Xenophobia

by Peter Cawdron

  “So what’s your plan?” she asked.

  “Liz,” Jameson continued. “The plan is to get you safely into NASA’s hands, the William Lawrence is simply a meeting point. You need to trust me.”

  “I trust you,” Bower replied. “The problem is, I don’t trust anyone beyond you.”

  “And yet you have to. You and Elvis have done something remarkable, something incredible. You’ve saved the life of one of these things at a time when everyone else was shortsighted and acting out of fear. Now, the world is rallying around you. You’ve got to trust those that can help.”

  Bower breathed deeply, looking deep into his eyes.

  “Do you trust them?”

  Jameson nodded.

  That he didn’t speak was curious. Bower figured he’d said all there was to say and that he knew both she and Elvis needed to cross this bridge on their own.

  Bower wanted to believe him, but she was aware that with each step the situation seemed to slip further out of her control. And yet, what control had she ever really had? None. And what could she and Elvis do with a creature from another world? Where could they go? Where would be safe? Jameson was right, there was nowhere left to run. They’d escaped Adan’s men, now they had to trust someone. They couldn’t run from everyone.

  “Stella ain’t going nowhere without me,” Elvis growled. It was a double negative, but Bower appreciated the emphasis.

  Jameson nodded, providing his consent. He looked at Bower.

  “We’ve got to get her home,” she said. “We’ve got to try to get her back with her folks.”

  Again, Jameson nodded.

  Bower glanced at the creature with its twisting fronds. She suspected Stella knew some of the terms they’d used in their discussion, at least those she and Elvis had taught her, but Bower doubted whether the alien understood all that had been said. If the creature understood, it never let on as it continued to examine the plants with absorbed interest.

  Elvis walked over toward the alien, saying, “Home, Stella. We’re going to take you home.”

  “Home,” the creature said, still using Bower’s voice. It was only then Bower noticed the soldier holding a handy-cam as he stood in the doorway, capturing their conversation and the creature’s reactions on video. This would make for some interesting viewing at some point, she figured.

  “Yes. Home,” replied Elvis, reaching out and gently touching the alien’s blood-red, glassy fronds. The creature towered above him, reaching up to within a foot of the ceiling. The edge of its tentacles looked sharp, like the blade of a knife. If Bower didn’t know better she would have expected to see Elvis withdraw a bleeding hand, but he didn’t. Stella was equally gentle with him.

  Someone was talking to Jameson, whispering in his ear.

  Jameson turned to them and said, “One of the Spooks is on station, the Osprey is on approach. We need to get to the helipad on the roof. I don’t want to linger. Even with all this firepower bearing down on the city, I don’t want to tempt a fool with an RPG.”

  “Green light, Stella. It’s time to take you home,” Elvis said as he grabbed his starched shirt from the table, carrying it like a jacket over his shoulder. He followed Jameson through the doorway and out into the hallway. The alien didn’t hesitate. Bower followed behind the broad creature. The cameraman beside her was fascinated by the alien’s motion, leaning down to get a good long shot.

  As they crossed the reception area, Bower was aware of eyes watching from all sides. No one on Earth had seen anything like this before, well, very few had, she figured. There was an understandable level of curiosity.

  Jameson led them up a broad staircase, along a first floor corridor and then waited behind a metal fire-door overlooking a rooftop helipad.

  “How do you think she’s going to take the noise of a helicopter?” Bower asked. “And what about the disorienting motion associated with flight?”

  “How did she take the truck ride?” Jameson asked in reply.

  Bower shrugged, to her there was a world of difference, but he didn’t seem to think so.

  Looking through the small glass panel in the door, Bower saw the Osprey come in hard. The pilot wasted no time putting the craft down. The rear ramp lowered and a single soldier jogged out, the loadmaster.

  Jameson opened the door and the noise within the corridor jumped from roughly seventy decibels to well over a hundred and ten. Unlike the pilot of the Osprey that had touched down in the village of Abatta, this pilot wasn’t powering down his engines. They sounded like a freight-train roaring past.

  The alien bristled and began moving back toward Bower, moving away from the door.

  “You’re scaring her,” Bower yelled above the commotion.

  “We have to go,” Jameson yelled.

  “Green light, Stella. Green light,” Elvis cried, but the creature ignored even him.

  Bower knew she had to do something, and yet the prospect of being skewered by the glistening, sharp blades of the creature terrified her. She dropped to one knee, making herself small. Fronds lashed out before her, and she had visions of being shredded like Bosco, and yet something similar had transpired when the factory door had been opened. Stella had responded to her back then, not more than twelve hours ago.

  Bower closed her eyes.

  “I know,” she said softly, barely able to hear her own voice over the rush of noise around her, and yet she was confident Stella could hear her. Bower had long suspected Stella understood more than she let on. “I know you’re afraid. I am afraid too.”

  In the factory, using the same terms in different ways had helped Bower communicate basic concepts with the alien. She hoped that would work now.

  “We’re all afraid, but we need to get you home. We need to get you away from here.”

  She opened her eyes. Several of the insects that normally clung to the creature’s core sat on the end of the fronds closest to her face, swaying gently before her, examining her, trying to arrive at a course of action.

  “I know you’ve been hurt. We all have, but don’t be afraid. You need to trust us, we’re taking you home. Green light, Stella. Green light.”

  Again, Bower’s suspicions about the tiny creatures on the fronds seemed to be confirmed. Rather than one alien, it appeared she was dealing with hundreds, perhaps thousands of them, all riding a behemoth that responded to their deft touch like a chariot. There was intelligence there. Although she knew better, she couldn’t help but read intelligence into the tiny creatures staring back at her. They were sentient, she was sure of it.

  “Stella,” Elvis called out over the howling wind. “Green light, Baby. We’re taking you home.”

  “Home,” the creature replied, and Bower finally understood why the alien retained her voice. The extraterrestrial creature might have had its closest affinity with Elvis, but it had always been Bower who spoke with clarity. Stella trusted Elvis to act, Bower to speak.

  Slowly, the alien moved back toward Elvis.

  Bower watched as the tiny creatures nearest to her remained on the trailing fronds. They leaped from one swaying, spindly appendage to another as the spiky alien apparatus rolled away from her, keeping their focus on her, ensuring she continued to follow.

  Elvis stood on the tailgate of the Osprey, calling out over the noise of the engines. Stella followed him. Bower stayed close behind them, despite her misgivings about these hybrid aircraft. The loadmaster closed the ramp as the craft lifted off the ground in a hurry, before Bower was seated. The last thing she saw beyond the imposing steel ramp was Jameson and Smithy waving goodbye.

  Elvis moved up through the empty belly of the craft and took a seat near one of the few windows in the fuselage. Stella stayed by his side.

  Bower staggered through the craft as it rose rapidly in the sky, holding on to webbing on the sidewalls to keep her balance. These were clearly combat pilots. Comfort wasn’t a concern. Bower understood there was a need to be safe, but it wasn’t like anyone on the ground actually knew th
ey were carrying an alien, or even cared. Her stomach was queasy. She wondered whether she should ask the loadmaster for a barf bag now or later. Moving hand over hand up through the cargo hold, she eventually dropped herself down opposite Elvis and the alien.

  The loadmaster stayed down by the ramp, and Bower could understand why. The alien creature half-enveloped Elvis. Stella anchored herself, wrapping her scarlet-red fronds around one of the seats and some webbing reaching up high on the side of the craft, but she was so close to Elvis she covered part of him. Elvis didn’t seem bothered in the slightest by the swirl of red blades drifting past his face and body. Beetles and bugs swarmed over his chest, around his neck and down his anemic left arm. Bower was fascinated. She wanted to get up close, to watch what they were doing, but their magic, for lack of a better word, probably wasn’t visible until you got down to a microscopic level, perhaps even a subatomic level.

  Elvis pointed at his head. He had put on a pair of headphones with a small microphone attached. Bower looked around and grabbed a pair from the wall. There was a nob on the side. She twisted it and the whine of the engines vanished.

  “They’re noise canceling,” Elvis said. Although she saw his lips move, the sound of his voice came through the headphones as though he were standing behind her. “You’ve got three channels. Cargo-hold, cockpit and air traffic control, although we can only talk on the cargo loop.”

  “Ah,” Bower replied, getting used to the tinny sound of her own voice echoing back to her. “OK, this is pretty cool. I could get used to this.” Normally, all she got was a set of plastic earplugs to block out the noise.

  “How does it feel?” she asked, gesturing toward his arm, which was now a seething mass of tiny creatures.

  “Like a massage, a really good, deep massage.”

  “Huh.”

  “Flight time is three hours twenty minutes,” the loadmaster said, and Bower got the impression he was being polite, speaking to let them know he was active on the cargo loop more than anything else. Privacy was a rarity in the military.

  The door to the cockpit opened slightly. Bower expected someone to walk through, but they must have got a good look at the huge alien apparently devouring a soldier in the cargo hold and thought better of walking in. The door slammed shut. A few seconds later, another voice spoke over the cargo loop.

  “Just wanted to check that you’re all OK.”

  “We’re good,” replied Elvis, winking at Bower.

  “Roger that, will relay to Command.”

  There was a pause for a moment before either the pilot or copilot added, “We’ll monitor the cargo channel. If any emergency arises and you need us to put down, let me know.”

  “We’ll be fine,” said Elvis.

  Bower was doing her best not to laugh. What for them had become commonplace must have seemed like something out of a horror movie. The poor bloody pilots, she thought, they’re probably half-expecting the alien to come tearing through the steel cockpit door and smear their brains all over the inside of the windshield.

  Elvis could see her trying to suppress her laughter. He held his finger up to his lips, signaling for her to be quiet. She mouthed the words, “I’m sorry.”

  Bower had to say something, not just to keep from laughing but to help the pilots understand. To have remained quiet would have been cruel. She tried not to laugh as she spoke, but it was difficult to convey a sense of seriousness.

  “Ah, please don’t worry about us. I know it must look awfully disconcerting seeing our interstellar guest for the first time, but please be assured, she’s as gentle as a lamb.”

  It was a lie, but what did another lie hurt? And hearing it from a woman probably helped soothe their nerves a little.

  “Roger that,” came the reply.

  Bower was curious.

  “So,” she said. “Did you guys draw the short straw for this mission?”

  “No mam. This was voluntary.”

  “Well, that was rather brave of you.”

  “Or stupid,” the unseen officer replied over the headset. Bower liked him already, and laughed somewhat politely in reply, just enough so that her laughter sounded civil.

  The flight leveled out so she stood and looked out the small port on the side of the craft. She had to pull on the curled audio cord leading to her headset to get a good look.

  “How high are we?”

  “Just on twelve thousand feet.”

  Although the window was small, if Bower moved around she could see a wider field of view. Above them, several fighter jets sat off in the distance, heading in the same direction. There was another helicopter to one side, slightly ahead of them. She got the impression there were several more airplanes or choppers accompanying them, catching a faint glimpse of another craft from the edge of the window.

  “They’re not taking any chances, are they?”

  “No, mam.”

  Below them, the jungle canopy rolled over the hills, smothering the land in a sea of green leaves. A large lake passed beneath the Osprey, its blue waters looked serene. In the distance, the ocean loomed large, an abrupt end to Africa. Bower stood there for a while, watching as the shoreline slowly approached. She wanted to talk, but she felt like no one wanted to talk with her. For the pilots and the loadmaster any conversation was limited, and she didn’t get the feeling Elvis wanted to talk openly while there were prying ears, regardless of their intentions. Elvis seemed happy to freak them out.

  She sat down again and slouched in the seat. Before long the rhythmic pulse through the fuselage caused her to drift off to sleep.

  It seemed as though no sooner had she closed her eyes than someone was saying, “We’re five minutes out,” waking her from her slumber.

  Three hours had passed in the blink of an eye.

  The headphones hurt her head. Like everything military, they were designed to be functional, not comfortable. She lifted them away from her ears for a moment, wanting to free her head from their vice-like grip, but the deafening sound of the engines overruled her discomfort and she put them back on. Five minutes couldn’t come soon enough.

  Bower was tempted to get up and watch the landing out of the window, but that probably wasn’t the smartest move, and besides, what would she see? Probably just the ocean. Looking sideways, she wouldn’t see the ship until they touched down.

  A couple of minutes later, the pilot said, “Fifty meters.”

  Bower could feel the Osprey slowing its descent, hovering as it picked its spot for landing. The wheels touched down gently and she breathed a sigh of relief as the engines powered down.

  Stella had been quiet throughout the trip, but during the descent the alien must have realized they’d arrived. The tiny insects swarming over Elvis returned to the bulbous heart of the spindly creature. Elvis looked at his arm. It looked entirely normal, as though nothing had ever happened. Bower shook her head in admiration. There was a lot she could learn from Stella in regards to medical science.

  The engines dropped to a whine and Bower removed her headphones. The rear ramp lowered and Bower could already feel the gentle sway of the ship beneath them as it rolled through the swell of the open ocean. The smell of sea spray filled the air.

  Several officers stood on the deck well beyond the Osprey’s open tailgate, but Bower’s eyes were drawn to the film crew. There were three cameramen, at least Bower assumed they were men, she couldn’t tell at first.

  “Green light,” said Elvis, getting up and putting his shirt on.

  Bower and Elvis walked side by side down the ramp. In some unspoken agreement they were shielding Stella. It was a token gesture, but Stella seemed to appreciate their slow walk. Out of the corner of her eye, Bower could see Stella edging forward behind them, weary of a new environment. Could Stella swim? This could be terrifying for the alien.

  For the most part, the flight deck was empty, but Bower could see sailors further up the craft working with a crane. The welcoming committee gave them plenty of room to step dow
n onto the deck.

  “I’m Captain Helen Lovell,” one of the officers said, introducing herself. “This is my XO, James Davidson.”

  Bower was pleasantly surprised to meet a female captain of a warship. Both she and Elvis introduced themselves. Bower shook hands with Captain Lovell, while Elvis saluted.

  Stella kept her distance, but she was on the deck of the ship with its rough, painted grit surface designed to keep sailors from slipping in the wet. Stella looked magnificent against the drab, battleship grays surrounding her. Her red fronds glistened in the sunlight.

  Bower was sure Stella was aware of this amiable exchange and hoped the pleasantries would put the alien at ease. In shaking Davidson’s hand, she could feel his fingers trembling slightly. It had to be nerve-wracking to put on a pretense of civility with a massive alien creature looming blood-red behind them.

  The film crew were wearing NASA polo shirts.

  “Dr. Anish Ambar,” said an older man, speaking with a distinct Indian accent. His face was kind, his skin a soft shade of brown. He was impeccably groomed, with a neatly trimmed mustache and short black hair. Soft grey highlights peppered his mustache but his hair still retained its youthful vigor. “Director of Astrobiology with SETI, based out of Mumbai.”

  “It’s a pleasure,” Bower replied. She went to introduce herself, but Dr. Anish continued speaking.

  “Dr. Bower, we are deeply indebted to you and your colleague for preserving the life of this remarkable creature.”

  Bower turned to one side, “Dr. Ambar, this is Stella. Stella, Dr. Ambar.” There was a nice introversion in a formal introduction. Bower hoped Stella picked up on that, with the repetition of both names making it clear these were proper nouns.

  Over the past day, Bower had observed how the alien could alter its apparent height by flexing or softening the blades that carried it onward. Here, on the deck of a US warship, the creature raised up on the tip of its blades, giving it an impressive height of almost ten feet. It’s medusa-like head of scarlet fronds swayed like a snake sampling the air with its tongue.