by Geoff Wolak
They set a trap in the snow, a trail of broken biscuits, and two young lads followed the breadcrumbs. A canister hissed, and they stood staring at it, asleep in the soft snow a few seconds later. Back at the Marines’ cave the grubby-faced boys were cleaned-up, and when they came around the terrified kids were bribed with chocolate and tinned meat. Since they were starving, it has not a hard task.
William Tucker IX soon had six young kids in a room, all bunking together, all already known to each other. They all wore small pairs of jeans, little boots and jumpers, and jumped up and down on the beds a great deal. School started with basic English, and a data-pad. The cow says ‘moo’ and the pigs says ‘oink’.
One adult survivor, a lady, went searching for a kid, possibly her daughter or son, and stayed out after the door was locked. The Marines had no choice; they grabbed her. At the cave she came around, her face a little cleaner, and she had now been injected.
‘You … are the food people?’ she queried, none too afraid.
‘Yes, you have nothing to fear.’
‘My daughter walked off, have you seen her?’
The Marines linked in to the farm, and showed her the kid’s room, the lady’s daughter spotted.
‘Would you like to go to her?’ the Marines asked.
‘I have a son here.’
‘Could you get your son, without anyone seeing you?’
She could, and they let her go in the morning. Just before sundown, she appeared with the boy, and walked off towards the cave, no one bothered enough to follow; outside was cold. At the cave hide she stayed the night with her son, and all of the following day, the Marines pinching two toddlers without the attending adults noticing. Now totalling four survivors, the helicopter flew them back, the lady amazed as she peered down at the land below. Arriving at the farm, the lady was given charge of the children, after a hot bath with her son and a steak dinner. She seemed well balanced, her English was OK, and she genuinely cared for the kids.
She then shocked the people at the table by openly admitting that anyone in her colony who died was eaten, even kids. Nothing was wasted. A few people at the table failed to finish their meals.
I flew up to see the new orphanage a few days later, finding no difference between these kids and regular kids. They were now clean, fed and dressed, and liked to say ‘no’ a great deal, always running around and causing trouble. Sitting with the Tucker family, I said, ‘They can’t stay here. At least, when you go … they go. Our aim … is to advance the Seether, and they’ll expand and take this world. Humans … will have to be removed before that happens.’
William Tucker considered that. ‘When they’ve adjusted enough, we can send them back, and tackle more.’
‘No hurry,’ I said. ‘And, if you can teach the older ones, maybe give them a trade, that might help.’
‘Come spring, I’ll stick ‘em on a pony,’ he offered.
‘They’ll go back wanting to be farmers, not city slickers,’ I joked.
‘Not such a bad thing,’ someone commented. ‘Out here they’ll learn how the world really works.’
I nodded my approval.
The Marines pinched a few more kids in the days that followed, till the survivors stopped venturing out so much, now very wary of the outside world. A new man seemed to have been appointed leader, and appeared most days with a spear in his hand, a knife in his belt. Since he was around forty years old, the Marines took it upon themselves to kill him, the man’s body dragged off by his charges, no doubt for the pot.
Two days later another man appeared, wearing furs, same spear and knife. He stood with a woman who seemed to be his consort, and four kids of varying ages. When the man was seen to lift a child and rub noses with a smile, he was left alone. A canister of knockout gas was thrown instead. Hissing, it was inspected, the family soon asleep. Using ponchos, the family were dragged through the snow, all the way back to the cave. They woke the next morning to find that they were alive and well, and warm, the knife and spear gone, and that they were now surrounded by men that were giants. Those giants handed over food.
‘You are food people,’ the father stated.
‘Yep, and we’ll take you and your family to the east, where you’ll be warm - and fed.’
‘The others, they did not die,’ the father stated.
‘Nope, we took them to our home, where they … eat and play.’ A data-pad was utilised, the other survivors now glimpsed in strange clothes.
‘Food runs short this winter,’ the mother said. ‘Many will die.’
‘Don’t worry, lady, we’ll take some of your people to the east,’ the Marines sergeant informed her. ‘And we’ll drop more food, good food. Don’t worry.’
The helicopter whisked the survivors across the mountains and to the farm, where the adults greeted each other, no outward aggression shown. I organised blankets and tinned food, and had the supplies dropped right outside the snow-covered entrance of the survivors’ complex. Seeing kids run out and snatch the goodies, the pilot grabbed two kids and threw them in the back, soon pulling away. The smell was terrible for the pilots heading back, and the farm received two new additions.
Having linked in and actually spoken to the survivor family at the farm, and found them basically sane, I ordered them back to my world. They stepped through the portal without fear - having no idea what it was, and emerged to a bank of cameras, no fear of them either – since they had no idea what the cameras were. They held a question-answer session, happy to talk, and were now minor celebrities. I caught an image of them meeting the US President a day later, the family given a house on a military base in Utah.
Public opinion back home was against leaving the survivors to freeze through a winter, some of which were bound to die, cannibals or not. We had the use of the soldiers, but the mountain roads through the Rockies were horrendous, so I organised a helicopter mission, just about able to get nine young kids in the rear of each helicopter. The Marines moved out from the cave that day, and lobbed a canister of knockout gas after leaving a trail of food in the snow. Some eight kids were caught in the trap, carried away to the cave.
The next morning the Marines approached the complex before dawn, twenty of them now, and cut the door open where it had been repaired. They cut away the first trap, and cautiously moved inside. At the same pipe, they dropped canisters covered in cloth, and waited half an hour. Sneaking down, they grabbed the sleeping kids they came across, carrying them out over shoulders, the kids soon dumped unceremoniously into the snow drifts as the sounds of helicopters grew. The Marines had targeted the youngest and the smallest of the children to grab first, the helicopters soon overloaded with sleepy youngsters wrapped in blankets – and again stinking. The helicopters refuelled at the same point, and reached the farm before nightfall, their cargos now stirring and crying.
At the survivors’ complex, the Marines had dragged adults up to the main access corridor, had tied the adult’s hands and feet, and sat them against the wall on blankets. All large males had been bound, as well as teenage boys. By sundown the men were stirring, to find themselves in the presence of giant soldiers. Each survivor was spoon fed, aggression being met by a growl from a Marine, or a slapped head. The rest of the survivors had awoken, eventually, and found Marines moving around, the strangers handing out food. ‘We … food people,’ was used a great deal.
The helicopters flew back through the night, and at 1am loaded fifteen males, all still trussed up. The pilots wore masks, and knock-out gas was ready, just in case their cargo got rowdy. At dawn the helicopters were back at the underground complex, blankets offloaded, another fifteen males loaded, and that would take care of most of the potential trouble makers – and those with leadership potential. Weapons and knifes were removed or destroyed, and a few people found to be incarcerated in dark and lonely cells were duly released.
Three dead bodies were found - and removed before they could be chopped up and eaten, as well as a room hosting goats, chickens a
nd pigs, a well-guarded room. It had a shaft of light from above, soil on the ground, and stank. With many women asking after lost children, they were sent up next, fifteen at a time, the complex starting to thin out a bit. A few Marines were bitten on the leg or hand by semi-feral kids, but the kids were no match for the Marines. The Marines started a film, Bambi, and projected it against the wall of the largest room, soon finding a quiet audience sat watching the cartoon.
At the farm, Marines were now in attendance, and they shadowed the men folk from the complex, who all received an enforced hot bath and new clothes, followed by a good steak dinner - Bison no less. With a beer inside them, the male survivors mostly fell asleep in a bunk house, awaiting buses in the morning.
Despite poor weather, the helicopter pilots kept making the runs, a few air-sick passengers happy to be on the ground at the end of the flights. The Marines searched the complex, but found nothing of interest, a few old skeletons found behind locked doors. No EM signatures were found, and no one else displayed an implant.
Six days later, and the last few scrawny kids were finally removed, a thorough search made of the complex - since the kids took to hiding. All sources of heat were extinguished, a final check made with thermal cameras. The door was left open, food and blankets stockpiled for anyone who might wish to make this place a happy home for themselves in the future.
Two Seethan babies had been discovered during the search, and one adult female, who seemed to be a prisoner of sorts. She was separated from the others along with the Seethan kids – the Marines not knowing if they were her kids, and was sent straight back to our world, to be greeted by Sandra and Jesus.
Jimmy then kicked the arses of several planets in one go. He made a speech. ‘Take a look at these people, these starving, dying humans, living in a cave and eating each other, even eating their own young, and realise what a wretched species we are that we can do this to ourselves, that we can make war on each other, that we can design viruses and release them, that we could allow our politicians to start wars and destroy ourselves.
‘What political victory did the humans of that world achieve? What was left to squabble over afterwards, but ashes and bones? That planet is a lesson for all branches mankind, a lesson some here have long since forgotten, that it is easy to start a war and hurt ourselves. Take a good look at these people, and never forget what we are capable of doing to each other.’
Scores of billions of peoples on many worlds all lowered their heads, and took a moment to consider the speech, and what global war really meant.
The tournament
Having finally got the survivors sorted, I returned to plotting and scheming, and decided that a football tournament would be a good idea. I had the trees behind the police academy cleared, extra seats made up and placed across the slope, a fence erected to separate the pitch from the academy. Toilets were hastily built - brick buildings, a few wooden urinals thrown up. Since the Seether were nearly all male, at least in public, toilets for ladies were not required. When I considered what future football audiences might be like, toilets for ladies would still not be required, not for about sixty or seventy years, and probably not even then.
I asked the President to pop in, and these days he was always amenable. ‘Mister President, we will hold a competition for all football teams, and offer a small prize for the winners. The competition will take place over two days, a Saturday and Sunday, and I would like you to present the prize to the winners.’
‘Good, good, I shall watch,’ he said before he left.
Oh, hell, I thought; we didn’t have a Presidential box. I got the car plant people to make up a suitable Presidential box, with a roof and fine leather-covered seats, and had it hastily installed in a prime spot. Next, I arranged for coloured shirts to be sent through, but had previously had a few made up locally for ‘A’ teams or ‘B’ teams.
The car plant people then stencilled onto the shirts the various team names, and all of the teams would look sufficiently different to the others. We had no less than six police teams, three army teams, two car plant teams, our minders’ team, Tucker’s Bisons, and a team from Tucker’s local town. Games would be twenty minutes each way with a small break, and we had the food stacked up ready.
It would be a little chilly on the day, but the Seethans would not mind, not a bit. Our Swiss guy came over to referee, and we provided two linesmen. The goals now possessed nets, and the Seethan had finally seen why a goal keeper was needed. All was set. We had only advertised the tournament to those playing, since there was limited room. Still, if people stood up the slope we could get five or ten thousand in at a squeeze.
On the Saturday morning extra benches arrived, stacked against a wall, now room for many more spectators. Those spectators started to arrive half an hour before the first match, and in a steady stream, and by kick-off you could not see the grass up the bank. Our ambassador, Henry, had a megaphone, and gave out details; first up, Police Team Six versus Army Team Two.
As the match kicked off I scanned the crowd, pleased with the turnout, an estimated ten thousand here today, which was unprecedented. The President and his cronies sat in the comfortable box, and munched on the goodies we had made up ready.
The Police won the first match four-three, the audience clapping politely. Next up was Grease Monkey II versus Army I, but ten minutes into the match my phone bleeped.
‘Boss, Preethan bombers heading our way.’
‘Down them, but well away from here. Thanks.’ And I was not too bothered; I had considered this a possibility. And up on nearby roofs I had Marines positioned with sniper rifles. They scanned the crowds, their equipment seeing through heavy Seethan coats. One man dropped dead where he stood, his bomb not going off. We dragged him away without too many people seeing. A Preethan sniper tried to get into position, quietly killed by the Marines, and that was the best the Preethans had to offer, the rest of the day incident-free, the President none the wiser.
The following day was fine and clear, many spectators again turning up, if not more than the day before. Another sniper was quietly killed, a bomber intercepted. No other aircraft ventured out, the Preether having already lost four expensive bombers. The Police ‘A’ team won by a single goal, the final being against our minders, Pleb scoring three times. The President stepped out to award the team members a gold coin each, about two months wages. He shook their hands and discussed tactics, pleased that his own police had won. Afterwards, I took him to one side.
‘Mister President, if we build a large pitch and area for people to watch, you can tax them as they arrive.’
‘Yes, much money, many people.’
‘We would pay for it, and build it, somewhere in the city.’
‘Yes, yes, you look for land, you build it.’
As the President walked off, I said, ‘You’re welcome.’
Back at the embassy, Henry was not happy. ‘The Preether tried to bomb the tournament, to set-off bombs, and to assassinate the damn President!’
‘Yeah, but besides all that, how do you think it went?’
He sighed, and slumped into his chair. ‘Are we making things better, or just making the Preether jealous?’
‘Both,’ I quipped, getting back a stare. ‘Look, we’ll build a stadium over there as well, and they’ll calm down a bit. This is all great for social development, because this is the first time the Seethan public have ever come out to watch a game. Soon we’ll have high-value transfer fees, dodgy sports agents, and ticket touts. Progress.’
I popped back from a snowy Montana to a snowy Canada, Klok and Chime greeting ‘papa’. Now, when I got in the pool with them, they played with me, balls thrown and chased. Getting them out of the pool was less of an issue, and they would sit on me and cuddle up after feeding. Their skin was less grey and more pink, their crowns now distinct, a little hair growing over their ears, their eyes getting smaller compared to the size of their heads. And, from the neck down, they were all human more or less, just that t
heir guts were quite different to ours.
Figuring we’d beat the weather for a week or so, we packed a bag and headed for New Kinshasa, and we headed towards my other family. We landed in the rain, the outdoor pool out of use for now, and were surprised by how much Selemba had grown. She now walked well enough, ran well enough when she wanted to get away from us, and still swam like a fish. Her eyes were all Seethan now, the crest visible, her mouth round, the teeth pointy and plentiful. She could speak a few words well, like ‘no’, and mumbled quite a few others.
‘She’s growing,’ I noted as I hugged Helen.
‘Getting heavy to carry now,’ Helen commented before we sat around the sofas, a maid on hand, Klok and Chime on a rug with their toy cars and fire trucks.
‘Do you see any local Seethan children?’ Susan enquired.
‘There’s a club for them, on Saturdays, and we go sometimes,’ Helen explained. ‘About thirty, I think. Oh, and there are four of the human survivors from the Seethan world here.’
‘Adults?’ Susan puzzled.
‘No, kids,’ Helen explained.
‘Haven’t heard much about the Antarctic adults,’ Susan floated.
I explained, ‘It’s being kept quiet. The women and kids have been given anonymous homes in quite leafy suburbs, the men still on Ascension Island – a few certified, and a few met with accidents.’
‘Couldn’t reintegrate them?’ Helen floated.
‘They made the human cave survivors look civilised!’ I quipped. ‘And Peck, he got ten years rehabilitation after the show trial, and he’s lost weight. Apparently, he’s studying for a degree, and wants to help rehabilitate the other men.’
‘News came from Jimmy’s old world; a six year break in time between us,’ Helen began. ‘All sorts of new inventions and weapons. They’ve sent back the plans to alter normal radar to look for a wider EM spectrum. Airbases here are testing it.’
