Peter Cawdron - Xenophobia

There were three of them, stretched out several hundred yards apart. One of the floaters cast its shadow on the truck as the creature drifted north. The sun blazing through the flicking tentacles trailing behind the massive beast.

Bower was entranced. Whereas mankind flew in space in what amounted to tin cans, these aliens creatures were capable of spanning the depths of interstellar space, enduring a bitter cold vacuum and then making the transition to flying within a planet’s atmosphere. What were these animals?

Each floater appeared to be hundreds of feet in height, like a blimp, only with a giant, semi-transparent purple bladder keeping them buoyant in the same way in which a bluebottle jellyfish floated on the waves of the sea.

Beneath the inflated bladder sat a mass of what Bower could have only described as organic pulp. Despite her years of medical study and her interest in biology, Bower wasn’t prepared for what she was seeing. The mass beneath the presumably gas-filled bubble didn’t appear to have any differentiation. Bower was used to seeing biology as functional, practical, with insects and animals having segmentation, being divided into limbs and organs. The base of the floater, though, looked more like the ravaged, torn, raw wound of a gunshot. Behind the creature, a series of tentacles stretched out for thousands of feet, floating on the breeze, drifting lazily to one side then another.

Another floater appeared from over the forest of acacia trees to the south of them. The massive beast looked like it was no more than a few feet above the treetops, causing panic among the refugees but Bower quickly realized this was an illusion of size. From what she could tell, the floaters were at least several hundred feet above the road. Given that their tentacles trailed below and behind them, remaining well clear of the ground, she figured they were somewhere around five or six hundred feet up.

The floater passing directly overhead seemed majestic, strangely beautiful. The refugees cowered, taking cover, as did the soldiers, leaving Bower standing alone in the road staring up at the massive creature as though she were watching a Blue whale swimming within the ocean.

“Bower,” Jameson cried, sheltering beside the truck. His voice was quiet, just a shade above a whisper as he beckoned her over to him.

“They’re ignoring us,” Bower replied, not bothering to lower her voice.

Smithy crouched low in the turret of the Hummer, making herself as small as possible.

Bower breathed deeply, taking in the awe of the moment. Within a minute or so, the creature had passed overhead, leaving long strands whipping slowly back and forth in its wake. The tentacles, if they could be called that, reminded Bower of the elongated tail of a sauropod, slowly tapering to a tip so fine she couldn’t be sure quite where they ended.

With the floaters having passed overhead, the refugees doubled their pace, pushing on, trying to ignore all that was around them. Were they making up for lost time? Bower doubted that, thinking it was simply the single-minded focus of Homo sapiens, the characteristic goal-driven instinct kicking in, pushing them on to what they perceived as safety, and not just from the rebels, but from these alien intruders as well.

“What do you think they want?” Bower asked, absentmindedly, not really directing her question to anyone in particular. “There has to be a reason they’re flying through our atmosphere. And as for these pods, what’s their purpose?”

Kowalski came up beside her.

“Well, I’m just glad they weren’t after us,” he said. “Whatever they want, I’m happy so long as they stay the hell away from me.”

Jameson joined the rest of the soldiers standing by the back of the Hummer. She could hear him talking with his troops.

“Threat assessment?” he asked.

“Scary as hell,” Smithy replied from up in the turret of the Hummer. “But no imminent threat. Not yet, anyway. They didn’t seem to notice us at all.”

“My money would be on a squadron of F22 Raptors,” Elvis added. “As nasty as these floaters seem, they aren’t war machines. Couple of missiles and they’re beached whales.”

“You really think we’re going to catch an evac flight out of here with these things in the air?” asked Bosco. “My money is on CentCom grounding all flights regardless. I think we are alone on this one now. All bets are off.”

Jameson nodded thoughtfully.

“Game plan?” he asked, and yet Bower got the distinct impression he already knew what he was going to do.

“We’re fucked if we don’t hook up with someone,” Elvis offered. “We’re too big to hide, too damn small to fight. So long as we’re around government troops there’s a degree of safety, but I’d feel a whole lot better if we had US soldiers to call on. If we run into rebels or if any of these flying fuckers turned nasty, it’s going to be Game Over, Player One.”

“Elvis is right,” Bosco said. “For once, the Southern Belle has a point. We need to hook up with those Marines in Lilongwe. Safety in numbers. Uncle Sam’s not coming back to Malawi, not with monstrous aliens floating overhead at home.”

“Somewhere someone’s got to be taking the fight to these fuckers,” Elvis said. “Please don’t tell me the US is letting these Mo-Fo’s drift through our airspace without taking a few of them out.”

No one offered a reply.

“Lilongwe raises the issue of the chain of command,” Jameson said, looking for a response from his soldiers. Bower had moved closer. She figured she and Kowalski might not be soldiers, but they deserved a say in their future. Jameson must have picked up on that, as he clarified his point, opening the huddle to include her and Kowalski. “We’re autonomous at the moment. If we hook up with a larger force we’ll probably lose a degree of flexibility in decision-making. Regardless of the service, anyone ranking beyond sergeant will assume seniority in the chain of command.”

“What he’s saying,” Elvis said, butting in, “is some panicked dweeb could get us killed with a stupid order.”

“The more senior the officer, the bigger the asshole,” Smithy called out from the turret of the Hummer.

Jameson softened the point by adding, “Officers can be idealistic, lacking common sense.”

“Oh,” said Bower, not used to the idea of giving the responsibility of life and death to someone she didn’t know and trust already. “So what you’re saying is, once we hook up, we’re stuck with whoever we get?”

“Lucky dip,” Bosco added.

Jameson nodded, turning back to the soldiers. “We’re good for one, maybe two engagements, but Elvis is right. We’re too big to hide, too small to fight. Besides, the Marines will be in contact with CentCom, we’ll be able to report in and get some clarity around the situation.”

Elvis spat on the ground. “I’m in.”

“Yeah, not a lot of choice,” said Bosco, a hint of reluctance carrying in his voice.

Bower admired the way Jameson worked with his soldiers. He had to know they had no choice given the circumstances. They were less than twenty miles from Lilongwe, yet for Jameson it was important to maintain a sense of unity even this far along the track.

“OK, let’s roll,” he said, walking back to the truck.

As they got underway, Bower looked out at the alien pods. They lay scattered in the distance, spread out hundreds of feet apart on the dry grass or caught in thorny Acacia trees. She didn’t say anything, as no one else seemed to notice and she didn’t want to be alarmist, but they were all broken, they were all leaking. The further they drove, the more sure she became, noting that not only had the fragile, white umbrella-shaped parachutes dissolved in the wind, leaving a brittle skeleton, but the resin casings had ruptured too. They were breaking down, their dark walls giving way and spewing thick, black sludge on the ground.