Christopher Nuttall - Invasion

“Really?” The High Priest asked, with interest. He, at least, didn’t seem to care about the possible inference that the belief that their status as the most advanced race known in the universe wasn’t divinely ordained. “And yet, they were unable to prevent us from seizing the high ground.”

“Yes,” Femala agreed. Her position did give her a certain insight into how the higher echelons worked. The High Priest had probably decided that their ordained superiority still held true; after all, the aliens hadn’t bothered to develop their capabilities to the point where they could destroy Guiding Star in flight. That was the real nightmare.

The High Priest listened as she ran through the handful of discoveries they’d made so far. There was, as she freely admitted, nothing that was new, but much that was surprising. Dozens of alien devices were understandable, but their use was confounding; she couldn’t imagine a use for a device that propelled a stream of hot air, unless it was for localised drying of alien skin. Others were just strange, if understandable; one advanced computer seemed to be useless for anything, as far as they could tell, while another had disintegrated when they’d tried to open it. They hadn’t found anything that was an obvious weapon, but the warriors who’d gone through the space station first had suggested all kinds of possible weapons, based on their experience of drilling in space. A little ingenuity could convert some of the human devices into weapons easily enough…

“We must proceed,” the High Priest said finally. “You will accompany me.”

Femala wanted to argue — she didn’t have any special interest in the aliens, apart from their technology — but one didn’t argue with the High Priest, particularly one who’d saved her life. She followed him meekly through the airlock, through the security check, and along the corridors, silently cursing the lack of gravity. Normally, when both sections of Guiding Star were linked together, there would be gravity, but with a planet of hostile aliens below them, the commanders had taken the decision to keep Guiding Star in zero-gee. If they had to alter course quickly, it would save them from accidentally damaging their own ship.

The handful of alien bodies recovered from the space station, all dead through exposure or suffocation, had been quickly studied and then dissected. Femala watched, dispassionately, as the first alien body was checked, carefully, for any surprises. The Doctor examining the body barely spared her a glance and Femala felt the old hatred bubbling up within her; the doctor could have children, as many children as she wanted, and she had a safe place within society. Femala had none.

“We can survive on their world,” the Doctor said, ignoring Femala. The High Priest didn’t reprimand her for that. Why should he have? “Their biochemistry is different from ours, obviously, but we should be able to eat some of their foods and grow our own crops on the surface. The subject froze quickly enough to allow us to study the bacteria and viruses running through the body and we believe that the chances of a cross-species infection are extremely low. They may have the same basic body shape, but their interior is very different…”

Femala listened absently as she droned on. Her attention was taken up by the images coming from the humans in their cells. The Inquisitors would be asking them questions about everything and nothing, carefully comparing the answers to try to detect alien lies, if they decided to tell lies. They’d intercepted literally billions of transmissions from the alien world — they called it Earth, it seemed — but most of them had been completely confusing. Humans seemed to spend a great deal of their time watching other humans doing normal human things… which puzzled the sociologists no end. The best they’d been able to come up with was that they were instructional films to teach younger humans to be adults, but that made no sense at all. A race that needed to be taught so comprehensively, covering every imaginable situation, was a race on the brink of extinction. What sort of race needed instruction on how to mate ?

The human race just didn’t make sense !

Francis had started to lose track of time. The alien cell had remained firmly closed and they’d started questioning him at once. Some of the questions had been simple and easy to understand and he’d spent hours explaining how the United States actually worked, others had been plain confusing. The aliens had displayed an image of Bugs Bunny at one point, followed by Bart Simpson, and had asked him to explain just what they were. It just didn’t make sense!

Or maybe it does , he thought, as he found himself being gently awakened by the alien voice. They’d let him sleep in brief periods, but without his watch, it was impossible to tell how long he’d been in the hell the aliens had created for him. It felt as if his entire world had shrunk down to the metal cell and the questioning, impersonal voice. They just kept questioning him… and they never made the same mistake twice. He had started to suspect that he was actually talking to a computer, one with a computer’s odd sense of priorities, but again, it was impossible to tell. The whole position was unpleasantly like some of the drills he’d been run through by the State Department, before he’d been sent to London; they’d known that, these days, Ambassadors were hardly respected by anyone. Francis had once supported measured responses, rather than a modern-day version of the Relief of Peking, but now… now, he would have been grateful to see the United States Marines bursting down the metal hatch to rescue him. Hundreds of kilometres from home, cut off from the handful of remaining humans on the ship, it was easy to believe that he’d been abandoned…

The hatch opening shocked him. The two aliens who stood there beckoned him forward, taking care that he never got between them. Francis found that rather amusing; they’d probably spent most of their lives in zero-gee and they were worried that an out-of-shape ambassador was going to overpower them. Their weapons looked useable, but they might have been keyed to their touch only… and even if he did steal one of the weapons and kill them, where would he go? One man couldn’t overwhelm an entire alien ship unless he was a star in a bad movie.

They pushed him gently down the corridor into a large room. It was as bare and undecorated as the remainder of the ship, but there was a large porthole set within the wall, open to space. He saw the blue-green globe of Earth orbiting below, caught a sight of the eastern coastline of the United States, and felt a pang of homesickness that was almost painful. There was no sign of anything man-made in orbit now, nothing, but a handful of alien ships, barely visible.

“Francis,” a voice called. Francis turned to see Gary there. The ISS commander looked as if he’d been through the wringer as well; there was a dark bruise on one side of his face and at least two days worth of stubble on his chin. The aliens were escorting the others into the room; the two girls looked tired, but very relieved to see them. Katy even gave Gary a hug in zero-gee. The Russian and Frenchman looked tired as well; Stanislav was sporting his own bruise, on his chest.

“Had a little disagreement with the doc,” he said, when Francis looked at it. “The guards struck me and… well, you see.”

Katy winced. “I have some first aid training,” she said. “Do you want me to take a look at it?”

“I’ll live,” Stanislav said, firmly. He looked over at the aliens, gathering at one end of the room. “I think our hosts want to tell us something.”