Will McIntosh - Defenders

“Which nations are you referring to?” Bolibar asked.

Half smiling, Sook lifted her shoulders. “The like-minded ones. I’ll leave it at that.”

The most aggressive, militaristic countries, she meant. Lila could feel her hackles rising. What an uncharitable light to paint the saviors of the human race in. She was tempted to remind Sook that her scrunched little face wouldn’t be on this plane if not for the defenders.

“It’s an interesting perspective,” Bolibar said.

“If you were describing humans instead of defenders, that characterization would seem the worst sort of stereotype,” Lila said. “They’re highly intelligent and adaptable. Who’s to say their interests haven’t branched out into science, the arts…”

Sook tilted her head, as if considering. “Who’s to say.” She didn’t seem offended, or even ruffled, by Lila’s heated defense of the defenders. In fact, she seemed amused, which made Lila even angrier.

“Maybe they’ve simply realized that our races need each other,” Lila said, “that they exist because of us, and we still exist only because of them. We share a powerful bond.”

Oliver had switched to the outside seat on his row to listen. “It’s true—they may have no agenda at all. Maybe they just want to check in, because they feel ready now. More grounded.”

“Trade,” a man sitting half a dozen rows closer to the front called back.

“Maybe,” Bolibar called, “but Australia is relatively self-sufficient when it comes to resources. Unless the defenders want Coca-Cola and a download of the new Peter Septimo album.”

“Have you ever taken a close look at a defender’s hands?” the man said. Lila moved her head left, then right, trying to see who it was. Finally, she caught a glimpse of Azumi Bello, the big, affable Nigerian ambassador. He held up his own hand, made a fist. “Their hands weren’t engineered with fine-motor skills in mind. They were made to hold weapons. I can’t imagine how they could mend boots with those hands, or manufacture dishes, or paint a picture.”

“How did they create the cloak, then?” Sook asked. “That sort of technology would require extremely fine motor skills.”

Azumi shook his head. “That, Ms. Sook, is a mystery.”

Lila lifted her hand from the armrest, felt more weight than had been there a moment earlier. They were descending. She ran her hands over her thighs, wiping sweat. Fifteen years of wondering, and in a minute they’d have their answers.

People were leaving their seats, crowding around the windows, seeking a first glimpse of Sydney. The cabin was hushed as the jet broke through the clouds and a city took shape below.

“Oh,” Bolibar said, clearly disappointed.

The city had barely changed. Visible below were skyscrapers, roads, vehicles, bridges. The jet descended, dropping below the tops of the skyscrapers.

“Oh,” Oliver said, his tone laced with surprise and disbelief. As they dropped, the size of the city became more apparent. The skyscrapers were immense. Their jet was a toy that could nearly fit through an office window. The defenders had retained the look of the city, but had rebuilt it to their scale.

“Of course,” Lila said softly. She meant it as a personal aside, but others looked at her, waiting for her to elaborate. “They’re brand-new beings—their only point of reference is how humans do things.” If everything was designed to defenders’ scale, the city would be almost triple in size. The tallest buildings might be three thousand feet tall.

The landing gear ground into place beneath them. The FASTEN SEAT BELTS sign chimed. Reluctantly, the ambassadors returned to their seats. It was quiet as the jet descended. Everyone was peering out the windows, taking in Sydney.

They landed on a strip as long and wide as a small desert, then taxied to the airport for ten minutes.

As they lined up to get off, Bolibar grinned at her. “Here we go. Into the fray.” There was a buzz of excitement, a plane mostly full of jaded politicos sounding like kids on Christmas morning.

Lila gave Oliver a playful nudge in the back. “Hurry,” she said. He turned to look at her, his eyebrows raised. He was effectively here as her babysitter, someone the feds thought could control her, someone she would listen to if push came to shove. That made her smile. It was true, to a degree. But only to a degree.

Oliver had shown her the file the CIA worked up after the defenders requested her. She was impulsive, she drank too much, exhibited classic symptoms of PTSD. In short, she was damaged goods. Big surprise. Who the hell wasn’t? Them? The clowns in charge were probably more damaged than most people; the difference was they were too arrogant to admit it.

As they approached the exit, Lila took a deep breath and swept her hair out of her face. Screw their file, she wasn’t here for them. She was here for the defenders.

A defender was waiting on the tarmac. Lila had always found them strangely beautiful. So like the statues on Easter Island, if those statues were stretched, and stood on three legs, and had what looked like enormous shards of broken glass running down each side. Their faces were chiseled and angular, set on a long, almost neckless cylinder.

“Thank you for coming,” the defender said as Lila stepped off the jet. He repeated this as each ambassador and special envoy stepped through the door, which meant he repeated the same phrase ninety-four times.

When they had all disembarked, the defender grimaced (or perhaps it was meant as a smile) and said, “My name is Vladimir. I will be your guide for the initial part of your stay. You must be hungry after your flight.” The flight had been less than six hours from Geneva, and they’d been served a meal, but Lila nodded politely, a tight smile on her face as Vladimir gestured to their left.

Something large squeezed out of a hangar.

Even from a hundred yards, even after fifteen years, there was no mistaking the thing that rushed at them.

When Lila was next aware of her surroundings, she was sprinting across the runway, her terror given voice by a tight squeal on each outbreath. A Luyten. A Luyten was charging at them. One of the other ambassadors passed Lila, his arms pumping, his loose, old cheeks flapping, his eyes round with fear.

“There is no danger. No danger!” Vladimir called, and as before, with “Thank you for coming,” he repeated the words over and over. Lila glanced over her shoulder and saw she wasn’t mistaken: It was a Luyten. It wasn’t chasing them, though. It stood beside Vladimir on five legs, something balanced on its sixth.

A silver tray. With food on it.

Lila slowed, stopped. The defender continued to shout, “No danger!”

“What the hell is going on?” It was Bolibar, suddenly beside her.

“Is it a… I don’t know, a reproduction of some kind?”

“It doesn’t look like a reproduction.” Bolibar took a few tentative steps toward the thing. Lila followed. When the Luyten didn’t move they took a few more. Soon most of the ambassadors were standing in a loose circle, a hundred feet out from Vladimir and the Luyten.

“I am profoundly sorry,” the defender said, bowing its head. “This was meant as a surprise, but not a cruel one. I will find out whose idea it was and surely he will be killed.” He gestured toward the Luyten. “Please, eat. It won’t harm you.”

No one moved. In the stunned silence the same question had to be running through every ambassador’s head: What was a Luyten doing here, alive? Hadn’t they all been executed, their ship destroyed? The moment stretched as Vladimir held his gesture of invitation, his prominent brow leaving his sunken eyes hidden in a swatch of shadow.