Three Planets

by Doug Hawley

Cosmo

The astronomers first noticed the approaching star and its one planet on February 10, 2043.  How this caught them by surprise was never explained to anyone’s satisfaction, because we were told that it would ruin our whole solar system within a year.  I don’t know if the conspiracy theories about giving more lead time to important people to prepare, while leaving the unwashed masses at the mercy of a shattered earth, were true.  I’m an agnostic on the various stories.

At the time I was working on the NASA mission to Mars which had been scheduled for 2025, but had been postponed many times because of subcontractor failures, overly optimistic schedules, bad management and politics.  At least when the news of planetary destruction was delivered, we were getting close to ready for our original mission.  Necessity intervened, and our new mission was to land on the invader planet, Rover as we called it.  A highly placed group of physicists, chemists and astronomers had determined two things about Rover – it was a Goldilocks planet suitable for human life and it would not be destroyed as it and its sun wandered through the solar system.  I was a propulsion guy and not fluent in any of the areas covered by the experts, but it seemed highly unlikely that everything would come to pass as predicted.  It all seemed like a bad science fiction movie in which some Einstein has exactly the right solution.  Even given my skepticism, I couldn’t just hope for the best and ignore the conventional wisdom.

Our change of project was supposed to be a secret, but somebody tattled.  Within days of being given our new marching orders, Jason Wilkie sent out recruitment letters to everyone on what had been the Mars mission, and every other rocket scientist in the world.  The letters mentioned a private enterprise space ship project, but everyone at Mars Mission could read between the lines.  Wilkie was going to have his own ticket to ride to Rover.

Jason is the son of Mike Wilkie, the founder of Gold software in Portland, Oregon.  When Jason found that running the company after his father retired had bored him, he started his private rocket company outside of Bend, Oregon.  He promised a profitable company eventually, but so far it had been a rich man’s plaything.

Maybe I’m biased, but I didn’t want to stick with the devil I knew.  Sure, you can find a myriad of examples of private enterprise screw-ups, but I didn’t think that they were ever as bad as government cluster humps.  There were a couple of other things suggesting that I go with Mr. Wilkie.  His company had a sterling track record, and everyone that I talked to said that his project was ahead of the Mars Mission.  I jumped ship and headed for Bend.

When I got there I could see that his pitch had gotten some first rate personnel and the project was moving along on schedule.  One of the real pleasures was working with the brilliant and beautiful Sapphire Hendrix.  She was rumored to be a relative of Jimi, but she said no.  She was my boss on obtaining the right fuel in the right amount.  Other teams were recruiting the right five hundred to take the flight and the right supplies for the short journey.  Other scientists had determined that Rover had lower gravity and more oxygen, so if we had anything to be happy about it was that we would seem more athletic on Rover.

After working long hours, Sapphire and I had few drinks and commiserated.  I’m a born complainer and whined about my divorce and what I thought of as an unfair world.  Finally after I wound down, she said a little about her abuse as a child and the difficulties of finding a guy anywhere near her level without him just wanting a quick hookup.  We just looked at each other for awhile and without a word went to her room.  After the hookup, I was hooked.  It seemed so perfect that I looked for something wrong.  Eventually I had the good sense to just accept that I was about the luckiest guy ever.

Our preparation proceeded apace, and we felt that we had a shot at getting to Rover and surviving.  News from the former Mission to Mars was not as good.  We gave a good faith effort at helping them, but it didn’t look good for them.

Sapphire and I knew that we were going, but there was one surprise.  At the last minute Jason said he was giving up his seat so Fred Halley from the construction crew could go.  Fred said “Listen Mr. Wilkie, everyone here knows that you are far more valuable than me.  Shut up and get on aboard.”  I swear, there was not a dry eye to be seen.

I’m happy to say that when the day came, our trip to Rover was boringly smooth.  The experience on Rover was both better and worse than expected.  After we landed we saw buildings in the distance.  As we got closer, there were signs saying “Foreigners Unwelcome Here – Aliens Will Be Deported.”

Deporting us would have to wait until we passed another inhabitable planet.  In the meantime the Azari (people in their language) had us clean their houses, landscape their yards and haul their refuse.

We were told by the Azari to call their planet Azari after themselves.

Even for me it was hard to complain, and that is one of my best talents.  Seven billion had died on earth, and we never found out about the Mission to Mars.  Maybe they landed on an uninhabitable planet.  Even with menial chores and substandard housing and food, life with Sapphire is sweet.  The best part is that I’ve heard that we’ll be put on a planet where the primitive inhabitants will worship us as gods.

I was chosen to write the history of the survivors of the destruction of earth.  Our stay on Azari was what seemed like three earth years based on the amount that we aged, but we may have been aging faster on a planet that does not match our biological cycles.  We can’t be certain.  Our atomic clock either broke or was sabotaged, so we could not judge the passage of time.  It didn’t help that Azari was illuminated somehow so it was never dark and the temperature was generated internally and remained consistent.

A relevant subject that I should have written more about earlier is that besides the crew being picked for their expertise, we were picked for sexual compatibility and social skills.  It was understood that we should repopulate whichever planet we inhabited; otherwise humans would cease to exist.  There were a couple of notable exceptions, because of the limited amount of vetting, some special skills which had no good choices or things just going wrong.  Ace maintenance guy, Joe Martin had been a lay preacher on earth.  While on our second home, he became a zealot with a small band of followers.  Most of us were quite secular, but a few bought his line and called him “father”.  Alice Weathers, our astronomer, was old, unattractive and had an acid personality.  She largely kept to herself.

While still on Azari, it was made clear that we were unwanted and would be given the worst jobs available until we could be offloaded onto another planet.  We were, however, treated to an Azari spokesman, Sezan, who knew English better than we did.  I was appointed to interview him.

Me:  How does the planet generate continuous light?

Sezan:  There are chemicals in the soil that make a cool light.

Me:  How do you not lose atmosphere as you travel through space?

Sezan:  The same as your former home – gravity holds our air as we go, similar to yours.

Me:  Your planet and ours, your people and ours seem quite similar.  Coincidence?

Sezan:  No, we colonized planets similar to ours millions of years ago.  Our descendants on your planet seem to have forgotten their origins and slipped backwards.  We have kept track of earth as we have our other colonies.

Me:  Can you steer Azari, or does it travel at random?

Sezan:  Some of each.  We could avoid running into a star, but it would take a tremendous toll on our energy supplies.  Except in dire cases, we go where gravity and momentum takes us.  Sometimes we float in space for eons.

Me:  How did you pick planet Renn as a place to offload us?

Sezan:  We calculated that we will come close to Renn and it is a place that you can survive.  Also, it could be an interesting cultural experience for you to live amongst a primitive people who might end up worshiping you.

Me:  What can you tell me about the planet and the people?

Sezan:  I could tell you a lot, but I won’t.  We will give you a guide to the local language.  It is simple, much as the people there are.

During his final answer Sezan was laughing, which didn’t bode well.  They may not have realized it, because they think that humans are dumb, but we survivors did know when the Azari were laughing.  Whenever a human or Azari did something stupid or clumsy, such as a slip or blowing something out a nose, other Azari would make a sound like throat clearing and point at the victim.  The Azari had some holes in their vaunted sophistication.

As promised, all of us were given language lessons for the Renn and a very short guide to words and grammar.

We got to the departure date with a mixture of joy and trepidation.  We weren’t given a choice, so there was no point in wondering if leaving was a good idea.  At least the Azari refueled our rocket with high quality fuel and wished us safe passage.  The sweethearts also told us where to land to avoid killing many Renn.

After we landed and got on solid earth, the residents came out to meet us.  After a short, stunned silence Jim Gilgert shouted out “They’re superdogs.”  Jim never had a filter, and always said whatever popped into his mind, but he wasn’t wrong.  Clearly the locals were not in any way the descendants of the Azari.  They appeared to be mutant dogs about a meter high at the shoulders, built on the centaur plan.  Their “skin” appeared slick, no hair or scales.  Other than that and the six appendages, they could be earth mammals.  We’ll never know if they were imported by the Azari, or are native to Renn because they had little sense of the past or the future.  To them, it was always “now”.  In that sense, they are very much New Age creatures “in the moment”.

One of them came up to me, somehow assuming I was our leader and asked in their language “Welcome.  What do you need to know?”

We had prepared questions because the Azari had given us little information.

There was no word for “name” in their language, so I called him Joe.  We had a medallion that we hung around his neck with his name.  He seemed really happy to get it.

“What do you eat and drink?”

He pointed at what appeared to be a field of multi-colored fruit the size of watermelons next to what appeared to be a pond about a hundred meters away “Over there”.

“Do you have places for eating, sleeping, defecating and urinating?”  At first Joe looked puzzled, but then just gestured wherever, then dropped a load on the ground.  Said load quickly turned to dust and blew away in the light breeze.  Like anyone else would have, I wondered if it would be the same for humans.  We soon learned that it was.

“I can’t think of anything else to ask now Joe, but may I ask you questions as they come up.”

“Sure.”

I went back to my people to tell them what I had learned and see what they thought.  After I had briefed them, Elmer Banks, the electrician, asked a question that I hadn’t thought of – “What about weather, the seasons and night and day?”  As we learned, I might as well not have asked.  The questions were meaningless to the Renn.  Because the planet didn’t rotate, we always faced their sun.  Nothing ever changed – slight breeze, equitable temperature, always light.  So far the wind has been steady and in the same direction from the temperature differential on different parts of the planet.

Sapphire had talked to some of the Renn.  “I had a really hard time communicating, but it seems that the Renn that we have seen is all of them, at least as far as this group knows.  They didn’t understand when I asked for a number, but I estimate that there are five hundred live ones.  I saw several of what appear to be corpses.  They are pretty much ignored by the live ones.  After a lot of interrogation, I learned that going in one direction is warmer and another is colder.”

Given that we were very comfortable, our next concern was food and drink.  Jill Smith and Jack Renfro analyzed the food and water that Joe had pointed out.  While they did their lab tests, we ate a little of what we had on our rocket.

Shortly, they gave an encouraging report.  “The pond is pure water and the food is composed of fats, carbohydrates and protein, but not necessarily the same as on earth.”

For what seems like a few days we explored, ate and slept when we felt like it.  The Renn mostly kept a respectful distance except when we wanted something.

Two unrelated things became obvious about the Renn.  They were very active and promiscuous.  Sex seemed to happen at the drop of a hat – but they don’t have hats or any other form of clothing – and was loud and long-lasting.  Despite their intelligence seeming to be between the dolphin and jack rabbit level, their art and craftsmanship astounded us.  Their carving ability with stone tools was as fast as Woody Woodpecker and as well done as Leonardo de Vinci.  We watched them carve the images of all of the crew into a stone wall in what seemed like a few earth hours.  Further explorations revealed what looked like an Azari rocket and what may have been its crew carved in stone.  An earlier Azari exploration must have prepared them for our arrival.

We largely had crew unity, with the notable exception of Weathers with the Renn and “Father” Martin with his followers, who avoided the rest of us.

Sapphire and I had our hearts broken when after a Renn year, she miscarried.  Over the years, despite our best efforts, there were never earth children born on Renn.  We had no hopes of continuing our species.  It was in no way compensation, we found that we were becoming healthier the longer we stayed on Renn.  The medical staff didn’t have all the answers, but the oxygen content of the air, lower gravity and the plants we ate were all good for us.  The real breakthrough was our telomeres.  Aging is largely caused by their deterioration, but that doesn’t happen to us now.  We may not be immortal, but if we are not injured, we will live lives like the Biblical Methuselah.

As nearly as I can reckon, I have not written for about three thousand Renn years or 750 earth years.  Why not?  Nothing happens, every day is the same.  Only four events of interest have occurred during that time.  Father Martin decided that the other side of the planet was heaven and took fifteen of his followers there never to be seen again.  Jessie Smith ate a Renn and died in pain.  The Renn showed no interest in the killing of one of theirs, or his death.  Weathers returned limping from an “intimate event” – her words – with one of the Renn with rashes all over her body.  No one else showed any interest in interspecies dating after that, despite sex being one of the Renn’s great talents and their interest in mating with us.

The rest of us are all incredibly healthy, bored and a little insane.  It has gotten so bad, that I write poetry.  I hate poetry and my poetry is horrible.  Sapphire has done her best creating games and things to keep us occupied, but even the most obsessive nerd becomes disinterested after a hundred or so years of a project or hobby.  She and Jim Gilgertz formed a company which produced “Hello Dolly” for 5,768 performances.  By the end of the run it had evolved to look more like “Streetcar Named Desire”.  Sex has largely ceased because everything has been tried and experimentation fatigue set in.  One couple worked through the Kama Sutra three times.  Our problem in part is that we have no problems, hence no driving motivation.   We can’t make things better or worse.

We live on in hopes that another race will appear to save us.  We’ve been sending distress signals to any other species like ours since shortly after we got here.  That hope and Sapphire is all that I have, but the time may come when we all follow Father Martin.

Published in two parts three years apart in Literally Stories.

Life is What You Make It

by Allison Symes

tea

‘I don’t care how you do it but Marc must be stopped.  He’s asking awkward questions about our experiments and I tell you he’s looking for a way out.  He’ll find some suitable planet to defect to and we’ll lose him.  He has got the talent to outwit us all.’ The Grand Inquisitor stared down at his quivering deputy.  ‘Our lives will be on the line if that happens.  You know how compassionate the Grand Council can be.’

The trembling deputy did know.  Failure on Anarect meant a horribly slow, lingering death, which was televised to act as a warning for the masses.  As a policy it worked.  Within a year of its implementation, crime rates dropped by over 80%.  The worst crime now was littering.  The first offence led to a public flogging, the second one a jail sentence of at least five years and the third time led to the death penalty.  The Grand Council adopted the three strikes and you’re out rule with alacrity.  Anarect was also one of the tidiest planets in any solar system.  The deputy knew that wasn’t coincidental.

‘I assure you, sir, Marc has never given me any trouble.  He brings us plenty of live subjects for our experiments.  He cares for his acquisitions properly which helps us.  It means they get here in one piece for one thing.  It’s more than some of our other suppliers can claim.  His record is second to none there.’

The Grand Inquisitor nodded.  ‘True but he is asking questions.  You must’ve heard him.  Everybody has.  Marc knows there is such as thing as discretion but has no concept on when to practice it and he should know for his own sake. Someone should tell him. That’s your job.’

‘Surely his defection is unlikely.  You know what he is.  This must be some kind of joke.  Look at the way he wound up those new cadets last week by putting an Earth horse’s head in their beds.  Told them they had to get used to the realities of dissection at some point so may as well start now.  Okay so it was only the head of a hobby horse but they didn’t know.  He knew damned well they wouldn’t know.  Six of the cadets fainted.  He went around bragging yesterday about that.’

The Grand Inquisitor sighed.  What was needed was someone who just did their job.  What was not needed was a joker. In Marc they had both.  It was a pity he was the most efficient collector of specimens for the planet’s experiments.  It made it so much harder to get rid of the pest.  They could always try reforming the guy.  They had nothing to lose.  If he didn’t play ball, despite everything, the Grand Council would have to execute him.  Nobody challenged the ruling authority (even if it was just by implication).

* * *

It was bloody unfair.  He was tired.  Stop running and he’d die.  He’d completed all his employers wanted and still they wanted more, even his blood or so the Grand Inquisitor’s deputy had told him repeatedly.  When Marc refused to believe it on the grounds his employment record was so good, the Grand Inquisitor himself came down from his literally high house to tell Marc.  Then even Marc conceded he might have to watch his behaviour.

Which was a pity, Marc thought, winding up those cadets was a good laugh.  It hadn’t been that easy to get hold of those hobby horses’ heads. 

The Grand Council will not have my blood.  I’m keeping it.  For once they won’t get things all their own way.  I’m off to have a life of my own.  While I have still got one I can call my own.
For the umpteenth time in the last year, Marc was doing his duty, having the privilege of being shot at for it and he’d had enough.  His only surprise was the Grand Council’s surprise he was getting tired of it all. 

It was time to leave this dirty, violent, forsaken planet and find somewhere new.  Somewhere his people would never come looking for him.  Somewhere they’d consider backward could be the ideal place. Anarect’s people were all snobs.  Backward planets were only to be mined for their resources, including their live specimens.  And there was nothing Marc didn’t know about dodging the specimen collectors.  Too many of them in the past had tried to watch him at work and find out the secret of his success.  Marc had grown tired of telling them all to go away in forcible terms so had a certain amount of fun giving them the slip.  Yes, he could make this work.

Marc’s three pulses raced.  He wasn’t sure if it was the adrenalin (it was just as well he couldn’t get addicted to that stuff, otherwise he’d been in rehab years ago for overdosing on it) or his new ploy had ticked all the right boxes. 

There was only one way to find out.  He was supposed to use his initiative, right.  For once he’d use it only for himself.

* * *

Marc couldn’t believe his good luck when he met Barbara.  A new life well away from his old job was appealing in itself but to meet someone wonderful, intelligent and beautiful to share it with had been the icing on a very sweet cake.  He also couldn’t believe his bad luck when he met her mother, Grace.  Marc could only assume Barbara’s charm, love for life (and sex, which Marc wasn’t complaining about), and humour were all inherited from her father.  He died five years before.  Marc wondered if the guy did so to get away from the nagging Grace and, if so, Marc could only assume the poor sod couldn’t take any more.  Marc understood this.  Grace could’ve made a living hollering for her cattle to come home without the need for amplification.

Given a choice between the Grand Inquisitor and the battle axe, Marc thought, I’ll handle the latter.  I shall have fun blunting that particular instrument.  Barbara doesn’t seem to mind.  Feels her mother has it coming.  Barbara should’ve got out years ago.  I would’ve done had my mother been like Grace.  I wonder why Barbara didn’t.  Too much misplaced affection perhaps?  Still she can place her affection in my direction now…

It took Marc a year to believe he was at last free to enjoy what he planned to be a long and happy life with Barbara.  (He planned to shorten Grace’s life, one could only take so much nagging and he wasn’t adopting Barbara’s dad’s exit strategy, but until the day came when such a scenario definitely wouldn’t upset Barbara, the wretched Grace lived).  On every trip out he watched for all the tell-tale signs the Grand Inquisitor had sent someone after him but there was nothing.  No suspicious characters hanging around.  No coded messages sent in the usual places and media.  Sometimes the Council could be blatant and send someone obviously looking like an alien to a planet like Earth.  Most locals wouldn’t see it (the ones that did were always dismissed as geeks/sci-fi nuts/drunk/on drugs or sometimes any combination or even the lot) but Marc would.  He could spot alien life a mile off.  He wondered idly if all aliens could.  Perhaps it was just a survival mechanism.  There were primitive worlds out there and the jury at home was still out as to whether Earth was civilized now.
Marc was relieved to be free.  He deserved to be free.  If he was free, so would Barbara be.  They could get on with life at last.  And then it happened…

* * *

‘For goodness sake, put your newspaper down and just listen to me for once in your life,’ said Barbara.

The paper rustled.  Barbara snatched it away only to get a pained look, the one Marc always used when things weren’t going his way.  She threw the paper behind her.

‘Darling…’

‘Don’t you darling me. I’ve tried getting through to you all morning.  What planet are you on, Marc?

The Times isn’t that engrossing. You haven’t turned a page for twenty minutes.’

‘I’m reading the adverts, darling.’

Barbara stepped back and looked at Marc as if he was a new life form.  ‘You read the adverts?’  She said it so slowly there could be no doubting the sarcasm.

Marc flinched.  ‘Yes, darling.  All human life is in the adverts.  They’re a fascinating study.’

‘I wouldn’t know. Someone in this house hogs the papers.  I know you hate leaving that chair before bedtime but go and look out of the window and then tell me there’s nothing odd about this place. I’ve said before now there are funny people living here.  Now I’ve got proof.  Look by the bus stop.’

Reluctantly Marc left his leather recliner and went to the bay window.  Lifting the nets, he peered out.
‘There’s old Mr Jackson.  He’ll be moaning at his neighbour about the smashed bus stop again…  I wish he’d stop going on about that.  Moan, moan, moan.  It’s all he does all day.’

‘So?  It’s an old man’s privilege. What did you think you see?’

‘I didn’t think it, Marc. I saw an alien.’

Marc laughed.  ‘What did I say about not watching those sci-fi films so late at night?  I’ve warned you about that before.’

Barbara joined her husband and pointed to their right. ‘Behind Mr Jackson, you must see it.  The green blob with legs, two heads, two you’ll note, not common round here, you must’ve spotted we usually run to just the one, and a big mouth.  Nor am I impressed by those fangs.’

‘Darling, there is nothing like that out there.’

‘But…’

Marc gently swung his wife round to face him.  ‘Darling, you’ve been overdoing it.  It’s making you see things.  Relax  Do you honestly think I’d pick a neighbourhood for us to live in where anything like alien visitations was a remote possibility?  Can you imagine the affect on property prices?’
Come on, Barbara, smile, Marc thought.  There’s a good girl.  I’ve got to think a way out of this fast.  Why the hell have they come after me now?  I had bloody lost them.  I will not let them ruin things for me now.

* * *

Barbara nodded, reluctantly, but Marc had a good nose for a decent property deal and they’d been fortunate to get their semi-detached at the price they did.  Barbara smiled.  It was one of Marc’s better ideas and it annoyed her mother so…

  * * *

‘I’ll get the papers, darling,’ Marc called at 7.30 the next morning jumping off the last two stairs as he did when Barbara wasn’t looking.   ‘I won’t be long.’
‘Pick up milk and teabags, would you?  Mother might pop in later.  You know what she is for tea.’  Barbara called from their bedroom.  ‘It’s just as well the stuff isn’t alcoholic.  She’d be permanently drunk otherwise.’

‘Okay,’ Marc called.  He had no problem in assisting Grace to drink.  It kept her quiet which was always a good thing.  Marc slung  his black leather jacket on, checked he had his wallet and left.  If he could prevent a mother-in-law visit, he would. Grace had never liked him because he resisted her interrogations or responded flippantly. Maybe her parents wished desperately when they named her, selecting their desired characteristic for her. It was a shame they hadn’t wished hard enough. Nowhere near hard enough. He couldn’t think of anyone or anything less appropriately named.  The incessant tea drinking also worried Marc.  It was a sign of being taken over by something… the tea presumably. 

Marc strode to the smashed bus stop where he scowled on finding what he sought.  It wasn’t what he wanted to find but it was no good pretending it wasn’t there.  The Council really were here.  Marc scowled.  He’d covered his tracks well.  How had they found him?  Perhaps he could nip trouble in the bud if he acted now.  He’d do a great deal for Barbara.  He never imagined in his younger self when causing trouble was fun, he’d now do all he could to stop it.

* * *

‘Yes, I’m new, so what, but I was told to watch you,’ the green blob looked defiant. ‘You’ve not filed any reports, Marc. What is it about you and paperwork?  I’ve seen your records.  You are useless at providing any!  The bosses were bound to pick you up on this.’

‘I was told to make a new life on Earth.  That takes time.’

‘You’ve been here five years, Marc. You know that’s too long.  You’re only ever meant to be in one place for a maximum of one year.  It looks suspiciously like you weren’t planning to return to Anarect.  You weren’t supposed to mate with the locals either.  That kind of thing gives aliens a bad name.  What have you got to say for yourself then?’

Marc grinned.  Barbara was saddled with a harridan of a mother but the girl’s luscious hourglass figure, long brunette hair, beautiful blue eyes and almost insatiable appetite for sex compensated . ‘I never expected to fall in love. Barbara is special. What if I didn’t want to return?  I’ve easily done my stint of specimen collecting.  Other collectors have retired.  Why shouldn’t I?  What is so odd about me wanting to have a life of my own, especially since I met someone wonderful to share it with?’

The green blob grinned.  ‘We’ve heard about Barbara. You are taking precautions? The last thing we need is something that only looks human running about, except you and we know about you.  You are far too young to step down.  The bosses want their pound of flesh out of you and they will get it literally if they feel they must so I’d co-operate if I were you.  They decide if you step down.  You know that is just how it is and they won’t tolerate anyone challenging the system.’

‘It’s a bit late for the warning. It would’ve been noticed if Barbara and I had kids.  We’re not doing any harm.  Why can’t we be left alone?’

‘Barbara hasn’t wanted kids?’

‘She’s afraid they’ll turn out like her mother. And the bosses say human fears are irrational - that one isn’t! I’ve scanned the adverts for the planet’s news. I sent reports from wherever I’ve been in the past. Only this place is the exception and anyway there’s been nothing worth reporting.  Yet they sent you.  Why didn’t they call me first rather than assume I was up to no good?’ 

‘You have a record as long as my fangs for upping and going before the bosses say so.  You’ve tried to escape before.  They warned you before.  Believe me when I say this time they don’t intend for you to get away with just a warning.  You know how they like imaginative discipline.  They intend to be inventive with you because if they’re not the Grand Council will be so with them.  As I said…’

‘Loads of Memory Adjusted Recruitment Creatures run late with paperwork. I’ve never heard of enforcers being sent after them. Why me? And choose a better covering.  Barbara spotted you last night.’  Marc gritted his teeth.  Some things were best left unsaid and he was an idiot.  He’d just come out with the one thing best left unthought, yet alone verbalised.

The green blob looked impressed.  ‘Really? You did choose a good specimen.’

‘Leave her alone, she’s mine.’

‘You know the rules. The moment our selections can spot extra-terrestrial life, we absorb them. Start the procedure. Don’t try to outwit us. Nobody has ever managed it.  You will not be the first.  We will find you. We will make you pay if you try.  She will suffer more too, we will ensure that so it warns others.  If you care for her, and not just her body, you will follow the rules for once.  Just how selfish are you, Marc?’

* * *

Marc walked glumly home. He’d known the day for choosing between his old world and new one would come. He’d also known the chances of outwitting his old world were slim given they had spies everywhere.  Still that was no reason not to try.  Instructions were given via The Times’ personal column and he carried them out, as diligently as ever. But now this…

They owe me.  I killed for them, I lied for them, hell I died for them a few times too. Regeneration hurts. Why must I lose the one thing to turn out well for me?  The one thing that distinguishes me from every other bloody alien they send here? Why can’t they see I am serious about having my own life?  Anything I owed them I’ve repaid years ago.

Turning into his cul-de-sac and spotting Barbara waving through the bay window, he made himself wave back. Being absorbed was painful. There were brain adjustments for a start.  Had they wanted Grace, Marc would have rushed her through but Barbara, no. Marc had lost count of the species he’d helped on their way to losing their identity.  He would always remember  the screams…

Barbara would not go through that. If this wasn’t a time to use his more questionable skills to help rather than abuse, Marc didn’t know what was, but how?  Seeing one’s smiling beloved holding the door open sank his morale. He couldn’t explain this. This was the one time her gift for getting right to the heart of the matter would be a complete pain.  Barbara would only see his deceit.

* * *

‘I’m off to get more tea, Marc,’ Barbara, wandered into the bathroom, smiled at her handsome husband as he soaked in gallons of Radox.  ‘Mother always clears us out, regardless of how much tea we’ve got.  It’s a special talent.’

‘I’ll go later.  I want the evening edition of The Echo.’

‘I’ll go. You mustn’t run around all the time. Keep your strength up for other things.’  Barbara grinned as Marc gathered up bubbles and blew them at her. To his surprise, she held up her hand, the bubbles halted in mid-air and turned back and hit him in the face.  ‘See you later.’

Marc frowned.  Stopping things mid-air signalled something. His pre-assignment lecture had mentioned it. What was it now?

* * *

Barbara went to the bus stop. There was no sign of Marc at the windows but in front of her was what she sought.  She glared.

‘I can see you.’

‘I know, Mrs Wilson,’ the green blob bowed. 

Barbara was thrown when its second head wobbled like a drunk blancmange.  She shook herself.

Now was not the time to lose her nerve. ‘Why are you here? What did you tell Marc? He looks as if the world’s about to end when he thinks I’m not looking…’

The green blob looked impressed.  ‘I see why he fell for you. Intelligence and sex combined.  I note you don’t ask what I am.  I wonder why.’

‘You’re an enforcer and ensure deployed aliens behave on other planets.  Or at the very least ensure they don’t start a stampede of panicking humans.’

The green blob stared.  ‘Is there something you’ve not told me, Mrs Wilson?  Marc too, come to that?’

‘Yes, a lot, but all I want from you is to leave Marc alone.  It is me you want?’



‘What have you done with her?’ Marc shook the green blob so hard before dropping him.  The blob’s two heads were still shaking several minutes later.

The blob was impressed Marc realised Barbara had gone within ten minutes of her “calling”.  It usually took four hours plus.  The bosses were thorough. Marc must know at least some of their schemes then. ‘I did nothing.  She visited me.’

Marc looked sceptical as he dropped the blob. ‘Course she did.’

‘Ask Mr Johnson.  He sees everything here.’

‘How come he hasn’t been called up then?’

‘He’s too old. He’d never survive the process. You know we like live selections.’

‘Where have they sent Barbara?’

The blob looked at its clawed feet. 

Marc felt his blood get cold.  It wasn’t pleasant.  It took fifteen minutes to raise it to the proper temperature again.  ‘She’s back on Anarect?’

‘Headquarters too. She didn’t suffer. We can be kind to our specimens.’

Marc snarled.  ‘You’ve never heard the screams.’

‘I’m told Barbara didn’t scream.  She was calm, as if expecting it.’

‘Yeah, right, course she would.  One moment you’re an Earth-based housewife, course you’ll expect to be beamed up somewhere unpleasant.’

‘You would if you weren’t all you appeared to be.’

‘There’s nothing fake about Barbara and…’

‘She’s one of us, Marc. I didn’t know until she showed her true form last night.’  The blob grinned.

‘She has a decent figure under that skin.  Lovely fangs too.  Far better than mine.’  The blob frowned.  Marc’s scowl usually meant someone got hurt. The blob coughed. ‘The bosses said she didn’t file her reports. She said someone kept hogging the papers so she couldn’t follow events at home.  Know about that?’

The blob wasn’t surprised at Marc’s silence. 

Finally Marc coughed.  ‘If what you’re saying is true, why was she here? Why send me to join her?’
‘You were supposed to make her file her reports but you….’


Marc grinned. ‘We enjoyed life, sex and chocolate on Earth. I’ll join Barbara.  We’ll resume our way of life on Anarect!  And I can stop running away.  I won’t be sorry.  I’ll have my new life at home with my wife.’

‘As you wish,’ and the blob thrust his second head at Marc, so it touched the man’s elbow, making Marc vanish.

***

The blob sighed. A cough made him start. He turned to see Mr Johnson. 
‘I said the newspaper idea was bad,’ the old man said. ‘Get engrossed in them, you get engrossed in life here. When will you lot fix that bus stop? It was smashed five years ago.  Marc’s a rotten flyer. If you can make a being vanish to another world and dimension, fixing the glass shouldn’t be beyond you. Or are you as incompetent as our local Councils? I think we deserve better from aliens like you using our planet for your own ends.


THE END.
   
Author Bio
Allison Symes is published by Chapeltown Books, Cafelit, and Bridge House Publishing, amongst others.  She is a member of the Society of Authors and Association of Christian Writers.  A round-up of what she writes where is at http://allisonsymescollectedworks.wordpress.com and she blogs for Chandler’s Ford Today - http://chandlersfordtoday.co.uk/author/allison-symes/

Swing Dancing

by Jim Bates

English Breakfast Tea

Swing dancing night at the Long Lake Retirement Home. "It don't mean a thing if it ain't got that swing," sang the singer. Jerry could dig it as he sat off to the side in the community room, watching.  One of the orderlies had a boom box set up on a card table and was playing dance music from the thirties and forties. It was the best. In his memory Jerry could picture a long ago nightclub filled with sweaty bodies dancing up a storm, cigarette smoke swirling and the band wailing to the big beat of the drums and the thumping rhythm of the standup bass. He tried to contain himself but he couldn't.

            When the next song started he turned to his wife. "Let's go cut the rug, Alice," he said, standing up and reaching for her. "Let's get on that dance floor and show them how it's done."

             He grinned as she took his hand and stood with him, smiling. How wonderful she looked tonight, she in her blue and white checked poodle dress, looking like she was born for this, jitterbugging and jiving with him. Swing dancing. What a lucky man he was. He smiled, thinking this must be what heaven was like.

            With Alice by his side, Jerry hurried out to the floor ready to dance like there was no tomorrow, ignoring the fact that it'd been fifteen years since Alice had been with him. Fifteen years, since she'd passed away from a valiant battle with  cancer. But tonight that was all forgotten.

            The crowd watched awestruck as Jerry pivoted onto the floor and began jiving to "In The Mood," by Glenn Miller, dancing up a storm, a smile as wide as the key board of a piano, as energetic as the wailing of a saxophone. They watched him there on the floor, lost in his memory of those long ago days, swing dancing across the floor with Alice, the love of his life, together again the way it should be, never wanting the music to end. 

About the author

Jim lives in a small town twenty miles west of Minneapolis, Minnesota. He grew up on the jazz and swing music his parents loved. He even played trombone in his junior high school band, much to everyone's chagrin. His stories have appeared in CafeLit, The Writers' Cafe Magazine, A Million Ways, Cabinet of Heed, Paragraph Planet, Mused - The BellaOnline Literary Review, Nailpolish Stories, Ariel Chart, Potato Soup Journal and The Drabble. You can also check out his blog to see more: www.theviewfromlonglake.wordpress.com.

The Day the Music Died

by Paula Williams

warm milk 

Maggie stood tall, straight-backed, her throat almost closed,  her eyes over-bright. Her only thought was to get away without having to speak to anyone. Without having to see the pity and embarrassment in their eyes.

Too late to wish she'd never come.  Too late to wish she'd never let Lindsay talk her into it.

"It'll be good for you, Mum," Lindsay had said. "You used to love choral singing – and look, it says here the Cathedral Choral Society is looking for new singers, especially tenors."

"But tenors are male voices," Maggie said with a smile, knowing Lindsay didn’t share her love of classical music. "I'm an alto.  Or, rather, I was.  Who knows what I am now?  I haven’t sung for years."

"Then why not give it a try?"

Maggie felt quite guilty about the way her well meaning daughter, who had enough to do with a young baby, worried about her. Even now, more than a year after John's sudden, shocking death from a massive heart attack, she kept finding things for Maggie to do, as if a succession of non-stop activities could somehow fill the un-fillable hole in Maggie's life.

But this time, maybe Lindsay had got it right. Maggie used to belong to the Cathedral Choral Society years ago but had to give it up when the demands of her job and family had made it difficult to attend the weekly rehearsals. When she saw they were doing Bach's Mass in B Minor this coming season her heart did something it hadn't done for a long time.  It gave a little lift of joy.  Bach was one of her favourite composers and she knew she'd enjoy singing those wonderful soaring choruses again.

John used to shake his head at her, puzzled and laughing, as she tried to explain how she got almost as much pleasure from looking at Bach's music, with its undulating lines of musical notation rippling across the pages, as she did from hearing or singing it. He, like Lindsay, didn't 'get' classical music.

Going into the cathedral for the first rehearsal of the new season was like meeting up again with an old, dear friend.  She'd forgotten what a thrill it was to walk through that awe inspiring building, darkened except for the lights in the rehearsal area.  She'd always loved the feeling of  having the place to herself (or, at least, her and the other hundred or so members of the Choral Society) now the tourists had gone home.

She loved, too,  the deep shadowy corners, the sonorous echoes, but above all the feeling of reaching back across the centuries as the music she was helping to make soared heavenward into the cathedral's highest places, the different voice parts weaving in and around each other like ribbons around a maypole.  

It felt good, too, to take her place among the altos again Not that she knew any of them now.  And she certainly didn't know Simon, the conductor, a young and ambitious man who was, according to the woman on her left, destined for 'great things.'

As the rehearsal got under way, she realised he was a much more exacting task master than his predecessor.  James had been a soft spoken, gentle man who coaxed the music from his chorus.  Simon, on the other hand, demanded the highest standard right from the very first rehearsal.  But, to her surprise, Maggie found that as her confidence returned, she actually relished the challenge.

"You do realise there's an audition, don't you?" the society secretary had explained.  "Simon likes to do it after rehearsal.  Probably in a week or two.  Is that ok?"

"That's fine."  Maggie remembered all too clearly when auditions had been introduced, back in James's time.  Everyone had got very agitated and worried about it, but in the end, it was all done very calmly and kindly.  A bit of sight reading and a  few easy scales to show you weren't tone deaf which Maggie had managed with ease.

Simon, however, did things differently.  

On the third week, during the break for notices he announced he would be holding auditions after that evening's rehearsals and would those this applied to please stay behind.

Her first instinct was to put on her coat, hurry out and not come back.  Particularly when she realised the auditions were not going to be like last time, when one by one they were called into a private room, with kindly James urging them to relax and telling them it was nothing to worry about.

Instead, they clustered around the piano in the middle of the rehearsal area, which was still bustling with people chatting in small groups, or busily putting the chairs away.  She stood in line with the other hopefuls, all of whom appeared much better prepared than she was. 

 She felt her first moment of panic when the first singer opened her mouth.  She had a beautiful soprano voice and gave a near perfect solo performance, her clear pure voice rising above the hubbub of one hundred plus people making their way home.

As, one by one, the line grew shorter, each voice was the same stunning standard as the first.  Maggie grew more and more uneasy, a sick feeling in her stomach, her hands clutching her music as if it were a life raft and she had just leapt off the Titanic.

She'd decided she was going to sing the Dona Nobis Pacem  chorus they'd been rehearsing that evening.  It was something she knew well and figured that at least she wouldn't make a complete fool of herself by losing her place. 

There was no encouraging smile from Simon, seated at the piano.  Just a one bar introduction, during which Maggie forgot all she ever knew about breathing, still less about pitch.  What came out of her mouth was the kind of sound her dog made when someone stepped on his tail.

"I- I'm sorry," she stammered.  "I – I'm a bit nervous.  I forgot to breathe.  Do you mind if we start again?"

He didn’t exactly sigh and look at his watch.  But she could tell from his body language it was a close run thing.

This time, Maggie forced herself to relax and focus on the music.  The beautiful, beautiful music that had made her cry the first time she heard it. The beautiful, beautiful music that deserved the very best of voices.

She was half way through the seventh bar when her throat, which had been getting tighter and tighter, finally closed over completely and she gave up.  Simon played on for a few more bars then, when it became apparent she wasn't going to join him, stopped and looked at her.

"That'll be a no, then?" Maggie said, trying to make it sound casual, like it was no big deal.  He nodded and she walked away, back through the still lingering groups of people.  She walked briskly, shoulders back, her head held high, not looking at anyone. Not wanting to see their pained expressions – or worse still, their pity.

And that was the day the music died for Maggie.  She'd sung all her life, from as far back as she could remember.  She sang when she was happy and sometimes when she was sad.  She sang when she was driving and when she was out walking the dog. She sang when she was working and when she was playing.

Until the night of the audition when something inside her, that little kernel of joy that was everything music meant to her, shrivelled and died.  Like a frost stricken rose.

After that, she never sang again.  Not even Happy Birthday to Harry, her little one year old grandson who was born three months after his Grandad John died. Instead, she just mouthed the words as her daughter and son-in-law sang.

…………….

"So I was wondering, Mum if you'd mind looking after Harry tonight?" Lindsay asked a couple of weeks after the audition.  "Unless it’s your rehearsal night?"

"No.  I decided not to go after all," Maggie said.  "I didn’t really enjoy it that much, you know.  My voice isn't what it was.  And it's – it’s not so good coming home to an empty house.  I'm still not used to that."

"I understand," Lindsay said quietly. "But what a shame.  I thought you loved it –"

"What time do you want me tonight?" Maggie cut in.  She wasn't exactly thrilled about being asked to look after Harry.  Not that she wasn't very fond of him.  He was a dear little chap, with a smile to melt your bones.

But, the truth was, she wasn't very good with babies.  Never had been, when she came to think about it.  John was always the one who could calm Lindsay and her brother down when they were little.  He was one those people who was completely at ease with small children.  Not awkward and over anxious like she was.

He'd have made such a lovely granddad.  They'd have made lovely grandparents together.  But on her own, she wasn't much good.  And young Harry was teething, which meant he was far from being his usual sunny self.

Add to that the fact that she'd never actually looked after him on her own before.  Rob's mother, Jenny, was a much more hands on grandma than her and Maggie was quite happy to stand back and let her get on with it.  But Jenny was away visiting her other son that week.  So it looked as if, as far as Lindsay was concerned, it was Maggie or nothing.

Lindsay and Rob hadn't been gone ten minutes when, to Maggie's dismay, she heard the first fretful wailings coming through the baby monitor.  She left it for a few moments, hoping he'd go back to sleep.  No chance.

By the time she got to his room, his cries had all the volume and passion of the Hallelujah Chorus in full throttle.  His little face was scarlet, his cheeks glistened with tears.

She picked him up, jiggled him around a bit the way she'd seen Lindsay do, offered him a bottle, changed his nappy, even tried to interest him in his toys.  But it was no good.  Nothing she said or did had any effect.  The screaming got louder and shriller, and he was pushing at her with his little fists.

"Oh John, where are you when I need you?" she thought desperately.  "If you were here, you'd know what to do. But then, if you were, he wouldn’t be in this state in the first place."

She felt like crying along with Harry – and it would have been a toss up whose wails would have been the loudest.

Then, a long forgotten memory tip-toed into her head.  She cradled the unhappy baby in her arms, took a deep calming breath and, very softly, very gently, began to sing.

And amazingly, Harry stopped crying, looked up at her and smiled.

So she took another deep breath and sang some more.  And she didn’t stop singing until Harry, with a little sigh, finally went back to sleep.

Puff the Magic Dragon wasn't exactly Bach.  But it was a start.

About the author

Paula Williams writes the Much Winchmoor series of murder mysteries, set in a small Somerset village which bears an uncanny resemblance to her own, the first of which, Murder Served Cold  can be found at https://mybook.to/murderservedcold.  She also writes a monthly column,  Ideas Store in the UK magazine Writers' Forum.Paula blogs at paulawilliamswriter.wordpress.com

www.paulawilliamswriter.co.uk

Murder Served Cold.(#1,Much Winchmoor Series) October 2018

Rough and Deadly. (#2, Much Winchmoor Series). April 2019

Leaving Henry

by Pearl Bramble

hot chocolate

Rebecca was fully awake now, but it was still far too early to get out of bed.  She shivered and pulled as much of the duvet over her head as she possibly could, trying to block out the noise of the central heating as it gurgled and clanked into life.  She wriggled sensually into the warmth of Henry’s back.

“No wonder you’re so blessed warm” she mumbled “you’ve pinched practically all the duvet”.  For half an hour she lay there trying to force herself back to sleep, she knew she had plenty of time, but her mind was already racing.

Mobile – car keys – address book …… She checked the items off in her mind.

“No, no – I’ve got time for another half-an hour’s sleep” she told herself.

Cases packed – taxi booked.  Her mind was slowly warming to its theme.

“Two more hours to go before you walk out that front door” it went on.  She knew it was useless trying to get back to sleep and eventually even gave up any pretence.  Turning away from the inviting warmth of Henry and the duvet, she quickly swung her long bare legs out of bed before she could change her mind.  Padding across the deep pile of the bedroom carpet, she stopped on her way to the bathroom to study herself in the full-length mirror.  She surveyed her naked body in the cold hard light of the morning and was pleased with what she saw. The result of the vigorous diet and exercise regime she had put herself through in order to get in shape had certainly paid off.

“Pretty good even if I do say so myself” she murmured.  Her shoulder length black hair swung loosely round her face as she gave a self-satisfied smile.  At 5ft 10” she had a model’s poise and grace and she knew she was looking her best.  Love seemed to agree with her, it had given her skin a softer, warmer glow.

She glanced across the room at Henry, still fast asleep.  For some reason he had never really cared about how she looked, it didn’t seem to bother him one way or the other.  She knew he loved her but somehow that just hadn’t been enough.  Then she had met Mike.  He always commented on what she was wearing and was proud to show her off to his friends.  She’d known him for six months now and had never felt so happy – he’d turned her world upside down.  It had been an instant mutual attraction – only one thing mattered and that was that they should be together.  Rebecca knew six months wasn’t very long but, nevertheless, when Mike had asked her if she would go away with him, she had agreed instantly

She turned slowly away from the mirror and guiltily stole another glance at Henry.  Was it five or six years now they’d been together?  How could she tell him, make him understand that she was leaving him and going away with Mike?

With a heavy heart she moved slowly over to the bed and laid a hand on his warm sleeping body.  She could feel the steady beating of his heart as he opened one eye and looked at her.

“Please don’t look at me like that,” Rebecca said, tears stinging her eyes.  “I’m going away with Mike, please try and understand. It’s only going to be for a couple of weeks, and you’ll be absolutely fine in the kennels!”.

Sister Mary Lillian

by Phyllis Souza 

weak tea

She wants me to get sick; I know she does. Mother Superior is a merciless woman. Why else would she turn down the heat after I turned it up?

It was another cold morning, and Sister Mary Lillian grumbled to herself that a chill would soon invade her bones.  But the school bell had rung, and she couldn't ignore her duties.  She closed the back door of the convent, grabbed onto a handrail, determined not to fall, she carefully stepped down the steps. Heaven could wait.  Forgive me, Father; I may be eighty-two. However, I still have more life left in me.–She tottered to the playground.

Girls dressed in plaid skirts put down jump ropes. Boys, wearing corduroy trousers, stopped throwing basketballs, and the students scrambled to form parallel lines on the asphalt. They too heard the bell.
Sister Mary Lillian stood with her arms crossed.  Looking for warmth, she placed her hands into the full sleeves of her habit. Through her wire-rimmed glasses, she squinted at her third-grade class.
First grade through eighth, standing at attention, children set their hands over their hearts and pledged allegiance to the Flag of the United States of America. Ritual completed, they followed their teachers, The Sisters of Immaculate Heart, down a long outdoor corridor to their classrooms.

Sister Mary Lillian faced her students. Her black shoes peeked from the hem of her habit. The wooden rosary beads clipped onto her belt hung down at her side.

These days, she had a terrible time remembering names. With a trembling finger, she pointed to a girl in the front row, "Lead us in morning prayer."

The eight-year-old, her hair tied in pigtails, gazed angelically at a crucifix hanging high on the wall. "Our Father— Hail Mary— Glory be—"

Afterwards, since Sister Mary Lillian was obsessed with cleanliness, she said,  "Take out your handkerchiefs and sit."

The children put clean, folded hankies on top of their desks.

"I'm checking your fingernails. There had better be no dirt under them."

Swatting a ruler in her palm, she ambled up and down the aisles. Every so often, she stopped and frowned, "Humph." Sometimes, she smiled and sighed, "Ah."

Mother Superior flew into the room, and bellowed, "What's going on in here!" She narrowed her brows. "Stop this nonsense. Take out your catechisms.”

Needless to say, in went the hankies—out came Baltimore catechisms.

Mother Superior zeroed in on a shy-looking boy sitting in the back. "Stand up. Who made you?"

"My… my parents did."

"Wrong. God made you. Do you know why?"

Tears welling his eyes trickled down his cheeks.

"Oh, never mind. You're a sissy."

Another boy, a self-assured sort of kid, got out of his seat. Holding a yellow pencil, he intended to use the sharpener mounted on the wall next to the blackboard.  He strutted to the front. He could. Sister Mary Lillian allowed it. A stupid move on his part, since Mother Superior, like a cat on a mouse, pounced on him. She clasped his arm, turned him around, and slapped his face. "That'll teach to sharpen your pencil without permission."

The boy rubbed the reddened sting on his face and, sauntered back to his desk.

"I've had enough of this place. I need air," Mother Superior said loudly. "And as for you, sister, you'll have no dessert tonight. You can watch the rest of the sisters and me eating chocolate cake." 

She stormed out of the classroom.

Sister Mary Lillian hobbled to comfort the boy. She reached to embrace him. He pushed her away.
"I'm fine. Leave me alone."

She slowly walked to her desk, eased herself into a chair behind it, and cupped her face in her hands. What more could I do?  Like a Thanksgiving goose, she was cooked.

Befuddled. Puzzled. Confused. The children thought nuns were supposed to be kind. Sister Mary Lillian always tried to be, and show love—but Mother Superior went out of her way to be cruel.
That night, after dinner, without dessert, Sister Mary Lillian retired to her room. She knocked on Heaven’s door. The Almighty answered. She asked if he would grant her one wish. "Turn Mother Superior into a Toad." Why not?  God could move mountains, couldn't he?

The next day for some unexplainable reason, Mother Superior, a disgrace to her order, croaked!
Sister Mary Lillian gave silent thanks.