Another day older, but not visibly wiser.
Kyle Gustafson sat on his porch, his rattan chair leaning against the fieldstone front of the house. A vague yellow glow, barely discernible through the fog that overhung the mountains, was the only evidence of what the calendar declared to be a full moon. The telescope that he would otherwise have been using lay idle on its tripod.
He was contemplating—no, be honest: brooding about—the moon, around which circled the enigmatic mother ship of the equally mysterious Galactics. The enemy. On a clear night he could stare endlessly through the telescope at the great vessel, the unsubtle embodiment of science and technology far beyond Earth's own. Under the threat of that behemoth, humanity dared not even let it be known that a danger had been recognized. What could keep the aliens, were their indirect destruction of mankind to be foiled, from simply doing the deed themselves?
Key American and Russian space assets, including strategic early-warning satellites, kept dying. Individual F'thk explained confidentially that a Galactic faction was illegally assisting the other human side. The aliens hinted at a balance-of-power crisis within their commonwealth, and how humanity's competing authoritarian and democratic philosophies could affect that balance, should Earth be admitted. It was a plausible story for why F'thk factions would meddle on Earth—but the stories didn't jibe. And, oh yes: the pretty souvenir orbs that the F'thk distributed everywhere, supposed "symbols of galactic unity," turned out to be spying devices. No wonder the F'thk, in their whispering campaigns, knew just which geopolitical buttons to push . . .
So the few people in the know play-acted the descent into nuclear madness, posturing for the benefit of the ubiquitous Galactic orbs, ever wondering whether today would be the day when an overstressed bomber pilot or submarine captain or missile-silo crew turned pretense into cataclysmic reality. Perhaps the aliens had already tired of waiting—the tactics that had almost brought the US and Russia to war were being tried now in Pyongyang, Islamabad, New Delhi, Beijing, Teheran, and Tel Aviv.
The crack of a sonic boom demanded his attention. He turned toward the sound, in time to observe a bright spark break through the low clouds and sink into the adjacent valley. From the light of the . . . exhaust? flames? . . . it did not look like an airplane, but he'd gotten only a glance. By the time he heard the crash, he was inside, dialing 911.
He had already plunged into the woods, flashlight in hand and cell phone in his pocket, when an explosion lit the sky.
At one level, the situation was clear enough, if tragic: crashed vehicle, fire, explosion. A sickening smell, not quite burning meat and gasoline, hung over the area. There was no sign of survivors, and the blaze was far too intense to let him approach the wreck. At least the forest was too wet to spread the fire. Judging from the violence of the detonation, he was almost certainly too late to help, but he half loped, half slid down the slope as quickly as he dared.
His cell phone chirped, but all he received was static. Not a surprise, here on the valley floor. If the call were from the rescue squad, they could follow the light of the fire. They were clearly on the way—the sirens were growing louder. After reaching his house, they would have to hoof it in, as he had.
What was he looking at? The burning craft no more resembled a plane up close than it had shooting across the sky. A F'thk vessel? He pivoted slowly, absorbing the whole terrible scene, a wide irregular gouge marking the craft's final careening course.
Trees swayed and branches bowed in the wind. Flames danced and twisted, spurted and died back. Light and shadow swirled around the valley in total confusion.
There! Perhaps twenty yards away, at the edge of the trees, something totally out of place caught his eye. It could have been the flames and odor operating on Kyle's subconscious, but his first impression was of an old charcoal barbecue grill somehow scuttling along on its three legs.
The sirens stopped; an emergency team would be over the crest and here in minutes. It looked like there was someone to be helped—and it was no F'thk.
The alien stood its ground as if pinned by the beam of Kyle's flashlight. The barbecue-grill comparison wasn't bad, even with a closer look. The limbs were jointed, though, unlike the tripod base of a grill, and the articulated . . . hand? foot? . . . at the end of one limb wore what could be a bandage. Three short stalks rose from the top of the torso.
Two sacks slumped on the ground nearby. The alien murmured softly, the sounds unintelligible—and a bag spoke. In English. "Are you . . . Kyle Gustafson?"
He was shocked, both by the question and that it sounded like a F'thk. A F'thk would not fit in that bag. A speech synthesizer and translator, then. "Do you need help? Why are you here?"
"Are you . . . Gustafson?" it repeated insistently.
"Yes." What was going on?
"Turn off . . . your light," ordered the alien. "Don't let . . . them see you."
He knew nothing about this species of Galactic, but judging from its harsh rasping and the pauses in the synthesized speech, it was gasping for breath.
Shouts of encouragement from the emergency team were getting closer. Beams of their flashlights shone over the ridge. He dimmed his flashlight and hurried to his unexpected visitor.
Trembling, the alien settled onto the ground. It pointed down the valley, in the direction from which its wrecked ship had arrived. The suspected bandage had a dark splotch, from which, as he watched, a large drop plopped. "They're . . . coming." A sonic boom soon proved it right. An intact version of what lay burning nearby broke through the clouds. "The F'thk."
"Do you need help before they get here?"
"I will . . . be fine. Don't . . . let F'thk . . . find me."
"But why?"
More tremors wracked the creature's body. Its sensor stalks dipped. "Keep . . . telling your . . . self it's . . . only a . . . movie."