Eden's Trial Page 12

  “Why do you suppose they did that?” Her voice had that post-traumatic forced calmness.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You always know, Pierre, you’re just too bloody shy.” She pinched his arm, making him wince.

  He decided she was right, but it wasn’t modesty; rather, years of being tested by his father, and being verbally eviscerated if his suppositions contained the merest hint of a flaw. But Kat wasn’t his father, and he had a reasonable hunch. “I believe it was medical, a way of de-contaminating us.”

  Kat levered herself into a sitting position, so she could see him. “What, we’re unclean?”

  “Well, no … and yes. We carry microbes around with us, we shed skin daily, and we perspire all the time. That could be lethal to an alien species.”

  Kat puckered her nose. “Hmm. Always thought it would be some weird coloured light or something, the way we used to irradiate food.”

  “A liquid makes sense: invasive, sterilising, and it can get inside the body, with the advantage of a higher osmotic pressure than air – more penetrating.”

  She fell quiet, and closed her eyes. He studied her face, her pert nose, thin pale lips that he now knew served equally well for pleasure or verbal abuse, dark eyebrows under a narrow brow. A fallen angel. Born into an elite rich man’s world, got fed up with it, and spurned it all. He wondered what had really made her leave her uncle’s Eldorado Island – a man-made atoll rising up from one of the sunken Maldivian islets.

  There had been years of speculation and gossip, but neither Kat nor her uncle had ever deigned to answer even the most oblique question on the subject of her abrupt, self-imposed exile. He had the feeling she’d never tell him, no matter how close they got. Then he realised that he had it the wrong way around: she’d never tell him now because they were close. Something she was ashamed of, then, or else she thought he’d think less of her. Victims always feel guilty, his mother had told him on one of his own particularly bad days.

  An opening in the wall irised out of nowhere, shaping itself into an oval doorway truncated at the floor, revealing one of the dog-like creatures. For the first time he got a decent look, without the fluid distorting his vision. The creature was tall, elegant, like a regal, upstanding dog. Its black head – he couldn’t ignore the snout – was still haloed by the head-dress which framed it. He remembered seeing pictures of the boy-pharaoh Tutankhamen, and the dog-like god Anubis; there was a striking similarity, and he immediately wondered if these creatures had visited Earth – Egypt to be precise – millennia ago. The creature wore a brilliant white tunic, and something resembling a skirt, with a rectangular piece of white material hanging down in front and back to below the knee line, revealing muscular black legs coated with a sheen of fur. He noted the powerful ribcage underneath the clothing. Two long arms hung down reaching the creature’s hips, ending in closed silver hands, each with two opposable thumbs and three fingers. He saw cloven, dark feet, fringed with fine black fuzz. But he was drawn back upwards to its eyes. They glistened silver. He was mesmerised by the kaleidoscopic patterns rippling across the eyes’ surface, small columns like skyscrapers rising and falling, geometric shapes evanescing out of the background only to be superimposed by others.

  “I think it’s trying to communicate,” Kat said.

  Pierre realised it had not heard them speak, since they had not been able to in the fluid. “Hello,” he said, instantly feeling moronic, but he had to start somewhere. Even if they understood nothing, they would realise that vocalisation was the principal modality for communicating.

  “We are called humans, from a planet called Earth. We –”

  The creature’s jaws opened, revealing not teeth, but a mesh of blue and mauve fibres that grew taut as the open jaw reached its full extension. A blast of noise, a psychedelic choir of a thousand fingernails scraping down blackboards, made Pierre and Kat double over, hands plastered over their ears.

  “STOP! Stop it, damn you!” Kat yelled through the din. Abruptly the noise ceased, replaced by the two of them gasping for breath.

  The creature exited, the doorway popping seamlessly out of existence behind it.

  Kat slumped against the supple wall. “Brilliant. Perfect.”

  He eased himself down next to her, his ears ringing after the auditory storm. “This is going to be a lot harder than I’d ever imagined.”

  “There, there,” she said in a mocking tone, recovering, and pulled his head toward her. She kissed him, then manoeuvred him downwards so his head lay on her thigh. She stroked his temple. “Anyway, look on the bright side. At least they haven’t cooked us yet.”

  “Maybe he was just trying to say ‘hello’ back.”

  “He?”

  “Yes… Er…”

  Kat sighed. “God, even the smart ones are really dumb, aren’t they?”

  Pierre bristled. “Well, the musculature, the ribcage, the –”

  “Eight nipples?” Kat shook her head. “This is why I sleep with girls: men always miss the important details. She’s a bitch, Pierre, and I mean that in the technical, anatomical sense.”

  Pierre decided to stay quiet.

  “She’s kind of cute, actually. Nice skirt, don’t you think?”

  He glanced at her in disbelief, just as she punched his shoulder.

  “I’m kidding, lighten up, Pierre. Anyway, any ideas?”

  He closed his eyes and tried to think. Then he smelt something sweet, like caramel. He tried to open his eyes but they stayed shut. He heard a distant voice, someone shouting. He felt a light touch, as if someone was nudging him gently. He strained to hear what the high-pitched voice was saying, something like “Wake up, Pierre!” But warmth suffused his body, and even a brief stinging sensation on his face failed to stop him from being sucked downwards into the depths of slumber.

  Pierre jerked awake, finding himself stretched out on one of the benches in a much larger room, still conical in shape. Kat had her back to him, her arms folded from the looks of it, as she stood, legs splayed, in front of the Hohash. He made to get up, and found his strength was gone. He gasped with effort, just to sit up. Kat turned around, but didn’t approach him.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  She surveyed him for a moment. “They took you. You’ve been gone for two days, judging from my body clock.”

  He stared at her. Two whole days? But where, and to do what? And why was she being so distant with him? He tried to play it cool. “They drugged me somehow. But not you?”

  She shook her head, and turned back toward the Hohash. Her body was tense. He had the unnerving feeling she didn’t want to look at him.

  He pressed his hands down on the bench, trying to sit up straight. His head still felt fuzzy, as if filled with soggy cotton wool, stuffed with needles that pricked the inside of his skull if he moved too fast. She turned to face him again. He noticed she wasn’t just folding her arms, she was holding herself, as if afraid. He wanted to get up and embrace her but he knew he would fall over before reaching her, and probably throw up into the bargain. Why was she behaving like this? Had he done something, said something in his sleep? He had no recollection whatsoever, but he believed her when she said he’d been missing for two days.

  A popping sound announced the entrance of the dog-like creature. He watched as it glided towards Kat and the Hohash. It – he decided he had to deal with it as an ‘it’ rather than a ‘she’, for now at least – gestured for Kat to sit on the bench next to Pierre. She did so, just out of his reach.

  The creature stretched out an arm, and touched the inert Hohash. It sprang to life, hovering ten centimetres off the floor, its transparent surface flooding with liquid crystal hues of silvers, blues, and purples. It glided over towards Pierre and Kat.

  “Showtime,” Kat said. Without turning her head to face him, her hand slid across the bench towards his. He took it, and she clasped his outstretched hand, squeezing it tight. He looked once at her tight-lipped profile, then turned to the H
ohash. Its cloud-like surface condensed to show a blue-green Earth, viewed from space – evidently before the nuclear War had browned it. A shimmering sphere approached, dangling above the planet like an old-style Christmas tree bauble. A tiny triangular section detached itself from the sphere, and plunged towards the planet. It fell through the clouds towards a sandy, desert-like region fringed by turquoise sea. He’d already guessed its destination.

  Pierre watched as the tetrahedron-shaped craft landed, but was taken aback as some people moved into the frame, showing by perspective how huge the craft was.

  “Pyramid,” Kat announced.

  He nodded. As the dust settled, dark-skinned men in flowing beige robes ventured towards the centre of one of the sides of the metallic pyramid. A hatch opened midway, and a ramp extended, descending to the dusty ground. Three of the dog-like species, wearing golden garments, all having the kinds of head-dress their current companion wore, walked down to meet the humans with a smooth, regal gait.

  The men bowed long and low before the creatures, the one in front holding out a scroll. The vantage point shifted – he had no idea how this scene had been recorded – and one of the dog-aliens unrolled it. Pierre and Kat saw a close-up of writing on the parchment. “Looks like hieratic,” he said, “with some hieroglyphs thrown in.”

  The view changed, revealing a village of dying people, corpses rotting in the streets. The aliens were tending to them, using some device or other to spray a fine mist over all, both living and dead. The scene shifted again, and now the same village had people bustling about their business, children running around barefoot, and what appeared to be a camel market.

  “They’re doctors of some sort,” he said. “At least they appear to give medical help.”

  “I already worked out they are medical wizards, Pierre. Just wasn’t sure if they were good or evil.”

  He wondered what she meant, what evidence she had, but he didn’t want to miss anything. The Hohash showed vistas from other worlds where, again, these aliens aided creatures beset by large-scale diseases and plagues. He was impressed.

  “I think we’re lucky these aliens found us.”

  “Could be worse, I suppose.”

  Pierre tore his eyes away to stare at her for a moment. She glanced at him for a fraction of a second, and he thought he saw something – fear, repulsion, maybe – then she nodded to the Hohash. “Look, we were filmed.”

  He turned back to see him and Kat making love. He reddened. “Oh,” was all he managed to say. He’d never been good with porn; too embarrassing, too alien, he thought – until now. He was distracted by their alien escort who moved next to the Hohash, and then aimed an arm at Kat. A fluorescent, pulsing yellow light emanated from its wrist bracelet, and shone at her belly for several seconds. Kat didn’t seem to notice.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “Making notes,” she replied flatly.

  He wondered what was going on. Why didn’t she see the beam?

  The alien looked at him. He stared deep into its silver eyes, seeing shapes arise from their fluidic surface and then sink back again, so fast it was almost a blur. “Ossyrians,” he said, unsure of where the word had come from.

  “What?”

  “These creatures. They’re called Ossyrians. They’re a race of doctors; their sole purpose is to help eradicate disease and suffering. We’re on the Ossyrian Space Vessel ‘Mercy’, well that’s the nearest word in our language.” He put his hand to his temple. “Don’t even ask me how I know.”

  “I already know how you know,” she said, standing up.

  He looked at her nonplussed.

  “Show him,” she said, addressing the alien, who eyed her with a calm grace. She pointed to the mirror, then to Pierre, jabbing a finger at his head. She shouted at the alien. “I said fucking show him, you bitch!”

  Pierre waited, uncomprehending at first, as the Hohash stopped transmitting scenes, and its surface became completely flat, and mirror-like. He gaped at his own reflection, and slumped back down onto the bench.

  “Exactly,” Kat said, as Pierre stared straight into the reflection of his rippling, silver eyes.

  Chapter 9

  City of Hope

  A steady chill breeze scoured the valley. It funnelled past the three megalithic Q’Roth ships that occupied the plateau, and down into the vast caldera that cradled the ancient spider city. The wind hastened the human chain filing downwards to Esperantia, as the city had recently been christened. A lucky few rode in vehicles. Most trudged along on foot, accompanied periodically by lev-panels – oblong metallic flatbeds piled high with possessions and provisions. Few took the time to glance backward at the grey hulking space-ships, their homes for the past month.

  The straggling procession was subdued. A few families chattered quietly, most were silent, as if treading through a cemetery. Everyone by now knew the fate of the original owners of this world. Even the priests, rabbis, and mullahs were unusually reflective, heads tilted downwards, eyes fixed on their thoughts. It was hard to reconcile all that had happened with the idea of an omnipotent or forgiving deity who had humanity as its priority.

  Yet the underlying mood, Carlson noted, wasn’t one of defeat and despair, nor even retribution. He detected an appetite for hope, and occasionally tested it via conversations with people on the march. An innate resilience was overtaking the usual survivor guilt: he had no other word for it than spirit. After his forty-five years on Earth, and most of his adult life spent decrying the politics, the greed, and the social malaise of the twenty-first century, he found he was actually uplifted by the reactions he saw around him. The imminent future was certainly bleak, and no one could even countenance long term visions of life here, say, in five years time, much less longer time-frames. Yet those on this short exodus clearly felt a sense of purpose, and the human convoy suffered little of the griping and wailing he’d anticipated.

  He halted to rest a while. His feet were sore after two hours of solid walking. He wandered over to a large lev-panel goods transporter, loaded high with the paraphernalia of people’s meagre belongings. A cluster of twenty or so people had laid out some field chairs in the cool peach light of the afternoon sun. He parked his ample behind on the edge of the panel, suspended a convenient height from the crusty, sand-coloured ground with its straggling veins of amethyst and silver-hued sediment. A ragged, dusty man next to him offered an open bottle of water. Carlson stared at it a moment – the man had already drunk from it, possibly others too. Back home – not that there was a back home anymore – he would have politely refused. Instead, he reached out and grasped the neck of the bottle. The man’s irises were a dull grey, but the pupils were sharp as disks. Carlson nodded a thank you, and raised the bottle’s lip to his own, closing his eyes as the refreshing water flooded into his mouth and washed down his throat.

  He returned the bottle to its owner, smiled at the man, then gazed towards the city, still a white blur some ten kilometres away. He pulled out his imaging binoculars, and ramped up the magnification, seeing beyond the stretched millipede of people drifting towards their new lodging. There were few defining features in the city: a spattering of ivory spires poking up like blades of wheat, but generally it was a humble-looking place, its small white domes, ramps and squares reminding him of a Turkish village he’d visited as a boy on holiday in Cyprus.

  The vision jarred as a small hand clamped around his binoculars.

  “Natasha, no! Leave the man alone!” A portly, head-scarfed woman swaddled in flowing cloth of varying shades of grey and black hurried over toward the tugging waif, who stared up at him with shiny coal eyes. He held on for a while, but her insistence won him over, and he relinquished them to her. This world will be yours, he thought. Our generation screwed everything up, we had our chance and we blew it. The young girl ducked away, clutching her prize, eluding her mother’s outstretched arms. Several other children leapt to their feet to chase her, so they, too, could spy on their future playgroun
d. Carlson smiled and shrugged as the woman stooped next to him, hands on her thighs, panting.

  “She’ll be the death of me, that one,” she said.

  He begged to differ. “She’ll make you proud one day.”

  The other man held out a small plastic box containing bite-size pistachio-flavoured pastries so sugary Carlson almost didn’t need to grasp one as it clung to his fingers and thumb. He bit into it slowly, relishing each layer’s treasure of nectar. He closed his eyes and savoured it, not chewing, just squeezing it with his tongue and upper palate till it melted completely, the warm honey trickling down his throat, reminding him of childhood family get-togethers eating home-made cakes of dried fruit and marzipan. He thought of all the things that used to make him happy back on Earth, or so he had believed, in his former, tightly-wrapped life. Baggage and bad habits: so much to get rid of, to let go of. He licked his fingers and with the inner grunt he’d become accustomed to in middle age, got to his feet, nodded ‘good day’ to the others, and set off on his pilgrimage towards the city of hope. His feet no longer felt tired, or perhaps he just didn’t notice.

  * * *

  Blake ignored the coiling snakes of smoke spreading inside his tent. He watched Shakirvasta tap the end of his cigarette, flicking a centimetre of ash onto the rock floor. He inhaled long and full one last time, then stubbed it out into a gold-plated portable ash-tray he’d brought along to the meeting.