Saucer: Savage Planet

12

Johnny Murk and Harrison Douglas got back to Connecticut eventually. The military dropped them in Duluth, and they rode Johnny Murk’s private jet to Connecticut. They were in a foul mood when they arrived. Solo and the Cantrells had made monkeys of them, not to mention nearly killing them with a near-miss flyby of the saucer.

“The government is after those bastards, and with all their assets, we’ll always get there late,” Johnny Murk said.

The FBO bar was closed and locked, so Johnny had brought a bottle of Scotch from his plane. The two were sitting alone in the lounge drinking it neat from paper cups. Heidi the masseuse was sacked out on one of the couches, dead to the world, with her magnificent breasts pointed straight at heaven. The pink sunrise through the windows was gorgeous. Neither Murk nor Douglas paid any attention to any of these attractions.

“There is just no way we can get to Solo before the Army, Navy, Air Force, Marine Corps, Coast Guard and Boy Scouts.”

Murkowsky’s cell phone buzzed. He pulled it from his pocket, checked to see who the caller was and immediately answered. “Yes.”

He listened for a while, asked no questions and ended the conversation with a curt, “Keep me informed.”

He stood to pocket the phone and looked around as if seeing his surroundings for the first time.

“Well?” Douglas asked.

“My Space Command spy. The saucer is in Western Australia. No doubt about it. The White House has been informed, but nothing is happening in Washington that he knows about.”

“Oh, hell, the prez probably called the Aussie PM and the diggers are on their way right now to bag ’em and tag ’em.”

Johnny Murk turned on the television in the corner of the room, and the two men stood in front of it. Of course, the picture was of the saucer suspended over the White House lawn. Then the video switched to the quarter million or more people gathered in the streets. A sea of people. After three minutes of listening to the delicious female anchor — she never mentioned the Cantrells’ saucer — talk about the rising excitement, the fact that the police had sealed off the city and the media’s demand that the president appear before their cameras to tell the world what was happening, the network began to air man-in-the-street interviews. Everyone interviewed was absolutely certain that aliens would soon arrive. They wanted to be there for this historic occasion. The excitement and anticipation were palpable.

The two pharma moguls looked at each other.

They turned back to the television, which now aired a moment of Jim Bob Spicer praying for salvation for all the earth’s people.

“It’s like they’re waiting for the Second Coming,” Johnny Murk murmured.

“It’s a ten-ring circus,” Douglas proclaimed.

“Bet you that no one in the White House has bothered to tell State to call the Aussies.”

They looked at each other again. Simultaneously they both said, “What are we waiting for?”

Galvanized into action, each man grabbed his cell phone. Douglas called his friends in Philadelphia and promised big money; Murk chartered a Boeing 747–400 to fly a crowd across the Pacific. The plane was huge, carried a zillion gallons of fuel, and with a light load could fly the world’s biggest pond nonstop. The moguls even called their homes and told the maids to pack suitcases with clean underwear and a change of clothes and have the chauffeurs bring them to the airport. Both men’s wives were asleep. Neither man left a message for his spouse.

Heidi the masseuse continued to sleep, her magnificent trophy chest rising and falling in a gentle rhythm.

The White House was in full crisis mode. Aides ran hither and yon, telephones rang continuously, e-mails flooded the computers, and teletypes spewed out important messages from prime ministers and ambassadors and foreign heads of state. Politicians of every stripe, in offices large and small and out of offices large and small, demanded to be heard. Meanwhile, huddled behind locked doors, the president’s hard-core advisers weighed how the crisis would affect the president’s polls and his ability to get his agenda, such as it was, through Congress.

P. J. O’Reilly was in his element. He loved the hubbub. He made decisions, stroked the people he thought important, ignored everyone else, and generally behaved like the petty tyrant he was. More importantly, he refused everyone access to the president. He had the press secretary tell the press that the president was working on the saucer crisis. Discussing the situation with experts. Meditating. Preparing himself in case he would soon have to meet and negotiate with “aliens from outer space” as ambassador for all the world’s people. All six billion of them, including the French.

The president, however, was actually in his study in the family living quarters watching a John Wayne Western on television. He liked the fact that the Duke didn’t suffer fools or take any sass, unlike the president, who was surrounded by fools and listened to copious amounts of bullshit day in and day out.

He also liked the way that John Wayne kicked ass. Very satisfying.

When the movie ended he turned off the idiot box and sat thinking about all the asses he would like to kick. That line of reasoning took him to Egg Cantrell, Rip and Charley, and that toad Adam Solo. Boy, would he like to take them out behind the woodshed. Especially Egg, with his smashed computer trick. That was low-down mean! The Duke would have drilled him.

Finally the president began to turn the situation over in his mind. He wondered where the Cantrells and Pine and Solo might just happen to be. Were they still in orbit? He picked up the phone and was soon speaking to O’Reilly.

“Where’s Cantrell’s saucer?”

“Haven’t heard a thing, Mr. President. Space Command will keep us advised. D.C. police say they don’t have enough officers to control the crowd in the streets, which is still growing. Nearly a half million, they think. Right now we’re talking to the army, bringing in troops. We’re also bringing in every federal cop we can find, stripping the office buildings and museums bare. We’re afraid if the aliens land the crowd will surge right through the fences onto the White House grounds. It’ll be an out-of-control mob; people might get trampled. The aliens might react violently in self-defense.”

“That would certainly be exciting. But do you really think sane people would want to get close to an alien?”

“There aren’t any sane people out there in the streets.” O’Reilly’s credentials as a pessimist were impeccable.

“Doesn’t anybody ever watch War of the Worlds these days?” the president muttered.

The chief of staff ignored that comment. “Before the aliens arrive, Fox and CNN would like exclusive interviews with you.”

“About what?”

“Your diplomatic strategy. How will you communicate with the aliens if they don’t speak English? Will you ask for the superdrugs that extend life? Will you—”

“No interviews. Tell the press secretary to schmooze the bastards. He gets paid for that.”

“Sir, the political staffers seem to think—”

“That’s an illusion. They haven’t had a thought in years. They are good at pretending.”

“And then there is the matter of protocol. The alien ambassador—”

“For God’s sake, O’Reilly!”

The president hung up. Ate two more Rolaids, turned the TV back on and flipped over to the Western Channel to see what was airing there. Aha! An episode of Gunsmoke. The president liked Matt Dillon too.

Johnny Murkowsky and Harrison Douglas were leading an army. A small army, it is true, but an army nonetheless. Eight men, armed to the teeth. They looked like extras in an action movie: lean, mean and ready to kill somebody, with lots of tattoos and mustaches and bulging muscles. All wore pistols and knives. Submachine guns and bags of spare magazines were tucked under their seats. The warriors lay sprawled across the center aisle seats of the big Boeing, reading comic books and playing computer games on their iPads.

They looked like Attila’s Huns, and Johnny Murk liked that. Yet he felt a nagging sense of unease. Something wasn’t right. It took him fifteen minutes to figure out what it was. He had forgotten Heidi. He had left her sleeping on a couch at the airport.

He had a bad moment. Johnny Murk needed sex three times a day, regardless, and he paid Heidi well to provide it. What was he going to do? His white count would build … and build and build … Could he go on?

“Get some rest,” Douglas told him, pulling at his sleeve. “We’re going to need every ounce of smarts we have to outthink that alien creep Solo and those Cantrells.”

“Hmm,” Johnny Murk said distractedly.

Douglas had known since takeoff that Heidi was missing. Now, through Sherlockian logic, he concluded her absence was bothering Murkowsky.

“Get some sleep,” Douglas advised his fellow pharma pirate. “Some rest for your poor little pecker will do it good.”

Their big Boeing was high over the Pacific, in and out of clouds. In the cockpit the crew watched the GPS and computers and talked of inconsequential things as the plane bored into the opaque night. The moguls made themselves comfortable in First Class and were soon snoring loudly, Johnny Murk dreaming of the pleasures of the flesh, Harrison Douglas dreaming of money. Back aft, some of their Huns drifted off to the land of Nod dreaming of violence and blood and personal catharsis.

As both the night and the drug moguls’ chartered Boeing 747 raced across the Pacific toward Australia, the four saucer adventurers ate dinner at the outback saloon and began thinking about sleep even though the jackaroos were buying the drinks and the sheilas were all agog. Egg slipped off to bed down in the saucer.

Charley and Rip sat trying to drink as little as possible amid a crowd of Aussies pouring the beer down. At the bar Adam Solo entertained a dozen men and women by singing. He sang the old Irish songs and he sang Italian opera. He had a superb baritone voice; soon everyone in the room was silent and listening. More beer was put in front of him. At the end of a song Solo paused and drained the mug. Then he went on, now singing classic Spanish love songs.

“He really loves life,” Charley whispered to Rip, squeezing his hand.

“Yes,” Rip muttered, slightly surprised. “The amazing thing is how he absorbs the best of what is around him and appreciates it.”

“Why is that amazing?”

Rip glanced at Charley. “A rapist and killer connoisseur.”

Charley rolled her eyes. “Let’s get out of here,” she said, “while he has the crowd.”

They sneaked off. The sun had set and the stars were out. Only a whisper of wind stirred the air.

As they walked toward the saucer holding hands, Rip said, “What will happen when the mother ship arrives?”

“Well, Solo will go winging out of our lives, and they’ll zoom off to another planet to check the DNA library.”

“We’re going to have to get rid of both saucers,” Rip said with conviction in his voice. “Give them back to the aliens. If their computers are gone, maybe you and I and Egg can keep living on this rock.”

“What kind of people will the aliens be?”

Rip hadn’t thought much about it. “Like Solo, I guess.”

“Meeting them will be the biggest adventure of our lives,” Charley Pine said, throwing her head back to take in the stars. It seemed as if Rip’s discovery of the saucer in the Sahara Desert just a little over a year ago had somehow been leading to such a meeting. Travelers between the stars. People from another star system, perhaps even another galaxy. People out there … coming here!

“We’re like the Indians on the beach who first saw the sails of Columbus’ ships on the horizon, coming closer,” Rip mused. “All the speculation, all the dreaming, all the wonder…”

When he fell silent Charley squeezed his hand and said, “I wouldn’t repeat that Columbus-and-the-Indians analogy if I were you,” she said lightly. “A lot of people think the Indians would have been better off if Columbus had stayed home.”

“You know what I mean.”

She put her head on his shoulder and he held her as they both gazed at the stars.

The saucer’s hatch was closed, no doubt to keep out the curious, and presumably Egg was asleep. Rip opened the hatch and stuck his head inside. He could hear Egg snoring. He slithered in, got his and Charley’s sleeping bags and passed them out to her. Then he climbed down, closed the hatch and latched it.

“Where…?”

“Over here by the landing gear. That’s good enough.”

They zipped both bags together, shed their clothes and crawled in. Thirty minutes later they slipped into exhausted sleep.

Adam Solo stayed in the bar until he was the last man left standing. The women had wandered out hours earlier. He had drunk more beer than any of the Aussies but was apparently unaffected. Four men were passed out on the floor when he drained his mug for the last time. Solo nodded at the bartender and stepped over a drunk on his way to the door.

Outside he paused and looked around to see who was watching in this last hour before dawn. Solo suspected there was a satellite telephone or shortwave radio somewhere nearby, and if so it was absolutely inevitable that news of the saucer’s arrival had gone forth. He wondered just how much time they had before the Australian army or Harrison Douglas and Johnny Murkowsky came charging over the hill.

He heard a voice in his head, speaking breathlessly and quickly. They are here. The saucer is here!

Solo walked the half mile to the saucer and stood looking around. He saw no one except Rip and Charley sound asleep, wrapped together like otters. Solo opened the saucer’s hatch and climbed in.

Egg was stretched out on the back bench seats snoring gently.

Solo pulled the power knob out to the first detent; he heard the gentle hum from the machinery spaces behind him as the computer screens exploded into life. He donned the headset lying on the console in front of him.

Perhaps it was the gentle, barely audible hum from the panel behind him that woke Egg. He realized he was awake and opened his eyes to see Solo’s back partially blocking one of the computer screens. The other two were filled with symbols flashing and dancing, actually three-dimensional holographic displays, constantly changing.

Egg arose and stood. He moved so he could see all three screens. The light reflected from Solo’s face, which was almost in profile. Egg could see his serious expression, concentrating.

His eyes went to the screen. It was as if he were watching a motion picture on fast forward. Some of the images registered on Egg’s retinas: ships, combat, castles, Indian villages, Vikings in helmets, tall sailing ships, World War I combat, factories, perhaps a university …

Solo was transmitting his memories, his report, to the starship. More than a thousand years of life, everything he had learned. On one screen Egg saw formulas dance, squiggling and squirming in constant mutation. On the third were plants, trees, animals, snakes, bugs, beetles, mosquitoes, insects of all types …

After five minutes or so the screens became composed. Two of them faded to dots, then went dark. Only the center screen continued to change, but more sedately. Finally it too went into a rest state.

Solo took off the headset and, for the first time, looked at Egg.

“When are they coming?” Egg asked.

Soon.

The fact that Solo didn’t speak, yet Egg heard his voice, unnerved him. “How soon?” he asked aloud.

Solo seemed to sense Egg’s discomfort and spoke aloud. “They are inside the moon’s orbit, decelerating. These things take time.”

“So do we stay here?”

“Someone has called the Australian government on a shortwave radio. A man. He may be believed, he may not. They may come today, they may not.”

For the first time, Egg realized that Solo didn’t look as he had since he had known him. He looked older. His face was lined; his shoulders sagged.

“How much did you have to drink?” he asked accusingly.

A grin flickered across Solo’s face. “Too much,” he said. “It used to be that alcohol didn’t affect me much. If at all. But tonight…” He sighed and rubbed his face with his hands. “I’m a bit intoxicated. I can feel it.”

Solo looked at his hands in the glow of the cockpit lights. Even Egg could see that they looked older, looked like the hands of a man in his sixties or seventies. Lean, gnarled, scarred, mottled.

Solo drew his hands away hastily.

Time is marching on.

Yes, it is, Egg thought. It does that for all of us.

What a life I’ve had. I want to go home, but that’s ridiculous. My family has been gone for a thousand years. I know none of these people who are coming. None of them know me. They thought I was dead, dead for a thousand years. I am a living fossil, a fossil with too many memories, too many things to regret. Too many dreams that ended in ashes.

“How long can we stay here in Australia?” Egg asked. He hadn’t gotten used to communicating without talking.

Solo threw up his hands. “I don’t know.” He paused. “Rip and Charley need their sleep, and so do I.” He punched in the power knob, turning off the saucer’s machinery. Slowly, carefully, Solo eased himself out of the pilot’s seat. He took several steps over to the bench seats and spread his sleeping bag.

As he crawled into it, Egg asked, “How do you feel about reporting to your people?”

“I don’t know.” He paused. “Mixed emotions. A load off, I guess.”

Egg went to the hatch and looked down. He heard Solo’s voice in his head. They say it’s the journey, not the destination, that is important. But sooner or later, eventually, you get there. Then the journey is over.

Egg lowered himself through the hatch. He sat with his back against one of the saucer’s legs as the stars faded and dawn slowly crept up the sky. He was still there, watching, when the sun finally peeped over the earth’s rim.