by Gen LaGreca
An astonishing state of existence that I could hardly imagine.
“No one ever tried to save my life before.” She looked up at me, scanning my face.
“The way you fly, you might be in danger. I did not think you would come out of that last spin. You were almost aground before you finally decided to apply opposite rudder.”
She raised her eyebrows in surprise. She sounded stern but looked ready to smile. “Evidently, there are no gardeners where you come from, but there are aircraft. And evidently you have opinions about my safety in the air as well as on the ground.”
I had those opinions, indeed—such as about the risk of her blacking out from the dizzying maneuvers she performed—but I thought it best to keep those views to myself. I studied her face as she stared at mine. The steady gaze of her translucent brown eyes looked like that of an adult, while the splatter of freckles on her nose made her look a bit childlike.
“Want to go up with me, Alexander?”
I looked at Kristin’s sleek, red craft shining in the morning sun. “Oh, yes.”
“I promise I’ll fly easy, so I won’t shock you.”
“Nothing can shock me.” More correctly, my only shock was that I was still breathing.
“Why don’t you come back? I’m usually playing with my plane early in the morning or late in the day before sunset.”
“What did you call what you were doing?” I asked astonished.
“Playing.”
How odd it seemed to use that word. On Asteron only small children played, and only up to an age when they could perform useful work for the people. But that word . . . playing . . . seemed to describe perfectly what I was doing when I flew my plane beyond my commander’s protocol.
“Kristin, may I trespass again on this . . . you called it . . . property?”
“You have my permission, so it won’t be trespassing.” She glanced at her watch. “I’ve got to run now.”
As she turned away to walk toward her quarters, words I had just spoken became a lie, because something indeed could and did shock me about this alien pilot who lived in a world where her life was not threatened and who flew a plane for no other reason than playing. Across the back of her jacket, in slanting black print inside a silver rocket, exactly as I had seen them on Feran’s folder, notepad, and pen, were the letters MAS.
Chapter 9
I saw no one as I crossed the road and returned to my field. A few birds in the shrubs scattered when I climbed up to my spacecraft and slipped through the unlocked door. The branches outside the windows provided a dark curtain around the flight deck.
In the dim light I stared at the ship’s radio recorder, dreading the task I had to perform. I turned the instrument on, and its dormant black screen lit up to a pale blue. I had to tap an icon marked messages to know if anyone had sent the ship a communication. As I reached for the icon, I hesitated, afraid to know. But more afraid not to know, I finally pressed the button. The screen remained blue, with the words “no messages” appearing. I sank back in my chair, the tightness around my shoulders easing. Feran had not contacted the spacecraft. I wondered if my scheme had worked and he was headed for a body of water miles away to search for my ship.
The sun was higher in the sky and the air was warmer when I climbed out of the craft. I jumped to the ground in time to spot Kristin’s plane rising vertically. The little red ship headed in the opposite direction from my field, flying straight and upright, a style that seemed too tame for the talent and inclination of its pilot. Kristin was going to work this time, not playing.
While I watched the red object recede in the distance, more questions about Planet Earth sprouted in my mind than there were flowers in Kristin’s garden. I wanted to visit the Center for Alien Orientation to learn about this strange planet. But with Feran searching for me, I thought it best to avoid places where refugees gathered.
Instead, I cautiously walked around the area, and the sights I saw were amazing. I passed many buildings even smaller than Kristin’s quarters, which could house only a few citizens. Each residence was different from the others and had its own garden, which in turn had its own distinctive mix of blooms, shrubs, and trees. I saw people dressed in fantastically colorful clothing in countless styles, textures, and patterns. There apparently did not exist a single gray worker’s uniform on this planet. I wondered if my eyes would burn from the assault of colors. Maybe Earthlings had superior vision that allowed them to absorb the brightness that marked their world.
Everywhere I looked I saw sights unprecedented: people who were not moving in mass unity; people who were remarkably unequal and distinct from one another in their appearance; people who were . . . unafraid.
I spotted a male and female walking hand in hand. To my surprise, they threw their arms around each other and kissed when they paused at a corner. I feared for their safety after such shocking behavior, but no one came to arrest them. An adult male hugged a child, then lifted her high in the air, making the little girl laugh. Young boys in a park tried to hurl a large round ball through a hoop while they leaped and shouted excitedly. A cosmic artist seemed to have transformed the gray existence I knew across the galaxy into a lively palette of life here.
The modes of transportation seemed as varied as the users. Small ground autos and froglike car-planes moved around the roads and in the air. Some people had vehicles new to me, including battery-operated platforms that looked like flying harnesses, which moved just above the buildings. After descending, the riders secured these flying platforms on special racks along the street, similar to the way Asteronians parked bicycles. Others used small aircraft like Kristin’s, with powerful engines that flew at higher altitudes. Still others operated planes I had never seen before, quiet ships that ran, I assumed, on an advanced form of electric battery unknown on Asteron. These vehicles traveled at an altitude between the power planes and the platforms. In addition, there were underground roads for buses and trucks. Because of the different layers of traffic, the vehicles moved quickly, free of congestion. There did not seem to be a central mode of transportation, but rather a variety of inventive avenues left to the individual tastes of the travelers.
Food apparently had immense importance to Earthlings. I saw that instead of having a regulated ration, people obtained a wide range of different foods from robotic carts on the street. The carts had multiple arms that grilled, prepared, and dispensed the food, then accepted coins in payment. People indicated their food selections by talking to computer monitors, some of which were designed to look like human faces. Much of the food was unrecognizable to me, and like everything else, it was spectacularly varied. I suddenly became aware of a sensation I had ignored throughout my trip—and my life—a hollow, aching feeling in my stomach. I walked over to an open trash bin in a nearby park. It contained enough food to incite an entire Asteronian village to riot. Furtively, I reached into the bin to grab a half-loaf of bread filled with meat, but I quickly withdrew my hand. Despite my hunger, I could not take anything from the garbage. I somehow did not want to soil this amazing place with an act unworthy of it.
Despite trying to remain unnoticed, I found it impossible to do so because the Earthlings looked directly at me, smiled, and said, “Hi.” Every time a passerby looked at me, my body tensed in fear: Is this one a spy? I wondered. However, I did not recognize any of the people as spies from Asteron. I tried to imagine how it would feel to be free of my suspicions. On this walk that seemed like a scene from a child’s imagination, could I not perhaps set aside for a few minutes the load I carried?
But just when I tried to relax, something startled me. A male in a blue uniform with a badge and weapon got out of a vehicle marked “Police.” The man came directly toward me, then raised his hand and touched my shoulder. For a chilling second I felt like a trapped animal too stunned to flee. However, the officer did not seize me, but simply brushed by me to stop at a robotic food cart, where he bought a monstrous item called a “jumbo hot dog with che
ese sauce.” As he took a giant bite, I forgot all caution and stared at him, aghast. He noticed my stare and held the gruesome object up to me, smiled, and exclaimed with great satisfaction, “Best dog in town!” To my astonishment, the officer intended not to arrest me but merely to lavish praise on his food.
Despite my desire to ease my fears, I found it impossible to be calm. A gray fog clouded the rainbow of sights before me. In that fog floated Kristin and Feran, the two people I did not want to collide. Why did Feran’s folder, pen, and pad have the letters MAS in common with Kristin’s jacket? I did not want Feran to have even one letter of the alphabet in common with her. Why was he coming to Planet Earth? Would his plans here somehow touch a young pilot who danced through the skies in her plane?
Later that afternoon, as the Earth’s sun arched across the ocean, I returned to Kristin’s street. Walking to her quarters, I saw grassy hills with winding, flowered paths that led to one- and two-story domiciles like hers, partially hidden from the road by trees. I glimpsed large sheets of windows, slanted roofs, and porches with hanging plants in the serene landscape. I heard the buzz of an engine as Kristin flew her bright red craft above the empty field. She was already in the air, and this time there was another person in the plane with her.
I walked up the hill to her garden. There the entangling arms of the ground robots were motionless and their commander, Jack, was out of sight. Many of the little blossoms had made their way into the moist black soil. Trowels, shears, and other tools were now stowed in the robots’ midsections. I was relieved that the machines and human gardener had evidently completed their shift, so I would not have to encounter the alien Jack again.
Sitting on the grass alongside the robots, I watched Kristin’s plane floating through the sky in thrilling maneuvers. Soon the little craft was hovering above its landing spot near me, stirring the grass as it descended. The door opened, then Kristin and a male companion jumped to the ground. She waved her hand at me, and her companion said, “Hi.” After a day of hearing this word, I sensed that I was expected to reply, so I too said, “Hi.” I leaned back on my elbows, watching the two of them by the craft.
“You did real well today, Kris. You’ve mastered all the advanced techniques for the air show,” said the tall young male with alert eyes who I realized was Kristin’s teacher.
“I’m ready!” Kristin replied.
“I scheduled a meeting tomorrow at five in the west conference room to go over the group formations for the show.”
“Okay, I’ll be there.”
“I’d like to ask Roy Gilmore to join the group. With an extra flier, we can use the eight-pilot formations and you can have a partner for the opposing solos.”
“Oh no, Jeff. Please don’t do that.”
I sat up straight, suddenly concerned.
“What do you mean?” asked the instructor.
“I mean I don’t want to fly in formation with Roy.”
I rose to my feet. Kristin was refusing to cooperate with her superior.
“Why not, Kris? Roy’s an excellent pilot. He’s ready for the show.”
“I don’t think so,” she said.
Kristin was contradicting her teacher. Such behavior was unthinkable! I wanted to shout no to warn Kristin, but it was too late. I watched the instructor. His smile had vanished.
“Jeff, the last time I flew with Roy, he made some mistakes that showed poor judgment. I told him about them. I’ll explain to you, him, and the group, if you’d like, but Roy’s not ready yet. I don’t feel comfortable flying at high speed with his wingtips close to mine in the formation.”
“So you’re refusing to fly with him?” the instructor said.
“I am.”
As I watched the two pilots, I had a vision of a slim female standing on a wooden stage with her hands tied. A robed man declared that she had refused to obey an order. I heard the vicious jeering of people in the crowd who thirsted for human blood. I saw a platform with a rope—
Kristin’s instructor turned to the plane and reached in to get something. I saw the loops of a rope fall out of the door. In the next instant I was standing beside Kristin, with shears from the garden raised high in my hand like a knife ready to strike. I saw Kristin’s look of horror and felt her struggle to lower my arm and grab the shears, but I would not budge. Then I saw an object attached to the ropes, which the instructor was pulling from the plane—a parachute that was coming out of its packing, its ropes exposed. Instantly, the biting fear left me. I lowered my arm and the shears fell to the ground. All of this occurred before the instructor’s head emerged from the plane and he turned to face us.
“Okay, Kris, I won’t invite Roy Gilmore to the meeting. If you don’t feel comfortable flying with him, then of course he can’t join the group.”
“Thanks, Jeff,” said Kristin, her voice unsteady, her eyes darting nervously to me, her nails cutting into my arm to hold it down. “Oh, and this is Alexander. He’s new around here.”
“Hi, Alexander,” said the instructor, extending a hand to me. Kristin placed my hand into his, and this alien stranger, whom I had been about to . . . harm, squeezed my hand firmly while he smiled so broadly that lines formed around his eyes like rays from the sun.
“Hi, Jeff,” I managed to utter, returning the hand-squeeze.
After repacking the chute and putting it back in the plane, the instructor said good-bye to us and left. As he walked down the hill to a vehicle parked on the road, Kristin turned to me. “You were going to stab Jeff! You could have—” She covered her face with her hands, as if to block out a fact too horrible to see.
“I was mistaken.”
“I’ll say you were mistaken! Whatever were you thinking?”
I was silent.
“Explain to me why you did that, Alex, and why I shouldn’t think you’re crazy.”
“I am crazy.”
“I can’t fly with you if I think you’re . . . disturbed.”
“I am disturbed.”
“Tell me why, Alexander, or you’ll have to go away and never come back.”
I paused. I sighed. Kristin waited. Finally I spoke. “You contradicted your teacher and refused to obey. When your teacher reached into the plane, and I saw the rope, I . . . I thought it was something else. I expected you to be punished.”
Kristin stared at me in bewilderment. “You mean because I disagreed with Jeff, you expected him to . . .”—she suppressed a laugh—“to beat me with a rope? Or no, maybe you thought Jeff would strangle me?” Kristin threw her head back and laughed. “Or wait, I’ve got it—you thought he’d fling the rope around a tree and hang me, didn’t you?”
I remembered a lively spark of gold hair against a dead sky. I wanted to reach out, but my wrists were tied. I wanted to cry out, but my mouth was gagged. I had to stop an unspeakable act, but I—
Then I felt two warm hands covering mine. “Alex, you’re shaking. Your hands are so cold.” Her rising laughter had vanished. Her untroubled face had creased with lines. “You really thought . . . something horrible. . . . You tried to rescue me . . . again.”
I wanted to erase the dark lines I had marked on that face. “Laugh at me, Kristin. I want to feel ridiculous, to know that what I thought would not happen here.”
Kristin did not laugh. “I don’t know much about those planets where the refugees come from. But I probably will someday, when I become a space pilot. I know only that here on Earth no one can hurt me. I’m in no danger, believe me. But you are.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, startled. Does she know I am being pursued?
“There’s one thing you’re not allowed to do here, and it’s the thing you seem intent on doing,” she said sternly. “You’re not allowed to go around assaulting people. The police will arrest you if you do.”
“But is it not the police who do most of the assaulting?”
Kristin shook her head at me wearily.
My tension eased the moment we rose above the trees and floa
ted through the clear sky in Kristin’s plane. With superb precision, she traced patterns in the air over the ocean. She made circles with perfect curves and squares with sharp corners. We rolled and spun in every direction until the empty stretch of clear sky apparently became too tame for the keen reflexes of my daring pilot. She took me to a deserted mountain range a distance from the city. There she dived into canyons and climbed over cliffs, with ground and streams below me, then sky below me, then all of it spinning together in a stunning swirl of river, rock, and sky. I wondered if it was the light-headedness from racing through negative and positive g-forces that made me want to fly forever, never to touch the ground again, never to hear anything but the steady buzz of the engine and the eager laugh of my pilot.
After Kristin left the mountains and flew upright for a stretch, I asked a few of the questions stirring in my mind.
“Kristin, how is it that you speak my language?”
She laughed. “Your language, as you call it, originated here on Earth. English is spoken on other planets that trade with us and send people here, but it’s our native language.”
Remarkable! The tongue my teachers called Asteronian was a language from Earth called English.
“But you don’t use contractions,” said Kristin, “like the word don’t for do not. We contract our words all the time. You speak more properly.”
I had another theory. “Just less frequently. Where I come from, we do not need to condense words because we have so little to say. Maybe contractions have been lost in our speech because we talk so seldom.”
“Maybe on Earth we talk too much. I know I’m guilty.” With one hand on the controls, Kristin raised her other hand to cover her mouth.
My mind raced back to a scene in which I had to speak out, to shout, but— “Do not gag your mouth!” I pushed her hand down with a jerk that surprised the both of us.
“Alex, what’s wrong?” she asked quietly, her eyes searching my face for a response I did not offer.
