Steve’s shorts: Escape from Earth, Part One of Four…
[Not all my stories have their origin in what-ifs. I began this little novella even before my first novel that I wrote the summer I turned thirteen. I won’t say how many years it took me to finish it, but it has a certain teenage innocence about it still. Enjoy!]
Escape from Earth
Copyright 2016, Steven M. Moore
Part One: The Encounter
Chapter One
Lucas watched twin sister Jan’s antique Civic speed away from the farmhouse. Four months ago he would have been following her in his old but newer GMC pickup for a bit just in case the car broke down again on the old country roads. Now, at her insistence, he just kept his fingers crossed and hoped she made it back to the turnpike and the city.
Four months earlier, their once-per-month visits to the old homestead where they had grown up allowed them a nostalgia fix that helped preserve memories of happier times with their parents. That was before the highway accident that took the old-timers’ lives. That was also before Becky, who had often accompanied Lucas to the farm, broke up with him. And before he quit his job.
Both Jan and he had made their parents proud. Farm kids who became doctors, she a successful pediatrician, he a successful neurosurgeon. Jan still loved helping the little ones. He had traded helping others for returning to his childhood fascination with all things scientific and especially electronics and computers. That allowed him to become a recluse and forget about flirty Rebecca Hanlon who was afraid of a permanent commitment and never sure about their relationship.
After the Civic disappeared over the horizon in a cloud of dust and dark gray exhaust from burning oil, Lucas debated whether to finish a project in his basement workshop or go fishing. He looked back at the farmhouse. Jan and he probably would never have sold it even before, and now it seemed like his solid fortress against the world’s randomness. He opted for fishing, remembering a deep pool in the river he hadn’t visited for a while. He wasn’t much of a cook, but he could prepare an acceptable dinner out of a few catfish and instant wild rice.
***
There was just the hint of autumn in the late September day with its anemic sunshine. Outdoor excursions in winter reduced to treks to the woodpile through the snow, so he knew the choice to go fishing was the right one—not many chances left. The pleasure he felt as he cast a hook and bob onto dark waters confirmed that. He watched the float swirl around a bit in the lazy eddy currents and tried to focus on the past. He stuck the pole in an anchored stand, sat, and studied his hands, wiggling his fingers and shaking his head. After months of farm work, more puttering than work, he could still do fine work with a soldering gun and small tools, but his hands were no longer the soft, skilled hands of a neurosurgeon. He smiled. It’s better this way. I have all the money I need, and I can pretty much do what I want.
That’s when he heard the groan. Looking over his shoulder, he decided it had come from a small copse of trees bordering a tiny creek that ran along the border of the property and finally into the river. Maybe an injured animal? No, the groan was from a human being. He stood and tried to see beneath the trees. Too many shadows. He shrugged and walked toward the copse only to discover there was nothing on his side of the creek. He knew it narrowed enough away from the river that he could jump it as a boy. Can I still do that?
Almost. With his sneakers a bit wet, he was soon searching under the trees on the other side. He spotted her, the tall grass making a shell for her like Venus’s in Botticelli’s famous painting. Where Becky’s golden swarthiness and curly brown hair had made her seem exotic when he’d first met her, this woman was a ghostly pale, her skin almost translucent even in the filtered sunlight. And she was in trouble. Unlike the Venus in the painting, she had short black hair matted with blood and weeds. He could see bones protruding from one arm, more blood covering face and torso, and more dry weeds mixed with dirt and mud covering her legs as if she had been making adobe in a vat used to crush grapes.
She saw him and sent a weak smile his way.
It was still a come-hither smile that would have increased the pulse of any pubescent boy hooked on centerfolds, the woman a Baroque Honey Ryder rising out of the waters to tempt Bond’s eyes. His own pulse ticked up a few notches too, not because of her nakedness, but because of the smile. He went to her. She tried to crawl away. He put his light jacket over her.
“You need help.”
Stupid statement! He would have to set that arm at least and then call 9-1-1. Again, stupid! The nearest hospital was twenty-five miles away, and they had the only ambulance. I’ll have to search through the trunk in the basement for my old intern’s kit. This one is on you, Lucas Wright.
The woman muttered something unintelligible and passed out. He scooped her up and headed back to the farmhouse. This time he forded the creek. The water was cold already, but it only came to the middle of his calves. He began to shiver, but he had kept his precious burden dry.
Chapter Two
Art Needham studied the report just in from Cheyenne Mountain. No doubt about it. That was some strange meteor shower. Five objects uniform in size appearing out of nowhere at the same spot in orbit and streaking earthward. NORAD lost track of them at low altitudes. No telling where they landed. And they had no reports so far from concerned citizens. Authorities actively seeking information from locals might put UFO nuts into a frenzy. Can’t avoid it. We need ground intel. That required some real gumshoes activity, something he never relished at his age.
With only two years to retirement, Needham had taken the opportunity to head up the FBI’s dead-end office that worked with police and sheriff’s departments and the rest of the federal agencies on unusual criminal cases that baffled a lot of people, including the FBI. Some called the Exterior Liaison Office for Special Projects the X-Files, and there was some similarity. Needham’s last case involved a weird psycho who had a fetish about eating human organs of military officers, for example. It had turned out that her father was a general, and the family had moved all over the world. It wasn’t clear how many she had murdered—there were still missing officers—but she was now in a prison for the criminally insane.
During the first year in the office, that was the only major case, though. Needham still thought his choice was a good one. The job mostly involved touring the country and talking to people, a lot less dangerous than many other assignments and a clear path to the safe life as a pensioner. He had no secretary to make his life miserable and his partner, a recent graduate from the Academy, was green enough that she generally paid close attention to what he said.
But now the bosses said he had to manage a task force on this one, at the Air Force’s insistence. Why don’t they solve their own damn problems? Aren’t they the UFO experts? He smiled at that private joke, thinking of Area 51 and all that crap. Of course, when a dog poops on your lawn, it’s always easier to hand off the problem to someone else. “Not my problem” was a slogan that went right up to the presidency and beyond. Of course, one could argue that the owner of the pooping dog should be in jail for violating civic health codes, but the bozos in Flint, Michigan had never let that bother them.
Even picking the task force members was a pain. Most of them would be assigned to watch social media to try to find out if any debris had come down somewhere—it was just as hard to screen the shouters there as in a mob of rubberneckers who witnessed a serious altercation between cops and robbers. People admitted to or claimed the damnedest things online, so the usual suspicion about the reliability of witnesses often applied, but some clues might turn up there.
He would spread other task force members across the Southwest to check for unreported sightings, far enough from him to keep him sane. His justification? Authorities like rural sheriff’s deputies were often reluctant to report strange happenings in their skies for obvious reasons. The gumshoes would be tires on the black, unlabeled SUVs at first. City cops often had polluted skies that hid even a full moon, especially in the LA area. He expected nothing from them.
It bothered him that the NORAD tracks weren’t standard reentry ones for meteorites. At least that’s what the Mountain said, and they should know. Just before they lost the blips, there was a huge deceleration. Even he knew that hinted at some kind of braking mechanism. Not typical meteorite behavior. His first call had been to NASA for that reason.
“Yeah, we have the NORAD report,” his contact there had said. “These aren’t ours unless the Pentagon is doing some really secret space stuff they don’t want anyone to know about, including us. I probably have a higher clearance than you, and I’m not violating the conditions of that clearance to say I didn’t hear anything of special shenanigans going on. I wouldn’t blame the EU either, so China and Russia are potential candidates. That North Korean wunderkind is always saying he’s putting a satellite into orbit, so maybe we’re just talking about shards from his failed ICBM test. I guess I’m saying that maybe you should bring in some international types to help.”
Needham had already considered that. Didn’t want that. International complications were always a drag. He’d had enough experience with them in his career, and they hadn’t been fun. Posturing by arrogant SOBs always made it difficult. And he was never good at languages and didn’t trust interpreters. But Russia was as secretive as ever, and he wouldn’t put it past the Chinese to try something. Or the spoiled brat in North Korea. Any of them could be testing something that was destined to threaten the U.S. Maybe a secret sat-kill platform that blew up? But the debris would have been in freefall, not slowing down. So would pieces of a North Korean ICBM.
***
Two days later, a task force member entered with a strange report from a sheriff’s deputy in Kansas. Needham waved the sheets of computer printout.
“This is worth following up. Tell Julie to pack her bags. We’re off to KC.”
“Off on a wild goose chase probably,” said the heavy set woman. “But better you than me. I missed my daughter’s last play, so she’d really be upset if I did it again. Not that I wouldn’t appreciate a good excuse to avoid it.”
He nodded. Normally he would say to send Dad, but his colleague was a divorced single mom with three grade school children. He admired her ability to juggle home life with work. He’d never been able to do that and had paid with his own divorce. He was thankful his ex and he had no kids. The imps would be a huge complication. If there were a test for being a good father, I’d surely flunk it. It wasn’t that he didn’t like kids; he did. He just didn’t like responsibility. And the thought of paying for college educations in his retirement could only add to that responsibility. Shit, I couldn’t afford to go to college now.
Julie Carpenter was young and single, though, graduating from the Academy only three years earlier. His partner was smart and energetic with a tendency to act without thinking through consequences, so they made a good team—his experience complementing her exuberance. She was also a surrogate daughter, one that was financially independent. Better yet, she seemed to think he was the cat’s meow (she had three), or maybe that was all an act?
“KC wasn’t bad, Art, but how can people live out here in the sticks like this?” she said as they neared the town that was little more than a mail outpost for surrounding farms.
“Farmers are a dying breed, but some are sticking it out even though they’ve become basically tenant farmers to the big agribusiness concerns. I couldn’t do it, but I admire them. They’re close to the land. Good, solid people.”
He knew Julie wouldn’t put much stock in such sentimentality. She was from NYC and probably had never worried about where all that readily available fresh produce and meat came from. People take things for granted until those things become scarce.
He parked the rental car in the parking lot at the county sheriff’s department.
“Let’s go meet the locals.”
Chapter Three
“You’re looking better,” Lucas said to the woman.
She pulled the covers higher. No smile this time. Just a terrified expression. He shrugged and opened the blinds. Early morning sunshine filled the room.
“I cleaned you up the best I could and set your arm. I think I can mix up some plaster for a cast. You might need it. There’s a bag of it somewhere in the barn. I’ve just wrapped the arm for now. Stay put and I’ll bring you some breakfast.”
It wasn’t much. Dry Cheerios, a glass of OJ and coffee, and toast. Jan would have made bacon and eggs or pancakes with maple syrup, but his breakfast cooking was limited to making toast and boiling water for instant coffee most of the time.
She was examining herself in the bedroom’s full length mirror when he returned. The sling was empty, and she was flexing the arm. He only saw her back but the frontal view in the mirror did a good job of eroding his professional detachment. Of course, he’d only dealt with heads after his specialization, so that professional detachment was a bit rusty.
She wasn’t tall and not Madison Avenue’s stereotype of a beautiful woman by any means. Becky had looked sexier in her birthday suit, for example. But there was a healthy glow to her now, one that had always made Lucas think some women were more than mere mortals, perhaps a separate species dedicated to making men their slaves? Stroking her arm now, she smiled. The face that launched a thousand ships—he remembered his hated courses in the classics, but the authors of the old sagas had the right words!
He put the breakfast tray down on the bureau and approached her. She turned and smiled again. Pointed at herself. “Saki.” Her name? She pointed a finger at him. He said his name. She repeated his name, he hers. It was a beginning.
***
Jan missed the next weekend because she had to attend a convention in St. Louis, but the following Lucas watched as the Civic came up the gravel drive and his sister jumped out. How is she going to react to Saki?
“You look better today,” Jan said, giving him a hug. “Last time you looked so depressed.” She punched him in the gut. “Did you meet some nice country girl at the general store? Some God-fearing evangelical to get that Becky slut out of your mind?”
“Not exactly. I found a wood nymph. Her name is Saki.”
She studied him. “I’d prefer a Bible-toting woman who could keep you in line. You’re not regressing to your childhood and your imaginary friends, are you?”
He knew Jan would see nothing wrong with children having imaginary friends, but her question implied that he was going crazy. Maybe. He decided to ignore it.
“I gave her some of your old clothes to wear. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Are you going to introduce me then?” She winked. “If she exists, of course.”
He nodded and led her inside and through the house to the back porch where Saki was sitting and enjoying the sun. She and Lucas had made some progress in communicating, more along the lines of her learning English than Lucas learning her language. She stood and faced Jan but didn’t say anything.
***
Lucas pointed at Jan, saying her name, and then at Saki, saying her name.
“Sigh-ster Jan,” said Saki, pointing at Jan. “No sigh-ster” as she pointed to herself.
“My Lord, Lucas, she doesn’t speak English.” She laughed. “But she’s real, at least.”
“We’re working on the English. Maybe you can help. I think she has a story to tell. I found her in the woods completely naked and injured. Her wounds healed amazingly fast, including the mending of the broken arm.” Saki nodded, pointed at the arm, and flexed it.
“Did you contact the sheriff? Maybe she was in a car accident and suffered a brain injury that affects her language skills.”
“I was going to, but what would come of it? They’d take her to KC and probably put her in a mental ward. There’s nothing wrong with her except she can’t speak English. Lots of people have trouble with English nowadays. That’s no reason to put her in an asylum.”
“But they could check records and make posters to see if there were any accidents having missing victims. Her family might be looking for her.”
“Maybe. I don’t think so. There are strange things about her. She’s afraid of water, for example, and only takes sponge baths.” Jan smiled. “Don’t leer like that. I don’t give them to her. She’s very strong too. She bench-pressed Mom and Dad’s bureau to find one of the Chef’s meatballs that got away from her. And she doesn’t have a navel.”
“Plastic surgery, probably. Her facial features are perfect, although a bit rubenesque.”
“I’d be surprised if a surgeon ever touched that face. Her hair doesn’t grow, what she has. She doesn’t have any—well, you know, down there.”
“A recent waxing or laser removal of follicles, probably.”
“OK, Dr. Wright, you examine her then. I’m saying that turning her over to authorities might be a bad idea.”
“Maybe she’s an android,” Jan said with a smile.
“Not with those broken bones in her arm. She’s human with human blood, but not from here.”
She stared at him. “Are you suggesting she’s an ET? C’mon! That’s crazy!”
“I’m not saying anything. I’m just trying to find an explanation. She came from somewhere. She’s not a country girl. Oh, and I forgot, she dashes after rabbits, catches them, coddles and pets them for a bit, and then let’s them go. She could run in the Olympics, at least in the short races.”
“I thought she was injured.”
“Not anymore. We have to find out more about her.”
“Did you closely survey the area where you found her? Maybe there’s a damaged truck or car there.”
Lucas nodded. “I’ve been focused on getting her well and trying to talk with her. That’s a good idea, though.” He beckoned to Saki. “Come. Walk.”
Chapter Four
Saki was on a mission once they approached the old fishing hole. Jan and Lucas struggled to keep up. She leapt across the creek better than they did, left the copse, and headed up and over a hill. At the bottom on the other side of the barbed-wire fence marking the neighboring farm’s property, they saw a wide furrow in the ground as if some ancient giant had been planting seeds. At the end was something that looked like a broken egg. It was the same color as the thick grass it sat in.
Saki ran to it and rummaged inside. She took out a large disk that hung on a chain. She put it around her neck but waved it over the egg. Sections began to open.
“There’s a body!” said Jan.
Saki lifted out a man’s body. Lucas saw the tears and felt an immense sadness. Did this woman project emotions? Did that mean she could feel theirs?
“Boki,” she said, putting the body on the ground and kneeling by it.
“Oh, my Lord!” said Jan, going to her and putting her hand on Saki’s shoulder.
The stillness of late autumn gripped them in its fist, their moods matching the dark skies. Lucas knew snow was on the way. He shook off his empathetic sorrow. Saki had brought him out of his four-month funk. He didn’t want to return to it now. She looked at him with tears flowing now, but Jan seemed to be the receptor of the strong emotions because she was also crying.
Lucas examined the egg. Its surface was pitted and charred while the inside looked like two end-to-end coffins with thick padding intended to cradle human bodies. Protection from g-forces? Instruments lined the sides, some still clearly functioning, needles pinned to red zones.
“I think this is an escape vehicle of some sort, like a lifeboat. Only it came from up there.” He pointed to the sky.
Saki stood, took Jan’s hand, and led her away from the body. She then pointed the disk toward the corpse. There was a blinding flash, and it was gone. When Lucas’ eyes recovered, he saw her pointing at the egg, so he jumped back. This time there was only a shimmer and the egg vanished. Jan looked at Lucas with raised eyebrows.
Saki took off the way they had come. The two siblings had to run after her again.
***
In libris libertas….
