The Archytas
By Luke Kinsella
The Archytas
Kindle Edition
© 2016 Luke Kinsella
Cover design © 2016 by Rae Shirley Photography & Design
Luke Kinsella has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the author.
This story is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
1
Geoff Jenkins was standing in his field, as usual. He was carrying a rake in one hand, and in the other, a pair of silver binoculars. As he surveyed the neighbouring farms, a smile formed across his rigid sun-stained face.
In the distance, he watched as a loft of pigeons drifted down and began pecking at Mr Jones’ cabbage field. He watched in a state of clear fascination as the birds began to slowly consume and destroy the cabbages.
To his right, he focused his attention on Tony Scargille’s land, the farm next to his own; a huge cornfield that waved at him in the wind. The pigeons were flocking there too, drifting down, hunting in packs, and nibbling at his neighbour’s corn.
He waited for a while, watching the pigeons circling in the skies above, casually swooping down to destroy crops, before returning to flight.
His own farm, remarkably, remained untouched. The pigeons did not seem at all interested in his root vegetables; his potatoes and prized turnips ignored completely.
This year his fetch would be high. Without much competition from the other farms, he could sell at a much higher price than ever before, and turn a nice profit for him and his strange grandson.
The other farmers were beginning to ask questions though, in fact, that very evening a town meeting signalled by the Farmers' Alliance was to take place in the town hall.
Jenkins thought about feigning an illness to avoid any conflict. Despite his greed and the attention it would bring, he was a man that did not enjoy being catechised. He hated their questions, and feared such situations where the focus of attention was toward him.
“Are you going to make it to the town meeting tonight?” asked a voice from behind him.
The voice startled Geoff Jenkins, and he quickly put down his binoculars and resumed his aimless raking.
“Jenkins?”
As he turned around, he saw Tony Scargille standing on the other side of the fence.
Scargille was a younger man, in his mid-thirties. He had recently inherited his farm following the death of his father, and perhaps that was the reason his face showed discernible signs of fatigue. There was also the possibility that the reason for Scargille’s tiredness was the daily torment he was receiving from the pigeons.
“Err...” said Jenkins, pausing for thought. Any lie about being ill would not stand up now. “Hey Tony, sure, I will be there, seven o’clock, right?”
“That’s right; apparently Mrs Applegate has some important news about the pigeons.”
“What’s the trouble? They’re only pigeons.”
“But this is big news.”
“That so?”
“Yeah,” said Tony Scargille. A suspicious look flickered in his eyes, one that Geoff Jenkins seemed to recognise in an instant. Something was going on, and he did not like it one bit.
“Well, I guess I will see you there.”
“I guess you will,” said Tony.
As he trudged off, Geoff Jenkins carried on his pretend raking until Tony was completely out of sight, before wandering back to his farmhouse.
He needed something to drink, a strong drink to calm himself down. If people had figured things out, it could spell trouble for him and his farm. Serious trouble.
2
Jamie Somertri ran out into the meadows and headed for the crash site.
He had momentarily witnessed what had looked like birds, floating in the dusk sky. Jamie initially thought that birds were all they were, but there were so many that his own intrigue kept him staring.
He eventually saw the Utopian Defence Force flying high over the fields beyond. He watched in excitement as the UDF began firing on the silhouetted birdlike figures, and realised, that if the UDF were involved, then this was something else. There had been numerous warnings about alien attacks of late, and maybe, Jamie thought, it was finally happening. He had to be prepared.
As balls of fire encompassed the sky, lighting up the meadows and the farms below, Jamie spotted a dark figure parachuting to the ground. It looked to land in one of his father’s fields, so he decided to go and see for himself what the mysterious figure actually was.
He arrived at the crash site in ten minutes, his thirteen-year-old face was brightly lit by a mix of excitement and anticipation. He looked to the skies, and heard the roar of the UDF vessels departing. It would not be long before they sent in a ground team to clear up the debris, so he had to act fast.
There was a subtle smell of burning in the air, a familiar scent, perhaps the smell of hair left in the flow of a hot-air blower for too long a time.
As Jamie approached, the dark figure stood up and brushed away his dust-covered clothing. Jamie stared blankly at the man; he had not seen this type of being before, dark skinned, with clear white hair, and piercing green eyes.
After a moment of mutual staring, the man was first to break the silence.
“Why did you fire?”
“I didn’t,” replied Jamie, “I am just a farmer, I saw the sky light up and you parachuting down, I came to help.”
“Is that so?” asked the figure. “In that case, you are very kind.”
“Thanks,” said Jamie, not really knowing how to react, but the man, or thing, it was definitely the enemy, he was sure of that.
“I want to speak to your leader,” the figure said.
“You mean my father?”
“Is your father the leader?”
“He owns this farm, if that’s what you mean. I can take you to him if you like. He is inside the house preparing dinner.”
“Take me to him please; I have an urgent matter that I need to discuss.”
3
Mrs Applegate was standing at the podium of the town hall meeting. About eight or nine other people were in attendance, all farmers.
Jenkins had carefully taken a seat close to the back of the room.
“Recently,” started Mrs Applegate, “the town has been in crisis. Vermin everywhere. They steal our crops, destroy our allotments, and eat everything. We all know about this, but something else, something more mysterious is happening here.”
“But what about my cabbages?” shouted Mr Jones.
“More mysterious?” Raynard Batty enquired. “Whatever do you mean, Mrs Applegate?”
“I mean that my son caught one of them, followed it right to its nest, and caught it. It was building something, building more pigeons.”
“Building more pigeons?” asked Tony Scargille, his tone awash with pessimism.
“Pigeons don’t build themselves, Mrs Applegate, they come from eggs. I’ve seen their eggs,” said Batty.
“These ones didn’t, they were robots or something. Robot pigeons building more robot pigeons.”
Geoff Jenkins began to shift uneasily in his chair. “Impossible,” he said, muttering under his breath.
“What was that, Jenkins?” asked Scargille, an air of accusation lingering in his tone.
“Nothing, I was coughing.”
“I heard you say something. If you know anything
about this, you had better speak now. We have all noticed that the pigeons leave your crops completely alone. Something isn’t quite right, is it, Jenkins?”
“What exactly are you accusing me of? Mrs Applegate said herself that the pigeons were building each other. How does that have anything to do with me? I don’t know any more about this than you do.”
Raynard Batty chimed in once again, “Are you quite sure that those pigeons you saw were, robots, as you put it?”
“Quite sure,” said Mrs Applegate. “As I already told you, my son caught one, smashed its head in with a rock, all cogwheels and string spilled out. Not flesh and bones.”
“Come on!” said Bruce Margrave—the oldest member of the Farmers' Alliance. “They’re only pigeons; I remember years ago, we had the same problem with the crows. They come and go. I don’t know what your son told you, but this is a natural cycle of farming. Next year it will be those bloody gophers again!”
“But pigeons?” asked Scargille. “Since when have pigeons been a predator to our crops?”
“Since always!” said Margrave, impatiently now.
“I have to agree,” said Geoff Jenkins, finally plucking up the courage to add to the discussion. “I had pigeon problems three years ago when you were all too busy complaining about the floods. Those pigeons got half my tates.”
“I do recall you mentioning something during the floods, I will give you that,” agreed Tony Scargille, finally showing some compassion to his neighbour, and supposed friend.
“Well, I will get my son to bring that pigeon he found to the next meeting, and then you’ll see.”
“Okay, Mrs Applegate, you do that. Until then, we will just have to do our best,” said Batty. “In the meantime, build a few more scarecrows, set down some anti-roosting spikes, and add a sprinkle of pepper to your crops, pigeons don’t like pepper.”
“Okay, I will try that.”
“More scarecrows and pepper.”
“Settled.”
The members of the meeting all seemed to agree, except for Mrs Applegate, who had to get in the last word, as usual.
“It won’t make a blind bit of difference, none of your pepper or spikes; I told you all, these aren’t normal pigeons. These are robots.”
4
Tom Somertri was preparing dinner, just as his son had explained; a mix of sweet potato stew, fresh tomato with green beans, and a simple seafood pasta. As his son walked into the house with a stranger, a look of alarm hit Tom’s face.
“What is this?” asked Tom.
“I found him in the meadows,” said Jamie. “He was shot down by the UDF. He asked to speak to the leader.”
“The leader?”
“Yes,” said the stranger, “I need to speak to you in person. Your son has been most kind to me.”
“What do you mean, leader?” enquired Tom.
“The man in charge, the leader of your species.”
Tom began to laugh.
“What’s funny, father?” asked Jamie.
“He wants to speak to the president,” Tom paused, “I think.”
There was a moment of confused silence, the unnamed being did not seem to know what to say, and neither did Jamie. Tom eventually spoke again.
“Are you from Earth?” asked Tom, motioning toward the stranger.
“Father...”
“No,” the outsider said, “I am from a place known to you as UDFj-39546284.”
“Ah,” said Tom, “aliens.” He pointed to his son, giving him a glance that implied that he should go to his room.
Jamie got up and left. Tom waited until he heard his son reach the top of the stairs, and for the sound of the door to his room closing behind him, before he spoke again.
“Listen,” he whispered, “it isn’t safe here, the men that shot down your ship are extremely dangerous, they would have already dispatched a ground team to salvage any wreckage and kill any survivors. If you want to stay alive we have to leave, right now.”
5
Carter walked in line. Two neatly formed rows walking side by side along the asphalt. In his row, made up entirely of the males of his species, everyone wore black. In the other row, females walked in line wearing white. They were on their way to work. The morning rush hour anything but a rush, as Carter and the others walked at the same steady pace, in cadre.
A thought hit Carter as he was walking along, it startled him at first, allowing such a thought to creep into his mind was not really permitted; however, no punishment existed for thinking either. What if all of this is irrelevant, working every day for eternity, and for what purpose?
He let the thought stir for a moment. Just an unusual thought that he had never contended with before, and it made him feel slightly at a loss. As Carter wrestled with his own mind, he eventually pushed away the idea, and continued to walk at a disciplined pace.
Carter was as generic looking as they came. Green eyes and a strong jawline made apparent by powerful zygomatic bones; his most defining features. Everything else was the same as most of the others. A normal straight nose, a perfectly white head of hair, sharp white teeth, lips free of melanocytes that would only display a subtle hint of pink, and a very strong physique. He was not what he would consider handsome, average would be more accurate, but thoughts of attraction were another of those feelings not really permitted, so his appearance did not matter too much to him.
After walking for ten minutes, Carter broke away from the line of black and entered the plant. Today, he would do as he always did, spend ten hours cycling with seven other men, generating kinetic energy to charge one super battery.
Today was Five-of-Clubs-6, and despite each planet they had called home having a different number of days in a year, his species still used the ancient Terra calendar of fifty-two cards.
Tomorrow would be the last day of the card, and Carter’s favourite day. On the seventh day, his unit of eight would join thirty-nine other units and fly each set of six super batteries they had spent the previous days charging, up to the Sol-ship that orbited the planet and provided light.
Tiredness was a concept long forgotten, yet Carter still enjoyed his flight day every seven days, perhaps because it offered a little slice of variety from the daily grind of kinetic cycling.
After work, Carter re-joined the male line, and walked back to his podpartment.
At home, he drank his daily meal, a drink consisting of all of the nutritional requirements his species needed each day.
After his meal, Carter programmed his pod to Nine-of-Diamonds-2 2774, before rapidly drifting away into a simulation dream of the Despina Massacre.
The next day when Carter awoke, his mind was full of ideas of war, although, the ideas only lasted a few seconds, and within a minute they were a distant memory. Carter even tried to recall the events of his simulation dream, but by the time he was taking his morning shower, all thoughts of war had long been forgotten.
6
They both went outside to Tom’s electromagnetic Trac-car, and started down the dirt lane.
“I know a route where the UDF won’t search, we’ll go that way, and it leads straight toward the capital. It takes about an hour from here, but don’t worry, they won’t find you.”
“Thank you,” the alien said. “What should I call you?”
“Call me Tom,” said Tom, glancing at the alien with a warm smile.
“You can call me Yudar. It is the closest pronunciation of my name for your species to say.”
“No problem, nice to meet you, Yudar.”
A few minutes of silence passed, before Yudar spoke.
“Are you one of the Believers?”
“Hey!” Tom’s face suddenly showed a serious expression. “We don’t use that word anymore; you understand? Just saying it can get people killed.”
“But how are you supposed to communicate that term if you can’t say it?”
“We have to say Delusionists nowadays, that other term has been outlawed, and those who use it a
re killed on the spot.”
“But why? What happened to the Believ...” Yudar paused to correct himself. “The Delusionists?”
“They lost the war; most of them were killed; a total culling of any that were found to be alive. Some went into hiding, but nobody has reached out yet. We are not sure how many survived, perhaps less than a few thousand, who knows?”
“But you are with them, the Delusionists?”
“That’s right,” said Tom, thinking about his reward. “Why are you here, Yudar? What purpose brought you to Earth?”
“I need to speak to the leader; your species are killing God.”
“Killing God?”
“Yes. This planet, the planet Earth, is God.”
“You mean, like a deity of sorts?”
“Just God. Earth is the creator. Earth created the entire universe, our species and yours, and everything else,” said Yudar.
Tom Somertri began to think that Yudar was worse than the rest of the Delusionists, and he was just about glad that they had remained hidden away. The last thing Tom needed was another uprising on his hands, he couldn’t have that, it was far too soon.
“You are saying that the planet Earth is the creator of the entire universe?”
“That is correct,” said Yudar. “And if your species continues on the way it is going, the planet, and God, will enter a state of torpidity.”
“Is that so?” Tom found himself laughing quietly, but shook it off hoping that Yudar didn’t notice. “And how do we prevent this fate?”
“You need to stop destroying everything, killing everyone, using up natural resources to fight wars. Your species were a mistake on this planet, you should not be here, and your sentience is wasted, selfish. All you do is consume, fight, eat, and destroy. You do nothing to help the planet, only take, and God is dying because of it.”
“If we are that bad,” said Tom, “then why not just destroy us, our planet?”
“You do not understand do you? We are not able to destroy your planet. Your planet is God, and if God dies, then so too does the universe.”
The Archytas Page 1
