The Alien Years

by Robert Silverberg

  During all this time the wagon had been moving silently onward as though nothing had happened; and in a moment more it turned the bend in the road and was gone from Khalid’s sight, down the road that led toward Stonehenge.

  He stood for a while watching the place where the vehicle had been when he had fired the fatal shot. There was nothing there now, no sign that anything had occurred. Had anything occurred? Khalid felt neither satisfaction nor grief nor fear nor, really, any emotion of any other sort. His mind was all but blank. He made a point of keeping it that way, knowing he was as good as dead if he relaxed his control even for a fraction of a second.

  Strapping the gun to the bicycle basket again, he pedaled quietly back toward home. It was well past midnight; there was no one at all on the road. At the house, all was as it had been: Arch’s car parked in front, the front lights still on, Richie and Arch snoring away in Richie’s room.

  Only now, safely home, did Khalid at last allow himself the luxury of letting the jubilant thought cross his mind, just for a moment, that had been flickering at the threshold of his consciousness for an hour:

  Got you, Richie! Got you, you bastard!

  He returned the grenade gun to the cabinet and went to bed, and was asleep almost instantly, and slept soundly until the first birdsong of dawn.

  In the tremendous uproar that swept Salisbury the next day, with Entity vehicles everywhere and platoons of the glossy balloon-like aliens that everybody called Spooks going from house to house, it was Khalid himself who provided the key clue to the mystery of the assassination that had occurred in the night.

  “You know, I think it might have been my father who did it,” he said almost casually, in town, outside the market, to a boy named Thomas whom he knew in a glancing sort of way. “He came home yesterday with a strange sort of big gun. Said it was for killing Entities with, and put it away in a cabinet in our front room.”

  Thomas would not believe that Khalid’s father was capable of such a gigantic act of heroism as assassinating an Entity. No, no, no, Khalid argued eagerly, in a tone of utter and sublime disingenuousness: he did it, I know he did it, he’s always talked of wanting to kill one of them one of these days, and now he has.

  He has?

  Always his greatest dream, yes, indeed.

  Well, then—

  Yes. Khalid moved along. So did Thomas. Khalid took care to go nowhere near the house all that morning. The last person he wanted to see was Richie. But he was safe in that regard. By noon Thomas evidently had spread the tale of Khalid Burke’s wild boast about the town with great effectiveness, because word came traveling through the streets around that time that a detachment of Spooks had gone to Khalid’s house and had taken Richie Burke away.

  “What about my grandmother?” Khalid asked. “She wasn’t arrested too, was she?”

  “No, it was just him,” he was told. “Billy Cavendish saw them taking him, and he was all by himself. Yelling and screaming, he was, the whole time, like a man being hauled away to be hanged.”

  Khalid never saw his father again.

  During the course of the general reprisals that followed the killing, the entire population of Salisbury and five adjacent towns was rounded up and transported to walled detention camps near Portsmouth. A good many of the deportees were executed within the next few days, seemingly by random selection, no pattern being evident in the choosing of those who were put to death. At the beginning of the following week the survivors were sent on from Portsmouth to other places, some of them quite remote, in various parts of the world.

  Khalid was not among those executed. He was merely sent very far away.

  He felt no guilt over having survived the death-lottery while others around him were being slain for his murderous act. He had trained himself since childhood to feel very little indeed, even while aiming a rifle at one of Earth’s beautiful and magnificent masters. Besides, what affair was it of his, that some of these people were dying and he was allowed to live? Everyone died, some sooner, some later. Aissha would have said that what was happening was the will of Allah. Khalid more simply put it that the Entities did as they pleased, always, and knew that it was folly to ponder their motives.

  Aissha was not available to discuss these matters with. He was separated from her before reaching Portsmouth and Khalid never saw her again, either. From that day on it was necessary for him to make his way in the world on his own.

  He was not quite thirteen years old.

  Ron Carmichael said, trotting up toward the main house along the grassy path from the gray stone building that was the Resistance communications center, “Where’s my father? Has anyone seen the Colonel?” The dispatch from London was in his hand.

  “On the patio,” Jill called to him. She was descending the same path, on her way down to the vegetable garden with a pail for tomatoes. “In his rocking chair, as usual.”

  “No. I can see the patio from here. He’s not there.”

  “Well, he was five minutes ago. It’s not my fault if he isn’t there now, is it? Man gets up and moves around sometimes, you know.”

  He gave her a scowling look as they passed each other, and she stuck her tongue out at him. She was such a sour bitch, was his pretty niece. Of course, what she needed was a man, he knew. Getting on into her twenties and still sleeping alone, and even her dorky cousin Steve married now and about to be a father—it made no sense, Ron thought.

  Time for Jill to find someone, yes. Ted Quarles had been asking about her just the other day, at the last meeting of the Resistance committee. Of course that was a little odd, Ted being at least twenty years her senior, maybe more. And Jill had never given him so much as a glance. But these were odd times.

  The first person Ron encountered within the house was his older daughter, Leslyn. “Do you know where Grandpa is?” he asked her. “He’s not on the porch.”

  “Mommy’s with him. In his room.”

  “Is something wrong?”

  But the little girl had already gone skipping away. Ron wasted no time calling her back. Hurrying through the maze of slate-floored corridors, he made his way to his father’s bedroom, at the back of the house with a grand view of the mountain wall above the ranch, and found him sitting up in bed, wearing his pajamas and bathrobe and a red muffler about his throat. He seemed pallid and weary and very old. Peggy was with him.

  “What’s going on?” he asked her.

  “He was feeling chilly, that’s all. I brought him inside.”

  “Chilly? It’s a bright sunny morning out there! Practically like summer.”

  “Not for me,” the Colonel said, smiling faintly. “For me it’s starting to be very, very late in autumn, Ronnie, going on winter very fast. But your lovely lady is taking good care of me. Giving me my medicine, and all.” He patted Peggy affectionately on the back of one hand. “I don’t know what I’d do without her. What I would have done without her, these many years.”

  “Mike and Charlie have been all the way up to Monterey and back,” Peggy said, looking up from the bedside at Ron. “They found a whole new supply of the Colonel’s pills in a store up there. They brought a girl back with them, too, a very nice one. Eloise, her name is. You’ll be impressed.”

  Ron blinked a couple of times. “A girl? What are they going to do, share her? Even if they are twins, I don’t see how they can seriously propose—”

  Laughing, the Colonel said, “You’ve become stuffier than Anse, do you know that, Ronnie? ‘I don’t see how they can seriously propose—’ My God, boy, they aren’t marrying her! She’s just a houseguest! You sound like you’re fifty years old.”

  “I am fifty,” Ron said. “Will be in another couple of months, anyway.” He paced restively around the room, clutching the Net message from London, wondering if he ought to bother his obviously ailing father with this startling news now. He decided after a moment that he should; that the Colonel would not have had it any other way.

  And in any case the Colonel had already g
uessed.

  “Is there news?” he asked, with a glance at the crumpled grayish sheet in Ron’s hand.

  “Yes. Pretty amazing stuff, as a matter of fact. An Entity has been assassinated in the English town of Salisbury. Paul just picked up the story on a Net link.”

  The Colonel, nestling back against his mound of pillows and giving Ron a slow, steady, unflustered look, said quietly, as though Ron had announced that word had just arrived via the Net of the second coming of Christ, “Just how reliable is this report, boy?”

  “Very. Paid says, unimpeachable authority, London Resistance network, Martin Bartlett himself.”

  “An Entity. Killed.” The Colonel considered that. “How?”

  “A single shot on a lonely road, late at night. Hidden sniper, using some sort of homemade grenade-firing rifle.”

  “The very plan that Faulkenburg and Cantelli and some of the others were so hot to put into being two or three years ago, and which we ultimately voted down because it was impossible to kill Entities that way anyhow, because of the telepathic screening field. Now someone has gone and done it, you tell me? How? How? We all agreed it couldn’t be done.”

  “Well,” Ron said, “somebody found a way, somehow.”

  The Colonel considered that for a time, too. He sat back, there among his framed diplomas and military memorabilia and innumerable photographs of his dead wife and his dead brothers and his sons and daughters and growing tribe of grandchildren, and he seemed to vanish into the labyrinth of his own thoughts and lose his way in there.

  Then he said, “There’s really only one way that would work, isn’t there? Getting around the telepathy, I mean. The assassin would have to be like some sort of machine, practically—somebody with no more emotion and feeling than an android. Someone completely stolid and unexcitable. Someone who could wait there by the roadside holding that rifle and never for a moment let his mind dwell on the notion that he was going to strike a great blow for the liberation of mankind, or for that matter that he was about to murder an intelligent creature. Or any other sort of thought that might possibly attract the attention of the Entity who was going to be his victim.”

  “A total moron,” Ronnie suggested. “Or an utter sociopath.”

  “Well, yes. That might work, if you could teach a moron to use a rifle, or if you found a sociopath who didn’t get some kind of sick kick out of the anticipation of firing that shot. But there are other possibilities, you know.”

  “Such as?”

  “In Vietnam,” said the Colonel, “we ran across them all the time: absolutely impassive people who did the goddamnedest bloody things without batting an eye. An old woman who looked like your grandmother’s grandmother who would come up to you and placidly toss a bomb in your car. Or a sweet little six-year-old boy putting a knife into you in the marketplace. People who would kill or maim or mutilate you without pausing to think about what they were about to do and without feeling a gnat’s worth of animosity for you as they did it. Or remorse afterward. Half the time they blew themselves up right along with you, and the likelihood that that was going to happen didn’t faze them either. Perhaps it never even entered their minds. They just went ahead and did what they’d been told to do. An Entity mind-field might not be any defense against somebody like that.”

  “It’s hard for me to imagine a mentality like that.”

  “Not for me,” the Colonel said. “I saw just that kind of mentality in action at very close range indeed. Then I spent much of my academic career studying it. I even taught about it, remember? Way back in the Pleistocene? Professor of non-western psychology.”

  He shook his head. “So they’ve actually killed one. Well, well, well.—What about reprisals, now?”

  “They’ve cleaned out half a dozen towns in the vicinity, London says.”

  “Cleaned them out? What does that mean?”

  “Rounded up every person. Taken them away somewhere.”

  “And killed them?”

  “Not clear,” Ronnie said. “I doubt that anything nice is going to happen to them, though.”

  The Colonel nodded. “That’s it, then? Purely local reprisal? No worldwide plagues, no major power shutoffs?”

  “So far, no.”

  “So far,” said the Colonel. “We can only pray.”

  Ronnie approached his father’s bedside. “Well, at any rate, that’s the news. I thought you’d like to know, and now you do. Now you tell me: how are you feeling?”

  “Old. Tired.”

  “That’s all? Nothing in particular hurting you?”

  “Old and tired, that’s all. So far. Of course, the Entities haven’t let any plagues loose yet, either, so far.”

  He and Peggy went into the hallway. “Do you think he’s dying?” he asked her.

  “He’s been dying for a long time, very very slowly. But I think he’s still got some distance to go. He’s tougher than you think he is, Ron.”

  “Maybe so. But I hate to watch him crumbling like this. You have no idea what he was like when we were young, Peg. The way he stood, the way he walked, the way he held himself. Such an amazing man, absolutely fearless, absolutely honorable, always strong when you needed him to be strong. And always right. That was the astounding thing. I’d argue with him about something I had done, you know, trying to justify myself and feeling that I had made out a good case for myself, and he’d say three or four quiet words and I’d know that I had no case at all. Not that I would admit it, not then.—Christ, I’ll hate to lose him, Peggy!”

  “He’s not going to die yet, Ron. I know that.”

  “Who isn’t going to die?” said Anse, lumbering up out of one of the side corridors. He came to a halt alongside them, breathing hard, leaning on his cane. There was the faint sweet odor of whiskey about him, even now, well before noon. His bad leg had grown much more troublesome lately. “Him, you mean?” Anse asked, nodding toward the closed door of the Colonel’s bedroom.

  “Who else?”

  “He’ll live to be a hundred,” Anse said. “I’ll go before he does. Honestly, Ron.”

  He probably would, Ron thought. Anse was fifty-six and appeared to be at least ten years older. His face was gray and bloated, his no longer intense eyes were lost in deep shadows, his shoulders now were rounded and slumped. All that was new. He didn’t seem as tall as he once had been. And he had lost some weight. Anse had always been a fine, sturdy man, not at all beefy—Ron was the beefy brother—but with plenty of muscle and flesh on him. Now he was visibly shrinking, sagging, diminishing. Some of it was the booze, Ron knew. Some of it was simply age. And some of it was, no doubt, that mysterious dark cloud of disappointment and discontent that had surrounded Anse for so long. The big brother who somehow had not gone on to become head of the family.

  “Come off it, Anse,” Ron said, with as much sincerity as he could muster. “There’s nothing wrong with you that a new left leg wouldn’t fix.”

  “Which I could probably have gotten,” Anse said, “but for the fucking Entities.—Hey, Paid says a story’s come in that they’ve actually succeeded in killing one, over in England. What are the chances that it’s true?”

  “No reason to think it isn’t.”

  “Is this the beginning, then? The counterattack?”

  “I doubt that very much,” said Ron. “We don’t have a lot of details about how they managed it. But Dad’s got a theory that it would take a very special kind of assassin to bring it off—somebody with essentially no emotions at all, somebody who’s practically an android. It would be hard to put together a whole army of people like that.”

  “We could train them.”

  “We could, yes,” Ron said. “It would take quite a bit of time. Let me give it some thought, okay?”

  “Was he happy about the killing?”

  “He wondered about the reprisals, mostly. But yes, yes, he was happy about it. I suppose. He didn’t come right out and say that he was.”

  “He wants them eradicated from the Ea
rth once we’re properly ready to do the job,” said Anse. “That’s always been his goal underneath it all, even when they were saying that he had turned pacifist, even when they were hinting he had gone soft in the head. You know that. And now it’s the one thing keeping him alive—the hope that he’ll stick around long enough to see them completely wiped out.”

  “Well, he isn’t going to. Nor you, nor me. But we can always hope. And you know, bro, he’s never been anything but a pacifist. He hates war. Always has. And his idea of preventing war is to constantly be prepared to fight one.—Ah, he’s some guy, isn’t he? They broke the mold when they made him, let me tell you. I hate to see him fading away like this. I hate it more than I can say.”

  It was an oddly valedictory conversation, Ron thought. They were telling each other things, now, that both of them had known since they were children. But it was as though they needed to get these things said one more time before it was too late to say them at all.

  Ron suspected he knew what was going to be said next—he could already see the moist gleam of emotion coming into Anse’s eyes, could already hear the heavy throbbing chords of the symphonic accompaniment—and, sure enough, out the words came, a moment later:

  “What really gets to me is when you talk about how much you care for him, bro. You know, there were all those years when you and he weren’t speaking to each other, and I thought you really despised him. But I was wrong about that, wasn’t I?” Now Anse will take my hand fervently between both of his. Yes, like that. “One more thing, bro. I want to tell you, if I haven’t already done so, how glad I am that in the course of time you did shape up the way that you have, how proud I am that you could be capable of changing so much, to make your peace with our dad and come here and be so much of a comfort to him. You worked out all right, in the long run. I confess I was surprised.”

  “Thank you, I guess.”

  “Especially when I—didn’t—work out so well.”

  “That was a surprise too,” Ron said, having quickly decided that there was no point in offering any contradiction.