Unbound Brothers

by Rob Rowntree

  Sitting with his back to the prefab’s wall, Alan immersed himself in the sound emanating from the aliens: a saw, a multitude of saws, chaffing away at his hastily erected stoicism. As he listened he watched. The aliens’ arms still angled upwards and swayed in time to the cadence of their rasping. Were they so in awe of the night sky that they felt obliged to sing to it? Or, perhaps they were praying.

  The sound cut, and sliced its way into Alan’s mind. It felt so different, strange, almost guaranteeing that tomorrow would hold fresh challenges.

  He must hold things together a while longer. Jimmy deserved that, at least.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Drawings and Ugly Cows

  Something dark passed across his dream, and for a moment Alan wondered where the shadow in Jimmy’s room had come from. Jimmy just bounced about his bed, laughing in that physical way he had. The holo-deck show, Cosmic Journey, played nearby and as usual, the heroes were in trouble. The shadow loomed and fell over him in a series of clicks and whistles. Fear poked and prodded, slowly pulling Alan from his dream.

  His eyes opened.

  At first, focus and sight remained muddled and he found it hard to understand where he was, or what he saw. Concentrate on something, anything, the pressure on his back, the prefab’s wall, the ground beneath him, the scents and musty overtones of the air, shadows towering about him.

  Scrabbling up, Alan cursed himself for nodding off. Whilst he’d slept the sun had risen, and brought visitors.

  In a semi-circle some five meters distant stood the natives. In the early morning light their features had taken on disturbing parodies of human faces. Maslov’s recording, good though it was, hadn’t captured the otherness of these beings. Their musculature gave their faces and bodies a strangeness that ate into Alan’s sense of normality. Things just didn’t move right.

  Somewhat bewildered, Alan kept his back against the comforting solidness of the prefab as his mind caught up. The morning air, cold and damp, brought a chill to his flesh.

  Early mornings usually held a special magic for Alan: at home he always enjoyed the stillness and apparent quiet. Here was no different, yet he thought that notion strange. He looked again at the beings before him. Their mouths were open, unmoving pits, the razor teeth threatening, but still. Were they as stunned as Alan felt? Alan perceived expectancy, a rising tide of subdued anticipation. They were waiting for something.

  Muffled movement came from inside the prefab. Someone had opened the inner zipped door. The others would be out here in a moment. God I hope it’s not Kiki, what a mess that would be.

  Movement rippled through the group of aliens, a tension imparted as they stepped back. Alan assumed they had heard the noise from the cabin. He almost missed the faint whistling and clicks the aliens made, his full attention drawn to the way the creatures moved.

  His empty stomach bucked as he fought for control. The beings possessed small, bowed legs and as they stepped back they waddled, which in turn set off a motion in bilateral, bony-protrusions emerging from just behind the shoulders and hips. Each taut-skinned projection moved in synchronisation with the strutting beings back-peddling and yet each of them flexed and twitched of their own accord. Some, energetically fast.

  Alan found the display disturbing. Deep within his subconscious flecks of memory fought to re-establish contact: Think about biology, evolution. What purpose could such adaptations serve? Were they display paraphernalia, cooling mechanism, vestigial limbs? What?

  Distracted, Alan failed to notice the person emerging from the survival hut. Only when she spoke did he relax.

  “Well Alan, you could have warned a lady to dress.” Stowe grinned. “I wasn’t expecting visitors quite so early in the morning.”

  “Nor me. It’s nice to have someone here to talk to other than my new friends.”

  “They seem nervous,” the artist said. “Like they are waiting for something.”

  The group of natives closed slightly, the rate and volume of their clicking and whistling increasing.

  Alan picked up his rifle, cradling the weapon in the crook of his arm. Suddenly the natives backed off quickly, only stopping once they were well away from the camp.

  Stowe said, “Looks like they know what you’ve got there Alan.”

  “Possibly. But they’d surely need long memories. We’re talking generations since weapons like these were here. Possibly they do live long but it’s more likely stories are passed down. Whatever the reason, I’m glad that we can put a little fear their way. You never know when you might have to fight your way out.”

  “Do you think it’s safe to use the latrine?”

  Alan risked a small grin, “You’ll be fine. If they make a move to steal your paper, I’ll give you a warning shot.”

  Moving towards the facilities Stowe said, “If they do make an assault for my paper they can have it. It’ll be fun seeing what they make of it.”

  He watched Stowe make her way towards the latrine, Alan suddenly envious of the composure she’d shown. The unexpected often threw people, Stowe’s self-possession was impressive.

  After another quick glance at the aliens, Alan decided now would be an appropriate moment to rouse the others. Keeping tabs on Stowe, he edged over to the survival hut’s doorway and unzipped the outer door. At that precise moment the inner door opened. Woodland stuck his head through, “So you’re okay then. Gibson slept through, tells me you never woke him.”

  “Yeah, nodded off myself, must have been more tired than I thought.”

  Woodland said, “It’s no matter. I doubt Gibson would have been much use, took me a few minutes to wake him just now. I guess he’s as tired as the rest of us.”

  Alan thought about defending himself but decided against it. “You’d better get everybody up and washed. Set somebody to making whatever breakfast we’ve got. We’ve got visitors out here and although they haven’t tried to tell me what they want, I doubt they’ll be long in asking.”

  Taking a quick look at the latrine, Alan noted that Stowe had emerged unscathed. “And Woodland?” The navy man dipped his head back out. “Only send people to the latrines in groups, and make sure they are armed.”

  Woodland laughed as he backed into the hut and to Alan the laughter sounded false.

  ***

  A diffuse sunlight overlaid the landscape and although the brightness brought everything into sharp relief Alan thought it diminished somehow, not quite as clear as the day before.

  More natives arrived, yet more were on their way. Throngs emerged from the distant town; soon there’d be a couple of hundred camped out in front of the survival hut. What should he do?

  Noticing Gibson close by, he shouted, “Gibson, fetch Woodland and Pickering, pick up a rifle each and get out here. While you are there check if Conway can join us.”

  “Come on Alan, do you think that’s really necessary?”

  “Let’s not take risks, okay?”

  “Fine.”

  Alan felt sorry for Gibson. The man appeared to be lost, floundering. Perhaps the lamented Sheppard had been the guy’s steadying influence. Get real, Alan. Aren’t they all floundering?

  Should he admit that he and Gibson had managed to get a message out? It would give them hope, perhaps shake their defeatism. Hope would also bring desire to survive, to live. Could he, in all honesty offer them something to believe in that may inevitably prove to be unfounded?

  Bemused by such an obvious problem, Alan tried to push personal doubts aside. He had the courage needed, he hoped. He would tell them as soon as they were all together.

  Gibson and Woodland emerged from the hut, closely followed by a grumbling Pickering.

  “Abrams,” Pickering said, “Conway needs his dressing changing and I haven’t quite finished my breakfast, not that it’s much, but I would like to be able to finish it in my own time.”

  Alan was serious when he said: “You don’t have your own time anymore Pickering.”

  “Wha—”

>   “And as for changing Conway’s dressing you’ll be able to do that out here in a moment.”

  During the exchange Alan saw Gibson pointing out the growing crowd of natives to Woodland. Pickering remained distinctly self-centred and, Alan thought, remarkably like his old-self.

  “You think there’s going to be trouble, Alan?” Woodland had lost his critical attitude. “There are a lot of them and more on the way.”

  “Thought we could place ourselves a little ways further out than the doorway, say five meters or so, spread out in a small semi-circle, but within walking distance. Just in case.”

  Conway struggled out of the hut, supported by a small stick cobbled together from some aluminium tubing from a supply crate. Alan watched him straighten and move towards them at a steady, dignified pace.

  “What’s all the commotion, Alan?”

  Alan nodded in the direction of the encroaching throng. “Looks like we should make some decisions soon. I thought it best if both you and Woodland were out here.”

  Grimacing with effort, Conway said, “Yes, you are probably right, but could one of you fetch me a chair. I might well be able to stand this damned pain for a while, but I don’t want to be lying flat on my back when I might have to play ambassador.”

  Playing Ambassador? How about negotiating for our safe keeping? “Conway, these beings are alien. They might have a completely different set of ethics; in fact I’m sure so, therefore we should refrain from drawing anthropocentric comments or conclusions. We’ll see how the morning plays out and hope we can muddle through.”

  The others gawped at him like he’d just pissed on the fire. Aw’hell, so much for words of wisdom, Alan thought, “Pickering, please fetch everybody out here, I have a few things to say.”

  Surprisingly Pickering complied and vanished inside to fetch Stowe and Kiki. Well, here it came, the giving them hope spiel. Perhaps he’d balk at the last moment. Not likely. From the look Gibson wore, Alan was convinced it was the right thing to do.

  Moments later the group had assembled; curiosity and unease lining most faces.

  “Woodland, close in here, we have a few moments.” Alan waited until Woodland joined them, took a quick look at the natives and turned back to his... His what? Good question. His crew?

  Shrugging he said. “Our position is not good. We have survival rations for three people that would last them around two weeks, the water longer. Those rations now have to feed seven. Currently we do not know whether we can eat or drink the local equivalents. In all likelihood we can’t inasmuch as different biology produces varied requirements, and different enzymes, DNA etcetera. We can test, but it’s very unlikely to be a match.

  “This is a bad situation and it’s led to everybody feeling depressed and lost—”

  “It’s been one big fun-ride since that mad bitch marooned us here,” Woodland butted in. “I say when the rations run out we—”

  “Woodland, stow it. Right. Now.” Alan held the navy captain’s gaze until his point bore home. “As I was saying, survival requires a hard mental attitude. We can add determination and a little bit of luck, but what it requires most of all is a belief that at some point in the future, rescue and help will arrive. What this party lacks is any real sense of a positive outcome.”

  Alan paused to let the ideas filter through.

  Pickering looked towards Stowe and after a moment of shared understanding Stowe said, “Alan. You’ve highlighted our predicament, but why tell us something we explicitly or subliminally already know?”

  “I just wanted to bring home the reality of our situation,” Faces looked grim. “Yes, the truth, before I provide you with a sliver of hope.” Several of them began to speak. “No, no, don’t interrupt, we don’t have the time.” Alan gestured over his shoulder towards the town. “Before we arrived here, Gibson with his modest genius managed to rig up a test bed blue-space transmitter and we managed to get a message out.”

  Gibson’s head was down, eyes fixed on the floor. Conway, who sat nearby, sported a reddening face; whether through the sudden knowledge that Gibson had gone behind his back or not; it was a sight worth seeing.

  “You all right Conway?” Alan stuck the needle in further, “You look a little flushed.”

  “It’s nothing, I assure you.”

  “Fine, then I’ll continue. The message gave our position, predicament and some general information about conditions in the system. But before you all go getting excited I don’t know how long the message might take to reach home, or if anybody will come. We all need to hang tough for a while. It’ll get worse, and certainly more difficult. I’m talking hard and then harder, but if we work together we stand a chance, slim as it may be.”

  Slow clapping reached his ears. Kiki sitting apart from the others, smiled as she applauded. “Well bravo, bravo, the great planet-fall expert saves the day. My attempt to curtail our explorations may have failed, but I’m not the only one who wants us to pull back from the universe. More and more people take up the cause every day. We are like a tide brushing away marks in the sand.”

  Alan let her finish, took a breath. “Kiki, not everybody shares your ideology. Perhaps, just for a little while you could be a team player, help us. Help yourself.”

  The group split to allow Alan access to Kiki. When he reached her he knelt and said, “The message we sent. Have you any views on the length of time it may take to reach home?” By their very nature blue-space messages took varying lengths of time to reach their destination, Alan trusting that including her in the discussion might make her feel less isolated.

  Kiki leaned towards him. “I haven’t got a clue. If you think for one minute that I’m going to allow you to better your odds of survival think again.”

  Her words had come as softly as a whispered breeze and luckily none of the others heard them. Nevertheless, Alan felt anger burn. Almost touching her face with his, he said quietly, “Kiki, I’m trying my best here to protect you. Some of the group want to throw you out, let you make your own way. Truth is, I see where they’re coming from. That effort on my part, the constant sticking up for you, is only tolerated by the others because currently I can deliver some experience and knowledge. Once they deem me of-no-value my ability to protect you is gone. So, to keep a roof over your head and those alien claws off your skin, give me something, anything.”

  One last appealing look and Alan walked back towards his previous position unsure how he might deal with Kiki in the foreseeable future. Did he feel anything for her now, after her treachery? Hardly likely, but he was damned sure he wouldn’t see her come to harm, especially as there nearly had been something between them.

  Suddenly Kiki stood and said, “Okay, look, for the sake of some equilibrium I will say this, and I’m pretty sure Gibson could have given you this information too—”

  Alan interrupted, “But I wanted your expert opinion, your contribution.” He hoped he hadn’t overdone it.

  “Right Alan, thanks. Fact: blue-space messages are notoriously ditzy when it comes to timing. What is certain is this, they always fall in a bracket between four days and two weeks, the ones that make it through that is.”

  Gibson nodded, “Yes, but even if the message is there already we can’t say what’s going to happen, or how long any rescue mission might take to get here.”

  Alan saw his cue, “And that’s the point. We have to make sure we stay alive until they do get here. At least we give it our best shot. If we play it smart we might make it.”

  “Discussion’s over,” Woodland said, pointing off towards the town. “Something’s happening.”

  In the distance Alan saw a commotion near the town’s gate. From the vantage point of their rise he made out two wagons and a procession on foot. This was it then, the meeting that would foster all future dealings. He hoped they were up to it.

  ***

  The day grew warmer, and fly-analogues danced about the drying ground. Humidity rose with the sun, and as Alan stepped forward to greet
the approaching native his drenched shirt clung to him like a second skin.

  Behind, Alan heard Kiki saying how disgusting the creatures looked; as he watched he shared that thought. Something didn’t fit, and watching the approaching being helped reinforce the feeling. Taller than Alan by a good third to half a meter, the alien’s skin shone with a moist slickness that glistened in the daylight, like grease or tallow.

  Nearer, Alan focused on the face whose bilateral symmetry forced him to look for humanisms and yet he realised there could be none. The round mouth saw to that, a sphincter hiding razors, it scraped away at Alan’s imagination, chomping through his dream of escape.

  Close, the head bobbed on a thin neck.

  How on earth will we talk to this creature?

  It stopped scant paces short of Alan’s position. The air reeked of soft-fat goat’s cheese dipped in putrefied fruit. Alan tried not to retch and bravely took a step forward. The creature lowered itself to the ground, rather like a bird.

  What was it doing? The creature beckoned for Alan to sit. Moving tentatively forward Alan felt compelled to join it. What else could he do? This scenario never made it into his training manual.

  The creature brought forth a stick and began to make marks in the soil. Clever, no need to talk at all, just use pictures. It drew a small dot and then a large wavy line. Once it was happy with the wavy line, it drew a larger dot at the other end.

  Alan watched the claw-like hands manipulate the stick with surprising dexterity. There was a thumb, small and almost ineffectual yet the creature had overcome that and drew with a flourish born of practice.

  Satisfied, the native rose and beckoned Alan to do the same. Once up, the creature pointed to the small dot then slapped himself on the chest, before pointing all around. Alan must have looked lost, because the native pointed at the dot again before circling and encompassing the massed throng and the town with its gnarly arms. Did he mean here? This location?