The Sha'lee Resurrection

by Paul G White

  A screen in the ceiling of the bridge suddenly blinked on, showing stars wheeling crazily around the starship. The Comora had been thrown onto a mad corkscrew course, exacerbated by tumbling prow over stern every few seconds. The sun came into view through the forward viewers and just as quickly vanished. The apparition repeated several times with the sun eventually passing completely out of view as the ship’s helical motion took Earth’s star out of sight. The background stars’ madcap dance gradually eased as the AI allowed the automatic systems to bring the ship’s erratic course under control. Finally, everything became more stable and a three-metre rock centred on the view-screen. It was tumbling rapidly away from the Comora.

  Back in control of herself after the incident, Hela enquired, “Shall I destroy the target, Captain?”

  Lessil gave the order and the rock suddenly vanished, allowing the stars of the Milky Way to shine through.

  “I am carrying out a damage assessment, Captain” Hela announced, “and will report as soon as I have completed my checks.” The seconds ticked away on the holographic digital clock hanging in the air. After a little under a minute, Hela confirmed, “We have been fortunate, Captain. The hull has sustained no serious damage, because the shield dissipated the force of the impact. I have taken the liberty of checking the vital signs of all the crew. There are no injuries requiring medical attention, but several of the crew are registering heightened levels of stress. We have been fortunate, indeed to escape relatively unscathed.”

  “Indeed,” remarked Lessil sourly. “But I intend that we shall learn a lesson from what has occurred and be more thorough in future. Otherwise, we may never see Sha’lee’an again. Now,” he added more brightly, “let us return to our home on Earth. Axolin?”

  “Yes, Captain,” the comms operative replied.

  “Please enable Michael Carter to announce the good news to the people of Earth.”

  “Certainly, Captain. Doctor Carter, shall we get to work?”

  “Ready when you are, Axolin. Y’know, I can’t help but feel that if there are any of John Craithie’s followers around who still believe the Sha’lee are up to no good, this should set them straight once and for all. Every single person on Earth should be grateful for what Captain Lessil and his people have just accomplished.”

  Axolin’s mind was involuntarily filled with thoughts of the disaster that had overtaken the Sha’lee expedition so long ago. She had witnessed the destruction wrought by a meteor strike, albeit a far greater impact than the potential of Apophis, and she knew as well as anyone alive the horrors of having the existence of virtually everyone around you snuffed out with no chance of escape, no chance to run. She placed a slim hand on Carter’s wrist and felt somehow a greater spiritual connection to her human friend.

  “You are a wise man, Michael Carter, but do not allow anyone to forget the part our human friends have played in this expedition. Without them, our captain could not even have raised the Comora from Earth and into space. So, we should tell the people of your Earth how Sha’lee and humans have worked together to achieve what was impossible for either the Sha’lee or the people of Earth alone. I will prepare for your broadcast to all the people of Earth.”

  “I’d like Minister Hernandez and Prime Minister Hardy to hear the broadcast first, even if it’s only by a few seconds. Can we do that?”

  “I understand. I will arrange a slight delay.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Following the destruction of Apophis virtually all support for John Craithie’s hate campaign against the Sha’lee faded away. Perhaps most of those still retaining a shred of belief in Dr Craithie’s pseudo-religious doctrines realised that they could no longer hope for wider support from the uncommitted. Perhaps it even crossed their minds that they might be torn to shreds by the public if they harmed Captain Lessil or any of his alien comrades. Whatever the reason, the media, and in particular the Internet, were almost miraculously cleansed of anti-Sha’lee propaganda and derogatory references. It seemed the world had finally come to its senses.

  “And not a day too soon!” Mike Carter sighed to Margaret Blyth. “That maniac and his irrational fear of anything not of Earth could have destroyed mankind’s chances of interacting with living people from another planet, if he’d managed to blow up the Comora and everyone on board with his cruise missile. I mean, when are we likely to be visited again? Not in our lifetime, I’m sure, even if we live as long as the Sha’lee.”

  “Take it easy,” Margaret soothed. “Craithie’s dropped out of the limelight, hopefully for ever, and he hasn’t left a legacy of hate as he would have wished. In fact, to the contrary. I don’t think you’ll find anyone willing or reckless enough to even criticise our friends. So, let’s just bask in the glory of what we all just achieved. After all, it’s not every day you get a chance to crew a sixty-five million year-old starship and save the world.”

  Carter grinned. “That puts it into perspective doesn’t it. Craithie, in his deluded way, believes the Sha’lee can’t possibly be our equals. But when you think of what we’ve done in a starship that should have been no more than a fossil, it makes the Sha’lee pretty special, doesn’t it?”

  “I think it makes us all pretty special.”

  Carter gave his fiancée a hug. Preparations were well advanced for the departure of the Comora for Sha’lee’an and the date had been agreed: September 22nd 2029 – tomorrow! On that historic day seventeen-hundred and ninety humans and eighteen Sha’lee would set off together on the greatest adventure in human history. All the human members of the expedition, from officers and crew to scientists, doctors, teachers, and a multitude of other professions, plus husbands, wives and children had been inducted and trained in life aboard a starship. This afternoon, on the eve of departure, Carter was going to marry Margaret Blythe, and in a joint ceremony Phil Makeman and Ellie Merrill would also be wed. Carter allowed himself a satisfied smile; at 3:00 pm, three hours hence, everything would come together very nicely.

  Palo Lopez was manipulating the Sha’lee machinery in the vast hold, stacking and storing truckloads of all manner of supplies for the expedition. All of the original Sha’lee crew who had been familiar with the operation of the stores had perished in the disaster, and having already witnessed Lopez’s talent with the Sha’lee machinery, Captain Lessil was happy to give the young Puerto Rican free rein. The main hold was rapidly filling with racks of neatly stacked boxes and crates. There were even a few human analogues of the Sha’lee machines that had been too badly damaged by the tsunami. Captain Lessil had given instructions for all the damaged machines, from handling equipment to flyers, to be presented to the Belizean government, along with technical manuals translated into English by the ship’s AI, as a thank you for their kindness and help. As Lessil explained, there would be much in the technology for the Belizeans to share with the world in any manner they deemed appropriate.

  *

  Izzy Longman had been on site throughout the week prior to lift-off, recording footage for a documentary. He was really buzzing. Following the confrontation on his TV show between Drs Mike Carter and John Craithie, he had expressed a wish to interview one of the Sha’lee survivors sometime in the future. Hendriksson and Minister Hernandez had taken note of Longman’s openly sympathetic attitude toward the Sha’lee and had left it in Carter’s hands to broach the subject with Captain Lessil. Lessil had spent a little time considering the possible impact of an appearance on television screens worldwide, and had come up with a proposition of his own: instead of a single one-to-one interview between himself and Longman, did the presenter feel that a more balanced view of the Sha’lee could be achieved by means of a documentary? If so, he was prepared to permit Izzy Longman and a television crew to come aboard the Comora and interview as many of the Sha’lee survivors as they wished.

  Longman had grasped the opportunity with both hands, and had interviewed all the survivors in turn, including Captain Lessil. His team had documented interaction between th
e Sha’lee and human crew members as they trained for that momentous occasion, when races from two planets would embark on an epic journey of discovery together. Finally, as an introduction to the documentary, Longman had interviewed Mike Carter out in the open air, partway up the slope of the vast bowl, with the dark bulk of the starship as a backdrop.

  “Dr Carter,” Longman began, “would you please explain how all this—” he gestured with one hand to encompass the Comora, the huge bowl of the excavation and the small township that had grown up around its rim, “—came about?”

  The camera operators panned around the site to pick up what Longman had indicated.

  Carter grinned. “Certainly, Izzy. Late last year, I was lucky enough to be part of a team that was investigating the ruins of a Mayan pyramid, which we were pretty certain came from an early period. We were trying to build a picture of the extent of the ruins and our geophysics expert, Phil Makeman had just done a survey. You’ve met Phil, haven’t you? He’s the closest you’ll get to being a Sha’lee without actually being born on Sha’lee’an.”

  “Is Sha’lee’an their planet of origin?”

  “It is. Anyway, Phil brought the computer printout to the site director, Lars Hendriksson and myself and it showed the outline of the Comora below the Mayan temple. As the temple was around two-thousand years old, you can probably imagine what went through our minds.”

  Longman nodded in agreement.

  “When we dug an investigatory trench, we found that the ship was still active, and that’s when we knew we needed help from people of a great number of scientific disciplines.”

  The presenter allowed Carter to elucidate, until he felt that he had more than enough material and then wound up the interview.

  “Thanks, Mike that was superb. I must admit I hadn’t heard about the site invasion and the destruction of the helicopter. And a few people’s eyes are going to be opened when they hear about friend Craithie and his attempt to wipe out the Sha’lee.” Longman almost spat out his final comment. “The man’s just plain nuts.”

  Carter grinned. “You’ll get no argument from me about that.”

  Longman returned the smile. “By the way, congratulations on your wedding this afternoon,” he said with genuine delight, “and I hope you’ll both be very happy. Seriously though, Mike, you deserve it.” The presenter offered his hand in a warm gesture of friendship and the archaeologist responded.

  “Thanks, Izzy. It’s been good to know you.”

  In that instant Longman knew he was never going to see Carter again. It was the archaeologist’s way of saying his final goodbye.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  A vast assembly of world dignitaries had gathered on the slope along one side of the starship as the time for departure drew near. There were presidents and kings, prime ministers and priests, all watched over by representatives of the world’s major television stations and newspapers. Izzy Longman was on the outskirts of the crowd, recording the historic event for his documentary, rather than as another item of news. A mixed force of Belizean, British and US troops under the command of Colonel Suarez was patrolling the outer perimeter. As with the funeral ceremony for the fallen Sha’lee, His Holiness, Pope Nicholas VI was present, although not in a leading role. The pontiff had issued an edict that the Sha’lee were, indeed, children of God, as were all sentient creatures within God’s universe, and through His Holiness, the Catholic church had embraced the alien refugees.

  The dignitaries were chatting amiably amongst themselves – some through interpreters – with a noticeable absence of political agenda. This occasion transcended politics, and everyone present was shrewd enough to understand and accept that simple fact. As the hour of departure drew closer, a huge holographic digital clock materialised in the air over the heads of the throng. It was counting down the seconds until noon. The sun beat down from a flawless blue sky, imparting a festive atmosphere on the momentous occasion, and the hologram shone bright against the sky.

  The clock spoke; in Hela’s sweet tenor voice, it announced, “Captain Lessil and his original crew of humans and Sha’lee will shortly present themselves to you to say goodbye.”

  At that point, John Craithie made an unexpected appearance.

  *

  John Craithie was not a stupid man. Was he arrogant? Perhaps: in his belief that mankind could be the only species chosen by an omniscient, omnipresent, all-embracing deity within a diverse and far-reaching universe. Was he misguided? Without a doubt: for believing that his rabble-rousing rhetoric would carry the majority of public opinion in favour of his xenophobic declamation of the Sha’lee. Was he unwise? Certainly: to believe that he might avoid the wrath of governments, after perpetrating a supreme act of terrorism whilst attempting to destroy the aliens with nuclear fires at the archaeological site in Belize.

  He was arrogant, misguided and unwise, but he was not unintelligent. For he had demonstrated a natural cunning, which, allied to the intellect that had enabled him to shine in a scientific career, had made it possible for him to flee at least one step ahead of the security services of a number of countries, and – the recollection forced a wry smile from his lips – avoid arrest by the Internal Revenue Service of the United States, for spiriting away more than twenty million dollars without paying a single cent in tax. Up to this point the balance of the money – some eight million dollars, after payment had been made for the cruise missile – had remained safe in a variety of bank accounts scattered throughout the globe, and Craithie was confident it would remain so.

  His popularity amongst his followers had taken a severe beating as a result of the TV show fracas – as had his minders at the hands of the police. But at least his bodyguard had stood by him. On reflection Craithie knew he had bought the loyalty of his bodyguards, for after every rally, he had encouraged them to fill their pockets with small bills after the bulk of the donations had been counted and stored safely. He felt a pang of regret that he had found it necessary to dispense with their services; but five fugitives together were statistically more likely to trigger attention amongst the public than one person travelling quietly alone. And he had found it necessary to journey to a safe haven, where extradition treaties with the United States did not exist. Of course, there was always the possibility that one government or another might send an assassination squad for him, but he doubted that he was rated important – or dangerous – enough to warrant such an undertaking.

  And now, following the destruction of Apophis 9942, the Sha’lee were upon everyone’s lips – excepting those of John Craithie – as the saviours of mankind. The more Craithie thought about it, the more fickle he believed public opinion to be, and the greater the general public’s levels of stupidity.

  Over the past few weeks, by means of chicanery and bribery, Craithie had managed to acquire almost two thousand kilograms of high explosive, which was at present firmly strapped down in the back of a five-ton truck. Craithie had made a mechanism that would trigger detonation with no more than two-hundred kilos of pressure on the front bumper. The device was presently disconnected in light of the potential for a road accident, and his intention was to prime it when he drew near to the site.

  He had chosen the vehicle well. It was so ordinary as to be almost invisible, the way he had existed whilst on the run. And now, alone in the cab, he was driving across the bridge over the Rio Hondo, which formed the border between Quintana Roo province of the Mexican Yucatán and the state of Belize. The load of high explosive was camouflaged by several thousand dollars’ worth of furniture, for which Craithie held valid import papers. Everything was fine and Craithie basked in the certainty that God was smiling benevolently down upon him as he neared the culmination of his mission to destroy the alien spaceship and everyone within it.

  He whistled tunelessly as he tooled along the highway at a steady seventy kilometres per hour, knowing his every action had to be within the law. When in traffic, he meticulously maintained a safe distance between his vehicle
and those in front, and adhered strictly to all speed limits. It was this attention to detail which had enabled Craithie to remain out of the clutches of the authorities for so long, and he did not intend to spark the interest of the law through a moment of carelessness.

  After two hours’ uneventful travel, he passed through Belize City and headed for Belmopan a further hour away. So far, the traffic had been light and the highways in respectable condition, but he knew that once Belmopan was firmly in his rear-view mirror, the nature of the roads would worsen until he would eventually be driving on dirt tracks. He stopped at a service station on the approach to the Belizean Capital, to refuel and buy fresh water and three chocolate bars for himself. Refuelling was an essential part of his strategy; his impeccable logic insisted that with almost a full tank of fuel, the explosion and resulting collateral damage would be seriously increased. As for the chocolate bars, they were the equivalent of the last request of a condemned man. Since his teenage years John Craithie had fought a natural tendency to put on weight, and had avoided treats of any kind, certainly those of the chocolate variety. Now, he decided, any restrictions on his diet were unnecessary and would be tantamount to self-torture. So, he intended to gorge himself on the chocolate bars during the two hours or so that remained of his journey – and of his life.