2000 Light Years from Home (James London) Page 3

  London turned and followed the tic-tac. It had a waddling gait that carried it quickly down the short corridor. As London followed, he noticed that the gravity was less than he was used to. He estimated by about a third.

  “Instant diet,” he muttered.

  Behind him the door closed, but watching the fuzzy tic-tac, London saw how the doors were opened. He tried it on the door behind him, it sighed open at speed with the faintest of hisses.

  The room at the other end of the corridor was a galley, judging by the food remains all over it.

  “Tidiness isn’t your strong suit, is it?” London asked, from the doorway.

  Warsnitz whipped his head around, whilst leaving its body facing toward the grey aliens. They were being emptied of the white liquid into a large container. London couldn’t be sure, but it looked like milk. Although London could not read the alien’s expression, he got the distinct impression that the alien wished London had been a figment of its imagination.

  The alien jabbered at London.

  “What we have here,” said London, “is a total failure to communicate. Let’s start again.”

  London held up his hand, palm facing Warsnitz. Slowly, he pointed at himself. “James.”

  London looked at Warsnitz. There was silence, but for the sound of milk glugging into a container. London pointed at Warsnitz.

  There was no reply at all.

  London repeated his action.

  Warsnitz could have been giving him a look of incomprehension, anger or bewilderment. London couldn’t tell. Warsnitz got bored and returned to ensuring all the milk was extracted from the grey.

  London sighed, and looked around. Apart from some mysterious looking devices set into the walls that London assumed were for cooking, there was a flat surface with cupboards underneath. It seemed storage solutions were a must have for any intelligent species. On either side of the surface were two doors. London opened one. It was a junk room, a storage facility or, quite possibly, the alien’s bedroom. There was a good chance it was all three. Squeezing past Warsnitz, London tried the other door. The room was empty. There were stark white walls, with more of the blue light strips delineating the walls, floor and ceiling.

  It definitely was unlike anything London had anticipated.

  He decided that as this was the only known human and alien contact, it was beholden of him to try again. He faced Warsnitz.

  “James,” he said, pointing at himself.

  Warsnitz ignored him. The alien tic-tac was more intent on the milk. London waited and watched. Warsnitz had completely drained both aliens into a container. A button was pressed and the container made a brief whirring noise. Rummaging through a pile of detritus, Warsnitz located a flask-like container, which it filled from the fish tank-like container. It still looked like milk, with a slight froth on it. The alien took the merest of swigs from the container and slumped against a storage door, its features going slack.

  London recognised the look.

  “Oh, brilliant,” London said to the comatose alien. “You’re a junkie.”

  London dipped a finger in the container of milk and rubbed it on his gums. It was definitely milk. It tasted of warm creamy milk, nothing more.

  London sucked his teeth, and looked a little nonplussed. “God knows what you’d make of a chocolate milkshake.”

  London wandered back through to the cockpit. The view screen showed only an inky blackness. He couldn’t even see stars. Taking a closer look at one of the screens, London stood on something that made a crunch noise. Glancing down, he saw a plastic container. He brushed the crap off one of the seats and sat down. He could not make any sense of the information he was being shown. There was one display that appeared to be a spider web, another that had a series of bars with circles at various heights along them. More screens filled the walls. He considered, only momentarily, pressing the control screens at random.

  A circle appeared on the spider web screen. London looked at the view screen and saw Saturn flash past. He decided the spider web was a sensor of some description.

  After about an hour of watching the various readouts, he was none the wiser, and bored. He moved some of the rubbish, more to relive boredom than to find anything useful. He decided that there was nothing useful in the cockpit, or at least nothing he could make use of, which was essentially the same thing. There was a sack. It was grey and made of a slippery material. He stuffed some of the more local rubbish into it.

  It took a while, and two more of the sacks that he found along the way, but eventually, the cockpit was clear, but for three sacks of rubbish. He took the rubbish into the galley, where Warsnitz was breathing, but still blissed out.

  London tidied around the alien, and discovered how to open a storage door. That was filled with food containers. He tried a few more. Eventually he found an empty one into which he stuffed the sacks. There were still stains of unidentified origin on surfaces, but at least the place looked tidier. London realised he was hungry. He found the food cupboard again, and took out what looked like a cereal bar. It took a few minutes to work out how to slide the food out of the wrapper and almost cost him his front teeth. He sniffed it. It smelled like dates, but looked like squashed cucumber and cashews. London had no idea whether it was toxic, narcotic or nutritious.

  He broke a small corner off, and held it between his bottom lip and gum. He’d once had a survival training course that had said this was a good test as to the toxicity of unknown food stuffs. Apparently, if it was likely to kill him, his bottom lip would swell up. It didn’t so he let the crumb onto his tongue.

  “Yum,” he said, sarcastically. “I’m getting broccoli, custard and orange juice. This has to be the next Heston Blumenthal taste sensation.”

  He did not feel violently ill after swallowing, so risked taking a proper bite. It was crispy and chewy at the same time. He had to admit, it was the worst tasting food he’d ever willingly eaten. There had been worse tastes back home, but he’d been forced to eat those due to it being impolite to spit a friend’s home-cooked food back onto the plate. He washed the bar down with some milk, scooping it out of the container with his hand, because he couldn’t find any suitable drinking vessel that wasn’t being clutched tightly by the alien.

  London bent down and had a closer look at the alien. Close up, he could make out small scales. London hesitantly touched them. In one direction they felt smooth, and in the other slightly hairy. The alien was much warmer than London had expected. The hairs on its head felt wiry to the touch, and as he touched one, Warsnitz made a giggling hiccup. London touched another and got the same reaction.

  “Interesting,” London mused. “That must make brushing your hair fun.”

  Having tidied, eaten and made an alien giggle, London realised that there was not much else to do. His phone had eighty percent charge, so he put it on extended battery life to stop it looking for non-existent networks or compatible Wi-Fi then turned it off to conserve the battery even further. After all, without connection, it was impossible to update his status on Facebook to “Abducted” or check in at Neptune. Even the GPS was pretty much useless, as it currently thought he was in Inverness. With a severe lack of entertainment options, and the alien completely blissed out on milk, London decided he might as well sleep.

  Janet and John were standing in a large board room. The room was dominated by a table that was so expensive its owner could now only afford one matching chair. It was made from woods illegal to trade in from countries of low morals. Inlaid marquetry swirled around the edge in a complicated pattern that could keep an ADHD sufferer busy for days. One wall was a tinted glass window, beyond which could be seen cooling towers.

  The single chair was at the far end of the table from the two scientists. It was occupied by a painfully thin man whose face comprised mainly of nose. What hair he had, he kept closely shaved in the manner of those that do not wish people to know that they are balding. Peculiarly violet eyes were deep set without eyebrows to provide expr
ession. He wore a casual tee shirt and jeans that cost more than an Armani suit. In front of him was a tablet, showing the video.

  Janet and John shifted uncomfortably, not risking glances at each other as their employer watched the feed several times without comment. Eventually he broke the silence.

  “Intriguing,” he said.

  “We thought so,” John ventured.

  “We figured you’d want to see it,” Janet added, emboldened by the fact that John was still alive after speaking.

  “You were correct,” said Kyson Wishbone. “Do we know who this man is?”

  “We’ve searched through various databases,” Janet said. “MI5, MI6, Interpol, ATF, CIA, FBI, Homeland, Mossad, FSB…”

  Her litany of abbreviations tailed off.

  “Have you checked MI7?”

  “MI7?” Janet sounded surprised. “I didn’t know there was an MI7.”

  “MI5 deals with UK security, MI6 the world,” said Wishbone, barely audible across the table. “MI7 deals with galactic security.”

  Wishbone swept three fingers across the tablet throwing the image onto the screen behind him.

  “That’s a spacecraft,” he said, without looking at it.

  “Is there an MI8?” asked John, his curiosity getting the better of him.

  “Yes,” said Wishbone. “They deal with time. And before you ask, MI9 do the dimensions.”

  “Why have we never heard of these?” Janet asked.

  “Because I’ve just made them up,” Wishbone admitted with a dry chuckle. “Or have I?”

  “I don’t know,” said John. “If they exist, shall we look for this man on their systems?”

  “He won’t be there,” Wishbone tilted his head ever so slightly in thought. “He was obviously prepared. Who takes a sword to a lakeside at night? He had to have prior knowledge of the attack. We’ll deal him the old fashioned way.”

  “What is the old fashioned way?” John looked nonplussed.

  “Program all the units to kill him on sight.” Wishbone didn’t sound annoyed with the question, but there was an undercurrent to his tone that suggested that any further stupid questions would result in John’s entire family being eradicated back several generations.

  “So we are proceeding as planned?” Janet asked.

  “Of course,” Wishbone said. “The first batch based on Twelve-Gamma will be ready tomorrow.”

  “What about the water issue?” Janet reminded her boss.

  “As the plan states that we’re going to take over the Middle East first,” said Wishbone, swiping his tablet. The tablet threw up an image of the world in which red spread from Turkey across Europe and America, before engulfing Asia. “Water should not be a problem. During this process, if my units find that man, it won’t matter what he knows, how he knows it or who his bosses are. I’ll try and fix the hydrophobia issue, and we proceed as planned. I need to add a splash of armadillo anyway. Although they could continue with bullet wounds, it would be better to be bulletproof.”

  Wishbone stopped talking. It took a couple of seconds for Janet and John to realise that their meeting was over. Wishbone was one of those people who end a telephone conversation not by saying ‘goodbye’ but by hanging up.

  Chapter 3

  In which London gets arrested

  For a moment or two after waking, London didn’t know where he was. The previous evening came back to him in a rush, and he sat upright. The slightly lower gravity, the odd smell in the air, the light, it all told him it wasn’t a dream.

  Now he had to find a toilet.

  He was also hungry and thirsty.

  “Disorientation, hunger, thirst, feeling light headed, light too strong,” he muttered, climbing to his feet. “It’s like a hangover without the drink.”

  He left his makeshift bedroom. The hairy tic-tac had, at some point, left the galley. London headed down the corridor. As the door to the cockpit opened, London could almost feel the beat of the music emanating from the speakers either side of the view screen.

  Warsnitz was there, in the middle of the room, spinning around, and making a caterwauling noise.

  “Eiffel all in luff,” Warsnitz bellowed out. “Eiffel all in luff forth fur styme andth hiss sty mine nowit furreel!”

  It took London a moment to realise that the small alien was singing along to the music.

  “God knows,” London joined in, “God knows I’ve fallen in love.”

  Queen continued to bellow, and Warsnitz slowly came to realise that London was singing the same song. Warsnitz reached over to the console and pressed something on the screen. The music went away.

  “Ayewan toob wreck-free?”

  “I want to break free,” London replied.

  “High-pred rictor high hot?”

  “I predict a riot,” London said, figuring out what the alien was doing.

  “Warsnitz,” said Warsnitz banging his chest.

  London gave a wry smile. “Warsnitz,” he pointed at the alien, then back at himself. “James.”

  “James?”

  “James,” London said, smiling and nodding.

  “Howsit down, howsit downex termey?”

  London laughed, startling the tic-tac.

  “Oh sit down, oh sit down next to me,” London sang.

  “Siddown, siddown, siddown,” they sang together.

  Hans Christian Anderson was apparently right. Where words had failed, music spoke. Warsnitz’s badly sung lyrics had formed a common bond between them, identified them both as intelligent species.

  Sadly, though Warsnitz could sing along, he didn’t know what the words meant. Singing Johnny Cash’s “I want to go home” would have no effect.

  London decided to try something more visual.

  “Wait here,” he said, and ran to the galley.

  After rummaging in the bags of rubbish, London found what he was after, and returned to the cockpit with what looked like a half of a watermelon and a small plastic lid. He put the watermelon down on the tidy floor, not minding that Warsnitz did not appear to have noticed that the room was now clear. He held the plastic lid.

  “James, Warsnitz,” London said, pointing at the lid. He put it on the watermelon, and made a roaring noise as he moved it away from the watermelon.

  Putting the lid down he made a scared face, although Warsnitz’s expression didn’t appear to change in response.

  “Warsnitz, James,” London repeated, pointing at the lid. He pointed at the Watermelon. “Home. James.”

  He returned to the lid, picked it up and turned it round with a skidding noise, before making the roaring noise again to return the lid to the watermelon. He put the lid on the rind. He made walking legs out of his fingers and walked them off the lid onto the rind.

  “James,” he said, pointing at the fingers. He pointed at the lid. “Warsnitz.”

  London flicked the lid across the cockpit, keeping his walking fingers on the watermelon.

  “James,” he said, pointing at his fingers. “Warsnitz,” he said pointing at the lid.

  Warsnitz made a gesture that looked like a shudder.

  He picked up the lid. “Warsnitz, James.”

  London smiled. “Yes.”

  Warsnitz walked the lid over to the console. Whatever he said, London couldn’t understand. The alien picked up the lid again, and carried it back to the watermelon. He only had three fingers, one of them hopped out of the lid onto the watermelon. “James.”

  London nodded. “I see. You have to get to where you’re going before you can take me back. Okay.”

  London picked the lid up and put it a pace away from the watermelon. He pretended to sleep, holding up one finger. He moved the lid, pretended to sleep again, and repeating this action three more times until he got to the console. Each time he increased the number of fingers he held up.

  This proved too complicated for Warsnitz, who looked back blankly.

  “I’ll have to wait and see,” London still needed the loo.

  H
ow on earth (or off it) was he going to mime that?

  He decided he couldn’t. London held up one finger and left the cockpit. He tried both cabins off the galley and could see nothing that looked remotely like a toilet. How did aliens excrete? Did they excrete? London’s bladder was becoming his most important body part. After checking all the walls of both cabins and the galley, he could wait no longer. He rummaged through the pile of rubbish he’d removed from the cockpit and found a plastic flask. His face split into grin and he took it into, what he was calling in his head, his cabin.

  Moments later he came out feeling much better, holding the container.

  “What do I do with this?” He wondered.

  Somewhere in the galley there had to be something into which he could empty liquid waste. However, he couldn’t work out how to operate the various contraptions around the galley. He put the flask down, and tried waving his hands over the surfaces, touching anything that looked remotely like a button. Nothing at all was happening.

  Warsnitz came into the galley and watched London search. The alien rubbed his wire-like hair with chubby fingers.

  “Do you have a sink?” London asked, knowing Warsnitz wouldn’t understand, but feeling that he had to ask.

  Warsnitz wobbled his head. London didn’t know what that meant, but assumed incomprehension.

  “Never mind,” London said, continuing his search.

  Warsnitz picked up the plastic flask and sniffed it.

  “No,” London said, going to take it off the alien.

  Warsnitz pulled the flask away. London’s eyes widened as the alien drained the flask, gulping it down like a soft drink. London thought he’d wretch. In a way, it was handy. It saved finding a way of disposing of it. For the alien’s part, he looked like he’d enjoyed it.

  “That is just gross,” London said.

  London realised he was thirsty. He pointed at the flask, and mimed drinking it himself.