A.R.Yngve
ALIEN BEACH

Chapter Twenty-Seven

DAY 121

At 00:30 AM, the nightly sky above the island was clotted with stars - the Milky Way shone as a bright band across the visible cosmos.

The lights were out on the island; the soldier knew not why, but was grateful for the darkness. He managed to sneak out of his barrack without waking up the entire platoon, and the sergeant slept soundly too - thanks to the pills the soldier had slipped into the platoon's coffee supply.

Barefoot, wearing T-shirt and shorts, the soldier crawled and sneaked his way to the open place where he had seen the Sirian antenna-tree from the TV broadcast. This was where the blue lights had manifested themselves; it had to be a kind of lightning rod for the Ancestors; he had to get closer to it. Maybe all the answers he needed were in that place.

Knees and elbows sore from crawling, the soldier hid down behind a fallen, blackened palmtrunk - the only convenient place to hide behind - how lucky he was, that a tree had died just there! - and peeked out past the large root clump. He saw the antenna cluster, four meters high, perhaps ten, twenty meters away. It was silent still; no glow or heat came from its shiny metal sprouts. The soldier waited, watched the starry sky, and rubbed his arms and feet to keep the cold at bay.

After a while, the entire group of amphibians appeared. They must have excellent eyesight, the soldier guessed, because they moved with confidence and stumbled on nothing in the gloom. The ritual dance began again, as in the TV broadcasts. The soldier feared his own pounding heart and quickened breath would give him away.

Again, the chant... but this time he could hear it clearly! It was almost the same alien words as in his first, strongest vision. He had to resist interrupting the ceremony, so much did he want to ask the aliens what the words meant. If only he could repeat the words to them and... no, not a chance.

The antenna-tree began to glow blue in the dark, very faintly - but abruptly the glow ceased to be. The sky was still dark and clear. The circle of amphibians stopped moving - they seemed confused and frightened, staring at each other, then at the metal tree for guidance.

Abruptly the soldier stood up, urged by an irresistible yearning for knowledge - at once, the amphibians saw him. One young female made a warning peep; the others scrambled into cover behind the antennas.

From the small devices they were wearing, a swarm of little black and silvery shapes emerged around the place. Immediately, the fragments took the shape of several inch-long robots. The tiny robots scuttled up toward him, wielding tiny mandibles and spikes. The soldier put up his hands, beckoning at the frightened aliens, to which he was but another dangerous land-human...

A blue lightning-ball materialized out of thin air, between the soldier and the attacking miniature machines. In a second, each little robot was zapped by a barrage of miniscule electric bolts from the blue glow, and lay still. Then, the blue glow vanished. The soldier stood agape, opened his mouth to speak -

"Mer-r-r-leee!"

He saw the Sirians stop and listen. He continued to utter words he didn't understand, with an inflection that wasn't his own... and began to notice how odd his arms and hands looked. Each of his arms was single-jointed, and the palms were too broad and bony. His field of vision was too narrow, the spectrum of colors stunted.

His head began to ache again, and for the first time since the war he knew why: his skull had the wrong shape, the brain pressed against the top of his cranium. Straining for breath to keep on talking, he found his lungs to be inadequate and small. Why didn't he look right, like the other Sirians? He had to stop talking - the headache overpowered him and he clutched his scalp - what was all that hair doing all over his head?

"Help me."

The soldier sat back on the fallen palm trunk, struggling to stay conscious. And he made it. The Sirians, silent but intensely curious, gathered around him, touching him, holding up small instruments, checked his pulse. Their touch was so strange, yet soothing.

A very wrinkled alien faced him down with his eyes very wide, and said in English: "Mmy naame iss Oanorrn. Doo yyou understaand wwhat happennns to yyou noow?"

His deep voice had a pattern that sounded like a wailing song - the speech that the cult so pathetically had attempted to mimic.

"No."

"Aan Annceeestor tallked thrrough youu... hee ssay thhey chhhoose to staay heere. Seeveralll Ancceestoors."

The soldier nodded and clutched his head. "Why does my head hurt... when the Ancestor comes to me?"

The wrinkled alien just stared at him, awed or surprised, or both. Then Oanorrn called for attention, and declared something in his own, singing language.

But this time, the soldier understood what some of the words meant: he heard Oanorrn say "Ancestors," "land-human" and "not move". The amphibians began to retreat from him, but a few of them lingered. One male knelt down by the soldier's side, and told him his name: Oanss. A slightly shorter female stayed and stared at the soldier from a distance of a few meters; he couldn't read her expression. An older male, who the soldier recognized as Ranmotanii, sat down beside him and scrutinized his features like he was trying to recognize a face in a crowd of people.

In the alien language, Oanss asked the soldier his name.

"I cannot answer," he said in English.

Oddly, the soldier didn't understand why he couldn't answer. But it didn't upset him too much; he was among friends now. The more time he spent with them, the more new words he learned. There was a warmth about these people that made all his fears go away. And yet, he couldn't muster the courage to say what he most wanted: Take me with you when you leave.

After a while, he recalled the sedatives that he had fed the other soldiers; he had to leave before the effect wore off, and it hurt to leave.

"I must go now," he said to them, and they replied in their own tongue, that they accepted it.

"Immportaant maan, yyou wiill undersstand iin timmme," were the last words of Oanorrn before they parted their ways.

The soldier returned back to his platoon's barrack unseen; the other grunts were still soundly asleep. As the soldier lay in his bed, his headache receded away.

The dreams that followed were vague, and he only recalled fragments of them later. There were Sirians in his dream, the sensation of being surrounded by water; the sound of radio wave static from space, mixed with the wails and clicks of Sirian underwater speech. When the sergeant's shouting woke up the soldier in the morning, his first thought was: Why am I sleeping on this angular thing, and not near water?

"The world is waiting for an official declaration of war from King Khadi's alliance, but the alliance has so far declined to answer any questions from outside media. It has been hinted more than once, that the rogue leaders consider themselves to be the last free humans, and the rest of the world has frequently been painted as 'possessed by extraterrestrial demons' and beyond all help.

"Yet, the rogue alliance does seem to be holding back its armies. A few political analysts think they have the answer to this puzzling strategy. Edward Sayed explained it thus..."

"They are waiting for a divine sign. As the rogue leaders see it, the Sirians are a physical manifestation of demonic evil - so it follows by the same logic, that God will soon counteract this intrusion with a divine, benevolent manifestation in a universe that he created. It's no longer quite enough to close down U.S. airbases on Arab soil and say 'God told me to' to rally the home opinion - the peoples of these countries are too well-informed nowadays and will recognize the old rhetoric. But as everyone can see, no divine sign has occurred - God hasn't taken sides.

"If such a manifestation still won't occur, I see two possible developments. One is that the moderate political forces of Iran and Saudi Arabia will step forward and openly denounce the religious accusations against the Sirians. This could end the imminent crisis very quickly.

"Unfortunately, testimonies are leaking out that King Khadi has grown increasingly isolated during the last few weeks; he listens only to advice from his favorite priest, reads only the Koran, avoids all news media, and prays incessantly. If he, in his isolation, comes to think that God has told him to attack the Sirians, he will give the final order and the Iranian leaders will be forced to follow. What Israel will do with its own vast arsenal after this, can only be guessed at.

"For the first time, the leaders of Iran appear more sensible than the royal family of Saudi Arabia. Contacts of mine have told me rumors, that U.N. people are trying to contact the Iranian government without the knowledge of King Khadi. But it's hard to say whether these secret talks can accomplish anything."

Later during the morning of Day 121, the boat came to pick up the scientists who had resigned from the ECT. Among them was Stone Pound, and Carl took it personally.

"I thought I knew you better, Stone," Carl told his colleague. "Why?"

"It was my decision, I'll let you know that," Stone said. "I wasn't blackmailed like the others."

He made an effort to busy himself with his luggage.

"But you took an active part from the start!" Carl pestered the fat man as he dragged his suitcases on board the Army patrol-boat. "Have you already forgotten the great beach party, when humans and Sirians made music together, the great prospects? An opportunity like this won't come back! Why did you even get into astronomy - don't you want to learn more about the universe?"

"Is it me you're trying to convince, or yourself? Look - you're a greater man than I am. I wish you well, but - I just can't stay here. I can't."

"Stone! What frightens you so?"

"A million things. I don't have time to explain, and I don't owe it you to."

Carl made a last desperate attempt to challenge Stone - for his own good. "You're chicken!" Carl said angrily. "A spineless coward, with the backbone of a jellyfish. They shout 'Sit,' and you sit. You're a pathetic excuse for a scientist. I'm ashamed of having had you here -"

Carl saw the blow coming; Stone wasn't too fast. He pivoted out of Stone's lunge, and the fat man stumbled onto the beach - but quickly came up and ran at Carl again, red in the face, breathing hard - he made a sound halfway between a grunt and a sob. Carl retreated, up to his knees, into the nearby surf; two unarmed soldiers from the Security Committee came running and grabbed Stone by the arms.

"Not everyone... is the saint... you are..." Stone gasped, out of breath. "I was... against the... thought recorders... all the time, remember...?"

Carl shook his head sadly, and said: "You haven't understood anything. So you have personal secrets? You think I would judge you? Unless you've murdered someone, I don't think that would happen. Besides, no one - no Sirians, no Ancestors - would use your thoughts against you. They've seen more than enough dirt on mankind from our television - they're bloody Jane Goodall and we're the chimps!"

Stone's breathing slowed down enough for him to respond in a steady voice: "I'm gay."

"That's all?" Carl replied. "I don't believe you. With all that's happening here, you must have something bigger to hide."

"Okay, okay... I'm a spy. I was offered a truckload of money if I brought technological secrets back to a certain company, and I needed the money for my research. But when the Ancestors showed up, I got scared. Don't make it any more humiliating than it is."

Carl almost fell for the explanation - but it was too simple.

"You're lying. You could've stayed and spied however much you liked, and it wouldn't have made a lick of a difference to the Sirians. They won't reveal their technology, period." He told the soldiers to release Stone, so that the man could enter the boat with the other departing scientists.

"A million things," Stone repeated. "All those things taken together scare me. For instance, that they have immortality and I don't. Or the way they look at me, like we watch chimps in the zoo. They're everything we should be, and now one can't even hide from them - even when you don't see them, their 'ancestors' could be anywhere."

Carl said: "So why run away then? It's pointless. Just stop being afraid, just for once. You know, they say obese people use their fat as a shield, to protect their sense of self against a threatening world..."

Stone stood on the top of the ramp leading up to the boat's deck, struggling silently with himself. The other defectors said and did nothing - they had their own problems, and little compassion for those of other people.

Finally, after a long minute, Bruce sighed and made a gesture of surrender. He walked back down with his bags, moody and defeated.

"Okay, I'll stay a little while longer. Maybe the Sirians can reveal their seafood diet to me, and I'll get as thin as they are."

Carl grinned: "Wrong again - they're all fat. Blubber, under their skin, like seals! They'll have to teach you how to distribute your fat evenly."

Both men started to laugh. The defecting group remained dead silent; with a noise that attracted a flock of seagulls, their boat backed away from the beach and moved out toward the fleet. On their way past the lagoon, the passengers could see one Sirian stick its head up above the water.

The figure peered after them momentarily, then disappeared below.

The President's voice on the phone was urgent, and slightly distorted by white noise. Carl wondered from where the man was calling.

"Mr. President," Carl said, "a Sirian messenger robot just delivered a kind of voice-mail from Ranmotanii. They're starting to use their machines as middlemen."

"And?"

"The Sirians have just consulted the 'Ancestors' and are now determined to stay the year out. They couldn't quite explain to me their motives, but... the Sirians are a little concerned about the military activity reported in the TV news."

"'A little concerned'? Well, are they ready to defend themselves, then?"

"They couldn't answer that, actually. However, Ranmotanii has requested that the platoon posted here by the Security Committee will remain for the duration of their year - but the soldiers are not allowed ammunition for their firearms. Trust me: you couldn't smuggle in a single bullet without the Sirians noticing. And another demand - not one of the soldiers must be allowed to leave. Don't ask me why."

"Okay, I'll tell Harrod's people to stay put. Anything else?"

"Just obscurities. Our scientists have been working on the tapes of the Ancestor manifestations, and we have a few theories..."

"Anything new?"

"It could be, that an Ancestor is a living, naked singularity."

"What's that?"

"It's a like a black hole, without the surrounding black event horizon - only not a collapsed star in this case, but a collapsed being. Compressed without measurable limit, in a shorter time than can be measured... yet, containing all the information that made up the living being."

"How can a compressed being still be alive?"

"Only if the collapsing process is indescribably fast, and thanks to a process we can't recreate in a hundred thousand years. It's more complicated than that, because an Ancestor being cannot be 'alive' in the strictly temporal sense... linear time does in fact not exist on the quantum level... I know it sounds absurd, but the Ancestors may exist partly outside the everyday flow of time!"

"You mean... they can travel backward and forward in time?"

"If you were smaller than a proton, you would not perceive time as going in any particular direction. The word 'time-travel' is then pointless, even if these beings are assumed to at least remember when they lived in linear time. It gets weirder! It could be that an Ancestor doesn't have 'a' size, any 'size,' at all."

"I... can't see how something without size, form, or a sense of time is supposed to help the Sirians against the approaching enemy, here in the everyday reality."

"A being outside time also has access to virtually all time, all information that exists in time - access without delay. And since information can only be communicated by energy, this also means access to limitless energy in the space-time continuum.

"Takeru and Stone are now doing the calculations, to estimate just how much energy output an Ancestor is capable of. There could be great restrictions put on each Ancestor that we can't calculate... Mr. President?"

Carl heard just static for several seconds; the presidential voice came back - weaker, but perhaps more sincere.

"When I was a small child... I sometimes wondered how big God was. Was he as large as the water tower in our city block, or bigger than the Empire State Building, or bigger than the whole universe... Never did I imagine a godlike being so small, that it fell between the seams of the universe."

"Then you are beginning to see what this all could mean?"

"Are you insinuating that I should send prayers to these Ancestors, as if they were the gods of the microcosm?"

"Don't even think that. We're not related to them. They came from one race, and they respond only to them - by kinship, I think. Bishop Edmund Soto has been in personal turmoil ever since he came here; a man of lesser spirit wouldn't have managed."

"So you're saying we're locked out of the club."

"I don't know. I just don't know. Don't lose faith now."

"My faith isn't the problem... the problem is all the world's disgruntled and embittered people who think I'm the one responsible - the man who controls the world. Thousands of fanatics, many of them in America, think of me as a kind of evil god that knows everything about them. My office used to receive hate mail and threats every day. But now, the hate mail to the White House is directed at the Sirians. Now the fanatics fantasize that aliens control me - and you too. What if the discovery of the Ancestors gives the disgruntled of the world a motive for total war?"

"If fanatics truly believed such an entity was in control of things, wouldn't they feel threatened by the very air they breathed? It took me some effort, but I can live with the knowledge of the Ancestors, whether they influence my world or not. But a madman -"

"A madman would go completely psychotic with the knowledge. I have reason to believe that the ruler of Saudi Arabia has now become a madman."

The President proceeded to share with Carl his latest intelligence on the king's mental health.

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