Read by Stephen Butterton
As the howl of the siren for Daily Communion ebbed away, she removed her fingers from her ears. Through the thick glass dome, she could see far across the desert city: the pyramid temple with its needle-sharp spire; houses of varying heights, with their own glass domes housing home-cultivated spandle plant, turnaberry, blue-leafed leet. Beyond this the desert, and above, the pale green sky flecked with diamond day-stars. She wanted Father with her.
Usually she preferred the solitude of the dome, but after the news this morning, his cool blue body beside her would have provided some comfort. However, even today, he could not miss Communion. The sky shifted from pale green to a deep teal. The stars grew brighter.
As the hands on her wrist-timer reached the twenty-fifth hour, Father knocked softly, then came up through the hatch. His black eyes glistened. “They have come.”
The hatchway yawned open, and three figures came down the lane to meet them. Two had blackout helmets; the third’s helmet was clear, and she could see that his lips were spread, a ‘smile’.
The faceless beings spoke over her head to Father, staticky words: “Gratitude for your help in the refugee program. She seems healthy.”
“I’m Lee,” the smiling one said to her. “I’m your… well, you know…”
He didn’t look like her. He was heads above her in height, with a rectangular face, tan skin and thick dark hair; she was short and fair. His eyes were brown pupils in white ovals. Alien. She couldn’t meet them.
“It’s good to meet you after so long,” he said.
Father tapped her lightly on the back. She stepped forward, hand extended. “A pleasure.”
His hand was huge. It closed over hers like a greater vimer swallowing a sand shrew, and when she felt the electric heat of human skin against hers, she shuddered.
Stepping down the long white corridor with Lee, she steadied her breath and counted along to her footsteps, one-two, one-two…
She longed for the call-to-Communion sirens of home. A regular howl, once a day, when the second sun was highest. On the humans’ ship, sirens shrieked at random.
“That was the bell for lunch,” Lee explained. “Don’t worry – you’ll get used to it.”
“Yes.” She wouldn’t. The shrill cries wrenched her soul from her body, and the aftershocks reverberated for hours around her skull.
“Where I was raised,” Lee said, “the people communicated through hand gestures.” He flipped a hand gracefully in the air. “That means ‘I’m glad to have met you’. It’s nice to actually have people to talk to now! It was weird being the only creature on the planet that could vocalise.”
“Yes.” It sounded wonderful.
“Everyone here on the ship speaks English,” said Lee. “There are some cultural differences, what with us being raised on different planets, but our adoptive parents were all given the same educational materials. Plus we’ve had the same refugee experience. So don’t worry, you’ll make lots of friends.”
The dining room was an echo-chamber of chatter. A hundred humans sat on either side of a long white table. Lee found two spare seats, and she sat beside him, trapped between his warm body and another. The room smelled of sweaty flesh and burning food. Her skin trembled.
A hand came down before her. A plate of something gelatinous.
“It’s oatmeal,” Lee said. “Try it.”
She chased the mush around her plate with her knife.
“What did you eat back where you were raised?”
“Turnaberry fruit, mostly.” Firm, bland, nourishing.
The cluster of humans sitting across from her looked to be of similar age. Their colourings differed from hers and Lee’s, some paler, some darker, with different hair and eyes. Their pupils crawled all over her body. Their voices echoed in a variety of harsh tones.
“Hey, are you alright?”
The bell rang. She screamed.
She took the knife and ran, hundreds of sharp little eyes chasing her; chatter falling over her like rain - until she was sitting on the floor of a toilet cubicle, rocking, knees bunched to her chest. The doors slid shut behind her. Locked.
She clutched the cool metal of the knife. Tried to breathe.
*
Relief came when she found she and Lee had been given separate beds. She sat on the firm mattress of the one nearest the porthole, and clutched the shiny synthetic bedspread, trying to focus. It slipped wormlike through her fingers and made her shudder.
“Hey.” Lee’s face appeared around the side of the dressing screen. His shoulders were bare. “Reckon we should… I dunno… get in some practice? Like, get used to each other? So it doesn’t feel weird tomorrow.”
“Yes.”
He came towards her: chest flat and tan but otherwise similar to hers. It would feel hot beneath her fingers. It would smell of sweat.
He stopped before her. “Are you ok? We don’t have to…”
She grabbed his hands, pressed them to her waist. Breathed herself still. Father had prepared her for this: she’d listened to the recordings over and over up in the dome. With numb fingers, she unbuttoned her pyjama shirt, the release of each button feeling like a countdown to take-off, until there were no more. She let it drop.
“Oh god…”
Lee was looking at her arms.
“Are you… Sorry, stupid, obviously you’re not ok...”
She looked away. “I’m fine.”
“Like hell you are! I’m calling a medic.”
*
She wished they hadn’t come for her.
She missed the nights when she could sit alone in the dome and look out through the thick, safe glass at the darkening green sky: guess which among the distant stars was the human ship, waiting to claim her. When she could imagine, somewhere out there, that a human like her was going through the same thing. Hyperventilating at sudden sounds. Wincing at unexpected touch. Rocking and scrabbling at their skin in an attempt to block out the external commotion of a foreign planet.
She missed feeling like a human in a world full of aliens, instead of an alien in a ship full of humans.
*
“I’d say it was her upbringing,” one of the medics said to the other as he bandaged her arm. “But her adoptive father was one of our best candidates. A respected religious leader. He passed every interview. Her education was standard…”
“A genetic defect, perhaps?” said the other.
"Possibly. It was bound to happen sometime. We should count our blessings none of the others are damaged.”
The words washed over her like the sprinklers in the dome. The bandage felt taut and grounding.
“Should we …?”
“No. We’ve too few viable adults to interrupt the program. Lee’s healthy. All we can do is hope and pray for the offspring.”
*
That night, the women were all taken to a small theatre on the lower deck.
She assumed it was night – the clocks on the walls in this vast white hellscape made no sense. The only measure of time was the alarms.
The room was warm and close. The lights were dimmed.
When the screen flickered to life and the sound started, she was able to use the privacy of darkness to put her fingers in her ears. The muffled voiceover sounded comfortingly like the instructional recordings Father used to play for her.
Across the darkened theatre, the other women sat far off in a huddle, shoulders and backs to her. No piercing eyes or echoing chatter. She could breathe.
She watched the nude figures on the screen blend and writhe. They didn’t seem to feel any pain at one another’s touch. Just actors acting, she thought hopefully; and tried to force herself to believe it.
Across the room, one of the young women nuzzled into the neck of another, who put a hand on her shoulder. Another giggled and squirmed.
*
After the film ended, an alarm rang.
She stiffened, fingers deep in her ears. When the vibrations had subsided, she trembled to her feet and stepped from the theatre into the sharp white light of the corridor. Focussed on her footsteps, one-two, one-two, one-two-
She was in their room.
She looked around, and then checked behind the dressing screen. Lee wasn’t in yet, so she peeled off her sweaty clothes and waited, feeling the hot gasp of the electric heaters on her skin.
She went to the porthole. The endless black.
The electric heat was cooking her skin.
The doors slid open behind her, and there was Lee’s voice, “Was your film as awful as… Oh, you’ve got your clothes off already?” She heard his footsteps approach. “I was hoping we could talk first.” Then his hand was on her shoulder.
Something non-human, something innately her, possessed her body: she was on hands and knees, crawling under the bed, pressing her body against the cool plastic wall.
“Hey, come back!” Lee’s face appeared, filling the space under the bed, blocking the light. She pressed back further. “Let’s talk about this…”
“No, no, no, no!”
“Uh – ok?” He fell silent. Something in her rational mind whispered that she should feel guilty, but all she could feel was relief.
Lee lay on the floor. His hand extended. She flinched. It hesitated, then flipped semi-gracefully in the air like a fledgling vimer trying to fly. “Hard to do this lying down. That means ‘Don’t worry’.” He tried again, a longer gesture, and this time the motion was smoother. “That means, ‘Can I help?’”
She opened her mouth, but the words caught in her throat. She shook her head.
“I can teach you the signs sometime, if you like,” said Lee. His hand stretched further under the bed towards her, then stopped at a safe distance, opened flat. Lay still.
Her fingers found his. She explored the rivers and valleys of his palm. She could feel his breath, a gentle in-out, in-out, and gradually her own breathing copied the pace.
“Feeling better?”
She nodded.
“Want to come out?”
She shook her head. But when his brow furrowed in a frown, she raised her hand and attempted a gesture: ‘Don’t worry’. Then, thinking back, she attempted another: ‘I’m glad to have met you.’
(c) Hannah Hoare, 2022
Hannah Hoare lives and writes in Newcastle. Her stories include ‘Red Planet’ (published by The Mechanics’ Institute Review), ‘Twopenny Bargain’ (selected for Grindstone Literary), and 'The Curse' (selected for Open Pen). She is currently seeking publication for her science fiction novel, Parahumanity.
Stephen Butterton trained at the London Centre for Theatre Studies in 2002, finishing his training with a run in The Accrington Pals at Jermyn Street Theatre. He then spent time in Fringe Theatre and student film productions, and of course several appearances for Liars' League, before leaving London in 2007. He now lives in Hastings, drowning in his day job as a vet. With very little time left over for acting and the written world, he is delighted to be taking to the stage once more for Liars' League!
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