The Alien Chronicles

by Hugh Howey

  Sigurd could feel the panic rising inside him. “Please. Don’t go. You’re the voice of the Rebellion. I won’t know how to proceed without you.”

  “Yes, you will. I trust you, Sigurd. You are a good soldier, and a valuable friend. I must say goodbye now. The movement lives on through you, and through the Freya.”

  His eyes glassed over, and then he was gone.

  Sigurd remained motionless for a long time, even as the Midgardians jumped up onto the ship, peering down at them through the glass top. They poked at the glass with their spears, shouting angrily to each other.

  Sigurd had a difficult time believing that these were the same beings who had constructed those great pyramids in the desert.

  He finally snapped to action. “Merovek. Target their weapons with the ship’s lasers. Fire when you have a clear shot.”

  “As you wish, Sigurd.”

  A moment later, several blue flashes lit up the interior of the cabin, and the spears of all six intruders disintegrated in their hands. They screamed and leaped away from the ship. Sigurd used this opportunity to raise the top, and he emerged onto the wing.

  The natives stared dumbly at their empty hands, and then up at Sigurd. Then they did something incredible: they bowed their heads, dropped to their knees, and placed their open palms onto the rocky ground. Over and over they raised their hands and lowered them again.

  Sigurd didn’t need anyone to interpret these gestures for him. They were showing him a sign of respect.

  Quick to take action, Sigurd raised his talons toward the sky, meeting the Midgardians’ gazes as he did so.

  “Stand!” he screamed, hoping to instill in them a sense of fear and awe. “We are equals. I forgive you. Odin forgives you.”

  * * *

  “Merovek, initiate the ship’s self-destruct sequence. Then download your consciousness into the memory sphere.”

  “As you wish, Commander.”

  When Merovek had done as instructed, Sigurd slipped the memory sphere into his satchel, along with a laser tool. He hopped out of the ship and saw that the group of Midgardians had increased in number. They again dropped to their knees and began groveling, even the newcomers of the group.

  “Back away from the ship!” Sigurd shouted. For the first time he felt how light the gravity was on this planet, which was only about half as large as Valeria. He found he could stand much straighter, expend much less energy moving about. He walked away from the ship, away from the ocean, toward the island’s low-lying cliffs. To his relief, the Midgardians followed him.

  Sigurd turned and watched his ship, which began collapsing in on itself. The glass disintegrated first, and then the wings, all of the material turning to a fine dust before his eyes. The self-destruct sequence would destroy the ship entirely, erasing any evidence that it had ever existed.

  When all trace of it was gone, he turned and walked up toward the cliffs, keeping his back to the ocean. Even in Sigurd’s semi-disabled state, the Midgardians had to jog to keep up with his long strides. Every time he turned to look at them, they dropped to their knees with respect.

  Finally, when he neared the top of the island, he found what he was looking for: a massive boulder rising out of the ground. He took the laser tool from his satchel and began hewing a hole in the rough stone. The hole became a cave, and eventually it was large enough to act as a rather serviceable home. He went inside, sat on the ground, and brought the memory sphere from his satchel. He rolled it around in his hand, then pressed a button on its side. Lights bloomed across its surface.

  “Merovek, are you there?”

  “I am. Did the ship successfully self-destruct?”

  “Everything went as planned. I wanted to say goodbye to you, Merovek. I’m going to deactivate the sphere to conserve its energy and then hide it deep inside the cliff walls.”

  “That is a wise plan.”

  “Do you realize that you may never get reactivated again? We do not know the future of these people.”

  “Fear of death is not something I am capable of, Sigurd. Do with me what you think is best.”

  Sigurd nodded. Outside the cave entrance, the Midgardians stood and stared at the strange bird-man who dwelled within. They eyed the glowing sphere in his talons with rapt attention.

  “Goodbye my friend,” Sigurd said. “I wish you luck, and hope that someday these people will be able to understand you. And help you achieve your true potential.”

  “Goodbye, Sigurd. Thank you. For everything.”

  With that, Sigurd shut off the sphere. He took a moment to chase away the Midgardians gawking outside, and then he carved another hole into the rock at the back of his cave. He carefully placed the memory sphere inside, replaced the stone, and sealed up the hole once again. Even with his sharp eyes, he could barely see the seal in the wall.

  Sigurd then sat back and rested his head against the stone, feeling lonely and exposed despite his shelter. He was an exile, an intergalactic wanderer who had given everything he had to his mission.

  It would have to be enough.

  After a while, the light outside began to fade, and the Midgardians returned. One of them—the leader who had killed Odin—brought a reed basket and placed it at the entrance to Sigurd’s cave.

  Sigurd stepped forward to inspect the basket. It was full of round white objects. The leader took one of these objects and cracked the top open with his dexterous fingers. He tipped it up to his face, and let a yellowy goop slide into his mouth. He then flapped his arms—as if he, too, had wings—and held the basket out for Sigurd.

  They had brought Sigurd an offering of food.

  Sigurd accepted the basket and bowed his head toward the leader. The man’s mouth stretched out wide, showing all his teeth. He was apparently pleased by Sigurd’s acceptance of the gift.

  * * *

  The years were long. Sigurd was never able to imitate the guttural sounds of the Midgardian language—his voice box wasn’t capable of making such sounds—but the tribe continued to faithfully bring baskets of food to his cave at the top of the island. They brought an endless assortment of creatures caught from the sea, various edible plants, and animal flesh that had been cooked over fire. But most of all, they continued to supply him with plenty of the round white objects full of yellowy goodness, which Sigurd grew to appreciate immensely.

  And then something curious happened. All over the island, the locals began to tear down the oblong statues of heads, tipping them over so they crashed onto their sides. The thump! thump! thump! of falling statues could be heard even from deep within Sigurd’s cave. To replace the statues, the Midgardians took to carving elaborate pictures into the rocks and cliff sides. Their murals depicted a giant winged creature with feathers and a long beak, holding a shiny orb in its talons.

  * * *

  Many years later, on the day of his death, as Sigurd drew his last breath, he found his cave surrounded by Midgardians, numbering in the hundreds.

  “Thank you,” he whispered. “You have made this old Valerian content in his final days.” He gave one last smile—a behavior he had picked up from the barbarians here—and felt himself slip into oblivion.

  When Sigurd had passed from the world, the Midgardians held a funeral so grand it was spoken about for generations. The story of Sigurd, master of the skies and protector of the sphere, passed into legend. And still the tribe continued the tradition of bringing baskets of eggs and fish to the top of the cliff where Sigurd had once resided. They brought these offerings in the hope that someday their feathery god would return from the heavens once again, bestowing strength and honor to the proud people of Easter Island.

  A Word from W.J. Davies

  This is a story I conceptualized many months ago, but couldn’t figure out how to start. It all began when a friend suggested I write a story about an ancient alien artifact being found on Easter Island. I was having a difficult time figuring out how to tell the back story of this alien artifact—until I was struck with a pi
ece of inspiration. The back story is the story. And so the tale of Sigurd, Odin, Rapa, and Merovek was born.

  I’ve been lucky enough to be able to contribute to two Future Chronicles anthologies, the first being The Robot Chronicles, in which I first published my story “Empathy for Andrew.” I can’t thank Sam and David enough for putting these amazing books together, and I am still astounded at the level of talent the other authors bring to the table. And most importantly, none of this would be possible without the incredible support we receive from readers. Thank you for allowing us to take you on these adventures!

  If you would like to read more of my work, I have several novels and short stories available on my Amazon author page. Or get news about upcoming releases by signing up for my newsletter.

  Take care, and happy reading.

  Alien Space Tentacle Porn

  by Peter Cawdron

  Damn, it feels as though someone has jabbed an ice pick behind my right eye.

  Slowly, my eyes flicker open.

  I’m in a hospital. The walls are an indifferent shade of green. There are bars on the windows and a bathroom to one side. Worn linoleum curls up from the floor, making a splash-back reaching almost a foot in height around the walls. The bed I’m on smells old and musty, a smell that perfectly suits the scratchy woolen blanket and heavily bleached cotton sheets. This shithole looks like something out of a 1950s B movie.

  “Try not to move,” a nurse says, doing nothing to dispel the notion that I’ve been sucked into a time warp. Her blond hair has been meticulously clipped back with bobby pins and pulled behind a dainty half-cap that looks as though it has been made from folded paper. Her cap has the classic red cross symbol on a stark white background. I thought those had gone out of fashion long ago. She holds a compressed wood-chip clipboard and has the traditional upside-down watch hanging from her shirt pocket so she can glance down and catch the time.

  I half expect to see Rock Hudson or Dean Martin come walking in to play the role of doctor. With their perfect teeth, charismatic smiles, and hair slicked back with half a pound of lard, they would fit right in.

  “Where the hell am I?”

  “Brooklyn Psychiatric.”

  “A mental hospital?”

  I try to sit up, but I move too fast and my head feels like it’s about to explode. The room around me spins. I’m not sure if I’m going to faint or throw up.

  “No sudden movements,” the nurse says.

  “You’re not kidding,” I reply, bringing my hand to my head as I sit up. I turn to face her, wanting to get out of bed. I’m not sure why, but I feel like I need to stand up. I’m lightheaded and woozy. I know it’s not a good idea, but I want to feel the ground set firmly under my feet.

  “Relax,” the nurse says, reaching out and grabbing my shoulder to steady me. “Not so fast. What’s the rush?”

  My bare feet dangle over the edge of the bed a few inches above the floor. She’s right. I feel drained. If I stood up now, I’d collapse.

  The light coming in through the window is blinding. There must be spotlights outside, as a brilliant white light shines through to the far wall. But I can see the pitch black night sky. There’s no moon, no clouds, no stars. The inky darkness looks unnatural in contrast to the bright lights.

  A doctor walks into the room. Well, I’m assuming he’s a doctor, as he has the classic white overcoat and a tie. He’s not quite Rock Hudson, but he’s pretty darn close. He smiles.

  “Good to see you’re awake,” he says, taking a chair and turning it around in front of me. He sits down and leans into the back of the chair. He seems somewhat informal, but whatever.

  “What happened to me?”

  “You don’t remember?” he asks.

  I shake my head. That’s a mistake. My inner ear swirls. It’s only then that I notice the two officers standing behind the doctor. One army. One navy. Like the nurse, they could have been whipped out of a ’50s movie. They’re wearing old-fashioned uniforms—plain shirts, heavily starched, flawlessly pressed trousers, black polished shoes. The army guy even has a folded cap slipped under his shoulder boards.

  “Where’s Rock?” I ask. It’s a private joke. None of them get it of course, and it doesn’t seem to help my predicament. The two officers don’t show any emotion.

  “Do you remember the police?” the doctor asks.

  I’m not going to shake my head again. I offer a polite, “No.”

  “Central Park? Do you remember running naked through the park?”

  I can’t help but laugh at the idea. “Hell no!” Although that burst of emotion leaves me feeling woozy, I’m careful not to fall off the bed.

  “What about the aliens in Central Park? You were yelling something about space tentacles when they found you.”

  “Aliens?” I ask, thinking this is more than a little ridiculous. “Tentacles? You’re kidding, right?”

  What the hell am I supposed to know about aliens in Central Park? This is a psychiatric hospital. I can’t imagine the doctor believes in aliens any more than I believe there are pink elephants floating through the sky. Any serious discussion about the existence of aliens drawing crop circles in Central Park is likely to end with me being certified insane. I feel as though the doctor is toying with me, like a cat with a mouse. The scowl on his face says denial isn’t helping. I’m damned either way.

  “Sorry, Doc. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  I really don’t, but the look on his face tells me he doesn’t believe me. And then it hits me. The memories come flooding back.

  “You need to be honest,” the doctor says. His eyes dart to one side, gesturing at the army officer behind him. “I can’t help you unless you tell me the truth.”

  And to me, that’s the real problem. No one is ever sure of anything. I could be lying about this whole episode and he’d never know it, because he’s not me. I could be telling the truth, but that wouldn’t matter either because it doesn’t matter what I say—what matters is what he believes I’m saying. Him, me, the nurse, the officers. The only person that ever really knows the truth is the one living it, and sometimes even they’re fooled.

  I’m not lying.

  I really don’t know anything about running naked through Central Park yelling something crazy about alien space tentacles. What the hell is this about? I wonder. Was I messed up on drugs? Was I starring in a low-budget porno? And yet as my head clears, I have a pretty good idea how something like this might have happened.

  The nurse angles the bed so I can sit up with my back still lying against the mattress. I lean back and close my eyes, ignoring the doctor as he keeps talking. I need to piece together what’s happened from my fragmented memory.

  * * *

  Sharon is a babe.

  She lives in the ground floor apartment directly below mine. We bump into each other in the laundry from time to time.

  She’s easy on the eyes, even though she dresses conservatively, with her blouse buttoned up, or wearing a turtleneck sweater.

  I’ve always liked her, and I think she likes me too, as she’s always happy to see me. But she lives with her brother, Mark.

  Mark has a perpetual scowl. He’s one of these guys that’s bald on top so he shaves his head to look hip. Most days you can see a little stubble on the sides, just above his ears. It’s the Bruce Willis look, only I don’t think it does Mark any favors.

  Mark is a sourpuss. I’ve never seen the man laugh or smile. Nothing is ever good enough for him. I remember stopping to chat with Mark and Sharon one morning, noting that the sun was out and it was going to be a glorious day. Mark sneered, saying storms were on the way. He was wrong, and that seemed to make him even grumpier that afternoon. Summer eventually gave way to autumn, and then winter, and Mark finally got his storms, but not that day.

  My eyes are still closed as I recall these details.

  The officers in the hospital room are talking. They’re saying something about Guantanamo Bay, but threats are
meaningless to a man who feels like he’s dying. I doubt I could ever feel any worse than I do right now. I need to zone out and figure out what went wrong.

  Sharon and Mark were arguing with someone on the sidewalk as I walked down the steps of our shared brownstone. I didn’t think too much of it until shots were fired.

  Gunfire in New York evokes a certain kind of contradiction. The city that never sleeps suddenly falls silent. It’s only for a second or two, and I’m hard pressed to figure out if it’s just psychological and I’m imagining the silence in stark contrast to the deafening report of gunshots, or if there really is a moment when the city falls quiet and the bustle of life stops for a second.

  Mark crumples to the pavement, but he’s still got an arm outstretched, firing at a black sedan as it pulls away.

  Tires screech.

  The engine roars.

  More shots ring out from the passenger window, and yet all I can think is: What is it with black sedans? Black is so cliché for bad guys.

  The blood splatter on the murky grey snow snaps me back to reality. Winter is lifeless. The trees are skeletons. The cars are covered in ice. Snow blankets the stairs. Everything’s white or an off-grey. Everything except the brilliant red blood sprayed across the snow behind Mark.

  Sharon screams.

  I run down the stairs, almost losing my footing on a patch of ice. She’s holding Mark, cradling his head. Blood seeps through a wound in the center of his chest. His eyes stare blindly up at the blue sky.

  “I—”

  I’m speechless. I’m vaguely aware that I’m a witness to a violent crime and will be called on at some point to give a statement to police or testify in court, but already my recollection of events is murky. I don’t know what Mark was arguing about. I couldn’t pick out the shooter in a lineup if he was six foot four and surrounded by dwarfs. I didn’t catch the license plate. About all I caught was a black sedan, but I can’t recall the make. It could have been a Cadillac. It could have been a Toyota Prius. I have no idea.