New World Rising: A story of hope born out of tragedy

by Sloane, Lynette

  “It’s a good thing I wasn’t in the shower,” Chrissy said, glancing in Howard’s direction. “I didn’t even know I was coming.” Howard was still doing up his shirt, his eyes lighting up as he viewed the little alien. As I expected, my brother immediately took control.

  “There are a couple of things we should do right away. First, a name. We can’t keep calling him the Aapa, so how about Olan, after Grandfather? … He is male you know.”

  Both Chrissy and I agreed, I could tell by her inquiring expression the she too was wondering how Howard could tell the alien’s gender when there were no external genitalia.

  “Next we should give him some clothes … and, by the look of it, he’s ready for solid food.” I looked at the Olan creature again. He’d definitely grown. As I lifted him out of the coiffeur and sat him on the sofa he instinctively reached out his arms towards me, as if wanting a hug.

  “I’m sure this isn’t right,” I said, picking him up again. “He seems almost human … like a two-year-old child. He should be with his parents. You shouldn’t have brought him here.”

  Howard raised his shoulders as if to shrug, then said, “I’m inclined to agree with you, but how can we get him back to Theta Dayton Four? Even if we managed to smuggle him back through interplanetary customs it would still take at least eight days travel time to get him home … which, as you probably know, will be too late for this little chap.” Howard tussled the child’s hair and the little lad giggled.

  After much discussion we decided to keep Olan at the flat and give him the best home we could, although I was to discover later that Howard never had any intention of taking him back to his homeworld.

  After an ample meal the Aapa fell asleep wearing the red and black, ‘Hereford City - Premier Division Champions’ sleep-suit Howard had reproduced from the atom replicator at work. The replicator was an appliance that reproduced items, either cloned from its database or from external specifications. In this case, Howard had given the replicator the exact oral instructions to reproduce a child’s sleep-suit, and it had delivered it to him within a couple of seconds.

  Old or dirty garments, rubbish, and any other unwanted items, could be placed in the replicator and converted back to energy, which was stored in a containment field deep below the Research Centre where Howard worked. This energy would then be used to reproduce other items as needed. It was all very environmentally friendly.

  Day Two:

  Most human mothers will tell you that their children grow out of their clothes much too quickly, but this is nothing compared to Aapas. By morning Olan resembled a five-year-old child, so it was a good thing his sleep-suit had been made a couple of sizes too big. He was trying to talk too. Howard explained that because Aapa’s used ninety percent of their brains, and their inferior parietal region was much more developed than in our human brains, Aapas were all incredibly intelligent and, therefore, fast learners.

  Chrissy, Howard, and I spent the day teaching Olan to speak, read, and how to use the computer so he could learn directly from the Research Centre database. He had an insatiable appetite for knowledge; even Howard had trouble keeping up with him. I had never witnessed anyone learn so quickly. The alien child was also very affectionate and frequently asked for hugs. Like any human child, he often needed reassurance, especially from me.

  “Bally, where did I come from?” he asked me after his fifth change of clothes—each outfit several sizes larger than the previous one. “I know I don’t originate from this planet because I’m not like you and Howard.” This was true. It was the evening of his second day and he looked like a youth of fifteen. His dark curly hair, chiselled features, and almost black eyes made him a very good-looking lad. Like all of his kind, small, patchy leopard skin spots stretched across his shoulders and extended down his sides, before fading and tapering out around his ankles.

  I remembered Howard telling me, “These spots are an important part of Aapa culture and only become evident at puberty. On Theta Dayton Four an Aapa isn’t considered a true man or a full woman unless they have a well-defined set of spots.”

  Although Olan was always smiling I could sense a sadness deep within him. He tried to hide it from us but I could see it. It seemed he was longing for a far away place. Maybe he was homesick for the homeworld he would never see.

  “No Olan, you aren’t like us,” I told him gently. “You came from the fourth planet in the Theta Dayton system. Howard brought you back to earth and I hatched you in the heating duct.” I explained to Olan everything I had learned about his people, which at this time was quite limited. I preferred to use the term people rather than species as Olan really did seem human to me, more than that, he felt almost like my child. Perhaps I was being foolish. I had to remind myself not to get too attached to him, but it was too late for that.

  I checked the time; it was nearly midnight and Olan was becoming a young man before my eyes.

  Day Three:

  The next morning my three-day-old friend looked more like a man of twenty-five. He stood in front of the food simulator and declared, “Computer, generate rice toasties and milk.” The machine immediately obliged and two rice toasties and a beaker of milk materialised on the food counter.

  “Mm delicious,” he said, taking a bite of the one of the toasties. “I think my species is definitely supposed to be vegetarian.”

  There was a knock on the door. I checked the external monitor; it was Howard accompanied by a middle-aged man, presumably a work colleague.

  I gave the directive, “Computer open door,” and the two men walked in.

  Howard didn’t greet me but simply announced, “This is Dr. Dantzig from the Research Centre. He’s come to meet Olan.” Dr. Dantzig was a thickset man of middle years with a good head of greying hair.

  “Pleased to meet you,” the Doctor said, offering me his hand. What a quaint old custom, I thought as I shook hands with him. Everything about Dr. Dantzig seemed old fashioned, from his leather zip-up jacket to his horned rim spectacles and two-tone leather shoes. His style reminded me of my great-grandfather. Although I’d never met the old man I had inherrited a collection of antique ‘2D’ family photographs from my mother, and had seen his image on those. I wondered why anyone would dress that way now. However, Dr. Dantzig looked a kindly man; his eyes conveyed a trust. I felt quite protective towards Olan, but as Howard obviously trusted the doctor I decided I should do likewise.

  Dr. Dantzig asked Olan to stand still, and over the next few minutes he and my brother took all kinds of readings with their handheld medical scanners. Although I couldn’t get them to tell me very much, they both seemed very excited at what they were discovering. I felt they were purposely speaking in their technical language to block me out of the conversation. All I understood was that Olan was in perfect health, but there was no way that his life could be extended past the seventh day. Olan seemed to accept this as if it were perfectly normal to live for just seven days … and I suppose for him it was.

  I looked at him, a strong, healthy, handsome man, with dark, deep-pool eyes and curly dark hair. As fresh faced as any youth, full of promise and expectancy of what life had in store for him, he looked excited and ready to face the future—but yet what future? Four days at the most? That didn’t seem much of a future to me.

  I decided I would leave the three men to their gadgets and medical banter and put some time in at the art gallery. There were still a few paintings that needed my attention and I had slightly less that a month left in which to complete them all. Anyway, Howard and his work colleague were taking Olan back with them to the Research Centre, so there was nothing to keep me in the apartment.

  “I believe Olan can help us as much as we can help him,” Dr. Dantzig said, looking in my direction as I set off through of the door. “This is a wonderful way to find out first hand all about his species.” I nodded and said something like ‘see you later’.

  I took the hovercar and arrived at the gallery within minutes, but found I coul
dn’t relax or concentrate on my work. I was impatient to get home to Olan so hurried my painting, and drove back to the apartment. No one was there and once home I regretted rushing my work.

  Howard and Olan transferred back from the Research Centre at around four in the morning. I had stayed up to see them, occasionally dozing on the sofa, so was very sleepy when they got in. Olan was looking older but I didn’t mention it. He’d lost some of his youthful complexion and his lovely dark hair was starting to grey at the sides.

  “How did you get on?” My question wasn’t aimed at either of them specifically.

  Olan answered first, “It was fantastic; I learned so much.” He was clearly very excited about the day’s events.

  Howard added, “Olan was such a help today. Some of the matter regenerator problems he solved will save countless lives. I could tell you much more but you’d never understand.”

  “Oh thanks, I’m not stupid you know,” I replied. “Can’t you explain in layperson’s terms?”

  Howard looked unconvinced, “I’ll try. You know how when you transfer from one place to another the computer makes a record of your cellular pattern, converts it into energy for the transfer, and afterwards converts the energy back to the original cellular pattern.”

  “Yes I know that much,” I replied, thinking he’s either being sarcastic or thinks I’m totally science-phobic.

  “Well Olan has found a way to store a cellular pattern for much longer, probably indefinitely, so that if a person, say, breaks a leg or gets knocked over by a hover bus, as long as they were still alive they could be transferred back home, or wherever, and the computer would convert them back from energy to their earlier cellular pattern. They would be as good as new!” Howard was animated.

  “And I could use today’s cellular pattern in ten year’s time to get rid of any wrinkles?”

  “Typical of a woman,” Howard said, “but technically yes … although you could use the cell-regenerator for that. This has much more important medical applications.”

  Day Four:

  Olan was the first one up the following morning. He strolled noisily into my bedroom, whistling a tune.

  “It’s a lovely fresh day. Here you go … guava juice and Nebulon chip cakes. Nice and hot the way you like them,” he said, cheerfully. How can people be so jolly in the mornings? I thought. I was a night owl and not too keen on early mornings—or mornings at all really. Olan had even placed a small, white Venus flower in a vase on my breakfast tray. “Not every day you become older than your mother,” he said, with a smile. I returned his smile. It was kind of cute that he thought of me as his mother.

  “The computer says I’m forty six, stupid thing. Proves computers aren’t always right; I’m clearly only four days old and in human terms still look at least ten years younger than the computer says I should.”

  I thanked him for my breakfast and took a sip of my juice.

  Olan continued, “I’m not needed at the Research Centre today. Can you teach me to drive the hovercar?”

  “It could be awkward; you haven’t got a licence.”

  I thought for a moment and decided life was too short for worrying about technicalities. I was going to make Olan’s next few days as good and happy as I could.

  These days everyone took driving lessons, and their driving test, during their final year at school, so it would be most unusual to see someone of Olan’s apparent age learning to drive. Furthermore, if the traffic police stopped us they wouldn’t be able to identify him from the database, which would be suspicious, but this would be nothing compared with the ramifications of Olan being found to be of alien origin. Despite the risk, I decided it was worth it to see Olan happy … and the chances of getting caught were very slim.

  “Oh, what the heck,” I said. “Yea, that would be fun.”

  For the last sixty-three years there had been a worldwide Deoxyribonucleic Acid Database, known, of course, as the DNA Database. Every child had to give a DNA sample when his or her parents applied for their birth certificate, and it had become law that a birth certificate could not be issued unless the parents agreed to the sample. The baby’s unique DNA signature was then automatically added to the database. Anyone who refused became an outcast.

  Known as Drifters, such people were seen as a nuisance: the scourge of society. Drifters couldn’t buy or sell and had to live off the land like wandering nomads or the homeless of the twenty-first century. The law stipulated that such people could be shot on sight if they were found stealing or wandering too near official settlements. Vast numbers of them lived in the Canadian forests and other remote areas of the world, including Northern Scotland.

  There were, of course, pros and cons to the database system, the most noteworthy con being the exiled life of the Drifter. My best friend in second grade, Sophia, was a happy child with long brown hair and blue eyes. We always played together in school, but I never saw her after school hours, at weekends, or during school holidays. Her father always collected her from the school gates and ushered her into a wheeled van. Unbeknown to me, her parents were Drifters who had succeeded in getting their daughter into the school system. Unfortunately, one day the authorities found out. Sophia and her family were arrested and I never saw them again. Years later, I learned that her parents had been shot and she had been forced to give a DNA sample and sent to live across the country.

  On the pro side of the debate, the combined use of the DNA database and the atom tracer made it virtually impossible to get away with any crime. The forensic police only needed to scan the crime scene for genetic material, enter their findings in the database, and the owner of the said material would be instantly identified. The atom tracer could then confirm who had been present at the scene. This relatively new device could trace a person’s whereabouts over the last eight to twelve days, depending on the strength of the signal.

  The introduction of the database also meant that no one could claim a false identity, and information was readily available for anyone needing to know the paternity of a child.

  Another positive application of the DNA database had been in searching for organ or bone marrow donors for life saving surgery, although this would soon be unnecessary (if the online newspapers were to be believed). The production of Synthetic bone marrow and other synthetic body parts had been perfected and would soon be available to members of the public. In the next few years it would be possible to get a full synthetic skeletal transplant if you suffered with advanced arthritis. The only exception was for Drifters. As they weren’t on the database they didn’t get any medical help or other advantages, but they proved nearly impossible to trace in the event of a crime. It was said that the Drifter community was ordered into a structured society and was virtually impossible to infiltrate.

  After my delicious breakfast I got up, showered, dressed, and took the turbo lift down to the parking lot with Olan. The hovercar, like almost everything else these days, had its own built in computer. It didn’t even need a key. To gain entry you positioned your hand, arm, or whatever body part you chose, in front of the small scanner panel on the outside of the door. The computer scanned your DNA signature, and if it recognised your cellular pattern the door opened. There was a similar scanner panel on the dashboard too, so to start the engine you simply motioned your hand over this and the car instantly leapt to life.

  This meant that the only people able to start the engine were those whose signature the computer had been programmed to recognise. As a result of such technology, hovercar theft had all but been eradicated.

  We climbed into the car: Olan sitting in the driving seat, and I as his instructor on the right.

  I pointed out a touch panel interface set in front of the driver’s seat.

  “Select manual,” I said with a smile. Olan jumped with surprise as the touch panel interface slid upwards away from him and a steering wheel with a hand accelerator and brake moved up and locked into place. I quickly programmed the computer to accept Olan’s rathe
r unusual DNA signature, giving him complete control of the vehicle. After a few less than smooth starts Olan quickly got the hang of driving. He was a natural, but then hovercars weren’t too complicated to master.

  As we drove onto Superhighway Route 65, I instructed Olan to select auto drive. The steering wheel and other manual controls moved away from him and the touch panel interface relocated back into its original position. Travelling didn’t take very long since the Highways Department introduced these superhighways. These were very straight, multi level roads that had five lanes running in either direction, but on which autopilot was compulsory. This was essential as the minimum speed limit was three hundred miles per hour. It was strange to think that in my grandmother’s day you could get fined for travelling at over thirty miles per hour in built-up areas and sixty miles per hour in the countryside.

  Olan was unused to our new speed, “Aren’t we going to hit something?” he asked, his voice rather shaky.

  “Don’t worry,” I reassured him, “hovercars have inbuilt programming sensors. If anything or anyone gets in our way, the car will change speed and/or manoeuvre accordingly.” I smiled at his worried expression adding, “There’s never been an accident on the superhighways.” He seemed comforted with my words and soon grew accustomed to the speed.

  We passed thousand metre-long posters with stretched out wording flashing along their length, thus allowing one to read them whilst moving at incredible speed.

  One poster declared, ‘Transfer not travel!’ The government had been fervent in promoting this idea. Consequently, traffic jams were completely unheard of, and, with the introduction of the hovercar, roadworks were now only a subject in ‘History of Transport’ lessons at school. Generations of people had never been in a traffic jam. The main reason for this was that nearly everyone chose to transfer instead of driving on laborious and repetitive journeys. Traffic congestion had been completely eradicated. Forward thinking parents transferred their children directly to school and back without having to do the school run, and it was no longer necessary to leave home two hours early to get to work via the traffic congestion of yesteryear.