offer was nothing compared to the threat of an unknown alien menace. In that regard, the building actually seemed inviting, being shelter from what she thought of as prying eyes from the sky.

  Funny that, she thought, climbing out of the cab of the truck: the illusion of importance. She felt the world revolved around her even though she knew it didn’t. Somehow the alien presence was a personal threat. Bower was torn. On a logical level, she was intrigued by the arrival of an alien intelligence. The doctor and scientist within her had so many questions. And yet her human side worried. Her natural instinct was to fear all that was to come. The future seemed dark. In the depths of her soul she wanted to unwind time, to go back to simpler days, to return to her village hospital. Certainty, that’s what had been lost. Bower somehow felt there had been certainty in the midst of a brooding civil war. She smiled at the irony.

  As she walked across the dusty ground she noticed a government soldier pissing into the remains of an alien pod. She went to say something to him, but what was there to say?

  Jameson led her and Kowalski into a small storage room with single window. Jagged shards of glass stuck out of the window frame. There was no privacy, but at least she knew no one would try climbing in during the night.

  “We’re going to get you to bed down here. Try to get some sleep. In addition to the government sentries, we’ll have a two-man watch through the night.”

  Bower nodded.

  Kowalski dropped their packs onto the ground.

  Bower was surprised by how tired she was. She barely remembered unfolding her sleeping mat and crawling into a thin sheet sack.

  Within seconds, it seemed, she was being woken by Kowalski rummaging through his backpack.

  Light broke the darkness hanging over Lilongwe. For a moment, Bower thought she caught a glimpse of the alien mothership, but it was a cloud lit up in soft pinks high in the stratosphere. A hot, dry wind blew in from the west. The humidity was already oppressive.

  “Rise and shine,” Bosco said, sticking his head in the door.

  Bower was still trying to process the eight or nine hours that had vanished in a fleeting moment. Kowalski had already repacked his bag. He offered her some water, which she gladly accepted.

  “I need to -”

  “Latrine’s behind the guardhouse,” Bosco replied. “Unisex.”

  Bower faked a smile. As she walked past Jameson he handed her a bullet-proof vest saying something she missed with the sound of gunfire close by.

  “I’ll just be a ...”

  There was no need to go on. Jameson knew. He continued rummaging around in the back of the Hummer. Elvis and Bosco were joking around with each other, laughing about something.

  Smithy was checking the bulky magazine on the lightweight machine gun. Bower got the distinct impression she shouldn’t dawdle.

  The smell from the toilet was overwhelming.

  One of the young Rangers followed her over and stood outside the latrine with his M4 rifle in hand. He looked outward, away from the toilet, toward at the checkpoint. He must have followed her on Jameson’s orders, even though she was barely thirty feet away.

  “Thanks,” she said after she came back out. The young man simply smiled in reply and followed her back to the rest of the Rangers. His helmet looked too big for his head. Bower couldn’t suppress the realization that she was being protected by a kid with a machine gun. He looked barely out of high school.

  The bulletproof vest was uncomfortable, designed for men. Bower fiddled with the webbing on the shoulders, trying to let the breastplate out a little as she walked back over to join the soldiers.

  “Here, let me help you with that.”

  Bower looked up to see Smithy with her helmet off. Although her blonde hair was cropped short and messy, she was pretty. Her petite face had a natural beauty, one that didn’t need makeup to accentuate her features. It was no wonder Elvis joked about her being Combat Barbie. Smithy really did look out of place among the Rangers. She belonged in a vogue magazine, not a civil war.

  Smithy loosened the waist strap for Bower.

  “Feels like you’re carrying lead weights over your shoulders, huh?”

  “Yeah,” Bower replied sheepishly.

  “Not the most practical or fashionable of outfits,” Smithy continued, adjusting the straps for her. “But, hey, out here you don’t wan
t to attract unwanted attention.”

  “How do you do it?” Bower asked. She hoped Smithy understood what she meant by ‘it.’ Everything associated with Army life seemed so contrary to a pretty young girl like Smithy, but that was the thing about stereotypes, she figured, they never fit everyone.

  Smithy shrugged her shoulders. She was shy, which surprised Bower. From what Bower had seen of the young lady, Smithy was able to hold her own with the male troops, and yet deep down she really wasn’t some tough-as-nails butch woman. If anything, she seemed more feminine than Bower.

  “I’m the youngest of five kids, four of them boys, so I’m used to the banter.”

  “But to fire at someone?” Bower asked, not able to bring herself to use the word kill.

  “Yeah, that’s a bit nasty. I don’t think anyone really likes it, but it’s one of those things you’ve got to do, you know, like washing out an old garbage can with maggots and stuff. You don’t want to touch it, but you know what’s right so you just get on with the job.”

  Bower was silent.

  “Hey, I’ve got something,” cried Bosco, holding the handset for the shortwave radio. The radio itself was seated on the hood of the Hummer, its three-foot long aerial extended. Bosco kept talking into the radio as the others gathered around. Jameson was pointing at something on a map next to the radio, talking with Elvis. Kowalski leaned over, taking a good look, although Bower doubted he knew what he was looking at. Bower strained to understand the words being spoken over the haze of static.

  “ ... avoid northern routes ... main clear ... sporadic rebel attacks on Dupoint Road ...”