Xenophobia (24 page)

For a moment, the spotlight rested on the crate Bower was hiding behind and she thought she’d been spotted, but nothing was said. The light moved on, flickering around the edges of the central area.

“There is so much blood. So much fresh blood.”

“Yeah,” another soldier agreed, seemingly talking himself into the same conclusion. “The blood is fresh. They are dead. They have beaten Adan to the grave.”

Bower was relieved when they left, and the realization the soldiers considered them dead meant no one would be looking for them when they made their escape. She returned and sat beside Elvis.

Night fell and the tiny creatures continued their work in the dark.

A cool breeze fought to make its way through the cracks in the steel plates sealing the windows. Bower stood there for a while, willing the faint draft to blow harder. The alien ignored her. She liked that. Given the alternative she’d faced when they were shoved into the hole, being ignored was a gift.

She wondered about the creature or creatures, wondering about their biology, how they functioned as a unit, where their intelligence emanated from, how their metabolisms worked, what they consumed, if they respired.

Were they carbon-based or silicon? She didn’t really understand how that worked, other than that it described the primary atom making up the various molecules that formed the creature. How would you tell, she wondered? Could it be a hybrid of the two? Visually, there weren’t any obvious clues.

For Bower, the idea that the same basic set of atoms, forming roughly the same molecules, could result in life on another planet was astonishing. And that the laws of the universe gave rise to another intelligent species, one capable of traversing the stars to seek out other life forms, was mind-boggling. Although, she thought, looking at the dark walls that surrounded them, this probably wasn’t what the alien had in mind when it signed on for this particular interstellar mission.

Bower sat down on the mattress and watched the creatures busying themselves. There was something hypnotic in their tireless rhythm. She found her eyelids growing heavy, although in the end she fell asleep more through boredom than anything else.

When she awoke with the dawn, the alien was gone.

Elvis lay alone on the shredded, collapsed remains of the double mattress next to hers. She crept over beside him, looking at his left arm in wonder. He’d need some physiotherapy to build up muscle mass, as the arm looked thin and withered, but apart from that his new arm looked entirely normal, although the skin was pale.

Bower ran her fingers down his arm, feeling the texture of the muscles and bones beneath his skin. As much as she hated to draw on a cliche, the skin on his hand was as smooth as a baby’s bottom, and that brought a smile to her face.

Elvis groaned, responding to her touch. His eyes flickered. Her eyes widened. She was so excited. Did he know what had happened? Did he have any conscious awareness of what he’d undergone? Or was he experiencing something akin to waking from a general anesthetic?

Elvis tried to speak, but his voice was croaky.

Bower helped him sit up, propping him against the wall. Coarse stubble covered his cheeks, his upper lip and chin, marring his usually impeccable image. His sideburns looked shabby.

Bower gave him a sip of water.

“What the hell happened?” Elvis managed.

Bower simply smiled. Something in her eyes seemed to trigger the realization and his hands shot out in front of him.

“Wh- How?”

Elvis turned both hands over. The look on his face was one of awe. He was clearly fascinated by his new left arm and hand. Gently, he ran his right hand over the fingers on his left hand, around his wrist and worked slowly up toward his elbow before moving around to his upper arm and bicep.

“How do you feel?”

“I feel ... fine, just a little weak.”

“No pain?”

“None.”

Bower had tears in her eyes.

“How did you?” he asked.

“Not me,” Bower replied. “The creature. Somehow, it rebuilt your arm.”

“But why? What happened?”

“I shot Adan,” Bower replied in a matter-of-fact tone. “I guess the alien approved.”

Elvis laughed. He went to get up but fell back against the wall. His head rolled back. He looked exhausted.

“Does it feel any different?” she asked.

Elvis thought about the question for a moment before replying, “No. It just looks so ... child-like.”

Bower smiled, saying, “I suspect with time and a bit of exercise, you’ll be fine.”

“But if it ... then why Bosco? Why kill Bosco?”

“I don’t know. The creature must have felt threatened, perhaps scared. If I’d been stranded on an alien planet and they corralled me into some dark, musty prison and spoiled for a fight, I’d be terrified too.”

“You think it’s scared?” Elvis seemed perplexed by the concept that an alien could feel fear.

“We’ve seen too many movies,” Bower continued. “Too many movies with badass aliens that have no remorse. In Hollywood, aliens have acid for blood, or they fly spaceships with ray guns we cannot hope to match. They transform themselves into huge, terrifying beasts. And they can only be beaten by some downcast, reject of a hero, and only after an epic struggle. It seems reality would beg to differ.”

“But ... but that thing tore him apart.”

“I’ve been thinking about that,” Bower replied. “I’ve been able to observe the alien in a number of different settings, and I think we’ve got our wires crossed. What we think of as ‘The Alien’ is probably nothing more than a Hummer or a tank from its perspective. The alien itself seems more like a hive of bees. I guess there’s a queen in there somewhere, but those thrashing tentacles are a diversion. The real creature is in that swarm, or perhaps is the swarm itself.”

Elvis was silent.

“It spoke to me.”

“It did?” Elvis asked, surprised.

“Yes, but not coherently. It repeated my own words back at me, but they were appropriate, they made sense. I’m not sure how, but it spoke, probably not using anything even remotely familiar to us, not using lungs or vocal chords. Perhaps it was like an amplifier and a speaker, but it was mimicry. It never said anything I hadn’t said first.”

Elvis shifted his weight, stretching his muscles.

“There’s one thing I don’t understand,” Bower said.

Elvis waited for her to continue.

“Why didn’t they shoot?”

“The rebels?” he asked.

“Yeah. I mean, I’d just shot General Adan. They had me dead to rights. There were so many of them, they all had rifles. Why didn’t they shoot? They could have shot us like fish in a barrel. Why didn’t they kill us?”

“You have to remember who you’re dealing with,” Elvis began. “These aren’t professional soldiers. They’re thugs. And General Adan ain’t no general. He’s an egomaniac. Our closest equivalent would be a mobster, someone like Al Capone. Only Adan is worse. Warlords surround themselves with mythos.

“Up on the tableland, we had one of the outlying chiefs tell his troops he was bulletproof. To them, he was a god. In the same way, Adan would have spent years cultivating a loyal following, building a cult around his personality. Those rebel soldiers were never trained to think for themselves. They were trained to blindly follow orders.”

“So no one told them to shoot?” Bower asked.

“Maybe. Who knows? The shock of seeing their glorious, invincible leader struck down would have shattered their world, perhaps only for that instant, but it was enough for them to leave us to the monster.

“It’s the African big-man syndrome. They demand absolute loyalty. They talk big. There’s a strict hierarchy. Once you shot Adan, there was no one in a position to say, fire. Remember, most of these so-called soldiers were kids or teens when they were recruited into this Mafiosi. There’s no honor, there’s no dedication, not in the way we think of it. The top brass are motivated by ideology, but the rank and file follow whoever feeds them.”

Bower sipped at the water in the jug. She offered some to Elvis. He forced himself to sit up and gulped down the water, emptying the jug.

“Where is it?” he asked, wiping his mouth. “The alien, where did it go?”

“I don’t know,” Bower replied.

“I bet the alien wants to get out of here as badly as we do ... I think it helped us so we would help it escape.”

Elvis was stiff as he moved, swinging his legs around slowly so he could stand.

“Whoa, cowboy. You’re not going anywhere,” Bower cried, putting her hands out and keeping him seated on the side of the shredded mattress. “And as for your theory, I’m not sure we should be striking up an alliance just yet. We know nothing about this creature and its motives.”

“It’s trapped,” Elvis replied. “Just like us. We both need to escape.”

“We need to be careful, Elvis. We can’t read our own emotions into those of an alien intelligence.”

“I’ve got to see it,” Elvis said. “That thing saved my life. It didn’t have to, but it did, that means something. Please, help me stand.”

Bower helped him to his feet. His knees were weak. It seemed to take all his strength not to fall back to the mattress. Bower put his right arm over her shoulder and took some of his weight.

Thin strands of light seeped through the cracks in the barricaded windows. Dark shadows spread across the floor.

There was no movement.

Together, they struggled forward. Elvis shuffled his feet as he walked.

Bower heard a noise from the far end of the floor. They hobbled on and found the alien in the kitchenette opening out onto the factory. The creature was examining the drawers Bower had been through the day before.

The alien stopped what it was doing as they approached. Its tentacles froze and for the first time Bower saw some recognition of their presence in its actions. The core of the hybrid creature pulsated with a rhythm that reminded her of a cardiovascular system, but she understood that what looked like a rippling, undulating surface was actually a swarm of individual creatures.

“It’s retracing my steps,” Bower whispered.

“It wants to escape,” Elvis replied.

The tentacles continued sweeping over the drawers and cupboards, touching the counter and the kitchen sink.

Elvis urged Bower on, edging closer, moving to within a few feet.

The tentacles closest to them stiffened into razor-sharp spikes.

Although Bower flinched, Elvis held no fear of the creature.

Mentally, she knew this was an intelligent being and that the creature meant no harm to her and Elvis, having rebuilt his arm, but after seeing Bosco shredded in seconds, Bower was well aware of the possibility for unbridled violence, and she couldn’t shake that image from her mind.

The pulsating mass of insects was probably three to four feet in diameter, she figured, perhaps more. In the soft light, she could detect a flicker of color and a slight hum.

Although Bower had interacted with the alien on several occasions, this was the first opportunity Elvis had to see the creature as anything other than a lethal killing machine. His only memory had been of the alien tearing Bosco apart and then of their attempts to shoot the creature, and yet he seemed unusually relaxed. He’d been unconscious when the alien had operated on him, and yet Bower sensed some knowing awareness between him and the alien entity.

Elvis stretched out his feeble left arm, reaching across the kitchen bench between them. The alien responded, its blade-like fronds wrapped around his hand as a stream of tiny creatures raced back and forth, clambering over his fingertips.

Bower was fascinated.

A sense of awe overwhelmed her natural desire for caution.

Elvis breathed deeply. He pulled his hand back and the tiny creatures returned to the core of the thorny alien structure.

The spiky creature rolled out of the kitchenette, moving slowly around toward them. Bower backed up, but Elvis didn’t move, limiting her ability to step away.

“Wait,” he whispered.

Light crept around the doorframe at the end of the hallway. Fine lines crisscrossed the dust. Bower could see how the creature had tracked her motion. It must have been curious to know what she was looking for beneath the door.

The massive creature moved toward them, squeezing through the doorway leading from the kitchenette, the tips of its fronds touching lightly against the ceiling.

What she had thought of as the alien transportation device rolled up to them.

Bower pulled away, but Elvis stood his ground.

“Relax,” he said. “It’s OK.”

Dark red fronds waved before her. Bower was in two minds. This alien framework seemed to be alive, she figured, looking at the fluid motion with which it swayed, and yet she’d seen it standing idle, like an abandoned car. Perhaps this was the alien equivalent of a pack horse, while the rider was the intimidating swarm of minuscule creatures at its core.

Elvis resisted her attempt to pull back. He clearly wanted to see what the creature would do.

“It won’t hurt you,” he whispered.

Bower wasn’t so sure. She swallowed the lump in her throat, stiffening her muscles as a clutch of fine tentacles touched at her face and neck. Her instinctive reaction was a sense of revulsion, but she suppressed that feeling and tried not to turn away. Tiny insect-like creatures clambered along the outstretch tentacles, racing up toward her face. Bower shut her eyes. She couldn’t look. The fronds were gentle, as soft as suede, passing lightly over her cheeks, across the bridge of her nose, over her eyebrows and across her lips. Bower couldn’t stop shaking.

“Easy, girl. Easy,” Elvis whispered. “Just go with it.”

The tentacles withdrew.

Bower opened her eyes.

Several insects sat on the tips of the alien fronds, just inches from her face, apparently taking a good look at her.

“Retracing steps.”

Again, it was her voice spoken back to her.

“Yes,” she said softly in reply. “I was looking to escape.”

Bower hadn’t noticed until now, but Elvis had relaxed. He still had his arm over her shoulder, but he no longer leaned so heavily on her. She turned to one side, allowing the spiny creature to twist and turn on its spikes and roll out onto the darkened factory floor.