These Foolish Things: The Complete Boxset

by J Battle

  I’ve slept for a couple of hours, but I don’t feel rested. I had a nightmare about Masters; reliving finding him on the bed, with a hole in his chest and a vial of gil-juice sticking out of each nostril. I got to my mid-thirties without seeing a dead body and now I’ve seen two in a matter of days. I really don’t want to see a third, if it can at all be helped.

  Now I’m in the bar and it’s a little awkward; with just the two of us here, I’m going to have to talk to him.

  ‘My name’s Phil, by the way,’ I say, as he pulls me a long cold pint.

  ‘I know you name, bud. I registered you this afternoon.’

  If he knows my name, why is he calling me bud? I’ll save that question for later.

  ‘And you are…?’

  He plants the pint in front of me, splashing more beer over the side than is entirely necessary.

  ‘Charge.’

  ‘Yes.’ It didn’t sound like a question, but I’m treating it as one.

  ‘Yes, what?’

  ‘Yes…Sir?’

  ‘What are you agreeing to, bud?’

  ‘To…charging my beer to my room.’

  ‘My name is Charge; you asked.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I thought… no, it doesn’t matter what I thought. Charge; that’s an unusual name.’

  ‘Not in my family, it ain’t.’

  ‘Can I buy you a drink?’

  ‘If you want to, but I only drink single malt, imported from Scotland.’

  ‘That’s fine, help yourself.’

  As he pours himself a healthy measure, I notice him studying himself in the mirror. My heart goes out to the poor little masochist.

  ‘Why didn’t you leave with the rest? You must have had time.’

  He shakes his head.

  ‘This is all I’ve got, and I can’t take it with me. I’ve got food and good clean water; I can last until they turn the squirter back on.‘

  We drink our drinks and there is more somewhat stilted conversation. After bearing as much I can, I say good night and take the remains of my beer up to my room, along with the bag of salt and vinegar that constitutes the hotel‘s sole offering in the sustenance department.

  My stomach’s going to be rumbling tonight and I don’t expect a settled sleep.

  (Before we go any further, can I just make a small complaint about the conditions I’m expected to work under? I’m supposed to get the uploads live but, with the Squirtport down, they are being stored so that they can be transmitted when the Squirtport is back online. As an artist, I need the upload raw and quick, in manageable chunks and, crucially, I need not to know what happens next. Foreknowledge would tinge the narrative and change its whole dynamic. You can see that, can’t you? Thanks so much for your time. Now; back to the story. N.F)

  It’s the early hours of the morning now and the starlight is enough to see by. We are much closer here to the centre of the Milky Way and many more stars are visible in the night sky than on Earth. I’ve been tossing and turning and it’s just not going to happen. The air-con is going strong, but I‘m still hot and sticky. I’m going to take a walk outside, to see if that will settle me down.

  I creep down the stairs; silent as a mouse who has just won the world championship for surreptitious movement. And there he is, standing in the dimness; an ancient shotgun slung casually over his shoulder and wearing teddy bear PJs.

  ‘Did you see them?’ he asks. It’s the last question I want to hear, in the middle of the night, on a distant planet, from a man in teddy bear PJs.

  ‘Who? What? Where?’ Just covering the basic W’s. If I need them, I’ve got when and why ready to go.

  ‘Them mirage things. They’re outside; dozens of them. They must be waiting for something; for somebody. Maybe they want you.’

  ‘Why would they want me?’

  ‘You’ve just arrived; and they’ve never come before.‘

  ‘With that sort of logic, we’d still be in the trees.’

  ‘That makes less sense than what I said.’

  We walk to the front window and spend a few silent minutes watching the sand mirages. There are fifty or sixty of them whirling in place, filling the street in front of us. There can be no doubt that they are here for us.

  ‘Are they dangerous?’ I ask.

  ‘They’re just wisps of spinning sand; they’d disintegrate if you touched them. I can’t see how they can hurt you.’

  ‘What do you mean, ‘hurt me’? What makes you think I’m going out there? They're outside your hotel.’

  ‘They want you; I can feel it in my bones.’

  ‘Very convenient, I must say.’

  There is some movement amongst the mirages; they’ve got very close together and they’ve spun right up to the wall of the hotel; just keeping back a couple of metres for safety’s sake.

  ‘You have to do something now; they need your help.’

  ‘How do you know they don’t want to eat us?’

  ‘They are not carnivorous.’

  ‘Do your bones tell you that as well?’

  ‘It’s a well-known fact. They are harmless.’

  ‘What about the guy they led from the desert to his base and then everyone was dead a week later?’

  ‘A desert myth.’

  You know when you know you are going to do something stupid, and you just can’t stop yourself? Well that’s how I’m feeling now. How much harm can it do if I just pop my head out and see what they want? I’ll stay on the doorstep and let them see me. If things get scary, I can just jump back inside.

  I’m outside now and I’m not sure if I should be proud of my bravery, or embarrassed at my stupidity. When they saw me, they swooped into a tight cluster right in front of me. They’ve started with a quiet keening sound that rises and falls in a rhythm that strangely matches my heart beat. Or maybe my heart is beating in time with them. I do feel a little tense, but I’m not really scared; even when Charge locks and bolts the door behind me.

  Now they are moving back and forward, like seaweed with the tide. I getting the urge to join them in their little dance, and now I am. You know, it only feels a little bit strange to be strutting my stuff, on a deserted street, on a planet many light years from home. I’m raising my arms and flicking my hips and tapping my toes and heels, kicking up my own imitations of the sand mirages.

  The hotel and town are far behind us now as we dance across the desert, in the spotlight of a billion stars, with a dry warm wind blowing through my hair. We’re the kids and we don’t care what people think; we’re dancing in the starlight, and we are made of stars!

  I want to sing, so I do, warbling wordlessly in the semi-darkness. I think I’m crying, but that’s OK; no-one can see.

  Now it is nearly dawn and the sky to my left is beginning to glow. Before us is a jagged mesa; a mammoth chunk of dark grey rock jutting up at an angle from the sun-baked ground.

  (Strictly speaking, it's a Tor. A mesa is an elevated tableland. I'll let him continue with the word as he was so proud of himself to have come up with it in the first place.NF)

  The mirages disappear without a sound and I’m left all alone here in the desert. The urge to dance has left me and I’m not singing anymore. I’m hours from the hotel; the first sun will be up very soon, and my mac is hanging on a hook behind my door. I know what you’re thinking, and I can hardly disagree; I should have stayed in bed.

  I’m here now, so I‘d better make the most of it. This is obviously the destination the mirages had in mind when they enticed me from the town, so I might as well go on and see what I’ll find in the shadow of the mesa. Promise me you’ll stay with me; I don’t want to do this on my own.

  Chapter 44 - Now language issues

  I’m thankful to be in the shadow of the mesa; it’s not exactly cool, but at least I won’t fry under the glare of the new day’s first sun.

  I’m not very clear about what I should be doing; I guess should go deeper under the over-hanging rock and see what I might find.


  (Is that not obvious? N.F.)

  This far in, it’s really quite dark and I have to feel my way with my hands against the cool rock.

  Damn! Blast! Bugger!

  I’ve banged my head, and it’s really sore.

  There’s a gap; I can see it now my eyes have adjusted to the gloom. It’s low; about waist height, and broad. I’m going to have to get down on my hands and knees and crawl through. This is going to ruin my jeans and mess up my manicure; still, it can’t be helped.

  I’ve got four or five metres in and the ground is suddenly smooth and level. I want to go home; this place is making me nervous. I didn’t know I was claustrophobic until now, but you can’t blame me. If this big rock above my head moves, then it’s bye-bye to your intrepid hero and Julie inherits all of my debts.

  Oh no! This is bad. I don’t like this at all.

  There’s a light ahead and it’s not going to be natural, is it? And they’re not going to be human either; not here, under this rock, with its ancient floor smoothed by the passage of a million feet, or flippers; or tentacles. I don’t want to be the first to make CONTACT; surely there are people trained for this.

  I’m going to turn around and go back; before I spark a major interspecies incident. You know me; I’m bound to say the wrong thing and cause an intergalactic war.

  It’s just got worse; a hell of a lot worse. I’m facing the entrance and I’ve just seen something move. It was just a shadow, but it was huge and it’s really too close. So, I’m turning back again and going on; at least I’ll be able to see what eats me.

  There’s a column of light, reaching from the high stone ceiling and ending in a glowing circle on the smooth grey floor. In other circumstances, it would be quite beautiful; you’ll forgive me though, for not focussing on aesthetics in my present circumstances. Just outside the circle of light is a dark pool of what looks like water. I’m suddenly thirsty, but I can’t move.

  There are three shapes lying along the edge of the pool, and I know they are alive. One shudders and lifts what I’m going to call its head. Then it wriggles toward the light. Now I can see it clearly and I really would prefer if it went back in the shadows. To call it ugly would be like calling Mount Everest big; it’s true, but it hardly gives a clear picture.

  It has a long, reddish brown scaly body, and its head is really just a square, or oblong, shape at the end of a short neck. There are two large eyes, a messy bit that’s probably its nose, and a large drooling opening that I’m taking as its mouth. I know I’m not getting across the intrinsic grossness of the creature but, trust me, it’s as ugly as ugly gets.

  After a few moments in the light, it lifts itself up on its six thick legs and starts to move towards me; very quickly.

  Now, the first thing you might ask is; why am I still here? I should be running for my life to escape the monstrosity approaching me. And you’re right; I was just about to do that very thing, when I was nudged in the back by the monster’s uglier brother.

  I staggered forward, and now I’m between the two of them, and I’m getting the smell off them. I’m not going to say anything about it; if you imagine a week-long rock festival with only one working toilet and you’re the last one to use it, you are going to be pretty close.

  It looks like they are not going to eat me, not just yet anyway.

  The first one is nodding its head and walking back and forward, making wet, squishy noises with its mouth. The other one is just sitting there, as if being that ugly takes all of its energy.

  ‘I come in peace,’ I try, because I have to say something, and ‘a giant leap’ doesn’t seem to fit.

  The active one stops and leans closer; I lean back. Then there is a whole cacophony of sounds washing over me and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. Trust me to find the only alien that doesn’t speak the King’s English.

  I’ve been sitting here for an hour and it’s still talking at me. Every now and again, it stops, and walks to the column of light and bathes in the sunshine. Then it returns refreshed and energised for some more talk.

  I think the other one’s fallen asleep and I wish I could join it.

  Something’s happening. Ugly (Mk I) has indicated that I should follow him. (If everything turns out fine and these creatures become mankind’s best buddies, I’m hoping my N.F. will take out all this stuff about how ugly they are and replace it with nice stuff.)

  (Not a chance. It’s a big enough job making him appear competent, without having to make him seem nice as well. N.F.)

  I can’t really explain how he made his wish known to me; there was a lot of wriggling and head nodding, and more talk. Eventually I got the message and now we’re at a wall on the other side of the light. There are dozens of pictures painted on the wall. The style isn’t really to my taste; more cartoon than Da Vinci, but you can’t have everything.

  Ug1 bangs his snout against a picture in the middle of the wall. I bend and take look at what he’s showing me. The light isn’t great, but I can see the mesa, standing out large and black against a clear blue sky. The land all around it is green; covered to the horizon in little three leaved plants.

  ‘Very nice. I like your use of colours and texture; and the perspective is inspired.’

  Ug1 moves on to another picture, to the right. This scene is almost identical to the first, but there are creatures dotted about the landscape. They are clearly Ug1’s cousins, though they appear slimmer and less ugly; artistic licence, I suppose.

  OK; I’m getting the message. These creatures live underground during the hot years, and gambol about in the meadows during the more temperate times. Very nice; very idyllic.

  I take a moment to step back and look at the wall as a whole; there are a lot of pictures. I know I should be more impressed; I’m being shown pictures painted by an alien race, for goodness sake. But, you know when you first go to an art gallery, and you spend ages looking at the first few pictures, and then, as you move along, you spend less and less time with each picture as culture fatigue sets in. Well, I’m already there, and I don’t want to look at every single picture. I want to find out what Ug1 is trying to tell me.

  So I skip a few pictures; if he doesn’t like it, he can tell me in good clear English.

  Here’s one now; I think I understand what I’m looking at. It’s the same scene from a different perspective, and it’s obviously hot. The ground is the dull brown, baked colour I’ve seen ever since I’ve been here. It appears to be on the other side of the mesa and the ground is pretty flat. In the centre of the picture are two men. One is in a hole, handing something to the other, standing near the edge. The artist probably hasn’t actually seen humans, because the proportions are all wrong. The legs are too long and the heads are too big. I think I’m looking at a painting of humans digging for gil-weed.

  Is that what this is all about? A protest against mankind raping their world?

  There’s another creature that I hadn’t noticed before, painting a brand-new picture in the corner. It’s only half finished and it glistens in the light. It’s the same scene as the one I’ve just studied, but this time there are no humans about. Instead, there is a large, long, yellow, wormlike thing, and behind it, there seems to be a long deep trench. The creature keeps on painting, using a brush held in its surprisingly dainty fingers.

  So, what is this? Do they think we’re about to harvest their precious roots on an industrial scale? Have they invented this yellow thing to show me what they think is about to happen? Or is it already happening? It certainly doesn’t look human in construction. And what am I supposed to do about it anyway?

  Answers on a postcard please.

  Chapter 45 - Now delusions of competence

  (I’ve been trying to renegotiate my deal with the publishers. I want more money, and they want more sex, but I’m not about to degrade my artistic integrity any further than I have already. And, quite frankly, Phil is not great material for bringing in gratuitous sex. He gets hot and sweaty and nervous at the ve
ry thought. So, we’re at a bit of an impasse here, I’m afraid. Until my quite reasonable demands are met, I’m going to work to rule. I’m contractually obliged to produce 2000 words per day, and I will fulfil my obligations. The contract says nothing about what those words should be. So, my work to rule will entail a moratorium on the use of vowels. Let’s see how they like that! N.F.)

  spnt th rst f th dy n th hrd flr, bsd th clmn f lght, tryng t gt sm slp. ll ths mtng f rcs s vry trng, spcll s ’m th nly n hr wh spks prprly.

  Nw th lght s dmmr nd ’m prprng t g tsd nd tk lk fr myslf. ’m gssng tht’s wht g1 wnts m t d, thgh h’s lft m ln snc h shwd m th pntngs.

  t’s stll wrm, bt bth sns hv gn nd thr’s jst glw n th hrzn.

  (There, I think you’ll agree it loses something, without the vowels. At least the Publishers agree, and I’m much happier with my package now. So here’ are the missing vowels. N.F.)

  I ea e e o e a o e a oo eie e ou (Just joking. N.F.)

  I spent the rest of the day on the hard floor, beside the column of light, trying to get some sleep. All this meeting of races is very tiring, especially as I’m the only one here who speaks properly.

  Now the light is dimmer and I’m preparing to go outside and take a look for myself. I’m guessing that’s what Ug1 wants me to do, though he’s left me alone since he showed me the paintings.

  It’s still warm, but both suns have gone and there’s just a glow on the horizon. I take a moment to enjoy the view; it really is quite stunning. I’d enjoy it more if I wasn’t starving; really starving. The only think I’ve eaten in two days is a bag of crisps. I drank some water from the pool before I left; it was brackish and warm, but it wasn’t too bad.