A.R.Yngve
ALIEN BEACH

Chapter Twenty-Six

The soldier had been put on guard duty with most of the other grunts, while the rest of them relaxed with beach volleyball and frisbee throwing.

He and the others on duty were carrying their unloaded, plugged assault rifles slung across their backs. Functional or not, he disliked the presence of the rifles; they reminded him of the war. Moving in pairs, the guards strolled about - aimless, watchful. They were on strict orders not to approach the aliens or the scientists - easy enough, as the aliens were absent and the scientists avoided them.

From far away, the soldier saw a woman in bermudas and t-shirt come walking from the southern cape. She was blond, tanned and had a rather grave look about her sophisticated, thirtyish face. The other soldier stared at her tanned, muscular legs moving - and the soldier poked him in the ribs.

"Cut it out!" the soldier hissed. "Don't you recognize her face? It's that Frenchwoman, the one I saw on TV next to Carl Sayers."

His colleague straightened up as Ann Meadbouré walked past them, ten meters off, demonstratively ignoring them.

"Yeah, I see. So? There's not much else to look at here, you know? The palmtrees... the sand..."

"The aircraft..."

"The alien artifacts..."

"The boats..."

"The gulls..."

"The picturesque barracks..."

"The soldiers playing beach volley..."

"The blue lagoon..."

"The sea..."

Both men grinned, recognizing how badly they fit in the serene surroundings.

"What I want to know," the soldier said, "is what are you gonna do when one of the aliens peek up from their submarine-spaceship-whatever. Are you gonna piss in your pants and run screaming for the captain?"

"Get outta here! No, I ain't scared of no aliens. They're... foreigners, okay? Some foreigners are civilized like us. Others ain't. All I need to know is which foreigners to shoot, and which foreigners not to shoot."

"Would you shoot a Sirian if they ordered you to?"

"Hey, man," the other man replied, "I was just kidding. We're not here to hurt anyone."

The soldier received a suspicious glance, and neither of them said more. They kept marching, to keep up the impression of doing something useful, and consumed bottled water.

In his boredom, the soldier got an idea. When his shift was over he went to see the captain.

The captain was working the laptop computer in his camping trailer.

"Captain - I'd like to request permission to dive in the lagoon."

The captain stared at the soldier as if he had suggested something obscene. "Are you aware that the alien visitors are renting the lagoon, the island, and the three-mile perimeter? That according to the treaty, we are to carry no weapons here? We're risking enough just being here with no ammo. To let you even closer to them is out of the question. Request denied."

"Sir. I swear I won't try to contact the Sirians. I just wanted to go diving, that's all."

"Now you watch it! You were transferred to this platoon at the last minute... I don't know what Harrod is up to, but I know a mole when I see one. Go tell your general I won't let you risk the treaty, no matter what orders he gave you! Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir."

The soldier exited the trailer, at least satisfied with the knowledge that he had blown General Harrod's cover. Now he could concentrate on his real objectives, and the captain would dismiss his behavior as espionage on behalf of the Security Committee.

But he was finding it difficult to concentrate. Too many things to think of, too many distractions, too much waiting for the visions to return... and no aliens, as long as the military was occupying the island. He had to get out of his uniform - it was a stigma, a perceived threat to everyone who saw it. The soldier sneaked away to a cluster of palmtrees, and stripped down to his underwear. The sunshine suddenly stung him, and he looked up at the sky.

The clouds - all gone! The circling clouds that had sent rain to help him escape before, and were in so many of the TV images of the island, had now just vanished.

"But you were there just an hour ago," he whispered, "you can't go away now... now when I've finally got here... please! I know I disappointed you. I was weak! I shouldn't have joined that crazy cult! But it helped me get here, see...? Give me another chance... if you took yourself the trouble to get me in the first place, you must give me a second chance... I swear I won't take orders again! No more uniforms. No more officers. I'm not a soldier anymore."

He stopped, anxious that someone else might have heard him. No, there was no one there - for a moment he had felt as if someone was looking...

A drop of rain fell from the clear sky - plip - and hit the back of his outstretched hand. One single drop. The entire beach was left dry. He kissed the drop, covering the spot like some precious treasure.

"Thank you, thank you so much," he whispered to the clear sky. "I will try harder this time."

He almost asked the sky what his orders were, then got wise: orders were not on the agenda. "They" had never sent him orders and never would. Time to stop thinking like a soldier and start thinking like... something else.

"How many times have we shared our thought-recorders?" Carl asked the assembled group: Lazar, Andrea, and Edmund.

"Yours once, mine once, Andrea's once," said Lazar. "Edmund never got Bruno's device to record his own thoughts on."

They all turned to study Edmund's sunken face. He couldn't muster his old good humor; the booming voice was now more like a shrill drone.

"Why?" Edmund asked them. "I have seen your thoughts now. You are indeed full human beings - full of things good and bad, mostly good. None of you carry truly evil secrets. I have grown by sharing with you, but... me, I have nothing to share that would benefit you. I have seen too much suffering, too many people killed in my homeland. I don't want to burden your minds with my sorrows. That's not for a priest to do... a priest carries everyone else's burdens. Think of all the people who have confided in me, when only God could overhear... if I let you record my thoughts and see them, I would betray all the people who trusted in me!"

The others were surprised themselves, that an argument they would have agreed on before now sounded strange and incomprehensible. Carl had been fairly active against the invasion of privacy caused by new media, an invasion that trivialized personal matters into petty sleaze and gossip. He had to restrain a fanatical impulse, the fundamentalist instinct to force his new perspective down everyone else's throats.

"These recorders were not meant to be used against anyone's will. Edmund, I respect your decision. No one has the right to demand your thoughts. No machine, no matter how great, can relieve us of responsibility."

The others agreed.

"Now for another matter. About half the team has resigned, and they will leave Alien Beach in two, three days. And yes, they are under pressure from outside. Except us here - Mats, Takeru and Ann have promised me they're staying the year out. There won't be any replacement scientists coming over, because of a decision made by the U.N. Security Council just after my TV speech. They decided not to accept any new scientist candidates for the ECT."

It was as if they could predict Carl's next words, as if the mutual bond created by the mind-recorders had created a permanent rapport between them. He didn't have to say it: the fear of spies and terrorist attacks, plus the general suspicion of the ECT among the politicians had grown too great. In any case, new volunteers would be vetoed by the council members - which could eventually lead to the break-up of the Security Council. For the sake of world stability, science would have to bend over for politics.

"Are we supposed to take sides now?" Andrea said gruffly. "I'm no bloody government stooge. I'm nobody's stooge."

Had Takeru, Ann, or Mats taken sides? Without access to their thoughts, this group could not tell for sure.

"And in case you were wondering," Edmund said, "I'm not into altar boys."

It was a welcome joke, and everyone laughed; some of the bishop's strength seemed to return. He took up a prayer; two of the others joined him.

DAY 120

"Welcome to Insight. Today we discuss the growing threat of conflict between King Khadi's alliance and the American fleet stationed at Alien Beach. As you can see on the map, The Arabian-Iranian fleet has now entered the Timor Sea, and has not stopped. If the fleet continues toward the Torres Strait, it will come within striking distance of Alien Beach in a matter of days. It is believed that the Arab fleet is equipped with mid-range ballistic missiles.

"The governments of Saudi Arabia and Iran have finally cut off all trade and communication with non-Moslem nations. The U.N.'s long-standing threat of an international oil embargo has been overtaken, since the Arab countries themselves stopped the shipping of oil to non-Moslem countries.

"As predicted, oil prices today shot up twenty percent: the oil blockade is seen by many as the last move before an open full-scale war. With us in the studio we have Tom Lancet, bestselling thriller writer and consultant to the White House in security issues...

"Welcome, Mr. Lancet."

"Thank you."

"If the worst were to happen, how could a war scenario play out?"

"This is almost impossible to predict. It's very likely the Sirians have technology that'll turn nuclear missiles into junk. Or a missile attack might be bounced off by a repelling force-field screen. Any scenario is certain to be guesswork. Let's assume the Arab fleet moves on into the Pacific. Basically, the President's choice will simply be this. Either strike first, without being able or capable of invading Saudi Arabia and Iran. Or: wait until after Alien Beach is destroyed, and then order the retaliatory strike. In either case, the enemy is bound to save a few submarines and send nuclear missiles at Hawaii and the West Coast. Millions of Americans will die."

"I take it there are... other options?"

"Well, unless the enemy suddenly changes its policy that 'all aliens are the Devil's cohorts,' I can see a few options.

"Option one - the President tells the Sirians: 'Go home. It's not safe for you here. For the sake of world peace, leave now.' Given how advanced the Sirians are, they should see reason and take off. Only, the Arab missiles will still be here, and the threat of war will never go away as long as we know the aliens are still out there in space.

"Option two - the aliens stay, but the U.N. pulls out of the Pacific, we leave Alien Beach undefended and see what happens. Maybe the aliens will take off and leave the planet - maybe they'll stay and fight. We don't know. Those who still don't trust the Sirians' motives, would choose this strategy as a test. This is a tremendous risk - the Sirians might wreak revenge on the planet and put an end to mankind, just to make sure they won't have trouble with us in the future. But again, they seem too civilized for that.

"Finally, there is the option to side with King Khadi against the aliens. After all, it's his planet too, and at least we know he's human - right? A show of global unity against the Sirians could well scare them off. That is, if that's what we want - chase away the only other known intelligent species in the universe."

"Thank you, Mr. Lancet. We have asked the President for a comment, but he has not been available; he is believed to be in New York, making last-minute attempts to negotiate with the Arab alliance..."

A large helicopter landed on Alien Beach, surrounded by the waiting platoon.

When the President stepped out of the helicopter, the soldier's first thought was: What the hell is he doing here? Then he understood why the troops were there: the President had never been here before, or met an amphibian in person. Come to think of it, the President had all the time avoided being openly associated with Sirians; he had always sent others to communicate with them. The man's face and hands were pale - or maybe it was the mist coloring everything that way - and his movements were awkward. Just behind him came General Harrod - and both men wore dark sunglasses.

The would-be mightiest man in the world was a coward.

A gray mist had settled over the island, smothering the breeze, lingering as if it were waiting for something. The soldier saw Carl Sayers come up to greet the President; Sayers seemed surprised too. Then they both went away to the barracks, closely surrounded by guards. The sergeant ordered the platoon to secure the helicopter.

Ten minutes passed. The soldier saw something stir in the lagoon. They were coming. Eleven of them! Marching up from the sea, spitting up water, and walking in his direction! He began to shake - they really were that tall, two meters on the average; their eyes really were like the huge ovals of Japanese cartoons. He wanted to rush forward and talk to them.

"Ten-shun!" barked the sergeant at his troop.

The soldier knew the sergeant would order the other soldiers to stop him. Damn! And he had promised not to be a soldier anymore! Here he was, meeting them with a gun in hand... and the aliens walked onward, about forty meters away, passing the soldier's line of sight. He stared, standing to attention; some of the Sirians stared back. The shame was unbearable.

The soldier stood still - and let his assault rifle slip and fall to the ground. The sergeant began to shout, but stopped - suddenly and frightfully aware of the stares from the big-eyed amphibians who walked past with confident strides, much taller than he was. He shrank back, pale with fear and insecurity.

Another soldier dropped his rifle - but stood unmoving. Then another grunt slipped. And the man next to him as well. All but eight of the row of thirty Marines dropped their arms. The soldier beamed a sheepish grin at the passing amphibians. One of them, a female with a long translucent mane down the back of her conic head, smiled right back at him - the soldier's heart skipped a beat. The sergeant looked like he had just wet himself.

The aliens disappeared among the scientists' barracks, and the sergeant ordered his men to pick up their rifles. Without a word or a smile, the soldier obeyed. Just playing along, the soldier promised the misty skies. Just enough to get to stay here. I'd rather die than harm your people.

Even before Carl had figured out what to say to the Sirians, they were at the door. only Oanss was absent. The President stood up from his seat when the dozen Sirians came in; he seemed terrified and eager to run away. If Carl had ever doubted the President's positive standpoint on the aliens, there was no longer any doubt. The President was afraid to face them, because he had always chickened out of a commitment - to anything. Go ahead, Mister 'I-Feel-Your-Pain,' Carl thought, and his contempt was great, try and weasel your way out with these people!

The President quickly gained control of his panic, homed in on Ranmotanii, shook hands and stuttered a few meaningless welcoming phrases. The aliens all took turns making the greeting ceremony with the President, giving him just enough time to calm down from outright panic. Carl had learned just enough about their body language to recognize confusion in Ranmotanii, but that wasn't all. The old amphibian was tense, sort of... irritated?

"Thee Annceeestors arre agitaatedd!" boomed the even older Oanorrn when it eventually came to his turn to greet the President. "Too-laate-to-be-quuuiet-wwith-mmeee-youu-thhhe- Prresiiident-wwhyy-doo-yyou- nnot-taaalk-to-uuus-beefoore?"

The President giggled nervously, eyes flicking to his sides - he was quite tall, but this slightly bent old alien's eyes were at level with his own. The man silently beckoned to Carl talk to Oanorrn; Carl sat immobile and did not lift a finger. It's time to show what you're made of, he thought.

Within minutes, the "emergency conference" turned into an embarrassment.

The President's way of using the English language proved incomprehensibly vague to the alien visitors. The Sirians' broken English and direct questions were by turns incomprehensible, too blunt, or too demanding on the President's mindset. Carl took Ranmotanii aside and asked him if the Sirians could create a man-to-Sirian link with the mind-recorder, and bypass the speech problems. Ranmotanii curtly explained that this was just not possible.

Finally, more than an hour later, the President managed to make a clear statement to the Sirians. An enemy force would soon attack the area with nuclear weapons and destroy it, unless the Sirians left the planet within a few days.

Ranmotanii and his flock shouldn't have been all that shocked to hear this - after all, hadn't they seen decades' worth of TV-broadcast footage from Earth? But all the same, they stared at the President with what had to be great concern. Maybe it was too difficult for them to understand and predict the thought processes of human leaders; Ranmotanii was certainly no politician.

Ranmotanii considered the presidential statement for a minute or two, then solemnly declared that the Sirians were to consult the Ancestors the same night. If the Ancestors gave the sign to do so, the Sirians would evacuate without objections. No land-humans were allowed; their presence might disturb the ritual.

Then he turned to Oanorrn, and declared: "I aask opeen quuestionn too Oanorrn. Thee Anceestorss aare present, at Aaalien Beachh?"

Oanorrn's ribcage became briefly visible when he sighed; then he shut his bloodshot eyes and stood silent for a whole minute. The President stared at the scene, utterly bewildered. Eyes shut, Oanorrn's cracked lips widened in a grin of white, tubular teeth.

He purred: "R-r-r-r..."

"He said 'yes,'" Carl told the President. "Do you understand what this means? Do you? A higher life form is present here, right under your nose!"

The President seemed hurt in his pride, even resentful: "You're asking me to believe in an old shaman who's talking about ghosts. Real or not, ghosts cannot fight wars."

Oanorrn said something to the other Sirians in their own tongue; they became concerned again. Ranmotanii translated: the Ancestors were among them, but their "concentration" or "presence" was different today... he found no adequate words for it.

"Can the Ancestors stop an attack? Without your help?" Carl asked him.

"Iii doo noot knoww... thaat hass nnot happennned beeforre."

"Are you prepared to leave this planet before the end of the year, even if the Ancestors do not give the sign?"

"Wwhy?"

"Please understand... do you know what nuclear weapons are? That your enemies here will try to use nuclear weapons against you?"

"Whaat iis... 'ouur eenemmmies'?"

Carl wished that some miracle could transport King Khadi to this spot, so that he himself could hear Ranmotanii's words. Only a man who had never met this human being, could think of him as an enemy. For a few moments Carl wondered if the Ancestors might manifest themselves directly to the Saudi and Iranian leaders, and frighten them into surrender - but quickly discarded the idea. People of their mindset could very well interpret a fuzzy blue glow as another demon invasion, changing the situation for the worse.

The conference lasted until the evening. A very tired President said goodbye, retreated to his helicopter... with no promises of militarily nor technological help from the Sirians.

His last words to Carl were: "The best thing for everyone, you know, would be if they just left our solar system, and never came back. Could you make them understand that, that the whole idea of visiting our planet was a mistake?"

Carl swallowed; had he been a younger man, he would have lost his temper at this supreme insult.

"I will try and make them consider a temporary retreat to space. Right now, it is you who must convince the world that the Sirians are not after anything or about to give us anything - they really are just visitors."

Presently, as the President entered the helicopter and took a last look at the little island, Carl saw the man's disappointment - and he felt a little sympathy. Both of them had set their expectations too high, expected too much personal benefit - like animals begging food scraps at the table, and getting miffed when their masters said "enough".

The helicopter rose up through the darkening air with a tremendous noise, and Carl shielded his eyes from the draft. Now, he reflected with gloomy awareness of the irony, I have the alien visitors all to myself - just like I wanted all along... and the rest of world's pointing a gun at us.

Ann dared not ask where Oanss was, why he wasn't attending the meeting with the others - dared not go searching for him where he probably was. Passively she watched the eleven Sirians return to the sea and the submerged spaceship...

It felt almost like his gift was burning in her hand.

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