Out of Here

by Patty Jansen

  Marjorie Dunbridge, President of the Civilised World and some of the Feral Nations, sat behind a huge tele-desk that flashed with lights. She had four arms, two of flesh and bone and two electronic. The latter two clicked and whirred over the table, constantly on the move, responding to this or that question, pressing go on schemes as futile as a new tunnel under the Atlantic to something as grand as allowing no less than three thousand refugees from the Feral Nations into Lightyear City.

  Jono had barely sat down when her mechanical eye found his.

  'Mr Rasmussen, you are about to launch the Giant Telescope.'

  It was not a question. Jono simply said, 'Yes.'

  'Are you aware of the fact that our partners in negotiation find the notion of being spied on deeply uncomfortable?'

  'They are Cygians. They murder people.' He was whining like a toddler and he knew it.

  One golden eyebrow lifted. 'I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that. Your company's actions disturb our peace talks with the Cygians. Your project upsets the Ortans and Praxians. By interstellar law, I cannot stop what you do far outside atmospheric boundaries, but if you launch this telescope, and our alien friends take exception to this intrusion in their privacy, then don't expect help from us you if someone wishes to blast you from the sky. You're on your own, Mr. Rasmussen.'

  'I understand that.' Drat. It seemed he'd put her in a bad mood before he'd even raised the subject of infrared telescopes, or whom he envisaged paying for them.

  * * *

  Wenna had the gun in her pocket.

  She clung to the wall next to a little window of a gallery-level office, overlooking the station hall which was packed with news reporters. Down there was plenty of security, men in black with guns. But while she sat on top of this air-conditioning unit, its humming engine shielded her from the heat-scanners that periodically swept the hall. Humans said Cygians were invisible, but they just weren't looking the right way.

  Soon, the car would arrive with Comtel's Executive Director, and he would go up the platform to the space elevator that took him out to the launch platform. That was where the Comtel flag vessel Independence waited.

  The car arrived. The crowd of journalists surged onto the platform. Doors opened and Jono Rasmussen got out, smiling for the cameras.

  'I notice, sir,' one journalist said, 'that you have another stripe on your badge. You seem to be rising in the ranks of people targeted by Cygians.'

  'Cygians won't stop me.'

  'Down with the Cygians!' yelled someone.

  'Let's show the freaks!'

  'Hurray for the Giant Telescope!'

  But few humans knew what Jono Rasmussen and his company wanted with the Giant Telescope. Wenna detached the gun.

  Jono waved at the crowd and went into the lift. His bodyguards followed, each wheeling a suitcase.

  Wenna aimed the gun. Fired. The silent charge whizzed over the heads of the crowd, hit the suitcase on the last trolley, and stuck there, invisible to human eyes, ticking away.

  The lift doors shut. Wenna put the gun away.

  * * *

  Thrice-murdered.

  To top matters off, getting put back together was messy in space. Because of the cold, one needed special space-bots to seek out all the parts, since they could no longer rely on residual warmth to find the pieces.

  Although Jono could claim another yellow stripe, the same could not be said of many of his crew, who were, and remained, dead. Some of those people he liked, damn it. Those Cygians were getting seriously annoying. He made a note for the next Comtel board meeting, Must extend genetic storage to immediate staff.

  'But it's expensive,' Boswell, his immediate aid, said.

  'I don't care. When the telescope runs, we will be making so much money, I can spare a little generosity.'

  But all said, it was annoying, almost as annoying as the President's continuous refusal for public funding for additional Giant Telescopes in the infrared range. OK, so he got her point about having mouths to feed and an ailing hospital system to keep up, but damn it, space was so much more interesting, and there was money to be made.

  * * *

  Wenna found the outside of the space vessel comfortable, with many protuberances to hold onto, and without the resistance of air.

  Of course, when the explosion came, she had to let go, but the vortex of life that blew into space was especially nourishing. She even managed to siphon some off to feed the

  Deep, and repay to that entity the energy-debt she had taken on to fixate on this one annoying human who insisted on getting into Cygia's way. The Deep was grateful. It reached out to her, fed her its seed.

  For the rest of the voyage, she clung to the outside hull, writhing and shivering, on that precipice between immeasurable pleasure and excruciating pain, swelling and dividing, swelling and dividing, until she was not one, but eight. She wanted still more, but the Deep withdrew its nourishing seed and gave her time to recover.

  * * *

  Four-times murdered.

  Jono rose from his medbay bed, checked all the various parts of him. Yes, he was complete, including the badge with the four stripes.

  He blinked against the unforgiving light. 'What happened?'

  'You stepped off the Independence, Sir, straight into an ambush.' Even Boswell had two stripes.

  'Damned Cygians.'

  'Yes. Security killed one.'

  'I'll have a look at it.'

  If you could catch them, the only way to kill a Cygian was to cook it in a microwave oven, and of those there were plenty in the galley. Strangely enough, the procedure made the creatures visible.

  And so, a little while later, Jono looked at an ugly grey thing, all arms and legs bound with rope, with a grey, armour-like covering. It was only the size of a ten-year-old child, and had claws for hands and feet. It didn't look like much, he admitted, and felt almost sorry for having caused the thing's death, and then he grew annoyed with himself, because feeling sorry for Cygians was the last he expected to do.

  'They should have caught this damn thing before it had a chance to shoot.'

  'But Sir, what about the stripes of honour?'

  'Damn the stripes, Boswell. These creatures are becoming seriously annoying. Security is lax and careless. Let them search the observatory with heat scanners. Locate the bastards. All of them.'

  'Do you want us to cook them?'

  'Yes, I sincerely want you to do that, but don't. If the president is ever going to agree to building these infrared telescopes, I want to keep her on our side.'

  * * *

  Oh, the humiliation. Cygians weren't made to be looked at, not even this young, inexperienced offshoot, now dead on the floor of the space craft's galley.

  Wenna couldn't stand it. She clung to the outside of the chamber where this horrible thing was happening, all seven remaining facets of her. They shivered and held each other, and swore to avenge their dead sister.

  This man Rasmussen must die. He'd looked at her, just like his machines were going to look at their homeworld of Cygia. Even humans had a saying that looks could kill.

  Wenna pleaded to the Deep for another injection of its nourishing seed, so she could divide and have a better chance of fulfilling her task.

  The Deep did better than that; it reached across the wormhole nexus, and shared itself with her. Even when it withdrew, leaving her spent, clinging to the outside of the human observatory, her skin stretched and bloated. For with her grew the seed that would make her Grow and Grow until she snapped like a balloon and hundreds of new Cygians would burst into space.

  It was an honour to die this way. But while incubation lasted, it was inconvenient, because there were now only six of her left, all bound to look after her while she was going to spend the rest of her life in excruciating pain, while the humans were hell-bent on locating them.

  * * *

  The Giant Telescope floated in space on the outer reaches of the solar system peering deep into the galaxy. One of the
specks out there was the Cygian homeworld, the planet of those beings who were, to human eyes, invisible.

  The big viewscreen in the control room showed an image of robotic arms moving silvery sections of the new mirror into place, the image dark and dim this far away from the sun. It was a fascinating sight, this engineering prowess of the company. Jono enjoyed a drink, until the head engineer gave him the all-clear to turn on the telescope feed with the press of a button.

  'Yes, yes, sure. This one here?'

  'The very one.'

  Jono pressed. The view expanded, and expanded. The planet became larger, and what had for years only been a speck, became a ball, which showed up in increasing detail.

  'It's working Mr Rasmussen. A few hours and then we will have detailed images of the planet.'

  'How are our pet Cygians keeping?'

  'We've located six Cygians on the outside of the ship, and one . . . We're not sure what it is. It's bigger than the others. All of them are together and staying put at the moment.'

  'Right.' Jono cracked his knuckles. Six Cygians, he could deal with. The outside of the Comtel head office usually housed more than that. 'Get onto the relay at the wormhole nexus and send a message to the Ortan and Praxian leaders that we have something they might like to buy.'

  'Yes, Mr Rasmussen.'

  Jono sat back and lifted his champagne. 'To the money I'm going to make.'

  'But,' the engineer said next to him. 'How is that going to work?'

  'Well, the Giant Telescope provides the most detailed images in the universe. Images of Cygia will be of interest to the Ortans, images of Praxia to the Cygians, because they're all at war and can't get anywhere near each other's planets without being shot to bits, and don't have the technology to get images of this detail themselves.'

  'No wonder all these aliens hate your guts. You give them the intelligence to attack each other.' Jono didn't entirely approve of the engineer's sarcastic tone.

  'They'll just kill each other more efficiently, and stop bothering us. Peacekeeping in action.'

  'If you say so,' the engineer muttered. 'I'd be more inclined to think aliens will take exception to this, especially the ones who find it offensive to be seen.'

  'May I remind you who pays your salary?'

  'You may, but I'd be equally happy to catch the next shuttle back to Earth, if it's all equal with you.'

  * * *

  Wenna hurt, oh she hurt. She screamed, and her sisters held her. She was so much bigger than them, now, so bloated, so ugly, with ineffectual limbs that could no longer hold her in place. The young moved inside her, but they weren't ready to burst. Not yet.

  * * *

  Jono couldn't sleep.

  He saw himself in the galley, staring at the body of the Cygian. It was so small and looked quite harmless. In a way, Cygians were like ticks on a dog. Yes, you washed the dog because fleas were annoying, but did that mean fleas had no right to exist?

  Did he have the right to make a profit out of their misery?

  Wouldn't it be better, like the president said, to trade with these aliens on equal basis? His father used to say, honesty lasts longest, and when it came to humans, he was inclined to agree.

  No one had ever figured out why Cygians had such a fascination with killing high-profile figures, who had the money to resurrect themselves anyway. The killing seemed like an exercise in futility, like a bird repeatedly attacking its reflection in a mirror.

  The president got on well enough with the Cygian leadership, one they called the Deep.

  At least Ortans and Praxians were normal, visible creatures, as far as anything that looked like a cross between an octopus and a horse deserved the term normal.

  Maybe he needed let go of his hatred of Cygians.

  He rose from his bed, because sleep was not going to happen, and padded to the control room. During the off-shift, the room was lit only by a few lights. A single technician sat at the controls.

  'All well?' Jono asked while he sat down.

  'Quiet,' the woman said. 'The Cygians are still in place.'

  Jono waved her into silence. He was sick of hearing about Cygians.

  And yet . . .

  He called up the telescope image of Cygia.

  The resolution, although completely amazing compared to what they'd had before, was poor, but he could see blurry outlines of structures. There were stripes that looked like roads and dots that could be dwellings of some kind.

  Something moved.

  He squinted at the image. Yes, definitely, there was movement in the streets.

  Heart thudding, he said to the technician, 'I thought Cygians were invisible.'

  The technician leaned over, frowning at the image. 'Maybe they take their invisibility mantles off when they're at home.'

  Jono shook his head. 'Invisibility is pretty much pathological, as far as we've researched Cygians. They only become visible when microwaved, as a manner of speaking, pardon me for being crude.'

  'Not at all,' The technician said. 'I am quite tired of Cygians myself. But if we're not looking at Cygians, then what?'

  'They have visible slaves? A second species on the planet?'

  But as he said this, the answer came to him, an answer as clear as it was ominous. 'I think,' he said slowly. 'I think with this telescope, we've stumbled on more than we bargained for.'

  Then the technician said, 'Pardon me for changing the subject, but I'm getting worried about that big thing the Cygians are holding.'

  * * *

  Wenna could no longer scream, because she had lost her head. Her body, a big balloon, vibrated with the life within. Her six sisters clung onto its slippery surface, to stop it floating off into space.

  They saw the little eye of the heat scanner move in their direction, but they were powerless to move. They felt the observatory turn towards the human's home planet, but needed all their gripping power to hang onto the sac that had been their progenitor. They felt its pain, but had to dig their claws in to stop it floating away.

  With the punctures, the sac began to leak slime and serum. Wenna's sisters scrambled for new handholds, but their nails were too sharp and the tissue too weak, too stretched. The skin tore.

  * * *

  The heat scanner showed it clearly: the balloon held by the Cygians ruptured, spilling its contents like a burst bag of marbles, little specks, Cygians themselves, hundreds and hundreds of them, floating into space, and swimming back to the observatory.

  'Holy shit,' said the technician. 'If you pardon the crudeness, sir.'

  'Not at all,' Jono said, quite calm, in face of the invasion he knew was coming. 'I think that was the understatement of the century.'

  He opened a wide-beam communications link and sent the message:

  Find attached a light-telescopy recording of the planet we know as Cygia. Note visible life on the planet's surface. This is what the Cygians didn't want us to see. Cygia is forty light years from here. Wormhole nexus travel is immediate. The president is dealing with the Cygians of today, but we're looking at the Cygians of forty years ago. They're obviously not the same creatures. Our peace talks with Cygia should be terminated immediately.

  Unfortunately, the Comtel observatory met that suggested fate the moment Jono signed off.

  But four hours later, in Lightyear City, President Marjorie Dunbridge gave a televised speech in the city square. She balled her fists, all four of them, and yelled at the gathered people, 'Jono Rasmussen gave his life for us, and thanks to him, humanity will survive.'

  The people cheered. Later that year, the people fought.

  In that square, there is a statue of Jono Rasmussen today.

  About this story:

  The idea for this story came in a proverbial flash, when I realised that the light we see from a star ten lightyears away is ten years old, and that the star might cease to exist right now, but it won't be another ten years before we find out.

  About the author

  Patty Jansen lives i
n Sydney, Australia, where she spends most of her time writing Science Fiction. Her story This Peaceful State of War placed first in the second quarter of the Writers of the Future contest. Her story Party, with Echoes will be published in Redstone SF.

  Patty is a member of the cooperative that makes up Andromeda Spaceways Inflight Magazine, and she has also written non-fiction.

  Patty is on Twitter (@pattyjansen), Facebook and blogs at Wordpress: http://pattyjansen.wordpress.com/