Грегори Бенфорд - Not One of Us - Stories of Aliens on Earth

That Centauri had seemed to say that murder didn’t matter so much because it was just a transition, not an ending.

So was his long-lost wife still in this universe, somehow? Were all the minds that had ever lived?

Minds that had lived beneath distant suns? Mingled somehow with Dark Glasses and Mr. Marine?

This might be the greatest of all possible revelations. A final confirmation of the essence of religion, of the deepest human hopes.

Or it might be just an alien theology, expressed in an alien way.

A heron flapped overhead and the night air sang with the chirps and scurries of the woods. Nature was getting back to business, after all the noise and death.

Business as usual.

But he knew that this night sky would never look the same again.

Molly Tanzer is the author of Creatures of Will and Temper, Creatures of Want and Ruin (November 2018), and the weird western Vermilion . For more information about her critically acclaimed novels and short fiction, sign up for her newsletter at mollytanzer.com, or follow her @molly_the_tanz on Twitter.

Donna had picked up Jared’s favorite—Romano’s to go, he liked the rosemary bread and the penne rustica—and was just putting it in the oven to keep warm when they brought him in. They being EMTs, after pounding urgently on the door, and brought him in meaning he was on a stretcher. He had an IV in his arm and his eyes were bandaged with thick layers of gauze.

Donna felt a flash of annoyance as the EMTs wheeled him toward their bedroom, sending their cat Skimbleshanks hissing and skittering nervously out of the way. She had planned to propose they separate that night, over the tiramisu she’d put in the fridge. Then Jared moaned, and she chided herself. She was still his wife… for now, at least. She ought to be beside herself with worry, not annoyed over having to put off an awkward conversation.

“What happened?” she asked, hovering in the doorway while they got him into his pajamas and between the sheets, fumbling in the darkness of the room. Jared seemed pretty out of it. Doped up on painkillers, maybe? “Why didn’t someone call me?”

“Workplace accident,” the woman replied, answering only the first of Donna’s questions. “He’ll be fine, he just needs to rest. Please don’t turn on those lights. His eyes are very sensitive right now.”

Jared worked in administration at Denver International Airport. “What sort of workplace accident?”

“Someone will be by to talk to you,” the woman assured her, her eyes flickering to the other EMT, a buff young man with tattoos and one of those man-buns.

“What sort of someone?” Donna did not have to fake the concern in her voice, as it was due to the oddness of the situation rather than her husband’s condition.

As if on cue, there was a knock at the front door. Donna left the EMTs to let in a man in a gray suit. His hair was short; his shoulders, broad. Donna thought he looked vaguely military, but the pin on his lapel was the new DIA logo, the white peaks of the airport’s distinctive roof against a dark blue background.

“Mrs. Crane?”

For now . She pushed away the thought, and nodded.

“My name is Mr. Smoot. I’m sorry to meet you under these circumstances, but it’s a pleasure.” He did not try to shake her hand. “How is he?”

“He’s in bed,” she said. She suddenly smelled the food, and rushed into the kitchen to turn down the oven temperature. Mr. Smoot followed her. “That’s all I know at this point,” she said, over her shoulder. “What happened to him?”

“Nothing a few days of rest won’t cure.”

She frowned. “That he needs rest is all anyone’s told me.”

“There’s not much to tell. Just a workplace accident.” Donna was becoming annoyed; given how everyone was putting her off, she suspected something might really be wrong. Her face must have betrayed this, as Mr. Smoot set his briefcase on the table and opened it, withdrawing a single sheet of paper from one of the files. He handed it to her—it was a photocopy of an incident report.

She began to skim it as Mr. Smoot spoke; he and the document said basically the same thing: “He was riding in the employee train. They were testing a new sort of lighting system down there, and a bulb flared and burst. He was looking in the wrong place at the wrong time. We had him rushed to the hospital. They did a quick surgery—with a laser, nothing to worry about. Really, he will be fine . He’ll have to wear the bandages for a few days. When they come off, he’ll have two black eyes, but that should be it.”

“I see.” Donna set the paper on the table. She was relieved to finally have an answer, and understood why they’d wanted a DIA rep to tell her. Damage control; lawsuit avoidance. “I’m glad it’s not serious.”

Mr. Smoot smiled. “We are, too. Now, as to the logistics, you work as a dental hygienist, correct?”

Donna frowned. “Um, yes.” Creepy that he knew, but it must be in Jared’s file somewhere… ? And yet, every time a new acquaintance learned her husband worked at Denver International Airport, they inevitably asked about one or more of the X-Files -style rumors that floated around the place like cottonwood fluff in the springtime. Was DIA where they’d take the President in the event of a global crisis? Did its murals predict the rapture? Were the delays and budget increases that had plagued its construction due to the secret alien research facility beneath the tunnels? The truth is out there… except it wasn’t. She’d been on tours of the facility with Jared. It was just an airport.

“We’ll make sure you get all the paid time off you need to take care of your husband. Or would you prefer a nurse be assigned? One will stop by, of course, to check in on him until the bandages come off, but without being able to see, he’ll need someone here to help him. We’ll of course cover any and all costs of home health care if you choose the second option, but we thought you might like a little mini-break.”

“Sure…” Donna may have gotten her GED, but she was no dummy. This was definitely lawsuit avoidance. “Thanks.”

“Excellent. Well, I’m sure you’d prefer to be in there with him than out here with me.” Mr. Smoot sniffed the air. “Smells like you had dinner ready for him… so sorry.”

“It’s just takeout,” she assured him. “Would you… like some?” Jared wasn’t going to want the penne rustica that she’d driven twenty minutes into Aurora to get. Someone ought to enjoy it, and Mr. Smoot wasn’t bad looking, actually. It might be nice to have dinner with someone different, just for a change. What might they talk about? The possibilities were endless! “I got wine. He probably can’t have any of it.”

“I’m sure once the painkillers wear off he’ll be hungry. Thank you though, very kind of you to offer.”

The EMT showed up in the kitchen doorway. “Mrs. Crane, he’s as comfortable as we can make him, and awake. He’s asking for you. And we’d like to go over some aftercare.”

“Thank you,” she said automatically.

“I should get going,” said Mr. Smoot, closing his briefcase. “Here’s my card,” he said, handing her one. “Call me if you need anything .”

“Okay,” she agreed.

Just as they’d promised, all Jared needed was rest and darkness. A little help getting to the bathroom and back, or to the kitchen table for meals. After five days, the bandages came off, and for better or for worse he was back to his usual self.