The Sha'lee Resurrection

by Paul G White

  There had been no suggestion of a list of questions, and Craithie realised that the host had, possibly unintentionally, asked him a question that he would personally have selected if he’d been given a choice.

  “Yes, there is hope, Izzy. But – and it is a vital condition of salvation – we must destroy this alien spaceship before Satan’s little helpers in Belize become infected with the prospect of advanced alien technology, none of which can possibly be relevant to the human race.”

  Longman immediately displayed his talent for confrontation. “Did you just call the scientists at the site in Belize ‘Satan’s little helpers’ as a cheap attack on childhood beliefs around the world? Or was it intended as a parody of the well-used phrase – in other words, your little joke?”

  Craithie realised he had made a major gaffe and made an attempt to undo it. “My little joke, Izzy . . . just a joke.”

  Izzy Longman stared hard at Craithie for a few seconds, watching the other’s discomfort grow. “OK, John, I think people will probably understand.” He put one finger to an earphone. “Ah, I’m told my second guest has just arrived.” He rose to his feet and gazed into the wings whilst the show’s theme tune rang out once again.

  Craithie watched, fascinated, as Mike Carter was ushered to the vacant easy chair. This was entirely unexpected. Craithie had not been in Carter’s company for more than a few minutes with the exception of the journey to the airport some months ago; nevertheless, he had nurtured a brooding dislike for the archaeologist since the time of their first meeting.

  Izzy Longman ran a practised eye over the reactions and body language of his guests, and the signs he was picking up augured well for a particularly interesting few minutes to come.

  “I’d like to introduce to you all,” he told his audience and the cameras, “a man few of you will have heard of and even fewer will know well. Please welcome one of ‘Satan’s little helpers’ as Mr Craithie has named them. In fact he is assistant director of a certain archaeological site in Belize. Please welcome Doctor Michael Carter.”

  Mike Carter sat back in his chair, crossed his legs and pointedly avoided any kind of eye contact with Craithie.

  “Now Doctor Carter—”

  “It’s Mike . . . please call me Mike.”

  “Thank you, Mike. Call me Izzy.”

  Carter grinned and nodded.

  “Now, Mike, Mr Craithie has—”

  “That is Doctor Craithie, if you don’t mind.” Craithie stressed the title.

  Longman arched his brows in mock surprise and the gesture was not lost on the audience. “If you insist, Doctor Craithie.” He stressed the title even more than Craithie, including a suggestion of a Scottish burr, and the other was barely able to conceal his displeasure. He addressed Mike Carter once again. “Mike, we have heard from Doctor Craithie what awaits the human race if the alien craft is allowed to continue to exist. What is your take on it?”

  Carter smiled. “Well, naturally, I don’t agree with Doctor Craithie’s assessment. In fact, I believe . . . no, I am absolutely certain, that what we have discovered in Central America is singly the most important discovery in the whole of human history.”

  “That important, huh? But is it evil . . . Satan’s work as Mist—, sorry, Doctor Craithie insists?”

  Carter almost laughed aloud, but managed to control the impulse. He knew there were a great number of frightened people out there throughout the world, and the last thing he wanted to do was pour scorn on their fears. He thought about his reply for a few moments before saying, “You have asked if the Sha’lee are evil and I have to say I can’t answer your question either way at this point.”

  Longman was intrigued, and even Craithie chose to ignore the apparent slip by Izzy Longman and edged forward in his chair a little. “Sha’lee? What is a Sha’lee, Mike? Is it the spaceship?”

  “OK, Izzy, I think I’d better give you a quick rundown on what has happened at the site so far. I’m here on your show with the blessing of the government of Belize and of the Director of the whole operation, Dr Lars Hendriksson, so what I say can be taken as official.” He took a deep breath and continued, “Last June, as we were exploring and excavating an early Mayan pyramid, our ground radar showed an immense anomaly several metres below ground. We investigated the anomaly and eventually excavated a vast spaceship about the size of a football field, which had been buried by the tsunami that followed in the wake of the Cretaceous-Tertiary extinction event, sixty-five million years ago.”

  “Please explain to our viewers about the extinction event, Mike. Many of us find it difficult to imagine such a thing.”

  “In short, Izzy, a meteorite around six miles across hit the shallow sea in what is now the southern shore of the Gulf of Mexico. The resulting fires, tsunamis, and atmospheric pollution killed off more than three-quarters of all life on Earth, including the dinosaurs. The Comora, a starship with a crew of more than two-thousand, had landed on a small island, which is now the Maya Mountains. Fewer than one per cent of the crew of the ship survived the disaster, so they decided to enter into cryogenic sleep – a kind of hibernation – to await rescue. But rescue never came.”

  Izzy Longman leaned forward in his easy chair. “And how are you able to tell us so precisely what happened to the crew? Surely you cannot have deciphered their writing – assuming they used writing as a means of keeping records?”

  “No, you’re absolutely right, we couldn’t. It took many years for a gifted linguist to decipher the Rosetta Stone, so a completely alien language, evolved on a distant planet would prove pretty daunting.” Carter caught a slight movement in his peripheral vision. Craithie was squirming in his seat, eager to comment on the revelations.

  Longman probed again. “So, what happened?”

  “We were invited into the Comora by an artificial intelligence, who had been keeping the ship’s systems ticking over since it was inundated by the debris from the tsunami.”

  This proved too much for Craithie, who angrily got to his feet and shouted, “You said ‘who’ as if the thing were alive! That would be an even greater insult to all faiths if it were true.”

  Longman, showing why he was regarded as the supreme chat show host, did not raise his voice in the slightest when he said coldly, “Doctor Craithie, please sit down. You will be given an opportunity to reply to Doctor Carter’s statement in due course. But meanwhile, please refrain from any other outburst or I will have you removed.” He stared hard at Craithie, his eyes flinty. Gone was the easy-going host. “This is my show, Sir, and I insist on all my guests behaving in a civilised manner.”

  Craithie sat down heavily in his easy chair, his squat frame drawing a loud groan from the chair’s inner chassis that was picked up by the studio microphones. He faced a tough dilemma: should he leave and risk many millions of viewers believing that he was not prepared to substantiate his assertions about the alien ship, or should he stay and rescue what he could from what had become a rapidly deteriorating situation. He decided to stay.

  The host sighed and addressed Carter once more. “So, let me see if I’m understanding correctly, Mike. The artificial intelligence – I presume some kind of computer – learned our language, sufficiently well to invite you into the ship?”

  “Absolutely, Izzy. Look, we’re not talking about a simple computer here. Hela is a silicon-based, living organism created by the Sha’lee to run the ship. She has vast computing power, which enabled her to analyse our language, both around the site and over the airwaves. Hela has even been endowed with emotions, which suggests that her creators themselves are likely to be subject to emotions. Otherwise, they wouldn’t know what feelings were, would they?”

  Longman pondered the revelations about the AI and asked, “What did you find inside the ship?”

  Carter allowed the tension in the studio to build for several seconds before replying, “Eighteen of the ship’s original crew alive and in hibernation.”

  This latest statement proved too much for Cr
aithie. He leapt to his feet, screaming, “The spawn of the Devil are still alive? After all this time? Doesn’t this prove that Satan is pulling the puppet strings of these whores of Babylon, who have prostituted their science for the glory of world renown? Well, I tell you, I will not permit this to happen while I have a single breath left in my body.”

  Craithie’s face was purple with rage and he was rapidly losing all vestiges of self-control. Within the blink of an eye all restraint drained from him and his seething dislike of Mike Carter erupted in violence. He swung a roundhouse right fist at the archaeologist’s head. Carter saw the blow at the last moment and attempted to duck out of the path of Craithie’s ham-like fist. He almost made it, but the blow caught him above his right eye and propelled him over the back of the easy chair, saving him from any follow-up by the enraged Craithie.

  Instantly, the studio floor was a melee of heaving bodies as three security guards appeared and wrestled Craithie to the carpet. But at the back of the small theatre, the four members of Craithie’s personal bodyguard had begun laying about them with fists and anything they could get hold of. They were joined by followers of Craithie, who were outnumbered by those uncommitted to Craithie’s cause.

  A door at the back of the theatre opened wide and the wail of police sirens could be heard in the distance. People were streaming out of the studio in an attempt to escape the violence within. Further security guards were wrestling their way through the battling throng in an attempt to quell the violence, at whose core Craithie’s four bodyguards were still swinging meaty fists at everyone around them. Finally, the security guards reached the focus of the fracas and leapt upon Craithie’s men, who were thoroughly enjoying themselves and unwilling to give up without a fight.

  Although they were outnumbered two to one, the bodyguards continued flailing their fists, and three of the security guards were suddenly draped over the empty rows of seats. At that point the police arrived in numbers with their riot sticks at the ready. After taking the most fleeting of moments to appraise the situation, they waded into the melee and within seconds all four members of John Craithie’s personal guard were lying stunned and handcuffed on the studio floor. They had discovered to their cost that it did not pay to swing a blow at one of ‘New York’s finest’, as Ben Thomas had done, especially if the policeman was wielding a riot stick.

  It took half an hour to clear up the debris from the riot, but once everything was clear, the original audience were allowed to filter back into the studio. Mike Carter sat in his easy chair, with an expanding lump on his right temple and a black eye that would probably be a trophy for weeks to come. He had steadfastly refused make-up on his injury, commenting to his host, “I’d like the world to see what these people are capable of, especially their glorious ‘prophet’, Dr Craithie.” He was facing Izzy Longman once again, but this time there would be no interruptions from Craithie, because he and his four bodyguards were now cooling their heels in a cold cell.

  Longman’s voice broke into his thoughts. “Are you OK to carry on where we left off, Mike? If not, we can postpone it until you’re recovered. You took a pretty heavy blow there.”

  Carter grinned sourly. His relationship with Craithie had kicked off badly and gone downhill from there, but he would not have expected the other to lose control so completely and so violently. “I’m fine, Izzy. But if I seem slow with my replies it’ll be that my senses are still a little scrambled.”

  “No problem. We edit for that kind of thing every day. OK, you had just mentioned that you had discovered there were eighteen of the ship’s original crew still alive, so we’ll take it from there.”

  With smooth efficiency, fingers counted, three . . . two . . . one, and the director’s index finger pointed at Izzy on zero.

  Izzy Longman resumed as if nothing unusual had occurred. “What are the aliens . . . the Sha’lee like? Are they like monsters from a horror movie?”

  This time Carter couldn’t help laughing, but he quickly ceased when a shaft of pain lanced through his abused temple. “Sorry, Izzy, but I can’t answer that because I just don’t know. At present, we are gathering a team of all kinds of medical experts in order to prepare for the awakening of the first of the Sha’lee. Hela insists that we should restore her comrades one at a time. When one of the Sha’lee is awake and mobile, we will then awaken the next. The last thing we wish to do is jeopardise the life of even a single one of the Sha’lee because of impatience. Meanwhile, they remain in sealed environments, which hide them completely from our view.” He paused for a moment, recalling something Hela had said. “We do know, however, that their body chemistry is based upon carbon, just like ours, and they breathe a mixture of oxygen and nitrogen pretty much like Earth’s atmosphere.”

  “So they could live on Earth as comfortably as we do? Is it possible they came to invade Earth?” Longman was voicing the fears of a large percentage of humanity.

  Carter chuckled despite the pain. Eventually, he replied, “If they originally had designs on this planet sixty-five million years ago it would have been as settlers, not invaders, but we won’t know that until the first of the Sha’lee awakens. Now, with only eighteen survivors, they are hardly in a position to invade.” He sat back in his easy chair. “Think about it, Izzy. The human race has been around perhaps four million years at most if you count our earliest ancestors. It’s been sixteen times that length of time since the Sha’lee left their planet, so there is a very good chance that their entire race has evolved into something new – something unrecognisable as Sha’lee – or, as is more likely, become extinct. That would make these people refugees – alone and immensely far from home. Instead of fearing them, we should pity them and extend the hand of friendship, don’t you agree?”

  Tears welled in the archaeologist’s eyes, which the cameras resolved in detailed close-up. Izzy Longman knew he could not have asked for a more touching end to the interview. He gave the wind-up sign and the credits began to roll.

  Longman added commentary to the credits. “You have just been watching the Izzy Longman show, with my special guests, Doctor John Craithie and Doctor Michael Carter. I would like to extend my special thanks to Doctor Carter for his fortitude and forbearance through an interview made difficult by the unexpected violence of Doctor Craithie. See you all at the same time tomorrow, and kee-e-e-ep on watching!”

  Turning to Carter he said, “I meant that, Mike. Thanks for a great show. If you get the chance, an interview with one of the Sha’lee would make great television. Do you think it might be possible?”

  Carter smiled. He’d come to like Longman, even after such a short acquaintance. “We’ll see,” he told him, “but you realise it would depend entirely on the wishes of the Sha’lee?”

  “Naturally,” Longman agreed, “but it would probably help to defuse Craithie’s idiotic campaign to destroy the ship.”

  “I thought you weren’t supposed to take sides,” Carter remarked, “impartiality and all that.”

  “My impartiality went out the window partway through the show. Mr Craithie made sure of that. He’s a dangerous man, Mike and you should all watch your backs.”

  They shook hands and Carter left to begin the long journey back to Belize.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Phil Makeman met Carter at the Philip Goldson Airport arrivals area. Carter was sporting a magnificent black eye, with the abused side of his face severely swollen. As usual, Makeman was not particularly sympathetic.

  “I hope the other bloke looks worse than you,” he commented drily. “Do I know him, because I’d like to congratulate him on making you a tad better looking? Who was it anyway?”

  Carter regarded his friend sourly. “Let’s talk in the car, there’s less chance of being overheard there. To tell you the truth, we can’t be certain Craithie hasn’t got ears here. After all, if anyone has to travel out of Belize, they have to pass through here. I’ll feel better in the car.”

  “I don’t suppose you’ll look better,�
�� Makeman told him as he grabbed Carter’s holdall and ushered him out to where the car was waiting. They didn’t have to walk far; Minister Hernandez had issued instructions for all parking restrictions to be waived for site vehicles.

  Once seated in the car with his seatbelt securely engaged, Carter said, “It was our friend, Craithie. Izzy Longman, the host, had the idea of putting us face to face on his chat show without letting either of us know the other would be there.”

  Makeman grinned. “Sounds like a recipe for disaster. What happened?”

  “Everything was going reasonably well until I mentioned that eighteen Sha’lee had survived. Craithie couldn’t handle it; he went berserk and swung at me while I was sitting in my chair.”

  “What happened then?”

  “I’m not sure. I was pretty well stunned so everything after that was a bit vague for me. Our friend ended up being arrested, along with his four bodyguards, and when I left New York, they were all still in the cells at the local police precinct.”

  Makeman’s brow furrowed. “Joking aside,” he said, “this is definitely not good news. This whole incident will probably crystallise his resolve to wipe out the Comora and the Sha’lee – and anyone else who gets in his way. I reckon that reason has flown out the window as far as Craithie is concerned, and we can be pretty certain that he’ll believe even more completely in his own propaganda and dogma.”

  Carter nodded gloomily, and they proceeded in silence for several miles before he enquired. “Has Lars decided when to awaken the first of our guests?”

  “It will begin the day after tomorrow just after breakfast. Hela is preparing medication and whatever else she needs for the procedure to go ahead. Our ‘emergency room’ is being set up and should be in place and fully tested by the time we arrive. Lars is leaving nothing to chance.”

  “That’s good news. I’m ready for some of that after my brush with Craithie.”

  Makeman slid one of Hendriksson’s precious CDs into the player and they passed the ensuing half-hour discussing the events in New York, and the prospect of the first Sha’lee awakening, to a background of Abba’s greatest hits.