His head is on one side as if judging whether we’re likely to make a fuss.
“You’re an alien,” I say.
“And that’s your spaceship!” Other Ginny finishes my sentence.
“Does that scare you?” he asks.
“What did you put in my drink?”
“Our drinks,” my twin says.
I should be running for my life, but I feel strangely unperturbed.
“Nothing. Genetic engineering adapts us for first contact. The calming effect doesn’t take away your free will, just some of the fear. We don’t want to scare you to death—literally.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not scared.” My twin nods. I know I should be screaming for help, but I like John Doe. I even find him attractive in a weird, foreign kind of way. Foreign? No! Alien. Yes, he does look alien. Oh boy, I may be off my head on alien pheromones. This is powerful stuff. Whooo. I rub my eyes. My twin is rubbing hers.
“Will you come with me to my ship?” he asks. “There’s a small problem that I need to take care of.” He looks from me to my twin and back again.
“What have you done?” My twin beats me to it.
I get what she means. “And where’s our sister? You did make another me this afternoon, didn’t you?”
“The lightning wasn’t lightning,” Other Ginny says, “and we saw the reflection in the mirror.”
He points to the shard around my neck. “That’s the machine that did it. You selected it yourself. I’m afraid I must ask you for it back Ginny Hard Castle, before there is another accident.”
I don’t want to let it go. I look at Other Ginny and she jerks her head in his direction. “Hey, this could work. If there are three of us already, we’ve got enough for a family band. The Hardcastles, how does it sound?”
“Can you sing?” I ask her.
“Can you?”
“Ye—Oh, I get it. But don’t you think our parents might get a bit of a shock when we all go home. Three in a bed? And which one of us will get the university place?”
John Doe is still holding out his hand.
“Give it to him,” Other Ginny sighs, flight of fancy over.
I take off the shard and hand it over, suddenly bereft.
He closes his fingers around it and sighs. “Thank you. Now, you must come with me, one of you, anyway. Your sister has gone ahead.”
“Wait a minute—why only one of us? What’s going to happen up there?” I ask.
He bites his lip, a curiously human gesture. “We don’t usually make two copies,” he says. “We make only one. One to stay and a copy to go, and no one left who knows.”
“Knows what? Go where?” We both speak together.
“To my planet. Please, come to my ship, and I will explain.”
I’m not scared. That’s bad. I should be scared. “You think that not knowing makes it all right, do you? Have you ever heard the word: consent?”
I’m sure we’re being hornswoggled by his pheromones, but with a glance at each other, we both reach forward and take his hand.
There’s a bright light and we’re in a different place. His ship. It’s not built for people like me. My mind wants to tell me it’s not built for humans, but I won’t let it. My twin is staring around, too. We reach for each other and clasp hands.
I try to capture the sights, sounds and scents of this strange place, the movements of other beings, the background hum of communication that’s not quite conversation. In fact, I’m not sure I’m hearing it at all except in my head. I try, but I can’t take it in, and I certainly can’t spit it out again. It’s so different that I have no frame of reference.
A section of wall—at least, I think it’s wall—turns clear. Below me I can see the festival spread out, a sprawl of tents and cars, with an explosion of light where the stages are. I can see the noise pulsing from the speaker systems, taste it.
“We want to learn more about your people and your many cultures.” John Doe is behind me, except that’s not his real name, obviously.
“You should have called yourself Ford Prefect.” He doesn’t get the reference, of course. I sigh. “If you’re starting with Glastonbury Festival, you should know this is not exactly typical of everyday life.”
“We’re not here to study the festival. We’re here to recruit, but the festival is good cover for us. After all, if you go back home and tell people what happened to you, who will believe?”
“Why me? I’m not exactly special.”
“That’s what makes you special. All those not-special humans from all your different races and cultures add up to a very special humanity. We wish to know more about you.”
I think of anal probes and dissection. He laughs as if he knows what’s in my head.
“Nothing like that. We want to take you back to live on our planet, not only you, but thousands of you. In living with you we find out what you have been and what you are, and also what you can become.”
“You can’t take thousands without someone missing us. Oh, that’s what the copies are for, right?”
“You won’t be missed,” he says, “because one of you will stay behind.”
I screw up my eyes. “I am only one of me.”
“Which one of us stays and which one goes?” my twin says. “And what are you going to do about the spare?”
“That would be me.” Another version of me walks through an opening in the wall which closes behind her again like liquid metal. And suddenly we are triplets, though this new version of me has changed out of rain gear and is wearing a light gray tunic. “I’m not a spare,” she says. “I’m as real as you are, and I’m the one who’s going.”
“You are all the same. It makes no difference which one goes and which one stays,” John Doe says.
“Just a minute, one going and one staying leaves an odd one out.” Other Ginny frowns.
John Doe looks uncomfortable. “The artifact can be made to reverse the duplication,” he says.
Other Ginny’s eyes widen. “You’re going to kill one of us?”
“Reabsorb,” John Doe says. “It will be quick and painless.” He takes out the artifact and dangles it by the chain.
“No!” Other Ginny and I speak together. She reaches for the shard, but I beat her to it and snatch it out of his hand.
Tunic Ginny says nothing. She’s already figured out that since she’s had the orientation course, she’s the one who will be going.
It’s a sweet set up, really. A duplicate gets to experience the wonders of space and a new planet, while the original stays at home, usually none the wiser. I mucked that up by claiming the artifact which John Doe certainly didn’t intend me to keep.
“How does this work, then?” I dangle it. “How many more copies can I make? If I give it to Jude can I make two of her, or more?”
“That one resonates to you alone,” he says. “If your friend had been a suitable candidate she would have been attracted to one of the other artifacts.”
“You mean all those shinies were people copiers?”
He nods.
“Have you guys ever studied ethics? You can’t just...”
“But they have.” Tunic Ginny gives me a hard look. “Come on, you can’t tell me you wouldn’t jump at the chance, especially if you knew that you wouldn’t be leaving Mum and Dad grieving and everyone wondering where you disappeared to. It’s perfect. I’ll be off to the stars while someone else—you—lives my life at home. It’ll be the ultimate adventure.”
“But you’ll never see our parents again, or Jude or Beano.”
“I know, but you’ll take good care of them, and—just think of it—the stars!”
Other Ginny clears her throat. “And I’ll be dead.”
“No you won’t. Why can’t you go, too?” I glare at John Doe. “Don’t you have room for one more?”
“Two of the same would unbalance our sample.”
“Why should it? What if your sample had included identical twins?”
“Identic
al twins?” he asks. “Clones? Human technology has not—”
“No, not clones. Natural identical twins. Two babies born at the same time, sharing DNA and looking exactly the same. Come on, Mr. Doe, you must have done some research into humans.”
His eyes go glazed for a moment, as if he’s accessing some internal database, or maybe asking permission of a superior.
I hold my breath.
He nods. “Identical twins. A new concept for us. We shall learn from it.”
I turn to Other Ginny. “Does that work for you or do you want to swap places? If I’ve understood this correctly you could stay and I could go. Or we could both go and she could stay.”
Tunic Ginny puts up both hands. “I’m going. You two work out the rest between you.”
In the end we toss for it. I lose, or maybe I win. I’m staying and other Ginny’s going. I feel a pang of disappointment. Tunic Ginny is right. The stars are out there and I’m stuck on earth.
“Are you going to take me back down?” I ask John Doe.
He purses his mouth.
“What aren’t you telling me?”
“I will have to take your memories of this day, Ginny Hard Castle.”
“Why? I can’t tell anyone unless I want a one way trip to a nice psychiatric ward.”
“It’s for your own good. The secret will weigh too heavy. Eventually you will need to tell someone—a partner, a child, a tabloid newspaper.”
I laugh. “No one will believe me and I don’t want to forget.”
He looks sad.
I don’t even get the opportunity to say goodbye.
In an instant we’re back down on the festival field in the middle of the Pyramid Stage crowd.
I try to hold on to the image of his space ship, but it dissipates.
Sting is up-front and centre, small but large on that huge screen, dressed in a vest-top and jeans, arms looking like he carries bricks for a living. There’s loud music all around me and the crowd is going mad, bouncing up and down to Roxanne. John Doe is standing close behind and I can see over the head of the strapping six-footer in front of me. My feet aren’t touching the floor.
“What’s happening?” I speak quietly, but he hears me.
“You will forget, trust me. I know you think you won’t, but you will.” I can hear him perfectly well, even with all the noise. “Live your life well, Ginny Hard Castle.”
It all seems to make sense, though the detail is already fading.
I’m still clutching the shard in my right hand.
“It’s deactivated now,” he says. “It’s just a bauble—mostly. What it does now is a gift from me to you, an apology if you like. I should have asked first. Would you have said yes?”
“I think I would.”
I try to hold on to the memory of Other Ginny and Tunic Ginny.
“You came here for the music. Enjoy it,” John Doe says.
It seems like the right thing to do. I let the music take me.
When next I turn around, John Doe has gone, but I can still see over the heads of the crowd. No one seems to notice that I’m floating, high as a kite. As the last notes die away and the crowd starts to disperse, I realize that I’ve gradually come down to earth and I’m walking in mud. My feet are heavy with it, but my head still seems remarkably light. I find our tent and crawl into my sleeping bag fully-dressed.
What was it I was supposed to remember?
Sunday morning.
I have a vague notion that I should have a hangover, but I feel great. I stick my head out of the tent. The sun is shining through a crack in the clouds and the rain has stopped. I sit back on my sleeping bag and try to remember. Saturday evening is a bit of a blur except for Sting.
Jude crawls into the tent, a cat-that-got-the-cream smile on her face, and I know she’s been with Beano all night.
“I had the weirdest dream,” I start to say, and then notice the pendant on the floor by my sleeping mat. I pick it up and slip it over my head. I get a series of images flickering across the back of my consciousness, like a child’s flip book.
I clasp the shard in my hand. There’s a faint vibration. I see through Other Ginny’s eyes: a silver interior, padded not-quite seats, not-quite couches. Tunic Ginny has already found a place. The empty one’s mine. On my left an Asian boy about my own age is already reclining.
“Is this place taken?” I ask politely.
He smiles and says something in a language I don’t understand, but his meaning is clear when he waves a hand.
“He doesn’t speak English.” The girl on my right has a strong American drawl. “Smiles real cute, though.”
The bench moulds to my body and there’s no sense of weight or pressure. I feel cocooned. Safe. I look up. Above my head all I can see is a wide vista of stars.
I gasp and let go of the pendant. Other Ginny is gone. The tent returns. My thoughts are back on earth. Have I been daydreaming?
Yesterday is already slipping away. Today is a new day.
Jude gives me a funny look. She sits back on her heels. “Are you sure you’re all right? Did you, you know, take a trip of some kind?”
Had I taken a trip? I most certainly had. I’m probably still taking it. The trip of my life.
I hope we represent our species well.
* * *
It was all so long ago. Fifteen years. Jude and Beano live in Bristol, now. They have two boys. We still exchange Christmas cards. I follow Mikey on Facebook. He emigrated to California and got a plum job designing CGI for Disney. I lost touch with Robert and Chris altogether.
This me switched tracks at university, from arts to sciences. It took a lot of work, but it was worth it. I’ll be going into space next week, payload specialist, astronomer on board the ISS. My dream come true.
I slipped the shard over my head, clutched it, and felt a slight vibration.
Orange light. The landscape sparkles. I’m looking out through eyes that are still mine, but tempered by different experiences. I no longer see the landscape as alien. It’s home. Amal, brown-skinned, six years old, is holding out a small, three-eyed, furry creature, cradling it gently in both hands. It snuggles trustingly into his fingers. His father, Sanjay, stands behind him, smiling indulgently.
“A postcard from home?” Sanjay asks, and points at the shard around my neck. We’ve learned each other’s languages now, and our son speaks both of them and three more besides, one of them alien.
“Oh.” Other Ginny. I remembered other times, other brief contacts. I had to make the most of it when it happened. It never lasted long and I always forgot afterwards, until the next window on her world opened up.
I shifted my gaze to the photograph of me and Jude so that Other Ginny could see it, through my eyes. I felt her smile and I smiled back. I flicked to another photograph. Me in a space suit with three more grinning astronauts—one other Brit, an American and a Canadian. I felt her smile deepen.
I grabbed a pen and the notebook I keep by the bed. Quickly I scribbled: happy?
Other Ginny held up her mirror shard so we could both see the reflection, then nodded and pointed in my direction. I wrote: yes, happy.
It was the most we could do, but it was enough.
Perhaps John Doe had been right, forgetting was for my own good, though maybe at some level the experience had driven my life choices and had turned me into an astronaut. Thank you, John Doe. Thank you, Other Ginny. And Tunic Ginny, wherever you are.
The vision faded and the shard’s buzz died away. I took it off and stared at it. It looked unremarkable. Why had I searched that old thing out?
I shoved it back in the drawer, shivering as I experienced a sense of déjà vu.
AND WE HAVE NO WORDS TO TELL YOU
Sofie Bird
Lyssa edged the nose of the ship toward the asteroid, face aching from the tension. The readings were off, they’d been off since she started the approach three hours ago, but it was her first job out on the Daikokuten, she was finally out in
the black instead of running shuttles, and she’d be damned if she was going to space it.
“Make sure you check the proximity flags,” Jazz’s voice distorted over the comm. He always kept the mic too close.
“I have, like the last four times you said that,” Lyssa muttered, but she kept her voice below mic volume.
“Jazz, I still don’t have a visual for the drill,” Ori’s voice buzzed.
“Standby, Ori, we’re still on primary approach,” Lyssa said.
Ori didn’t reply. She hadn’t said a direct word to Lyssa since they met at Schiaparelli six weeks ago. Lyssa had started to wonder if she should have paid attention to the hash about the Daikokuten, at least enough to know the story. Mining crews ran tighter than a pension; they usually found their own replacements. An open job-posting in a long-running crew meant somebody left in a hurry. Or died. But it was the first job out in the black she’d seen in years, her chance for more than ports and shipping lanes.
Space exploration wasn’t exactly as pop culture had promised. No FTL drives, no generation ships; the Earth government was far more invested in resource-mining and keeping the peace in its own solar back yard. Even the military fleets ran strict plotted courses, their pilots glorified AI babysitters. The only real piloting was with asteroid mining crews, and she’d finally made it. Ten years training in piloting, comms and engineering, and this was it. This was as good as it got: flying two cantankerous miners back and forth to make a living blowing rocks apart. As long as she didn’t screw it up.
Lyssa pushed the breath out of her lungs and forced her mind back to the console: she had completed over a thousand approaches, in dozens of different ship models to all kinds of terrains. This was just one more.
But the readings didn’t make sense. They should be on a smooth approach to the asteroid, all clear for at least two klicks, but the sensors couldn’t decide where the surface was. She reached for reverse thrust to slow them down yet another kilometer-per-second—
And slammed into her harness, forehead smacking off the console hard enough to burst lights in her vision. Under the screech of tearing metal, the alarms roared. Hull breech, pressure loss. Lyssa punched the quick-release of her harness and pushed over to the emergency helmet on the side wall. The bridge door swept shut, sealing her in, but the alarms remained: the hull breech was in here.
Alien Artifacts Page 20
