Homicidal Aliens and Other Disappointments

by Brian Yansky

  Unfortunately, there’s a crowd of about twenty people at my tent. They’re mostly sitting down in the grass like they’ve been there for a while.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  Some smart-buttocks says, “We’ve been invaded by aliens.”

  “Good one. I kind of meant something more specific.”

  “We’re here to be trained. Doc told some people you were going to train us to fight like you do.”

  “Now?” I see my nap slipping off without me.

  “You have something better to do?” a girl says.

  Actually, yes, I think, but I say, “No.”

  My new students are in better shape than most new students to a program, but they’re not in great shape. They need conditioning.

  I get a question along these lines from several New Americans: “Why do we have to do all these exercises? We just want to learn how to fight.”

  I explain that being in good shape is necessary to being able to do the kicks and punches. I tell them that learning the physical moves is the first step. We’ll try to work from the body to the mind.

  Most of the students accept this with a minimum of grumbling, but a few walk away. They thought it would be easy, like learning how to make a sandwich. We always had people like that come to one or two martial-arts classes, too. They always quit.

  Finally, at the end of a pretty grueling workout, when everyone is exhausted, their clothes drenched in sweat, their faces streaked with dirt, I convert a physical move to a mental one. I try to show them how I do it, how I use a tae kwon do block to make a move in my mind that’s like that tae kwon do block.

  And fail. And try and fail. And try and fail. I don’t know how to show or tell them.

  I’m frustrated. They’re frustrated. A woman named Cassandra takes pity on me and says, “You’ll show us when you’re able to show us.”

  I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to show them. I’m going to try, though. I’m going to keep trying.

  When I get to the dinner area I see that Lauren, Catlin, Zack, and Zelda are all at a table. I get a tray and some food and walk over. As I’m sitting down, Catlin whispers she’s sorry. A mind whisper. I tell her it’s okay. And it is. Between us.

  Zack tells me that everyone is talking about how I killed the alien patrol in Taos. We’re sitting at one of the picnic tables back from the clearing, eating tortilla soup and bread. It’s surprisingly good. If Michael were here, he’d be going back up and trying to talk the cooks into seconds.

  Zack says, “Someone finally knows how to fight them. Finally.”

  “You’re getting stronger,” Catlin says to me, “aren’t you? You’re still getting stronger.”

  “I think so,” I admit. “But that’s normal, right?”

  Normal? That word has lost its meaning.

  “No,” Catlin says. “People learn more about their talents, how to use them. This is different. Your talents are growing.”

  “Maybe it’s not me,” I say, smiling.

  No one smiles back. Catlin, Zelda, and Zack look thoughtful. Lauren looks scornful.

  “That was a joke,” I say, but as often happens when you have to point out that you’re joking, no one finds it any funnier than before.

  Zack changes the subject. “I’m totally bummed I missed your training session today. I didn’t know about it. Nobody told me.”

  “I didn’t, either,” I admit. I tell him I’m going to have one every afternoon now.

  “I’ll be there tomorrow,” he promises. “I’ll be an hour early.”

  “Just be on time, and you should be fine,” I say. “I have a feeling there’ll be plenty of room.”

  Zelda and Catlin say they’ll come tomorrow, too.

  Lauren frowns. “I’ll come, too, of course,” she says somewhat grudgingly. “But I’ll have to rearrange my afternoon. You should have told me before you set the time. We should make a schedule of events.”

  Catlin changes the subject: “Zelda was just telling us she has more than one talent,” she says. “It’s rare to have more than one.”

  Zelda looks at me shyly. “I’m a good listener. You already know that. My strongest talent, though, is forecasting the weather. I can tell you, with a hundred percent accuracy, what the weather will be tomorrow. I mean, where I am, not everywhere. Tomorrow it’s going to be sunny, no rain, high eighty-one, low forty-nine, by the way.”

  “So you’re like Storm from X-Men,” Lauren says. I think she says this for my sake, maybe to prove that we have movies in common, too. I appreciate the effort, even if she’s a little confused about the details.

  “I wish I could control the weather like Storm,” Zelda says. “I’m more like a totally awesome meteorologist.”

  “My talent is going to be fighting,” Zack says again, as though saying it enough times will make it so.

  “The gods will decide,” Zelda says. “You shouldn’t really talk about it.”

  Doc comes up to our table and asks us how we’re doing and how the food is. We all say it’s good. It almost feels like I’m back in school and the principal is visiting our table. Every once in a while my old life pushes into my new one, but it feels more and more like a stranger.

  Doc asks me how the training went. He heard I worked everyone pretty hard. I admit that I did. Then I tell him how I’m struggling to show people how to fight like I do.

  “Just teach people martial arts,” he says. “The rest will come.”

  “I’ll try,” I say. “I’m not really a teacher.”

  “Everyone is a student and a teacher,” he says.

  Spoken like a teacher.

  But that doesn’t mean it’s not true.

  I tell the others I’ll see them at the meeting. I head to the Porta-Potties. Whoever came up with that name for plastic outdoor toilets must be, like, three years old. There are six in a row downstream from the main camp. Sometimes there’s a line, but I’m in luck today and don’t have to wait.

  When I step out, someone is waiting. She’s leaning against a tree with her arms folded.

  “So you talked to Doc about having me train a bunch of pilots for this suicide mission of yours. Thanks so much,” Sam says.

  “I wouldn’t say I talked to him, exactly,” I say, unable to gauge how she feels about it.

  We start walking toward the town meeting, joining others who are heading that way.

  “Doesn’t matter,” she says. “I’m ready as long as we have the right leader.”

  “And who would that be?”

  “The obvious choice is me.”

  “I wouldn’t say ‘obvious.’”

  “Former sergeant in the Rangers. Elite soldier. Me.”

  “I’m the one with the Warrior Spirit.”

  “I thought you didn’t believe in that nonsense.”

  “I’m coming around. Anyway, it’s my idea.”

  “An idea that you have no idea how to execute. Have you ever led a mission? I’ve led many, and I’ve been in combat situations. You’ve been in high school.”

  She has a point.

  “Okay,” I say, and I smile a little because I know I’ve got her. “Fine. You lead if it means so much to you.”

  We’re at a narrow part of the path, and she shoves me off it. I have to catch myself on a branch.

  “You’re kind of childish for a combat leader,” I say.

  “You’re kind of annoying for a Chosen One. And you need to work on your balance.”

  “You can call me Jesse. You don’t think I’m a god anyway.”

  “Not even half,” she says. “So, Jesse, any bright ideas on where I’m going to find these potential pilots we’re going to need? You don’t usually get a lot of volunteers for suicide missions.”

  “It’s not a suicide mission. And I already know of one other pilot: Catlin.”

  I know I shouldn’t put Catlin in danger, but I want her along. We’ve fought together before. Anyway, she’s a healer, a good one. We might need her.
/>   “Okay,” she says. “What about your other girlfriend?”

  “I only have one girlfriend. Lauren is my girlfriend.”

  “Really?” she says.

  “Really.”

  “If you say so,” she says.

  “Anyway,” I say, “Lauren wouldn’t be good for this.”

  “Why not?”

  “Lauren isn’t talented. Or she has a little talent but not much.” Saying this feels like a betrayal. But not saying it would be wrong, too.

  “Oh,” she says. “Okay. No Lauren.”

  “We can probably take only six people total anyway,” I say. “Three is a full ship. They should all be pilots, right? Except me.”

  “That’s why I’m the planner,” Sam says. “We’ll have a truck drive out with a unit. Maybe ten or so soldiers. They can leave just before dark and be there before it’s light. They can fly back with us. We’ll be a squadron then.”

  “That’s actually a good idea,” I admit.

  We reach the town meeting, which is packed with people. I’m shielding the cacophony of voices without even realizing it. I search the crowd for Lauren’s face, or Catlin’s.

  You really think this can make a difference? Sam mindspeaks. Stealing ships. Blowing them up.

  “I don’t know,” I admit.

  She rolls her eyes. Then, as if she’s been testing me and I’ve just failed, she says, “Try to be a little more positive with the recruits, okay?”

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “Anyway,” she says, “what’s the worst that could happen? The aliens get angry and want to kill us.” She laughs.

  “I suppose the worst would be we all die during the raid,” I can’t help pointing out.

  “Another thing you shouldn’t say to the recruits,” she says.

  I look over the crowd again for Lauren, but I don’t see her. I see Catlin talking to Zelda and Zack. I watch her for a few seconds, then look away.

  “Why did you say ‘oh’ like that when I said Lauren doesn’t have much talent?” I ask Sam.

  No answer. I turn. No Sam.

  The town meeting is almost as well attended as the one last night. It’s at the same time, so the sun has already slipped behind the mountains and the day has slipped away with it. Running Bird and Doc are at the front again. I walk over to where Catlin and the others are.

  “I’ve saved a seat for you,” Zack says a bit louder than necessary, like he hopes other people will overhear. He acts like I’m a celebrity. And he’s not the only one. I can feel other people looking at me the same way Zack does. But none of them are seeing me. They’re seeing something they hope I am.

  Doc announces news of New America. He kind of makes a point of calling it that. Mary Sanchez had her baby. The community garden is going well. The search parties charged with looking for farm animals have good news: two roosters have been found.

  “We don’t need the boys,” a woman says. “We need the girls. We need some huevos rancheros.”

  Laughter. You’d think no one would be able to laugh anymore, but you’d be wrong. People find ways. It’s one of the things about people that is a good surprise.

  Doc promises that we’ll have hens before the end of the month. I can’t help thinking that we may not be here — or anywhere — by the end of the month. These thoughts are never far away, though I’m glad I’m at least able to shield them now. I guess they exist side by side with the laughter here at the end of the world.

  Then it’s time for open discussion. The woman whose tent is next to the snorer is first, and she gets pretty worked up about the need for a good night’s sleep and how the roosters will just make this harder.

  “We already have the loudest snorer in the world,” she says. “Something needs to be done.”

  The snorer follows her and offers a rebuttal. He talks about freedom and individual rights. He considers his tent his property, and he believes his right to snore in his tent is protected under the Constitution. I’m not all that familiar with the Constitution, but I’m pretty sure there’s no right-to-snore amendment. The snorer ends by saying, “Give me liberty or give me death,” which isn’t the smartest thing in the world to say to a woman who looks like the choice would be an easy one for her.

  Then Lauren has her turn. She stands and says that the snorer’s comments have made her think that we, in New America, should consider a new constitution. Then she tells the rebels about SAF and the New Bloods Club, and she says I will explain some reasons why SAF is so important.

  Because of my training session this afternoon, I didn’t have time to memorize the script Lauren gave me. But I don’t need a script to know why I think staying and fighting is the best — the only — option. “Look,” I say, “I know that running away sounds tempting. But do you really think there’s anywhere we could hide where the aliens wouldn’t find us eventually? We all know how powerful they are. To be honest, we may die no matter what we do. I’d rather die fighting.” I sit down. There’s an uncomfortable silence.

  Lauren’s eyes remind me of one of my favorite old martial-arts movies, Daggers of Death. I can hear her thinking how I’m totally messing up the presentation and how I should have stuck to the script.

  Dylan jumps up on the stage and looks out over the crowd as if it’s assembled just to come and hear him speak. “The New Blood is wrong. We don’t have to die. Make me your leader, and I will lead you to safety.”

  Lauren jumps up on the stage, too. It’s getting kind of crowded up there. Just before she says what she’s about to say, I hear her say it in my mind. I consider rushing the stage to stop her, but I don’t. Maybe it’s right that everyone should know. Maybe Lauren’s right. She says, “Dylan is wrong. There are more aliens coming. Millions more. My friends and I met an alien smuggler who told us this, and Jesse had a dream and saw them. Millions. They’re a few weeks away, but they’re coming.”

  There’s an explosion of voices, both mindspeak and vocal. “Millions?” Millions? They’re frightened and angry, and the sharpness of their feelings gives the air a quiver.

  “All the more reason for us to find a safe place now!” Dylan shouts above the noise. “We can’t fight millions.”

  People are asking Doc if this is true, if there are millions more aliens coming.

  “What is true,” he says, “is that the newcomers have been told by an alien that more aliens are coming. What is true is that Jesse had a dream that seemed to support this statement. But other than the dream and the word of an alien, we have no verification of this information. Can we rely on the word of an alien?”

  It’s the first time I’ve seen the politician Doc. He’s good.

  “But if he’s right,” someone says, “and millions more are coming, then what do we do?”

  There’s the pop of nerves everywhere, anxiety crackling in the air. What do we do? What do we do?

  Dylan says, “It doesn’t matter if they’re coming or not. Enough are here that we can’t stay. We know we’re being hunted. We stay here, and we die. I say we live. We hide. We survive. We keep alive so that one day our sons and daughters may fight.”

  “We can’t,” I whisper.

  Desperation ripples through the crowd, and not even my strongest shield can protect me from the sheer force of it. So then I try to tell them what I told Doc and Running Bird about the possibility of the settlers not settling here. I try to say this is our chance. We’ve got to stop them somehow.

  They listen, but they’re too afraid to see this as hopeful. I can’t really blame them.

  “That’s our best shot?” a strangled voice calls.

  We need to run and hide! A lot of people are mindspeaking this. Run and hide.

  Running Bird calls all the minds to him, and they obey. His voice is so loud that it’s hard not to. It’s weird: sometimes Running Bird seems like a total joke, and sometimes he seems like the most powerful person in New America. “The Chosen One is saying that the first way and the second way, the fighting and the runn
ing, will not save us. He’s saying there is a third way.”

  I am? I thought I was saying we were screwed either way — more or less. Better to fight and probably die than run and probably die was what I thought I was saying.

  Running Bird mindspeaks just to me. Keep quiet, Warrior Boy.

  The third way catches on immediately with the crowd. It’s a big hit. I can feel the anger and confusion take on a different hue. The Warrior Spirit is leading the Chosen One with a third way. This is just the kind of thing the Warrior Spirit would do. Yes.

  There’s no third way, I mindspeak to Running Bird.

  Maybe you don’t know what you know. Maybe the Spirit hasn’t revealed it to you yet.

  Maybe I don’t know what I know, but I know what I don’t know, and I don’t know a third way. Still, I keep quiet.

  “What is the third way?” someone asks.

  “He cannot tell us yet,” Running Bird says. “The Spirit is not ready for him to reveal all.”

  You’d think people would see right through this and call him on it. But they don’t. They want to believe. They need to.

  Someone prays that the Chosen One gets the information soon before more are killed. I hear amens all over the crowd.

  A lot of people look at me with hope. Lauren and Dylan look displeased — or, more accurately, disgusted.

  My eyes seek out Catlin. She alone looks at me with sympathy. Only Catlin seems to know how I feel without my saying a word.

  As soon as the meeting is adjourned, I rush off into the dark to get away from all those voices. All that want and need. No matter what Running Bird says, I can’t save these people.

  But there’s one person I can save. I’ve been going back and forth and back and forth about it. Is this the choice that the man at the circus foresaw or remembered or whatever? Do I take the chance that Michael — irritating ex-jock, fellow former slave, best friend Michael — is really alive and try to save him, or do I do the smart and safe thing and stay where I am? Is this the choice?